The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE WELLFIELDS.

THE WELLFIELDS.
A Novel.
BY
JESSIE FOTHERGILL,
AUTHOR OF ‘THE FIRST VIOLIN’ AND ‘PROBATION.’
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1880.
[All Rights Reserved.]

To
MY FRIENDS AT LOWESWATER,
IN REMEMBRANCE OF SOME PLEASANT DAYS
SPENT THERE WITH THEM.

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

THE WELLFIELDS.

PRELUDE.

In very early days, in the beginnings of Saxon Christianity, a certain Saxon potentate erected a church at Wellfield, now a village in the north-east corner of a great and wealthy English county. This church he called, as many churches in those times were called, the White Church; and since it stood in a peculiar situation, in close proximity to the foot of a lovely wooded rise, he added the further distinguishing title of ‘under the Hill,’ and for hundreds of years it was known as the ‘White Church under the Hill.’ Generations came and went, and worshipped there, and led lives pious or otherwise: it was a wild race of people that dwelt in that well-watered valley, and the White Church under the Hill was known far and wide, long before such things as monasteries and cloisters, with their attendant good and evil, were thought of. It was a wild and lovely region, watered by three fair streams well stocked with fish, while venison and game abounded in the woods and on the moors around. Gradually a village clustered around the White Church. Wealthy and pious persons made gifts to it, and built houses in the vicinity of it, until the Normans came, and soon after that changes took place. Monasteries and abbeys and nunneries sprang up, here and there, throughout the land; and it so chanced that a certain pious baron presented to a company of Cistercian monks a very fair site by the river, and not far from the White Church. There they began to build themselves an abbey, the fame of which soon spread far and wide in the land. Its farms were fat, its lands productive, its abbots proud, its hospitality unbounded; for three centuries they built at it and lavished upon it all manner of beauty, in the shape of rare carvings of oak and stone. Its church was as large as many a cathedral; it stood on an exquisite site beside the river, and the size of the abbey-grounds soon exceeded that of the whole village and the White Church counted into the bargain. Then, while it was still in its glory and still unfinished, while the proudest and most domineering of its abbots was ruling the land around with a rod of iron, and hunting out witches and chasing them over Penhull, the great hill hard by, and burning them when he caught them, and was rioting in power—then, under the ferocious auspices of the Eighth Harry of glorious memory, a reform was effected—a reform which took the shape of a sack of the glorious abbey. Its church was demolished, the friars disbanded, the proud abbot was gibbeted in full view of his birthplace over the water, on a wooded mound called to this day ‘The Abbot’s Knoll.’ All the church plate and jewellery was confiscated by the royal robber; while the abbey and the lands thereof were magnanimously presented by him—what was left of them—to two of the neighbouring gentry, one John de Wellfield and one Ralph de Burnshire, which gentlemen had gallantly espoused the cause of the king, and had assisted in driving forth the monks from the abbey at the end of the pike. The families of Wellfield and Burnshire presently were united by the marriage of the sole heiress of the Burnshires with the sole heir of the Wellfields, and it was at this juncture that another great property called Brentwood, some three miles away, lapsed, through lack of direct heirs male, from the Burnshire family to a collateral branch of the same, named Waddington, which Waddingtons continued to be devout Roman Catholics, while the Wellfields turned heretics, to the great distress of the reverend fathers, the Jesuits, who about this period in the family history were beginning to make a great noise in the world, and to exert their power and make it felt. Wellfield Abbey, then, got into heretic hands, and the heretics continued to be men of mark; while the pious and devout Waddingtons had the ill luck (or the ill grace) to die out, and their representatives, in the year of grace 1794, let their ancient abode on the hill-side at a nominal rent to those Jesuit fathers who were driven from their French college at L—— by the Revolution. They were thrifty, these Jesuit fathers, and eventually bought the whole estate, and their representatives possess it to this day, and have made of it the first Roman Catholic seminary in the north at any rate, if not in the whole of England. Indeed, that corner of this favoured land is a Catholic stronghold.

Meanwhile, the heretic Wellfields of Wellfield continued to flourish, seemingly, like a green bay-tree; though, taking the royalist side in the Stuart troubles, they are said to have suffered heavy losses therefrom. The most perfect entente cordiale always existed between them and the neighbouring Catholic gentry, and the reverend fathers at Brentwood; and they were always classed amongst the first families of the neighbourhood when they were at home. Of late years they had lived much abroad. At the time now referred to, 18—, there were only two representatives of the line: John Felix Wellfield, and a son; the said John Felix had been an only child, as had his father before him, and his own wife was recently dead.

Meantime, while the gorgeous abbey church, which had been centuries a-building, had been so razed to the ground as that hardly a vestige of it remained, save a green space in the shape of a cross to show where it had once stood, and while the two great entrances of the abbey—Monk’s-gate and Abbot’s-gate—were like great ruined caverns, grown over with ivy; while the cloisters were a line of hoary ruins, and nought of the abbey remained save enough to make a quaint old dwelling-house—all this time the White Church under the Hill stood intact—added to a little here and there; enriched by the spoils of the abbey—they rescued the exquisite carved black oak stalls and a magnificent rood-screen, and set them up in the humbler building. Now it was a Protestant place of worship; in the midst of the old oak pews some evangeliser had set up a ‘three-decker,’ in which the service was performed, and there is no record of this piece of vandalism having met with the condign punishment it deserved. It—the ‘three-decker’—stared down upon an ancient pew of black carved oak which glittered like a mirror, which pew was said—along with many others—to be the oldest in England. Built by one Roger of Wellfield, it had been left by him as a legacy for ‘the proud dames of Wellfield’ to sit in every Sunday, which ‘proud dames’ are at this date represented by three decrepit old women, who enjoy the best view in the church of—the pulpit. The old church is sturdy yet, having survived so many changes, including a visit from George Fox, in the days when he went about denouncing ‘steeple-houses,’ and who stood in the aisle and stigmatised the then priest of Wellfield as ‘a light, scornful, chaffy fellow.’ It shows no signs of decay. May it be long before such symptoms appear in it!

A party of visitors, thirty years ago and more, were strolling round this old church one summer afternoon, escorted by a young woman who had the keys, and who had told them all she knew about the place and its history.

‘Then does the present Mr. Wellfield not live at the abbey?’ inquired a young lady who was of the party.

‘No, ma’am. They say he lives a deal in Italy, and the lady he married came from those parts. Young Mr. Wellfield is staying at the abbey now, and his tutor says it’s because of his health; but they do say that Mr. Wellfield is going to be married again, and wants him away.’

The visitors exchanged glances, and the young woman continued:

‘See, there’s the young gentleman looking in now, and his playfellow, old Mr. Leyburn’s lad.’

Indeed, at this moment two boys, whose ages might be ten and eleven, or eleven and twelve years, came strolling into the church by the chancel door, which stood open, their arms about one another’s shoulders, and their faces rubbing together now and then after the fashion of a couple of friendly ponies. One was tall and slender, and was of an extraordinary beauty of face and figure, with solemn, liquid dark eyes, and a very un-English look. The other was not quite so tall, was sturdy, square and strong, but clumsily built—‘a little pleb,’ thought the young lady, who was watching them with interest. The rest of her party had strolled on with the young woman to look at proud Abbot ——’s tombstone, which, said tradition, if a Wellfield walked over it, he should not live out the year. But the girl—she was no more—remained where she was until the boys came up to her, and they were all standing at the foot of the chancel steps, just outside the rood-screen.

‘Have you come to see the church?’ she asked, smiling.

‘We saw the door open, signorina, and came in,’ said the beautiful boy; ‘but we can see it as often as we want—twice every Sunday.’

His voice was sweet; his accent more than half Italian.

‘Do you live here then? What is your name?’ she asked, wishing to draw him out.

‘No; I do not live here. I am only staying a few months here. I am called Jerome Wellfield, and the abbey belongs to my father.’

‘Indeed! Would you not like to live in such a beautiful home?’

‘If it were not so cold in England I would; but I like Italy: it is warm there.’

‘Yes. And you—what are you called?’ she asked, turning to the other lad.

‘John Leyburn,’ he made answer, looking at her with clear, considerate, rather light-brown eyes, which looked very ineffective beside the velvet softness and darkness of young Wellfield’s.

‘You live here, I am sure.’

‘Yes; I live at Abbot’s Knoll with my father and mother.’

‘And are you great friends? Have you known one another long?’

‘Oh! we have known one another a long time—two months,’ replied young Wellfield; ‘and we are great friends, aren’t we, Jack?’

‘Yes,’ replied ‘Jack,’ with much deliberation.

Indeed all he did and said was deliberate.

‘And can you tell me what each of you likes better than anything else?’ she asked, loth to break off the conversation, and charmed with Master Jerome’s grace and beauty. ‘You, Jerome Wellfield, what do you like best?’

‘I like so many things that are nice,’ said the boy, with a pensive smile; and glancing downwards, the long lashes swept his pale cheek. ‘I like music; and I liked mamma. I liked her drawing-room at Frascati, where the beautiful ladies used to come when I was a little boy. I like—oh! I like everything that is not ugly,’ he concluded, looking rather bored.

‘And you, my boy?’ she turned to the other.

‘I like birds’-nesting,’ was the reply, deliberate, but prompt.

‘What, better than anything? Oh, horrible!’

‘He does not mean birds’-nesting, exactly,’ Jerome explained for him. ‘He means all sorts of things—going into the woods, and learning about birds and watching them, and plants, and butterflies, and all that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, natural history!’

‘Yes; natural history,’ replied the sturdy-looking boy.

‘I don’t care for the birds in the woods here,’ said Jerome, carelessly; ‘ugly little brown things! I liked the golden pheasants, and the scarlet humming-birds, and the big white macaw, and the papagei—parrot, you know—in Countess Necromi’s aviary.’

‘Laura, my dear, we must go. We have to do Brentwood yet, you know, and then to drive to the Lathebys.’

‘Yes; I suppose we have. Well, boys, good afternoon. Will you shake hands with me?’

‘Yes, signorina. À rivederci,’ said young Wellfield, looking so enchantingly amiable that Miss Laura stooped and kissed him.

‘Since you say à rivederci, I suppose you do not count me as an ugly thing?’ she said, laughing.

‘Oh no, the very opposite!’ he smiled, and she tapped his cheek, and said he was a precocious boy. She felt no interest in poor John Leyburn, but being of a kind disposition held out her hand to him too. He flushed all over his plain young face, and asked:

‘Will you—would you tell me what you are called?’

With a rapid flash of intuition ‘Laura’ realised that with all Jerome’s pretty words and liquid glances, he had not troubled himself on this point. She put her hand on the plain boy’s shoulder, and kissed him too, saying:

‘My name is Laura Dewhirst. By the time you are grown up you will have forgotten it, and I shall be such an old woman that you would not know me if you met me.’

