‘I will have some lunch, and think about it, but I don’t think I shall go.’
Yet, when he had ordered some lunch and sat in the coffee-room waiting for it, he caught himself thinking what a long time it would be before the time came to set out for the station.
Should he go, or should he not? He ate and drank something, and strolled out of the hotel into the town, and passed by the people who wanted to show him the sights, and he thought he was trying to decide not to go. He repeated to himself all the arguments against going, and they were numerous and cogent. Then he caught himself wishing ardently that he had something to keep him in Frankfort–some engagement that would prevent his leaving the town that evening. Then he went back to the hotel and compared the clock there with his watch. A quarter before five. The station was close at hand–must he go, or must he stay? A man came up to him–one of the merchants who had been present at the meeting, and with whom he had a slight acquaintance, and said politely:
‘Mr. Wellfield, if you are staying in the town, and have no other engagement to-night, will you do me the honour of dining at my house? we are having some friends, and I should be delighted to introduce you to my wife and daughters.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Wellfield, after a scarcely perceptible pause; ‘you are very kind, and I should have been delighted, but I have an engagement out of town, and must go to the station now, if I am to catch my train.’
The die was cast, and he went quickly out of the hotel, and down the street to the station. Ten minutes later, he was in the train, on his way to Lahnburg.
When he arrived there it was dusk, as it is in October at six o’clock. He knew the place well, though he had not been of the party on that day of Sara Ford’s first visit there. He knew the way, too, to Falkenberg’s house, and quickly he walked there, and pushed open the gate, stood in the garden, and surveyed the old mansion. Behind one or two of the blinds he saw lights. Everything was very still in the dank, sad air of the autumn evening. Not a sound came from the house. The trees stood drooping and motionless, saturated with the autumnal dew, which is heavy and soaking and dank, not lying lightly like a gossamer mist as that of summer does. He could see the lights of the town twinkling here and there, and a faint hum came up from that direction; but to the right and straight before him there was only a great veil of mist, hiding field and hill, river and distance, alike.
He went up to the door, and rang the bell. A man-servant opened the door, and Wellfield began:
‘Is–’ but his tongue refused to say Falkenberg’s name. ‘Is the gnädige Frau at home?’
She was at home, he was told; and Wellfield entered, and told the man his name. The servant perhaps did not catch the sound of the strange name, but seeing a gentleman, composed and calm, asking for his mistress, he concluded it was right, and opening the door of the salon, announced: