Read Ebook: The Wellfields: A novel. Vol. 1 of 3 by Fothergill Jessie

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Ebook has 804 lines and 44271 words, and 17 pages

when they lived in the country, were wont to be dull. And dulness was the bane of the countess's existence. In their hatred of it she and her husband were sworn allies; they were never known to oppose one another's schemes for killing time, though it often happened that in their zeal in that cause they would both have provided some entertainment for the same time. When this occurred, the rule was that each should give way in turn, and this plan was found to answer admirably, and to be productive of the greatest harmony, conjugal and social.

'No one knows who else may be coming,' said one. 'I think die Trockenau is much too careless. She does not consider the dignity of our position.'

'That' was Sara Ford, who came sweeping down the room with her head in the air, followed by Herr Falkenberg, to whom she talked in her frank, audible, unconstrained English fashion, and who begged her to come with him to the terrace that he might show her a view which he said ought to be painted.

'These English girls!' sighed one of the native nobility, shaking her head portentously. 'If I were to see my Paula monopolise a man in that way--but she is incapable of even speaking to a gentleman before he speaks to her. If a girl of mine were to be like that, I should die.'

Sara had never met Herr Falkenberg before. His name was well known to her and to other artists as a judge of almost unerring taste, and a patron of generous liberality. He was the last of a line of financiers and bankers of princely fortune and passionate devotion to 'the noble pastime of art.' She had felt highly flattered when Frau von Trockenau brought him to her, saying:

'See!' said he, as they came to the end of the terrace--and he pointed to the round shoulder of a hill, round the foot of which a bend of the river flowed in a silver curve, while the setting sun gave the most mellow and warm tints to the stretch of the landscape in the background--'that is almost perfect; there is a meaning in the scene--a poetry. Do you not see it?'

'Indeed I do!' she replied; the deep look settling in her eyes, which always visited them when she looked upon grand or beautiful things, and which alone would have made her face a rare one. 'I see it!' she continued; 'and I have studied and sketched it often since I came here, and the result has been despair! I hate myself, and every attempt I make. I don't think landscape is my forte.'

'Oh, Herr Falkenberg, you are flattering! It is impossible. I often think how presumptuous it is in me to imagine that I shall ever do well in either. Why should I?'

'Why should you not?' he asked, smiling. 'You are ambitious.'

He had seated himself on the arm of a bench at the end of the terrace, and Sara was leaning upon the parapet, her arms folded on the ledge of it; her glorious eyes gazing out upon the feast of colour, of rich calm beauty which lay below. As he uttered the last words, the deep musing look left those eyes; another fire flashed like lightning into them. Her lips parted, the delicate nostril quivered. She raised her head, and looked full at her companion.

'Yes, I am. I am as ambitious as a man--the worse for me, I suppose.'

'I do not say so. How old are you?'

The question was put with a grave, patronising directness which was free from the faintest trace of curiosity or impertinence. She answered it in the same spirit:

'I am twenty-three.'

'Ah! it will be many years, no doubt, before you do anything that will live. It is a toilsome ascent to the high peaks and pure snows of real lasting fame, but it may be accomplished by a single-hearted perseverance.'

He paused, looking at her. The girl felt herself strangely moved, half depressed at the calmness with which he adjudged to her years upon years of future toil, as if from that verdict there could be no appeal, half with a proud elation at the fact that so great a judge should hold it possible that she could ever do anything which would live. His eyes still dwelt upon her face, and hers upon his. He had a good, powerful, and attractive face; dark, massively cut, with keen, shrewd, sarcastic eyes under level dark eyebrows. The small moustache and short pointed brown beard gave great character to this visage, and were two or three shades lighter than the short-cropped hair. He was a man whose age it would be difficult to guess. Sara imagined him to be about forty; he might have been any age from thirty to five-and-forty. She had spoken to him, and listened to him entirely as a well-known judge and possible future patron of great power and influence--so she regarded him still. Of what he was or did, how he was regarded outside this, to her, most important capacity, she had not the least idea, and formed none to herself.

'You have a sketch of that bit,' he said at last; 'would you mind letting me see it?'

'Oh! well, if you will promise to regard it merely as a rough attempt, done more because my instinct compelled me to try to reproduce that scene--not as anything that was ever intended for anyone to see but myself,' said Sara, very unwilling to submit so crude an attempt to such critical eyes, and yet not wishing to appear affected.

