CHAPTER IX.

ELLEN’S OPINION.

It was not until night, after Avice, wearied with sorrow and

excitement, had gone to bed, that Sara, calling Mrs. Nelson to her,

said:

‘Well, Ellen, what do you think of my new arrangement? Are you pleased

to have Miss Wellfield here?’

‘Yes, indeed, ma’am. I never saw a sweeter young lady, nor one that was

more of a real lady. She’s one that it will be a pleasure to serve.’

‘That is well, and I quite agree with you. And—Mr. Wellfield?’

There was a pause before Ellen said: ‘It is much more difficult to

judge of a gentleman, on the spot as it were; and for a woman, too.

And then he is so much older.’

‘I know. But you must have formed some opinion of him, Ellen. We never

see anyone strange without some impression being made on our minds.’

‘He is a noble-looking gentleman,’ said Ellen, slowly. ‘What piercing

dark eyes he has; and such a presence, and such a voice—such an air,

Miss Sara, if I might say so. One does not often see such gentlemen,

and——’

‘Well, Ellen?’ said her mistress, resting her chin upon her hand, and

looking fixedly at her, while her heart throbbed. Was he not all that,

and more?

‘I was thinking—Miss Sara, you must not think me impertinent. You are

like my child, you know.’

‘I know it. Go on.’

‘I was thinking that he has a way and a look with him that must make it

hard for any woman to withstand him, supposing he were making love to

her.’

‘And is that all?’ Sara asked, almost indignantly; her heart falling,

though she was herself at the moment so strongly under the influence of

that ‘way’ and that ‘look’—though he had been making love to her, and

she had found resistance swept away like a straw down a strong current.

‘Is that all? Ellen, you know you are evading my questions. You know

that I want to know whether he looked high-minded and good.’

‘And that is just what I cannot say, my dear. I cannot tell. He

looks splendid—I know that. He looks a gentleman, and a very grand

gentleman. And I saw nothing to make me think he would not be good.

But, since you will know all, Miss Sara, I thought there was a look

about his lips, as if he could be cruel on occasion.’

‘Cruel, Ellen? What do you mean?’

‘Nay, don’t look at me in that way, ma’am! You would make me speak, and

I’m bound to tell the truth, I don’t mean that he looked as if he would

hurt an animal, or wilfully torment anything, but he looked to me as

if, supposing he was hard pressed, for instance, he could be cruel, and

unscrupulous—as if he would gain his end, choose what he had to do to

get to it.’

‘Oh,’ said Sara, with a somewhat nervous laugh, ‘you mean that he has

a very strong will. I hope indeed that he has, Ellen, for he will need

it, I assure you.’

‘Then I am very glad he _is_ determined,’ answered Ellen, briskly, as

if anxious to have the subject disposed of. And Sara did not resume it,

but she was that night in no humour for either work or play. She sat in

her easy-chair beside the table on which stood her lamp, and thought

and pondered until her brain seemed to ache.

Where was he now? How far advanced on his dreary way to England and

Manchester? She knew nothing of the north of England. She only knew

that Wellfield, where his lost home was, was in the north-east corner

of the great manufacturing county, and that (so he had told her) it was

a lovely and fertile spot, surrounded on one side by bleak Yorkshire

moors, and on others by great grimy manufacturing towns. Of course she

had heard of the north of England towns, had met people who came from

them, had passed through some of them years ago, on her way to Scotland

with her father; but all that region was a great unknown land to her,

with, as it seemed, the one exception of Wellfield, which she had found

upon an ordnance map, and had pictured in her heart, until it took up a

great space in her imagination; and for her ‘the north’ as applied to

England, meant Wellfield. A ridiculous mental position no doubt, but

one not entirely without precedent.

Well, she thought, he would soon be there. He had told her he intended

to go to see the old place once again. Mr. Bolton, the new owner, would

not be so churlish as to refuse him that grace. And he had promised to

write and tell her about it.

‘Cruel?’ she thought, reflecting upon Ellen’s words. ‘I suppose that

means resolute. People sometimes have to be almost cruel. It is often

apparent cruelty which is really the greatest kindness. Jerome could

be most determined, I am certain. I have noticed a change myself,

since—since his trouble. I daresay he could even be what Ellen would

imagine cruel; but if so, it would be because he thought it right.’

Meditating upon this thought and variations of it, she sat until far in

the night.

It was several days before the two girls heard anything of Jerome, and

meantime they were able to become better acquainted with one another.

Sara was predisposed to love Avice, first because of her charming

appearance, and next because she was Jerome’s sister. As time went

on, the qualities, mental and moral, of her new sister made her love

her for herself. Avice at first stood in a little awe of Miss Ford,

of her grand manner, and of her indifferent way of speaking of things

which many persons, and most women especially, thought of the first

importance. But very soon Sara’s great heart and large benevolent

woman’s nature fascinated the younger girl. The whole character of

this new friend was so utterly different from the character which

had hitherto overshadowed and stunted hers, that very soon the joy

of the new influence pervaded her whole nature. Here every power was

encouraged to expand to its utmost—here the cold question, ‘What will

persons of judgment say to it?’ was never asked; only the question,

‘Is it right or wrong?’ or, by preference, ‘Is it good and noble,

or bad and base?’ Things were looked at as they were, not as the

world preferred to see them. Here was liberty in the most alluring

guise—that of a beautiful woman who loved all things pure and of good

report. Avice very soon began to worship her new guardian.

When at last the first letter from Jerome arrived, there was little in

it of actual news. He wrote from the house of Mr. Netley, his father’s

solicitor, and said he had only just arrived there.

‘I found one of his clerks waiting for me with an invitation to go to

his house, and stay there until this business is settled and the worst

known. I therefore drove straight up to his place, which is three or

four miles out of town; and I am writing this before dinner, while I

wait for his return from business. But I could not wait when once there

was a chance of writing to you.

‘This Cottonopolis is a dismal hole—but such a rush along the streets.

Such earnest, intent, money-making faces; shrewd, hard and ugly for the

most part. As their owners bustle along the streets, I feel as if I

were a member of an extinct species, suddenly resuscitated and plunged

into the whirl of the working half of the nineteenth century—and I

look the thing every inch, I don’t doubt. I will write to-morrow as

soon as ever I have had a conversation with Mr. Netley, and know my way

a little better.’

He asked her to address everything for the present to Mr. Netley’s

offices, at 57, Canongate. And he added that he had rejoiced every hour

since his arrival in England, to know that Avice was where she was.