All three laughed, and with another nod to the boys Miss Dewhirst ran after her papa and mamma. The two boys left the church, and the young woman locked the door and contemplated the gratuity she had received with great satisfaction.

‘Where shall we go?’ asked Jerome.

‘To Mr. Philips, to do our Latin.’

‘Oh, Latin!’ sighed the boy. ‘I never used to do any Latin when mamma was alive—before I came to England.’

‘Would you like to go back to Italy?’

‘Not much, because papa always makes me feel such a very little boy. Mr. Philips doesn’t.’

‘Well, come along then! Was not that a beautiful lady?’

‘Very pretty. She liked talking to us.’

‘I liked talking to her,’ said John Leyburn, sedately, as they turned in at the abbey gate, and went up the river walk.

STAGE I.

CHAPTER I.
EMS.

It was half-past nine in the evening. The concert in the great Saal of the Kurhaus at Ems was just over, and the audience streamed out, with a clatter of conversation, and a sudden restoration of animation, into the fresher and yet deliciously warm air of the gardens. It was the end of July, the height of the season at Ems; and that small, enervating, fashionable watering-place was thronged with visitors of every age, nation, and rank, from the royal and imperial, as represented in the persons of Germany and Russia, down to the English family of Robinson, who had never felt so genteel before, or been in (whether of or not) such aristocratic company in their lives, and the German family of Braun, who were wealthy, and who revelled luxuriously each day at a different table d’hôte of a different hotel, and who sat in a row in the Kurgarten, morning and afternoon, listening devotedly to the music, and occasionally murmuring ‘Schön!’ if it pleased them. Or, oh joy! standing in rapt respect and attention, as an old white-headed, white-moustached man in a grey summer-suit came walking along, very erect, one hand behind his back, in friendly converse with, now one, now another, bare-headed gentleman who kept just a pace behind him.

‘There’s the emperor! dear old thing!’ whisper all the Miss Robinsons, standing up too, as the grey old gentleman comes past.

‘Unser Kaiser!’ murmur the Brauns with beaming smiles of satisfaction, and gazing at him with broad-faced loyalty.

This ‘watching for the emperors,’ and the thrills of emotion which ran through every loyal heart when they were visible, was the chief pastime of the day; and if one failed to see the emperors, there were always those who had lived near them—princesses, countesses, baronesses, and their consorts; highnesses of every degree of transparency and serenity, half the vons in the Almanach de Gotha; together with unpronounceable Russians, fascinating Poles, well-known diplomatists, representing both the suaviter in modo and the fortiter in re—to wit, the ‘blood and iron’ policies of their respective courts. All these were there, besides the shoals of nobodies who bought up the Kurlisten in order to read their own names in close proximity to those of somebodies, and who, it is to be hoped, felt rewarded by these and similar privileges for the crowding and pushing and swindling to which they were in other matters subjected.

On the night in question the concert-room had been thronged, for the two emperors and their suites had condescended to look in for a few moments, and the orchestra had performed the Russian national hymn with great spirit and much applause. The distinguished guests were felt to be still lingering somewhere about the gardens; and moreover the river was illuminated, and was dazzling with lines of fairy lights, from the bridge opposite the Darmstädter Hof to the other bridge at the extreme end of the Kurgarten—and of civilisation, of course, in Ems—and beyond the house called the Vier Thürme, at which the Russian monarch was lodging.

Two barges, brightly illuminated with the imperial crowns and lovingly-entwined initials of Russia and Germany, were floating about the river, while ‘the music’ on board alternately played Die Wacht am Rhein and the Russian national anthem—a spectacle most thrilling and edifying for all loyal souls; if somewhat less enchanting to the musicians and boatmen who perspired in the glare and smell and heat of the lamps, and industriously paddled up and down the little Lahn, below the walls of the broad walk of the Kurgarten.

Down that broad walk, from the concert-room, came a crowd of the notabilities and otherwise, who had composed the audience; all chattering, laughing, flirting, and intriguing in almost every European tongue.

About the middle of the throng came a group of some four or five ladies and gentlemen, and walking a little in advance of the others with one of the men beside her, a tall girl whose accent was English, though she spoke German. Some dark thick trees overhung that part of the walk, making it dark on the side next the river wall; but the lamps cast a bright light upon the girl’s face, and showed its every feature and the play of its expression clearly and distinctly to one who sat on a bench in one of the little recesses in the wall which almost overhung the river; and who from this position had for some time been indifferently watching the brilliant throng as they trooped past.

As the girl came on, now looking straight before her, now turning her head to speak to the man, who from the thickness of the crowd was compelled to go just half a pace behind her, the hidden watcher observed her closely and intently. She was tall, well-formed, and well-developed. There was much grace and a great deal of pride in her carriage; her head was habitually carried high, as might easily be seen; her face was very handsome indeed, even splendid, with a brow like Chaucer’s nun:

‘And sickerly she had a fayre forehead,

It was almoste a spanne brode, I trow,

For hardily she was not undergrowe.’

A large, well-cut mouth, in the sweep of whose lips there was both thought and grandeur; bright, glossy, chestnut hair, rich in hue and crisply waving; fine dark-grey eyes, with level brows, the eyes deep-set and critical in expression; her whole aspect was dignified, and yet there was assuredly a gleam of humour in her eyes, as she stepped composedly on, in her light, softly falling dress and broad plumed black hat.

‘Tell me, Herr von Lemde—you have made a study of the nobility, I know——’

‘It is true, mein Fräulein. What ought a man to study, if not his own order?’

