‘He’s gone, ma’am. He told me not to disturb you, but to tell you when you came down that he had an engagement at Frankfort to-night, and he didn’t know when he would be able to come over here again, but he would write.’
Sara was silent; her mind filled with various emotions. It was very good of him–what wonderful tact and delicacy he had! and yet, she wished he had left a note behind. She wished he had not been so afraid of disturbing her. He might have given her the chance of thanking him for his goodness, and all this provision of luxury and thoughtful care for her comfort and convenience. But no! It was doubtless best left as it was. After all, if she had seen him, what could she have said? So she decided in her own mind, and ten minutes afterwards was wondering how soon he would write, and what he would say when he did so.
From this day her life went on in an even monotonous tenor. In her home, and around it, was everything that heart could desire in the way of beauty, of rare and costly things. The winter proved to be a hard one, and the old town of Lahnburg lay for months under a mantle of frost and snow. The air was cold, clear and keen; the hills around were white; the river flowed black through a plain of spotless white; the skies overhead were generally of a deep scintillating crystal blue. All the beauty that winter ever has or can have, lay around her, and she could enjoy it by going out into her own garden and grounds.
She did not grow happy in the place, nor contented in it, but she grew used to it, and unwilling to move away from it. She grew almost unconsciously to love the deep and profound retirement of it–it was so quiet, so undisturbed, that sometimes she caught herself thinking of ‘After life’s fitful fever,’ and then, with a half-smile, remembering that that applied to death, not life.
Very few persons knew of her being there, save her old friend Countess Carla, who had made a pilgrimage from Nassau, and burst upon her one day unexpectedly, and fortunately alone. She came full of wishes of joy, and of eager congratulations.
Sara–how, she hardly knew, but by a few words far from explicit–managed to convey to the lively little lady something like the true state of the case. The countess was appalled, her face fell, she could hardly speak. At last:
‘Sara, there was some one else, you mean.’
Sara assented.
‘Was it–do forgive me–but was it Mr. Wellfield?’