‘Not here—I do not know what would have become of her here. I think

of you both, constantly, and the thought is as it were a light unto my

feet and a lamp unto my path. With it, Sara, there may be poverty and

sorrow to contend with, but there will always be something to live for

and something to hope for. And I say again, “God bless you!”’

With the receipt of this letter it was as if one stage of a journey had

come to an end. The door of a former life of luxury and careless ease

had been closed and barred, and before them all lay a rugged path to be

travelled, and moreover the light that shone upon it was so vague and

uncertain that it was difficult to follow in its windings.

[Illustration]

STAGE II.

CHAPTER I.

WHAT MR. NETLEY SAID.

A LONG, dree journey by that very unsavoury route to and from the

Continent—Rotterdam and Harwich—and Jerome Wellfield, on the morning

after his parting from his sister and sweetheart, found himself in

London. He had nothing to do there—no business in the great city—no

means, no right to take any pleasure in the same. He made his way from

the Liverpool Street Station to that at Euston Square, where he found

he had some two hours to wait before the express to Irkford should

start.

Who does not know the dreariness of such hours of waiting, weary,

travel-worn and alone, in some great wilderness of a city station? They

were the two most dismal hours he had ever passed.

At last, at eleven in the forenoon, the train to Manchester started.

Jerome cast himself into a second-class compartment, and with weary

eyes saw, when he was not half-dozing, ‘the happy autumn fields’

through which the express rushed smoothly and swiftly, and with

slackened speed at last rolled into that cheering and inspiriting

terminus, the London Road Station, Manchester.

From Ems—even from Elberthal—to Manchester! The contrast just flashed

across his mind as he alighted.

A clerk presently accosted him inquiringly, ‘Mr. Wellfield?’ and then

gave him a note which he carried. The note was a kindly, pleasant

one from Mr. Netley, begging him to go to his house, and make it his

headquarters until his business in Manchester was settled. Business

prevented him from coming to the station himself and taking his guest

home, but he would be in to dinner at seven. The address was given, and

he hoped his clerk would bring word that Mr. Wellfield was on his way

to ‘Birch Lodge.’

With the sensation that this was true friendliness, Jerome bade the

youth tell Mr. Netley that he accepted his invitation with many thanks,

and, getting into a cab, gave the address, and was driven to Mr.

Netley’s house—his ‘box,’ as he called it in his note.

For a bachelor’s box it was remarkably roomy and comfortable. The

housekeeper had evidently expected the guest, and led him upstairs to

the room prepared for him. Declining her offer of refreshments, he was

left alone, with exactly two hours on his hands before dinner-time.

Part of the time he employed in writing that letter to Sara which has

already been spoken of—the rest in meditations, not particularly

agreeable, on his ‘present condition and future prospects.’ During

the few hours he had been in England he had felt a distinctly stronger

chagrin and disappointment at the idea of the utter loss of home than

he had yet experienced. He could not understand nor account for this

feeling, but it was there, and it was strong. He felt a sudden rush

of indignation at the manner in which he had been all these years

cheated and hoodwinked—and that by his father. This Mr. Bolton, who

now reigned at the Abbey—who and what was he? The desire to visit

the place once more grew stronger. Wild schemes for becoming rich,

and having the place back again, ran riot in his mind—chimerical

schemes, for, as each one rose and fell, he had to tell himself again

and again that each was vanity. In England—in this part of England

especially—the way in which men made fortunes was that of trade and

successful speculation. He knew absolutely nothing of trade, and had

not the remotest idea in what ‘speculation’ consisted. He saw no way at

all of becoming rich. He saw the most probable and the best fate he

could expect rise up and stand very clearly before his mental eyes—a

secretaryship, clerkship, or something of that kind—neither of them

avocations in which, as a rule, money is very rapidly accumulated.

In the midst of these agreeable meditations the dinner-bell rang, and

he went downstairs and found his host standing in the hall, looking out

for him—a grey-haired, round-faced, pink-cheeked, elderly man, with a

bland smile and an amiable expression.

His appearance for some reason caused Jerome a kind of shock, he

had unconsciously expected something so different. The climax of

disillusion and commonplace appeared to have been reached when Mr.

Netley, shaking hands with him and smiling benevolently, said he was

sure Mr. Wellfield wanted his dinner. With his usual _sang froid_,

Jerome, after a momentary pause, smiled slightly, and said ‘Yes,’ he

was very hungry. They went into the dining-room, and here Mr. Netley

volunteered the remark that he thought business had better wait until

after dinner, to which Jerome again yielded a cordial assent, and they

took their places—Jerome with an ever-deeper suspicion that somehow

Mr. Netley was not—the only word he could think of was, ‘sharp’—that,

for a solicitor of his standing, he was decidedly not very sharp.

‘Have you ever been in Manchester before?’ asked Mr. Netley.

‘As a child, I may. Never since I grew up; nor, indeed, in any place

like it.’

‘Ah! it’s an odd kind of place. Very thorough-going—strong political

views, you know.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Not that I know anything about politics; I never

took the slightest interest in them.’

‘No? Not been thrown in the way of that kind of thing, I suppose?’

‘Not at all. All my friends have been musical, or literary, or artistic

people—or, nothing in particular, like myself.’

‘I see. Well, there is a section in Manchester that goes in for

art, and music, and that kind of thing. We’ve very fine music

here—concerts, you know—a great many concerts, in the season.’

‘Yes, I suppose everyone has heard that Manchester is a music-loving

town.’

‘Exactly so,’ said Mr. Netley, looking cheered at this admission. ‘And

then there are literary people too, you know, and scientific—oh, many

scientific people, whom I don’t know much about. And there are some

artists, too. There’s a School of Art—there are a great many pupils at

the School of Art, and an exhibition every year of their paintings.’

‘Only _their_ paintings?’ inquired Jerome, politely.

‘Oh, and other people’s paintings, of course. Yes; and a Black and

White Exhibition. Do you care for black and white pictures? Have you

been much thrown amongst black and white artists—I mean artists who do

black and white pictures?’

‘Not more than amongst artists who do red, and green, and blue, and

other coloured pictures in general,’ replied Jerome, beginning to feel

a little amused, and to realise that probably Mr. Netley was one of

those persons who have one manner and set of expressions for business

hours, and quite another for those of leisure.

So it proved. When they went into the library, and Mr. Netley began to

talk on business, it must have been a very clever man indeed who could

have caught him tripping, or who could have discovered any want of

perspicacity or acumen in his utterances.