‘And that such an order! Indeed, you are right. I want to know who that lovely woman near us was, in a dress like a cloud of creamy muslin and lace. I thought she must be a Pole, from her gracefulness and from the spirited way in which she spoke.’

‘You were right,’ he said earnestly. ‘It was the Princess ——.’

‘Thank you very much. I feel happier now. Suppose it had turned out to be some Mrs. Smith, or Frau Müller!’

‘I fear, mein Fräulein, that you are a little tinged with——’

‘But, liebe Sara,’ cried a lady behind, ‘it is getting late, and we have such a long drive.’

‘Oh, Carla, don’t go yet!’ expostulated, not Sara, but a German girl, dark, handsome, and defiant-looking. ‘It is so fine; and we have not seen the emperor, and, after all, it is not so late.’

‘Oh, it is quite early!’ said an English girl who was of the party.

She addressed as Sara at this moment turned, and the whole group paused, a few paces from the place where the silent watcher sat. He had turned aside as soon as Sara had passed, and was now gazing intently down into the mysterious eddies of the river, his chin propped on his hand.

‘Just as you like, Gräfin,’ said Sara Ford, smiling; ‘it is very nice here, and Herr von Lemde’s society makes dullness out of the question.’

Evidently Miss Ford, dignified though she looked, was not above amusing herself at the expense of a rather stupid young man.

Baron Lemde smiled all over his handsome, meaningless face, and dropped a little into the rear, embracing Miss Ford’s shawl with effusion, while she stood, still the centre of the group, and the Countess of Trockenau paused, looking thoughtful.

‘It is too bad of you, Miss Ford,’ said the other English girl in her ear. ‘How can you make fun of poor Lemde and make others laugh at him in that way?’

Sara smiled a bright, frank, disdainful smile, and the Countess of Trockenau said:

‘Well, shall we be going?’

‘Oh—h—h!’ sighed the younger English girl, with an accent of disappointment.

‘Mein Fräulein,’ began Lemde, bending towards Sara, who neither heard nor saw him; or if she did, did not notice him.

He saw that her eyes were fixed upon some one who approached them; her lips were gravely set, yet in their sweet and gracious curve there was an expression which, though it was not for him, made the simple young baron’s heart beat faster. His glance followed hers. The silent watcher had arisen from his hiding-place, and was advancing towards them. He met Sara Ford’s eyes, and took off his hat. In another moment they were shaking hands, and though she was self-possessed, and almost distant in her manner, poor Hans von Lemde’s heart fell.

‘Good-evening, Miss Ford.’

‘Good-evening, Mr. Wellfield. I did not see you at the concert. Were you not there?’

‘No; I have been sitting here by the river instead. I hope you are well?’

‘Quite well, I thank you. And your——’

The countess had seen and accosted him, and he turned towards her.

‘You stay late to-night, gnädige Frau,’ said he, kissing her hand with sedate gravity.

‘Mr. Wellfield! ah, that reminds me—your Herr Vater, how is he—any better? I sent one of my men to inquire while we were in the concert, but have not seen him yet.’

She was a very pretty woman of eight or nine and twenty—a small, brilliant brunette; and Jerome Wellfield was dark too, yet the contrast between them was a startling one.

‘I thank you,’ he answered; ‘my father is somewhat stronger to-night. I trust he will soon be quite well again.’

‘I hope so; and your sister, she is not with you to-night?’

‘Avice—she did not wish to leave my father; and then, she is a child as yet.’

‘Is she? I should have said—What is it?’

‘See, liebe Trockenau, his majesty is coming,’ said a German lady of the party, and with a quick movement the group was divided.

The German ladies, being both of rank, and geborenen of distinguished families, and Hans Lemde, stood stock-still by the roadside, waiting until the emperor should pass, to make their reverences and receive a recognition; while the English girls, Jerome Wellfield, and a German man who was not a von, strolled off down a side-walk. Sara Ford and Jerome Wellfield insensibly, but as if by general consent, dropped a little behind. The underlying sparkle of malice and mockery had died out of the young lady’s eyes, as she turned to her companion, saying:

‘I am glad your father is better, Mr. Wellfield, for I had heard that he was very ill.’

‘You are very kind. He really does seem better to-night, and I am in hopes that the attack will pass over, as all the others have done, though it has certainly been a severer one than usual.’

‘You look as if you had been watching and sitting up—have you?’

‘Oh, a mere trifle. My father gets nervous, and, as you may easily imagine, a large hotel is not the most comfortable place in which to be taken ill.’

‘No, indeed.’

‘Avice insisted on my coming out to-night. And you, Miss Ford, are you enjoying yourself at Count Trockenau’s?’

‘Very much. The change from the hot, dusty town, and from my paint-smelling atelier is really delightful. Everything up at Trockenau is so fresh, and the society is very amusing—yes, really exceedingly amusing.’

Sara laughed as she spoke—a pleasant, round, though not loud laugh.

‘Herr von Lemde’s society makes dulness out of the question,’ said Wellfield, composedly.

Miss Ford reddened a little.

‘Oh, did you hear all that? Well, who could be dull with Herr von Lemde? So long as I know that I may quit his society whenever I choose, he is delightfully amusing; and if I knew that I had to endure his society whether I liked it or not, I should at once become desperate, and capable of any crime, I think, so that in any case dulness is out of the question.’

Wellfield laughed.

‘How long are you staying?’ he asked.