'If you showed it me, I should judge it entirely on its own merits, of course,' was the composed reply, and Sara felt suddenly, as many other persons often felt in exchanging ideas with Herr Falkenberg, that with him simplicity of nature and conduct reigned supreme, and that to make excuses and apologies to him was so much trouble lost. Sara wished she had not made that little speech about her sketch, and Falkenberg went on:

'Are we going to Lahnburg?'

'I believe so; the countess is, at any rate. I have a little country house there, which she was so kind as to say she very much wished to see, and I asked her if she would not make a party and go there with me to-morrow. She said she wanted you to go too, but I don't suppose she will force you there against your will,' he added, smiling.

'It would be anything but against my will. It is a place I have often wished to see.'

'Then I am glad you are going. There may be time for you to give me your sketch to-morrow morning, early, if you will be so kind; and, as I expect to be in Elberthal during the autumn, may I call at your atelier?'

'I shall be honoured if you do,' said Sara, her cheeks flushing with pleasure at this mark of favour. 'I only fear that you will leave the said atelier a sadder and a wiser man.'

'As how?'

'As having discovered my attempts to be very poor, commonplace delusions after all.'

'That would be of the utmost advantage to me,' said she, gaily, wondering how long the interview was to last, and wondering also, in strict privacy, whether critics--of that eminence--never relaxed into a laugh; whether a sedate smile were all their lips would condescend to.

How long the interview might have lasted it is impossible to say. At that moment it was interrupted. Frau von Trockenau, with a number of the ingenuous girls before alluded to--whose tender years and inexperience she seemed to find somewhat embarrassing during the 'off season,' before the dancing began--Emily Leigh, Jerome Wellfield, Hans Lemde, and others, came up.

'Oh, Herr Falkenberg!' cried the countess, seeing him, 'a word with you.'

She paused, as did also Jerome Wellfield, and the others went on. Wellfield had not yet spoken to Sara, and while Frau von Trockenau discoursed with much animation to Falkenberg on some point connected with the morrow's excursion, Jerome turned to Miss Ford.

The flush of exultation which her conversation with Falkenberg had aroused, died from her cheeks. She silently put her hand into that of Wellfield, while he, an expression of pleasure dawning in his face, asked her how she did.

After a few minutes, the countess put her hand within Falkenberg's arm, and they went up the terrace, in earnest conversation. Jerome and Sara were left standing alone.

'Herr Falkenberg is a friend of yours?' asked Wellfield.

'I don't know. I hope he will be. He would be a very valuable friend to me.'

'I can suppose so. Does he wish you to paint this scene?'

'Yes. And it is very beautiful. Do you not think so?'

'It is--lovely. I wish you could see the place my father will not live at--Wellfield Abbey and the country round about. As an artist, you would delight in it.'

'But it is in Lancashire, isn't it?' asked Sara.

'Yes. What then?' inquired he.

'I always fancy it such a black, hideous place. I have only once been in Lancashire, when I passed through Preston with my father on our way to Scotland, years ago.'

'Then you passed not a hundred miles from Wellfield,' he rejoined with some animation. 'But I own, you could not be favourably impressed with what you saw there. It is not lovely. But Wellfield is.'

'Perhaps I may see it some day--who knows?' said Sara, musingly.

He paused abruptly. Sara felt her face flush, and said quickly:

'Would not you like to come down this side-walk--this ilex walk? The countess has spent a great deal of care and attention upon it, in remembrance of the ilexes of Rome.'

'Ah, the ilexes at Rome! I remember them,' he said, as he followed her into the cool green gloom of the ilex walk, where daylight was dimmed by the intertwining boughs which formed a roof above.

Three quarters of an hour later they returned to the same spot, and found that it was almost dark. The windows of the Schloss blazed with lights, and the music which streamed out on the air said that the dancing had begun.

'What a long time we must have been out!' said Sara, in a dreamy voice. 'They are dancing.'

'So they are. Will you give me this waltz?--it is a waltz, I hear.'

'With pleasure,' said Sara, as they walked towards the house. 'There is to be a cotillon,' she added; 'it is the great thing at these German dances, and Frau von Trockenau has made elaborate arrangements for it.'

'What a pity I don't know how to do it!'

'You should learn,' said Sara.

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