They sat together in the study, with cigars and coffee-cups before

them, and Mr. Netley had pulled out some papers, and begun to turn them

over, when Jerome, whose impatience had been none the less keen in that

he had so strenuously concealed it, said:

‘Before you go into details, I wish you could give me one piece of

information. Will there be anything left? Will there be enough just to

give my sister a home? That is what I am most anxious to know.’

‘There will be Monk’s Gate, and I think from a hundred to a hundred and

twenty pounds’ income. Curate’s pay, Mr. Wellfield, and a curate might

make it do.’

‘You are thinking I am not one. That’s true. But this is a great

relief. And Monk’s Gate—what is Monk’s Gate?’

‘Your father only sold the Abbey, not Monk’s Gate.’

‘Monk’s Gate, I conclude, is a house. I don’t seem to have any

remembrance of it.’

‘It is the little dower-house belonging to the Abbey. It is close to

the large outer gate—Monk’s Gate they always called it.’

‘I think I remember.’

‘The old fellows used to use that gate. They went out through it into

the fields to fish in the river. They knew what they were about, those

old grey-frocks. Show me an abbey that was not built on a site at once

fertile, rich, and beautiful. I defy you, sir.’

‘There was Whitby—it’s the only one I can remember; but it always

struck me as being rather bleak,’ observed Jerome.

‘Well, Whitby, I grant you. But that was a nunnery. Women like to make

themselves uncomfortable for the sake of religion, or what they think

religion. But that’s neither here nor there, and if you are ready, I’ll

go a little into detail.’

Jerome absently assented, and Mr. Netley was privately thinking, with

some contempt:

‘He’s the old Wellfields all over again. Let him only be secure of

what will keep him from absolute beggary, and he’ll sit down with it,

rather than stir a finger. The only time at which you could arouse that

race to a transient activity, was when they were absolutely hard-up.

When there wasn’t a coin in the house, they would suddenly drop their

pride, and descend to any expedient to stave off personal inconvenience

and discomfort. And the most unscrupulous of the whole lot was this

lad’s father. This fellow, it strikes me, has all the pride and all

the laziness of the breed, but not their dishonesty, I should say.

Mother’s blood, perhaps.’

Jerome must have been gratified indeed, could he have known his host’s

opinion of him.

There was not very much to be explained. It seemed that Mr. Wellfield

had sold the Abbey about seven years ago, when Jerome was nineteen and

Avice nine years of age. Mr. Netley explained about the ways in which

the purchase-money had been invested, and how the bank failure had come

about, which had brought the crash. He was a little surprised, and his

theory as to Jerome’s want of character was shaken, when the young man

said:

‘It seems to me that in any case, on my father’s death, I should have

been reduced to poverty, for, had the money been remaining, I should

have made it my first object to regain the Abbey—if I had had to spend

every farthing to do so.’

‘You would have found it no easy task, Mr. Wellfield. Mr. Bolton is

greatly attached to the place, and I don’t think any price would tempt

him.’

Jerome winced—it was galling in the extreme to have to hear of this

man in possession with so firm a grasp upon what he had always regarded

as his. He hated the thought, and once again, stronger than ever,

the desire rushed over him to oust the usurper from his place. And

once again succeeded the recoil, the miserable sense of poverty and

helplessness, of impotency, which made his temples throb and his blood

boil. He sat, with knitted brows, in moody silence, till at last he

asked abruptly:

‘And this Monk’s Gate—is it habitable?’

‘Oh, I should say so. I believe there is even some antiquated furniture

in it.’

‘I shall go over and see it, at any rate, before I decide upon anything

else.’

‘Very well. The key is in my keeping at my office. You shall have it.

You shall judge for yourself. Meantime, don’t be in any hurry to leave

me. Turn things well over in your mind before you decide to live at

Monk’s Gate, or anywhere else. I will do all I can to help you forward.’

‘You are very kind,’ said Jerome, still absently, his mind still

vaguely reaching out after some path from his difficulties.

Before going to sleep, he added a postscript to his letter to Sara.

‘Netley tells me he thinks there will be a pittance left, which makes

my mind easier with respect to my sister. Ah, my love, I never realised

till this night, the _power_ of money. The want of it makes me feel

unscrupulous.’

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

MONK’S GATE.

It was a glorious afternoon in the beginning of August, on which

Wellfield left Manchester for his two hours’ journey to Wellfield,

to arrive at which spot he had to pass through some of the roughest,

dirtiest, richest and most prosperous of the numerous manufacturing

towns of Lancashire.

Burnham was the last of these towns—a place of great size, great

riches, and of an absolutely stupendous ugliness—a great collection

of ugly, grimy buildings, paved streets, and ghastly-looking tall

chimneys, the whole planted at the bottom of a hollow which had once

been as fair as valley could be, in the rough, stony moorland style

of sparkling stream and rugged rock. Even now, when the veil of smoke

permitted one to see them, high and beautiful hills might be perceived,

blue, calm and eternal. The prospect of them gave one a longing to

ascend them, and from their summits to breathe an air which should be

free and pure.

After Burnham came one or two little wayside stations, and then

Wellfield. The railway here ran over a high viaduct, much raised above

the village. Jerome felt his heart throb as he looked out, and saw

below him on the right, slumbering amid orchard trees and some fine

old elms, some ancient brown walls, two vast and massive gateways—a

broken line which showed where the cloisters had formerly run beside

the river. That was the Abbey, which, with its grounds, took up pretty

nearly as much space as all the rest of the village put together. He

saw the calm river gliding by; then raised his eyes to where in sturdy

pride old Penhull stretched his great carcase, shutting all in to the

east. It was a fair land—it was a goodly heritage, and his heart was

bitter within him.

The train stopped, and he got out and stood on the platform. He was a

stranger there. No one took the least notice of him. He found himself

at the farther end of the little platform, and before walking forward

to leave the station, he paused and looked round him. From the place

where he now stood, the Abbey was not visible. He was looking in

another direction, towards the north-west. Behind him rose the great

wall of Penhull, over which his ancestors in the good old days had

helped King Jamie to hunt witches with vigour and malignity. Before him

he saw a more level country, spreading towards an ancient town called

Clyderhow, with its quaint old castle. Farther to the west came some

other long-backed fells, on the other side of which was St. George’s

Channel: and nearer, on the brow of one of the said fells, some three

miles away, he saw faintly the grey tower of an ancient church, and

just above that, where the ground began to rise towards the western

fells, a long, large, imposing building of whitish stone, exquisitely

situated, and from its commanding position, a landmark for miles

around. This was the great Jesuit college of Brentwood, which had once

belonged to a branch of the Wellfield family, in the days when they

were great men and devout Catholics.