‘Another week, I think, at least. The countess is very kind, and will not hear of my leaving sooner. You, I suppose, will remain with your father?’

‘I shall remain with my father at present,’ he answered.

There was a pause as they paced along the side-walk, somewhat removed from the glare of the lamps, and felt, each with a different degree of intensity, that they were alone. The other girls and their companions had fallen behind, and the countess and the others had not yet come up, glorified and hallowed by their interview with their Imperial Master.

Sara Ford, beautiful, talented, and charming, was an artist, almost alone in the world, fatherless, motherless, and with very little money, but with great talent and high ambition. She was spending her holiday at the country house, near Nassau, of the Count and Countess of Trockenau, her fast friends, and almost her only rich or distinguished patrons. Jerome Wellfield, who walked by her side, was the heir to an old name and a fair estate, of whose beauty she had heard him speak in terms which, with him, might pass for enthusiastic. This enthusiasm was the result of a visit to the said house years ago, when he had been a mere child, and so deep had been the impression then made upon him by the beauty and desirableness of the house of his fathers, that he was firmly resolved, far from following his father’s example of absenteeism, to settle there as soon as conveniently might be. His acquaintance with Sara Ford had not been a very long one; he had met her at the Countess of Trockenau’s house about a month ago, during the first part of her visit; yet, even now, neither ever saw the other without feeling a secret thrill of joy. As they silently walked on, she suddenly looked up at him, almost involuntarily—for though she was ‘more than common tall,’ he had somewhat to bend his head to speak to her—and found his dark, sombre, and, as she felt, most beautiful eyes, fixed upon her face. She blushed a little, and sighed quickly. His face, like some exquisite ivory cameo in its perfect outlines, and in the still, severe beauty of its contours, haunted her with a persistence which would not be accounted for merely by the fact that she, as an artist by nature and by trade, must delight in all things beautiful. For it was not all delight, far from it, which she felt in the haunting presence of that face. There was delight, but even more strongly there was the sense of captivity, the intuitive consciousness that she, like Gretchen, might make her moan:

‘Meine Ruh’ ist hin,

Mein Herz ist schwer;

Ich finde sie nimmer

Und nimmermehr!’

‘Did you enjoy the concert?’ asked Jerome, suddenly, after that long look which had passed between them.

‘Yes, in a way. I don’t much care for the music they have at places like this, but it was better than usual to-night. But I prefer our homely Elberthal concerts—so far as music is concerned. Here one goes to look at the people and the dresses, and to hear the gossip, and very amusing it is. I think you don’t go much to the concerts?’

‘No! I really cannot stand the everlasting waltzes and mazurkas and operatic selections. And one gets so tired of watching the same affected, overdressed women and insipid-looking men engrossed in one another.’

‘Yesterday the countess and I were sitting in the gardens, when we saw a man and woman coming along. The woman was dressed most gorgeously, and could scarcely walk because of her high heels; she hobbled along looking pitiful. He was a tall, strong, robust-looking fellow, and he carried her shawl, and her parasol, and her little bag with her handkerchief and scent-bottle, and he led her little white dog along by a blue ribbon; and he seemed happy.’

Wellfield laughed a little contemptuously.

‘I can imagine a man, if he were weak-minded, descending to even that depth, for the sake of some woman,’ continued Sara, reflectively. ‘What I cannot understand is, that any woman should like him for doing it; should be gratified in seeing him acting the part of a lady’s-maid to her. But I have seen many things lately which have puzzled me. Is your sister fond of music?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘You only think so?’

‘I hardly know her, you know. She is my half-sister. Once, when she was a mere baby, I saw her; and not again till a month ago—till I came here. Most likely I shall see more of her now. My father has been instructing me in my duties towards her, and he is perfectly right. If he would but come home and settle down at Wellfield all would be well. It is not good for a girl to live in hotels, with no woman about her whom she really knows, except her maid.’

‘No, indeed. But your sister does not look in the least spoiled by that life.’

‘Because she is so isolated. She never goes amongst the people at these places; she cannot, because my father himself does not. But it is a dull life for her.’

‘How old is she, exactly?’

‘A little more than sixteen.’

‘You must know, though, that she is very lovely now, and that sometime she will be remarkably beautiful.’

‘Avice—will she? She is pale, and her hair—yes, her hair is beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘Mr. Wellfield! your own sister, whom you see daily, and you ask if her hair is beautiful!’

‘Well, it is the fact of her being my own sister, I suppose, whom I see daily, that makes me ask,’ said Jerome, calmly. ‘I am not so—forgetful in all cases. But I was going to say that, though I don’t in the least know when I shall be free again, yet, when I am free, I am going to Cologne, where I have some musical friends. Cologne is not far from Elberthal, and, if you will allow me, Miss Ford’—he hesitated in a manner which his hearer thought decidedly becoming to him—‘I should like exceedingly to come over and visit your atelier, if I may—if it is not too great a favour that I ask.’

‘Oh no! If you care to see my poor attempts at pictures, I shall be delighted to show you them.’

‘I have heard great things of your “poor attempt at pictures,” Miss Ford.’

‘Have you? Some partial friend——’

‘It was Professor Wilhelmi, your master, I think.’

‘Yes. Well, he is a very partial friend. He has been goodness itself to me. I should never have done anything without his help. But when you see what he has praised, you can judge for yourself.’

‘I am no judge when the work is the work of a friend,’ said Jerome, smiling.

‘To-morrow they expect at Trockenau a most formidable person—Herr Rudolf Falkenberg.’

‘The Frankfort banker?’