Jerome’s eyes fell upon it, and with the sight of it came the

remembrance of his having, years ago, met a certain priest belonging to

that establishment.

‘That was more than seven years ago,’ he reflected, ‘before the Abbey

had been sold to this _roturier_. I must have been a mere lad then,

but how well I remember him! What was his name? Somerville, surely.

Yes. Pablo Somerville. I remember. He was half Spanish—there was some

mystery about his father, I recollect. What a musician he was—and a

gentleman, if ever there was one. Will it be my luck, I wonder, to

renew the acquaintance? One might meet with a worse fate than some of

those fellows at Brentwood have, after all, for——’

‘Ticket, sir, please,’ said a curt voice at his elbow. Jerome roused

himself, took his eyes off Brentwood, and went along the platform, down

a little slanting path, which brought him into a road. Here he met a

man, and asked him if he knew where Monk’s Gate was.

‘Dun yo mean th’ heawse, or th’ yate itsel’?’ inquired the man.

‘I mean the house.’

‘Well, yo’ mun go through th’ yate for to get to th’ heawse. Yon’s t’

shortest road,’ he pointed down a grassy lane with trees on either

side. ‘Keep down thur, and then turn to th’ left, and yo’ conna miss

th’ Monk’s Gate, ’cause it straddles o’ across th’ road, and yo’ mun

go under it, and turn in at th’ first gate to your left. Yon’s t’

Monk’s Gate House. But it’s empty, and locked oop,’ he added, looking

inquiringly at the person who had an errand to Monk’s Gate.

‘I know. I have the key.’

‘M’ appen you belong to ’t?’

‘It belongs to me,’ responded Jerome. ‘Good-day, and thank you.’ With

which he walked on, leaving his interlocutor to stare after him,

scratch his head, and remark to himself:

‘Well, I’m dom’d! It mun be John Wellfield’s lad. Eh, but I mun go and

tell ’em about this ’ere down at th’ Black Bull.’

Jerome, meantime followed the directions he had received, and soon

found the cavernous-looking remains of Monk’s Gate, ‘straddling,’ as

his guide had said, ‘o’ across t’ road,’ a huge, grim, ivy-covered

portal, showing, by its distance from the rest of what were now the

Abbey grounds, what a great and glorious possession this said Abbey had

once been.

A little way on the other side of the archway to the left, was a gate,

leading into a garden; there was a gravel drive going up to a low

quaint-looking grey stone house. This, then, must be Monk’s Gate.

It was a wilderness of a garden, with a large, irregularly shaped lawn,

of a velvety softness and greenness, which neglect had not yet ruined.

In the very centre of this lawn rose a high, thin old pear-tree.

Scattered about were other kinds of fruit-trees. Broad borders of all

sweet and old-fashioned flowers were filled with a rank luxuriance of

plants, some blooming, some not yet in bloom; others almost choked to

death by their more flourishing neighbours. On the left of the broad

walk was a high wall, and behind the wall fine beech-trees which cast

the shade of their ample boughs far into the garden of Monk’s Gate.

The house itself stood back; it looked a small house for such a large,

luxuriant garden. It was very low, Jerome saw, with odd-looking windows

half-hidden by roses and clematis, while all over the left side of the

house, a flourishing ivy revelled healthily. He approached nearer.

Just before the house was a great bush of the Gloire de Dijon rose—the

fragrance of its second crop that year filled the air for yards around.

Drawing forth the key which Mr. Netley had given him, he applied

it to the door, and its rattle in the lock was the first sound to

break the almost oppressive hush and stillness, and deadly calm of

everything around and about. The lock turned somewhat rustily and

unwillingly. It required him to exert the strength of both his hands

to induce it entirely to yield. Then he pushed the door open, stepped

in, and stood beneath all that he could now call his own roof-tree. A

narrow passage—a door to the left, which he passed; the passage was

only a few feet long; one stepped out of it, without door or other

intervening ceremony, into a large, low, raftered room, with a high

old wooden chimney-piece, deep oaken cupboards sunk in the walls, a

long, very low window, with a deep, roomy seat in it—a heavy oaken

table in the centre of the room, and, at one side, an ancient, shabby,

comfortable-looking settee. In a remote corner there was a pile of old

furniture, which in its dirt and shabbiness looked remarkably like

lumber.

Jerome gazed round the room. Despite the age and decrepitude of

all in it, it had a certain attraction for him, from its quaint,

unconventional shape and arrangements. The stairs, with old oaken

rails and balustrade, led straight out of it. A door which he opened,

showed him a roomy kitchen, with a back-kitchen beyond. Turning back,

he opened the door to the left of the passage, which he had not yet

explored, and found a second sitting-room, smaller than the first, but

just as quaint, low and irregular. This room, too, had the agreeable

peculiarity of a corner fireplace, and it contained more furniture

than the other; very old drawing-room furniture—thin-legged chairs

and tables, and a strange-looking thing which was at once cupboard,

cabinet, and press, to match the rest of the furniture, which was

mahogany. The aforesaid thin-legged chairs were upholstered in a

sickly, faded drab damask—relic of a bygone day. The whole place

looked like some grave, and yet a grave about which lingered gentle

memories, like a soft perfume; recollections of old-fashioned

ladies who must have spent countless hours at their tambour-frames,

embroidering those elaborate and now pale and faded semblances of

pink-cheeked shepherds and blue-eyed shepherdesses which adorned some

spindly-looking stools and spider-legged ‘occasional’ chairs. Whose

slender fingers had accomplished that triumph of worsted-work which

covered a large settee beneath one of the two little deep square

windows—a piece of worsted-work with a whole picture upon it, of an

elaborate landscape; figures, fountains, sheep, and marble vases?

Jerome passed his hand across his eyes, feeling as if he had lost his

identity. Was it—could it be he, Jerome Wellfield, who was standing

in this chill, pale, silent place, inhaling the faint, musty, dusty

smell, which carries one back full a hundred years; and was this dim

old place his home—all the home he now had? He tried to picture Avice

there, and succeeded. It would be no inappropriate place for her, he

felt, when fires should have dried up all the damp, and when all this

faded furniture should have been pulled forth, cleaned, and polished,

and arranged. And Sara? Try as he would, he failed to see her there.

And yet, he knew that should he ask her to come, she would do so.

He climbed the stairs, and found several bedrooms, corresponding

with the rooms below—all with the same raftered roofs, and odd

little square windows, made almost dark, too, by the overhanging

trailing-plants which covered the side of the house.

He lingered long, unaccountably attracted and fascinated. In such

a quiet nook a man might drone out his life, and soon be utterly

forgotten—might live on from year to year, and watch the seasons come

and go, the flowers bloom and fade, and spring again; might observe

the sunlight and the storm-shadows sweep across the broad sides of

Penhull, and might at last die and be carried to the graveyard which

spread around the old church—might there be laid to his rest, and none

be the wiser.

He shivered slightly, as he vividly pictured all this; then, slowly

descending the stairs, went out—how hot and balmy the outside air

felt, after the dampness of the house!—locked the door behind him, and

bent his steps towards the Abbey.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

THE NEW MAN AND THE OLD ACRES.

Wellfield had only a very short distance to walk before he came to

another great cavernous archway, the ‘Abbot’s Gate,’ and the second

principal entrance to the Abbey. Great beech-trees clustered around it.

It was quite dark and cool and gloomy, but a little door in the great

wooden gates stood open, and gave him a curious little oblong glimpse

into a sunny courtyard, where everything stood still and hot and quiet,

and in which, as he stepped into it, there was not a sign of life. One

side of the Abbey building, what was left of it, faced him; the windows

looked into this paved court, and appeared to be windows of offices,

kitchens, etc. Green tubs, filled with a blaze of scarlet geraniums,

made brilliant spots of colour here and there. To the left was a high

wall, and a fine old stone archway. He knew the way well. Through that

archway he must pass to go round to the front entrance of the house,

which was chiefly composed of what had once been the private apartments

of the abbots of Wellfield. He glanced up at the top of the archway

and saw, on the oblong slab which was let into it, the legend, ‘J. W.,

15—.’ It stood for John Wellfield, as he knew; the said John having

been the first Wellfield who had taken up his abode in the Abbey, after

its demolishment under the glorious dispensation of Henry VIII.

‘My initials!’ murmured Jerome. ‘I wonder this man has not rent out the

stone, and inscribed his own instead.’

This was rather a bitter thought, and, with his mind full of it, he

passed under the archway, and found himself in a grand old garden

—such a garden as those ancient monks knew how to make; and a garden

which, since their time, had been lovingly kept up. It was formal—all

laid out in oblongs and squares, but it had an indescribable beauty and

grace. Great trees took away from the stiffness; brilliant flowers and

intensely green grass made it gay. Under the trees to the right were

some clumps of tall, fiery-looking gladioli. Straight before the house

the ground sloped to the river, beside which was a long grassy walk

and avenue, and a little farther to the right, still beside the river,

the hoary cloisters. Jerome’s heart was exceeding bitter within him,

as he saw and realised all the beauty of the place, which came back to

him, after sixteen years, with a familiarity which was startling. The

sixteen years were but ‘as yesterday.’ As he stood there, he felt it

his—his own; the effort to conceive of it as belonging to some one

else was a painful one—one which did not altogether succeed.

‘He _sold_ it!’ he was thinking to himself. ‘Sold it in cold blood.

Why, if he had told us the truth, and kept it, he should have been

happy; we would have made him happy here, let our poverty have been

what it might.’

He walked up the round space of smoothly-rolled gravel before the deep

entrance-door, and rang the bell.

Mr. Bolton, he was told, was at home. Jerome sent in his card, and was

shown into a room which he well remembered. It had formerly been the

library, and appeared to be still used for the same purpose, though

greatly changed from its old condition. It was not very vulgar, indeed

one might almost have pronounced it not at all vulgar; but all the

things were comparatively new, and evidently ‘of the very best.’ But

the furniture was well chosen and appropriate; had Mr. Bolton or had

his upholsterer chosen it? Jerome wondered, in a parenthesis as he

looked around, and felt that the appearance of the room displayed a

desire at least, if not a perfectly accomplished one, on the part of

those who owned it, to be tasteful—a desire which he felt had resulted

in being proper and philistine. He glanced at some books on the table,

and at one or two in the book-shelves, and was struck at finding them

to be nearly all confined to two classes—voyages and travels, and

Italian books, the latter almost all bearing some reference to Dante,

or to Dante’s great poem.

‘Odd!’ thought Jerome, and as he thought it, the door was opened, and

Mr. Bolton entered.

A man of medium height, and of moderate proportions, with a round,

obstinate-looking head, dark complexion, brown eyes, a mouth with a

protruding under-lip, and an all-pervading expression of shrewdness,

and strong, powerful common-sense. A prejudiced, one-sided man, one

would suppose, but a man who required a considerable mental space in

which to display his onesidedness and prejudice—a man with great

faults, and great virtues, possibly; with a bull-dog expression,

betokening tenacity of mind—what this man once grasped, he would not

easily let loose again.

Jerome felt the last fact strongly, if he did not understand, as indeed

he could not possibly do, the other characteristics. There was nothing

handsome about Mr. Bolton; very little to be praised in his manner,

no grace in his gestures; but there was a certain rough dignity about

him, which was even imposing. He was a commanding spirit, if not an

enlightened one.

‘Mr. Wellfield, I think?’ he said, fixing his deep-set, dark eyes upon

Wellfield’s face, but not betraying, by either look or expression, that

he was particularly struck in any way by his visitor.

‘Yes,’ said Jerome, bowing; ‘I presume you are Mr. Bolton?’

‘The same. Will you not be seated?’

Jerome had been standing in one of the windows. At Mr. Bolton’s

suggestion he took a chair, and a feeling curiously akin to

mortification began to steal over him. Mr. Bolton was so very evidently

the master-spirit here. Wellfield felt himself so entirely reduced to

the level of a stranger—a mere casual caller, in his old home, that

at first he could hardly speak.

How was he to introduce himself? How account for his presence there,

for he had come in his usual half-dreaming manner: with no set aim or

purpose—no clear and tangible excuse; driven only by a longing to see

the place, and by a half-acknowledged feeling of defiant unwillingness

to be deterred by this stranger from stepping into the house which

he persistently looked upon as ‘his by right.’ It has been said that

when the elder Wellfield sent his son into the world, he had not

overburdened him with moral maxims for his guidance. Jerome had been

left to decide upon his own ethical code—a plan which has its snares

and pitfalls as well as its advantages. Mr. Bolton’s calm presence of

mind, and his evident ease and pleasure in his surroundings, caused a

strange pang to Wellfield, and roused a feeling of resentment at once

unreasonable and ridiculous. And yet, he felt, he must be courtesy

itself, or all his own feelings and ideas as to what was his due would

not prevent the usurper from somewhat unceremoniously casting him

forth.

‘You may think this a strange intrusion on my part,’ he began, on the

spur of the moment. ‘Indeed, I begin to think myself that it is.’