‘I don’t know whether he is a banker or not, though I believe I have heard that he is. The important thing to me is, that he is a great judge of pictures; and that, as he is rich, he can afford to buy them when they please him: but I have heard as well that he is very severe, and most difficult to please.’

‘Surely that does not trouble you!’

‘It would trouble me if Herr Falkenberg were to see some of my pictures, and pronounce them very bad.’

‘As if he would have the ill-breeding to do so!’

Sara laughed.

‘I see, you would never make a critic,’ she said; and just then, coming to the end of a long walk, they found themselves suddenly in the full blaze of light which illuminated the linden-planted square where all the little tables stand, at which people sup or dine, or take coffee, wine, or ices. A score of heads and twice as many eyes were quickly turned upon the tall and certainly striking-looking couple who thus advanced into the light.

‘Take my arm,’ murmured Wellfield; and Sara, dazzled by the light in which they so suddenly found themselves, and a little embarrassed by the amount of attention bestowed upon her and her companion by the well-bred crowd, complied mechanically, and they walked rather quickly through the square.

‘I think, if we turn this way, we shall probably find the others,’ said Jerome, as they disappeared into the comparative obscurity under the shade of the Kurhaus.

‘Very likely,’ said Sara, and at that moment Hans Lemde came breathlessly after them.

‘Ah, mein Fräulein, we thought you were lost!’ he said, addressing Sara, and studiously avoiding even looking at her companion. ‘The countess is waiting to seek her carriage, for the road to Trockenau is rough.’

‘Well, show us the way to where she is, please,’ said Sara, with a touch of impatience.

Hans von Lemde walked stiffly in advance, trying rather feebly to look dignified. He was not naturally majestic in demeanour, and the circumstances deprived him of what little scrap of dignity he might in ordinary moments rejoice in. The effect of the procession was that of a noble and his lady preceded by a somewhat weak-minded retainer, new to his duties and afraid of taking too much upon himself.

The Countess of Trockenau was not in the violent hurry which might have been expected from Lemde’s representations. She had time again to greet Jerome Wellfield, and to say:

‘By-the-bye, Mr. Wellfield, I have a party to-morrow. Will you come?’

‘A very large party?’

‘Oh, so ziemlich—quite without ceremony. The ladies come to coffee and remain; the gentlemen later, to the Abendbrod and music. And a little dancing for the young people, I daresay, and wandering in the garden for those who like it. I shall expect you.’

‘If my father is better, or rather if he should be no worse, gnädige Frau, I shall have the utmost pleasure,’ he said, bowing, while Sara stood a little apart and carefully fastened her glove. The countess turned to speak to some one else, and Wellfield, with a half-smile, politely suggested to Sara that perhaps he could button her glove.

‘There is your carriage, gnädige Frau, going slowly down the road,’ exclaimed young Lemde, as if eager to end the scene.

‘Call it, then,’ said Frau von Trockenau, in much the same tone as that lately used by Miss Ford. It was a tone very generally adopted towards ‘poor Lemde.’

Obediently he hurried forward and hailed the coachman of the lady, who was still in lively conversation with a friend.

‘The carriage is here, most gracious, by the roadside, waiting!’ announced Hans, in a voice growing gradually louder and more portentous; and he repeated the information impressively.

‘Aber, dieser Mensch!’ murmured the ‘gracious lady,’ as Wellfield advanced, gave her his arm, and led her across the avenue to the roadside, where her carriage was waiting.

Lemde wished very much to offer his arm to Sara, but, looking furtively at her, decided with a sigh not to venture, and turned instead to Emily Leigh, the other English girl, who immediately put her hand within his arm, and tripped after Frau von Trockenau with the utmost cheerfulness. Sara followed, dignified and solitary. It was Jerome Wellfield who handed her into the carriage.

‘Also—bis Morgen!’ said the countess, bowing, and waving her hand as they drove away. Wellfield and Hans Lemde were left alone.

‘Are you going to the party to-morrow?’ asked Wellfield.

‘I? certainly. I go to all Frau von Trockenau’s parties.’

‘That shows your good taste,’ replied Jerome, gravely, raising his hat and wishing him good-evening; and then, after another look after the carriage as it drove rapidly away down the Nassau Road, he turned and sauntered slowly along the road towards the hotel of the Vier Jahreszeiten, where Mr. Wellfield and his family were staying.

CHAPTER II.
FRAU VON TROCKENAU’S ‘GESELLSCHAFT.’

The Count and Countess of Trockenau were both young, rich, and what their countrymen call lebenslustig, a word for which we have no equivalent shorter than a well-rounded sentence of explanation.

Their estate was large, and as beautiful as heart could desire. It stood sloping up a rounded, richly-wooded hill in the neighbourhood of K——au; and from its great terrace, as well as from other less distinguished points of vantage, there was a broad and beautiful vista over the rich and many-coloured plain, to where in a silver line the Rhine might be seen winding his way towards Coblenz. Far distant, like blue clouds on the horizon, lay the soft outlines of the Rhine mountains; far over hill and dale shone the delicious sunshine, while the fair land spread her broad bosom, in the rich maturity of the latter July, to his fervent beams.

All the summer long, Frau von Trockenau loved to have her friends around her, and those friends were various. Coffee-parties and picnics—or rather the German equivalents of picnics in the shape of fêtes and Landparteien, suppers and dances, riding and driving, and, when it was late enough, shooting and die Jagd. An admirable cook, wines of a character not to disgrace the cuisine, a hearty welcome, and unlimited liberty to the guest to follow the bent of his own wishes—these were the attractions offered to their guests by the count and countess, and they proved so strong that Frau von Trockenau very rarely had an invitation refused. People refused or put off other visits in order to make one to Schloss Trockenau, and persons who were not spontaneously invited there schemed to get invitations.