‘As to that, I can say nothing, Mr. Wellfield, until I hear your

errand. In the meantime, I do not think it strange at all that you

should call at the Abbey if you were in this neighbourhood.’

‘You have no doubt heard of my father’s death?’

‘I have, and indirectly, of his losses—which, I suppose, will be your

losses. I was sorry to learn about them.’

Jerome bowed slightly. ‘It is in consequence of those losses that I

am here. I learnt from Mr. Netley, my solicitor, that the Monk’s Gate

house still belongs to me, and I came over here to see if it could be

made habitable. I could not resist coming on to see the old place of

all—trusting to your kindness to allow me to stroll round once or

twice.’

‘One can hardly call such a visit a strange intrusion,’ observed Mr.

Bolton, and Jerome had remarked that though his voice was curt, and his

accent provincial, yet that his language was proper, and even pedantic

sometimes, and his grammar unimpeachable.

‘You are at liberty to “stroll round,” as you call it, as much as you

please. I don’t pretend not to know that such an excursion must be

painful to you—if you ever cared for the place—and from your making

this visit, I conclude you did.’

‘I did, and do,’ answered Wellfield.

‘Then, though it may not be agreeable to you to know it in the

possession of other people, you will not be sorry to find that it is as

well-cared for as if it were your own.’

Jerome was not sorry, but he felt galled, deeply galled, to have to

realise so completely how impotent he was in the matter—how this man

had the power, not only to keep everything trim, but to alter and

change, and upset everything, if it so pleased him.

‘I am glad to know that,’ he said, and Mr. Bolton went on.

‘May I ask if you intend to settle at Wellfield? Do you mean to live at

Monk’s Gate?’

‘So far as I can see at present, I do,’ said Jerome, who, as a matter

of fact, had only begun to think such a thing advisable, since he had

seen Monk’s Gate. ‘But I do not know. Mr. Netley gives me to understand

that my sister and I will have something to live upon. I shall,

however, seek employment, which it is not always an easy matter to

find. Until I do find it, I shall probably live at Monk’s Gate.’

Mr. Bolton bowed his head. ‘Do you think of staying here long, now?’ he

asked.

‘I came without any definite intention, for I did not know what sort

of a place Monk’s Gate was. Now I think I shall go to the inn here,

if there is one, and stay perhaps a day or two, until I get things in

order. And—they tell me Burnham is a very large town, and that trade

there is now very good. Perhaps——’

‘Ah, you are thinking you might happen to find some employment there.

It is possible. But pray do not think of putting up at the inn while

there is room at the Abbey. We shall be glad if you will stay with us,

as long as you find it convenient.’

‘Who may we be?’ wondered Jerome, as he hesitated. There was not much

cordiality in the invitation, but a sedate sincerity, as if Mr. Bolton

performed a duty which might have been pleasanter, and might also have

been more unpleasant. One thing was quite certain. Whether he would

be glad or not to have Wellfield at his own home, he would be very

sorry to see him at the inn. He saw the hesitation, and repeated his

invitation, this time more cordially.

‘You are very kind,’ said Wellfield. ‘It looks so very much as if I had

come on purpose——’

‘I do not know why you came, I am sure, but I trust you will stay with

us. Since you are so near Burnham, it would be foolish to go back to

Manchester without at least making an effort to seek some employment

there. And there is no one in the world who knows so much about Burnham

as I do.’

Jerome thanked him, and accepted the invitation. Mr. Bolton rose.

‘That is settled,’ he remarked. ‘Come into the garden, and we’ll find

Nita there.’

‘Who is Nita?’ again speculated Wellfield, and he followed his host

without a word.

Mr. Bolton took his way through the garden towards the avenue by the

river, which was called ‘the river walk.’ As they entered this walk,

Jerome perceived in the distance an arrangement of chairs and a table,

some light shawls, books, parasols, and two female figures, seated in

low cane chairs, under the trees. Both these ladies were reading, and

apparently engrossed in their books. The footsteps of the men along the

soft grass made no sound, and neither lady looked up until Mr. Bolton,

in a voice from which all hardness and abruptness appeared to have

melted suddenly, said:

‘Nita!’

Then both the parasols were lowered, and Jerome saw that a very young

lady, and a decidedly elderly one, sat side by side beneath the trees.

The young lady looked first at both of them, then at Wellfield in

particular, and as she slowly rose, with a faint, half-smile, her face

seemed all large brown eyes. As he came nearer, he saw that she had,

too, a beautiful forehead, broad, and rather low; red lips which looked

as if they would readily smile, and pale cheeks. He saw that she only

just attained medium height; that she was slight, yet not thin in

figure, and graceful, in a certain quaint, picturesque, unconventional

style—a great contrast to the stiff, upright, elderly figure beside

her, with a grey keen face, compressed lips, and piercing, cold grey

eyes. The second lady made no attempt at rising. She sat perfectly

still, and bolt upright, folded her mittened hands one over the other

upon her book, and looked at Jerome Wellfield in a manner which he felt

to be pointed.

‘Nita,’ repeated Mr. Bolton, ‘I’ve brought you a visitor; Mr. Jerome

Wellfield, who will stay with us a short time. My daughter, Mr.

Wellfield, and my cousin, Miss Margaret Shuttleworth.’

Nita Bolton smiled, shook hands with the guest, and said, ‘How do you

do?’

Miss Shuttleworth stiffly inclined her head, but did not make any

overtures towards shaking hands.

‘Will you not sit down, Mr. Wellfield?’ said Nita, pointing to a chair,

which he took, and she went on:

‘Have you just arrived in Wellfield?’

‘I arrived about an hour and a half ago. I have been looking at my

house—Monk’s Gate.’

‘Oh, have you? It is a pretty little house.’

‘Very. So humble and unobtrusive-looking,’ said Jerome.

‘And damp,’ observed Miss Shuttleworth; and though she did not speak

loudly, she spoke in a manner which made it impossible to ignore

her remarks. Indeed, whenever Miss Shuttleworth spoke, an impartial

observer must have said that she put a portentous amount of expression

into her utterances.

‘You think it is damp?’ said Jerome, politely turning to her, while

Nita’s colour rose, and her fingers trifled nervously with her

watch-chain.

‘I know it to be damp,’ responded Miss Shuttleworth, in a manner which

Jerome, unaccustomed to her as he was, felt imperatively called for a

reply, or another question of some kind.

‘So damp as to make it unadvisable to live there?’ he inquired.

‘I should say it was a most unhealthy house to live in. If you _wish_

to become rheumatic at once, and to grow old before your years, by all

means live at Monk’s Gate.’