To the initiated reader the remark will be almost superfluous that the practices at Schloss Trockenau must have been characterised by a certain unconventionality and laisser faire not always found in German or any other country houses, whether belonging to the nobility or to the Bürgerschaft. This was the case, and the guests of the countess were by no means confined to persons who were her equals in rank, many of whom, she was wont to say, might be excellent creatures, but were often old, and, 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.

On the evening after that meeting in the Kurgarten, a large company, or Gesellschaft, was assembled in the rooms, or wandering about the gardens and terraces of the Schloss. It was a mixed and motley society. There were friends of the count, brother officers who were staying in the house, or who had come over from Coblenz for the occasion; young men from Berlin, fashionable or otherwise; some gay cousins of Countess Carla, very stylish young ladies indeed, who, with their pretty cousin as a chaperon, were creating havoc by their accomplishments, and by their airs and graces, in the hearts of all the shy young Junker in the vicinity, except in that of Hans von Lemde, who was irresistibly drawn in another direction. There were some young Englishmen from Bonn, fellow-students and friends of the count’s younger brother. There were two learned professors, and a poetess whose verses were fades, and who was rightly and universally voted a bore, but who was amongst the von-est of the vons, and who distinctly and unmistakably belonged to the genus irritabile, and apparently to no other.

There was Jerome Wellfield, who had just arrived, and who was talking to his hostess; there was Herr Rudolf Falkenberg, the great banker and picture-critic, who had arrived that morning. There was a knot of stout, oddly-dressed, gauche-looking ladies of a certain age, who clubbed together in a corner, and represented the local nobility and squirearchy.

‘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.’

‘Ach, lieber Himmel! Who is that?’ murmured another.

‘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.

The pair were followed by the disapproving looks of the local Junkerthum before spoken of, and by the round eyes of a number of young German girls, just arrived at that stage in life which is known to their countrymen as the Backfisch. Now, a Backfisch is a kind of ingénue not often met amongst English girls; and Sara Ford could never, by any chance, have had anything of the genus about her. Consequently she was an object of wonder, and some disapproval to those who either were or had been Backfische themselves.

‘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.’

‘Gott, yes!’ answered another, intently watching, while Herr Falkenberg held open the long glass-door, and Sara stepped through it and down the steps on to the terrace. The sun was setting as the young lady and the banker paced towards the point to which he wished to draw her attention. Sara was dressed in black, and there was nothing costly about her attire; for she was not rich, and her only jewellery consisted in certain old rings and a pearl-necklace, which had long ago belonged to her mother when, as the beautiful Marion Fanshawe, she had been married to Sara’s father. Plain though the dress was, it set her noble beauty off to great advantage; and one felt—at least Herr Falkenberg felt—the same conscientious delight in looking at her grand, simple loveliness, as results from the contemplation of some fine carved gem of ancient days, found perhaps by accident in the midst of a stock of gaudy modern jewellery.

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:

‘Liebe Sara, Herr Falkenberg wishes to be introduced,’ after which he had remained beside her chair, speaking of two of her pictures, and discussing them with an admiration, and at the same time a discrimination, which instantly showed her that report had not belied the keenness of his critical powers and the purity of his taste in such matters. ‘Perhaps,’ thought Sara to herself, repressing a smile of satisfaction, ‘if she were very amiable, and listened with attention to his criticisms, he might some day give her an order; and if she could say to friends and fellow-students, “I am painting this for Herr Falkenberg,” it would be as good, indeed much better, than fifty laudatory but unprofitable criticisms.’

‘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.’

‘I don’t agree with you. I think you ought to study landscape. I believe, from the examination I have given to those two little pictures of yours, that you might attain high rank as a painter, both of landscape and genre; with hard study, of course.’

‘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:

‘I am staying here a few days, so perhaps to-morrow, before we set off to Lahnburg——’

‘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 remains to be seen; all I hope is that you will not be offended if one who, by some misfortune, has got such an inveterate habit of pointing out what appear to him the merits and demerits of any composition, should——’

‘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.

‘I am sure I hope you may,’ he answered quickly. ‘There is nothing I should so much——’

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.

‘There is nothing I should like better if you are at liberty to——’ began Jerome, as they entered the room by the long glass-door, just within which stood Lemde, not dancing.

‘Mein Fräulein,’ said the poor youth, humbly coming forward, ‘will you honour me by dancing the cotillon with me?’

‘How fortunate for me that I secured your promise a moment ago,’ said Jerome, with imperturbable composure and a slight smile.

Hans’s face fell; that of Sara crimsoned as she said:

‘I am very sorry, Baron Lemde, but I have promised it to Mr. Wellfield.’

In another moment she was waltzing with Jerome Wellfield, and Junker Hans, after watching them for a few moments, turned aside.

‘She is too proud and too clever, I suppose, to have anything to do with me,’ he was saying to himself, as he struggled with a degrading and childish inclination to cry. ‘And those other fellows, Falkenberg, and that Wellfield, and the others, I’ve no chance against them. It’s odd,’ the youth continued moodily to reflect, ‘how little a lot of these English girls care for rank. Falkenberg is bürgerlich: Wellfield—it isn’t his rank she cares for; it’s his way, I suppose, of behaving as if he had a right to everything he sees—they don’t mind rank when a man has “go,” or when he pleases them; but then they are so hard to please.’