‘As it is all the home I now possess,’ responded Jerome, ‘it is

probable that I shall live there, despite the disadvantages you

mention.’

‘All the home you possess?’ repeated Nita, and Jerome turned to her

with a sense of pleasure in the contrast between her and her relative.

Miss Shuttleworth absolutely revolted him with her plainness, her hard

features, her metallic voice, and her unengaging manner. In comparison,

Nita, though not a beauty, looked charming. He met her soft brown eyes

with pleasure, and saw the slight shyness, the little air of timidity

and shrinking, with feelings of complacency. At this juncture Mr.

Bolton rose, remarking:

‘Well, I’ll leave Mr. Wellfield to you to entertain. I have some

writing to do. I suppose I shall see you at supper, Margaret?’

‘Not to-night, thank you. I have my Bible class, and shall have to go

in about an hour.’

‘Oh, well, come to-morrow, or as often as you can, at any rate,’ he

answered; and with a general inclination of the head to the company, he

departed.

Jerome looked after him, as he went down the river walk, and realised

that the whole figure, though plebeian, was powerful, not without a

certain air, too, of dignity and command. He turned to Nita again.

‘Mr. Bolton has very kindly asked me to stay a few days at the Abbey,

until I have decided what to do with Monk’s Gate, or rather until I

see whether I can find some employment, which will allow me to live at

Monk’s Gate, as I hope to do.’

‘Yes,’ said Nita, with a look of embarrassment; ‘but—but—I suppose I

ought not to say it——’

‘If it is a personal question, Nita, to a total stranger, you ought

certainly _not_ to say it,’ here chimed in Miss Shuttleworth’s voice.

Nita blushed furiously, and Jerome said, more in the hope of annoying

Miss Shuttleworth than from any other reason:

‘I am sure it is no question that is not perfectly justifiable, Miss

Bolton, and therefore I promise in advance to answer it.’

‘It was not exactly a question. You speak of Monk’s Gate as your only

home, and of seeking employment; but I thought you were rich, Mr.

Wellfield.’

‘So did I, until a short time ago. I am just now in the process of

learning completely to realise my mistake. I am a poor man, and am not

quite certain that the wreck of my fortunes will leave me enough to

enable me to bring my sister to Monk’s Gate, and make her a home there.’

‘Have you a sister?’ asked Nita, who kept giving him very rapid,

momentary glances, her eyes leaving his face almost before they had

had time to find it, which glances he met with a calm, prolonged gaze,

which did not escape the steely eyes of Miss Shuttleworth.

‘I have a sister—yes.’

‘Is she with you?’

‘No; she is at Elberthal, in Germany, with a friend.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘Is she pretty?’

‘She is considered beautiful, I believe.’

‘Like you at all?’ inquired Miss Shuttleworth, with a treacherous

suavity in her tones.

Jerome burst out laughing, and Nita blushed fiercely.

‘Oh, aunt, how uncomfortable you make me!’ she exclaimed vehemently.

Miss Shuttleworth made no reply, then Nita went on:

‘I hope it is not rude of me, but are you and your sister alone in the

world?’

‘We are, quite.’

‘And very fond of one another?’

‘Y—yes.’

‘That is, your sister is very fond of you,’ remarked Miss Shuttleworth.

‘I hope she is, and that she may never have cause to be otherwise,’ he

replied politely.

‘It is very interesting!’ said Nita, with a little sigh, while Jerome

thought, repressing a smile, what an amusing story it would make for

Sara and Avice.

‘What is your sister’s name?’ next asked Nita.

‘Avice.’

‘Avice? What a peculiar name.’

‘It means “refuge,”’ observed Miss Shuttleworth.

‘Oh, does it?’ said Jerome, ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Do you think you will like living in England?’ pursued Nita.

‘No, I don’t, under the circumstances.’

She shook her head, and maintained silence. Miss Shuttleworth rose from

her chair.

‘I must go,’ she remarked. ‘And do you go in too, Nita, soon. The damp

rises from the river in the evening, and you have a thin dress on.’

‘I shall not be long.’

‘I am going to take this book with me. It is a very clever story. Where

did you get it?’

‘John brought it me from London. I haven’t read it. I saw a review of

it in the ——, which made me think it was stupid.’

Miss Shuttleworth’s lips relaxed into a smile which was sardonic. This

was a topic on which she evidently felt strongly.

‘Why do you and John and your father persist in reading reviews?’ she

asked, with asperity. ‘The book stupid?—as likely as not it was the

reviewer who was stupid. _I_ know them. It is a very clever book, but

of course if you read that review of it, it would spoil it for you. I

do wish I could cure you of reading reviews. It spoils one’s pleasure

so, and does not the least good.’

‘I’ll try to give it up,’ said Nita, meekly. ‘Shall we go with you to

the great gate? Mr. Wellfield, would you like to come?’

Jerome accompanied the two ladies to the great gate. Then Nita thought

she would walk on with Miss Shuttleworth to her house, and Jerome

thought he would stroll round the grounds. Nita told him that they

supped at half-past eight, and she disappeared with Miss Shuttleworth

through the gate. Jerome wandered back along the river walk, and

through the old gardens, and strolled and loitered amongst the trees.

Presently the sun declined, and gorgeous hues of purple and gold and

crimson set the western sky ablaze, and coloured the water of the

river with changing tints. The trees waved softly overhead—the water

murmured placidly as it rolled by. All was still and quiet, and he

tried to realise that he was here—a stranger. It was all so familiar

as to be almost weirdly so. These strange faces, strange owners,

jarred upon him. He could not understand how they came to be so at

home there—so at ease in _his_ home. As for him—when he should have

supplied Monk’s Gate with a little furniture, just enough to make it

habitable, and established Avice here, his ready-cash would be almost

exhausted, and then what was to become of him? The pittance—not

certain, but probable—of which Mr. Netley had spoken, remained. He

could not live upon that—he might die upon it, starve upon it, go mad

upon it; he could not live upon it—as a man with his ideas, his hopes,

his inborn, inbred habits and feelings, understands life, even in its

narrowest sense.

After a long time spent in such meditations—meditations which dimmed

the beauty of the sunset, and marred the evening’s glory, he looked

up, and found that the pomp of the _Sonnenuntergang_ was over; the

purple and gold had disappeared; the sky was grey again. It must be

supper-time. He bent his steps towards the house.