To Sara, the evening passed like a dream. This was the first, the very first and most delicate flavour and aroma of love, which with her could only be deep and earnest, full and profound, as her own nature. She knew that she was beautiful, without having ever thought much about it. She had seen admiration in men’s eyes before now; she had heard words of love and beseeching addressed to her once or twice, and all had lightly passed over her spirit, like a breath of air across a fair garden. But Wellfield’s eyes, with their eloquent homage, thrilled her; his mere presence aroused in her the feeling, never known before, of delight, mingled with apprehension; she shrank away from trying to guess, even in her own mind, how much his look meant—what the end of this episode would be. She questioned and doubted, for the first time, her own powers of pleasing, because for the first time she was desirous above all things to please. Advanced spirits may condemn such anxiety as servile and degrading. No opinion is offered upon those points, only the certainty expressed that such feelings of ‘servility’ are very common amongst women, and men too, who are in love. Instead of feeling confidence now, she absolutely trembled lest she should have mistaken the meaning of his glance, and of the few words he had now and then dropped, and which had seemed to her to have a deeper meaning than mere phrases of politeness or of compliment.

Such was her deprecatory and tremblingly uncertain state of mind—hers, who had laughed through life, free from tyrant love or care, undaunted by reverses, and holding her own against difficulties with a steadfastness born of innate, inbred courage of soul. Till now every higher thought and aspiration had been resolutely and singly directed towards her art, and her own advancement in it. Her heart’s desire had been faithfully, so far as she could, to act up to Goethe’s words, and—

‘Im Ganzen, Guten, Wahren

Resolut zu leben.’

The defeat had been rapid and complete, and, true to her woman’s nature, she rejoiced in it rather than otherwise. At least, this night, in Jerome’s presence, and surrounded by the subtle incense of admiration and flattery which he offered her, she rejoiced in it. There were other times, when he was absent, in which the rejoicing was not pure, and the sense of captivity was stronger than the thrill of love.

The evening thus passed on, and every time she met those dark and eloquent eyes she felt, with a throb of the heart, the half-welcome, half-dreaded conviction grow stronger—‘This that I see in his eyes is love!’

There ensued a pause in the dancing, organised by Frau von Trockenau, in order to have some music; for she was a woman who utilised all her resources, and never allowed the meanest tool to rust for want of use; and knowing that there were several admirable musicians, vocal and instrumental, in the company, she was firmly resolved that they should display their talents.

A certain young Englishwoman, married to one Count Eugen of Rothenfels, was the first to sing. The fair soprano was filling the room with a flood of melody, when the countess came up to the place where Sara Ford was seated, somewhat apart, with Jerome Wellfield leaning over the back of her chair, his eyes dreamily fixed on the face of the singer.

‘Mr. Wellfield,’ said his pretty little hostess, ‘I know I am asking a very great favour, and that you hate it; but won’t you sing to-night, to please me?’

‘Oh, will you?’ said Sara, involuntarily. She had heard wonderful rumours of Wellfield’s voice, and the wish to hear him was strong.

He bowed towards the countess.

‘To please you, gnädige Frau,’ he said, with a slight smile, ‘is a privilege, and I shall at once obey your order when I receive it.’

‘That is good! recht freundlich!’ exclaimed the lady, radiant with delight; for Wellfield’s reserve was generally as great as his talent was said to be, and she had had little hope of his consenting to sing before that large audience of perfect strangers. She confided her success to the ear of one of her cousins, Helene von Lehnberg, who said, with a sneer:

‘Another of your English amateurs, Carla? For my part, I don’t think much of a talent that is so haughty and reserved as almost to require one to go on one’s knees to it.’

‘Ah, my dear Helene! I doat upon proud, haughty people, when they are just the reverse to me, which is the case with Mr. Wellfield,’ rejoined Frau von Trockenau, not without malice.

‘I am glad you are going to sing,’ said Sara to Jerome, when they were alone again.

‘I am naturally of an obliging disposition, and could not refuse the Frau Gräfin.’

‘She is delighted,’ said Sara, with a smile.

‘When I have done,’ said Wellfield, in a low tone, ‘I shall come and ask if you were delighted—may I?’

‘May you?’ she stammered.

‘I mean, will you answer me if I do come?’

‘Do you expect me to tell you that I am not delighted?’

‘I expect nothing, therefore I am blessed; but I desire very much that you should tell me the truth.’

‘I will do so if you wish it.’

‘Thank you.... Yes, Frau Gräfin, I see and I obey,’ he added, as the countess was perceived making her way to him.

There was some little stir and sensation when Wellfield advanced to the piano. ‘An Englishman, an amateur—nun, wir werden ’mal sehen!’ said one or two sceptics, with a supercilious curl of the lip.

‘What does he sing? English songs—“The Last Rose of Summer”?’ asked one young lady, sarcastically.

‘No, no!’ whispered a dapper little lieutenant, who was paying her devoted attention; ‘he will sing a comic song, “What Jolly Dogs we are!” An Englishman told me last week that they sang nothing else in England now. He was at a party where nineteen of the company had brought their music——’

‘Gott! Herr Lieutenant, how horrible!’ tittered the young lady.

‘And sixteen out of the nineteen had brought “What Jolly Dogs we are!” Fact, I assure you, parole d’honneur! But hush! He is playing his own accompaniment. What! Rubinstein! “Asra!” Impossible!’