Entering the hall he saw Nita going across it, with a large crystal

bowl of flowers in her hand. She had on a black flowing dress of

something soft and gauzy, with knots of brightly-hued ribbons here and

there. Whether by design or by accident, she had greatly improved her

appearance, and looked as nearly pretty as it was possible for her

to be; but the air of delicacy and a slight languor, speaking of a

constitution not of the strongest kind, prevented her from being really

beautiful. But she was agreeable, even attractive to look at, and had

quaint original little ways which gave a charm to her. If she did not

move with the air of a great lady, nor shine with the noble beauty of

Sara Ford, she was yet not without her charm, as Jerome felt, when she

paused, balancing the vase in her hands, looking up at him and smiling.

‘You have had a long stroll, Mr. Wellfield, and I am sure you will be

tired. William,’ she added, to a page-boy who then appeared upon the

scene, ‘show Mr. Wellfield to the blue-room, and send Mary to see that

he has all he wants.’

When Jerome came down again, the same boy appeared, and invited him

into the drawing-room. How well he remembered it as he had last seen

it, and how great was the contrast between the dim old room of sixteen

years ago and the luxurious one of to-day, furnished in the richest and

most approved style, with gorgeously decorated ceiling, and every kind

of ‘upholsterer’s darling’ in the shape of easy-chairs, couches and

lounges, scattered about!

Nita was there with her work, and Mr. Bolton with the newspapers, and a

third person, a young man whose face, as Jerome looked at him, brought

back the past with a vividness, with a rush, as it were, which more

than ever carried him backwards, and made the immediate past seem like

a dream in the light of sixteen years ago.

‘John Leyburn, if I am in my right mind!’ he exclaimed, for him almost

eagerly.

‘I think you may safely assume that your judgment does not misguide

you.’

‘Though you _do_ say that the evidence of your own senses is the last

thing you would believe, John,’ observed Nita, with asperity.

John laughed, as he shook hands with Wellfield.

‘Not the last thing I would believe, but the first thing I would

distrust, if I had grounds for doubting about anything,’ he answered.

‘And how have you been going on?’ asked Jerome, after the usual fashion

of one man to another. To which Leyburn replied modestly:

‘Oh, fairly well.’

‘Fairly well, indeed!’ retorted Nita. ‘You have got on very well

indeed, John. My cousin has got a big house and a big mill, and a huge

business, all to himself, Mr. Wellfield. And he calls that getting on

“fairly well.”’

‘And you?’ asked Leyburn.

‘I—very ill, as no doubt you have heard. But that doesn’t matter. I

am glad to see you again. Do you live at Abbot’s Knoll yet? Do you

remember coming down here to do Latin with my tutor, Phillips? What an

age it seems since then!’

‘I remember,’ said John, deliberately.

He was a young man who could not be called handsome; beside Wellfield

he looked exceedingly plain, with his square-cut, rather heavy face,

and decidedly clumsy figure. Yet about this young manufacturer,

with his want of grace and polish, there was the charm of a candid,

benevolent, truth-loving nature, which charm showed in the clear,

pleasant light-brown eyes, which redeemed him from insignificance,

and made him an agreeable companion. He was quiet, decidedly. Jerome

remembered that in the old days when they had both been children

together, he had been, not shy, but a silent, reserved, observant boy,

with decided likes and dislikes. By-and-by, Leyburn went and sat down

beside Nita on the sofa. They appeared to be on squabbling terms, which

naturally implies intimacy. Mr. Bolton looked benevolently at them over

his newspaper, and Jerome, with a sudden sense which was not altogether

a pleasurable one, began to wonder if this were ‘a case.’ No, he did

not like the idea—why, he hardly knew, since it could not possibly

matter anything to him; but it seemed to shut him more entirely than

ever out from all that should have been his. With rapid, unreasonable

foresight, he pictured Nita and her cousin man and wife, in safe and

secure possession of the Abbey and its lands, with perhaps children to

inherit them, and money in abundance to keep it all up. The idea galled

and hurt him excessively, and he sat silently, and somewhat moodily

pondering upon it until supper was announced.

It appeared that early hours were the rule at the Abbey. After supper,

Mr. Bolton retired to one end of the huge drawing-room to a table on

which stood a reading-lamp, and he was soon lost in a book of travels

in the South Seas. Nita and the two young men were left to entertain

one another as they chose. Jerome was somewhat taciturn, observing the

incessant conversation, friendly squabbles and unmistakable real liking

between Nita Bolton and John Leyburn. About ten o’clock Leyburn said

good-night. By half-past ten all the household were in their rooms.

Jerome opened his window and looked out. The same moon, only fuller,

as that which had lighted his meditations in Manchester, shone here,

and silvered the old Abbey gardens, and the ancient walks, and the

motionless trees. His heart was sore as heart could be. These people

were not what he had expected, and perhaps that added to the sting of

his vexation. They were not purse-proud, vulgar upstarts. They were

plain and homely, but gentle and gracious. It was not some vulgar man

who held and who would inherit his patrimony; it was a man whose whole

character and aspect compelled respect and even admiration, and a girl

in whose eyes dwelt gentleness and goodness, and whose ways were all

kind and womanly and girlish. He pondered over it all, and looked again

upon the beauty of it, and muttered to himself:

‘Mine by right—mine before God! and it shall be mine again, too.’

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

NITA’S DIARY.

In her room at the same hour sat Nita Bolton: the door locked, the lamp

lighted. She was attired in a flowing dressing-gown, her hair falling

in two long, thick plaits over her shoulders. Nita had beautiful

hair—beautiful, that is, in quality, if not remarkable in colour. It

was of a dull, soft brown, without the suspicion of a tawny hue in

it, or of a glint of gold, but it was slightly wavy, fine, soft, and

abundant, and she had a harmless pride and pleasure in it.

She was seated just now at a very elegant-looking writing-table, an

article of furniture which had so far been also distinctly an article

of luxury, for Nita’s letters were very, very few. It was not a letter

with which she was this night engaged. No! Open before her was a

substantially-bound volume, with a Chubb’s lock, and a little key to

open and close the same—a precaution which lost some of its value

when one considers how easy it would have been for an evil-disposed

person to carry off the book, lock and all, if he wished to pry into

the sacred contents thereof. In this precious volume Miss Bolton was in

the habit of inscribing her day’s adventures, or no-adventures, and her

own valuable comments and reflections thereupon, together with dark and

gloomy musings upon the sorrows and misfortunes of this present life;

the strange and inexplicable arrangements of Destiny (with a capital

D), and a chronicle of her mental experiences in general. Many pages of

such lucubrations filled the earlier portion of the volume.

To-night Anita’s pen had not run with its accustomed rapidity over

the page. She had recorded how ‘John returned from London yesterday

morning, and came in in the evening and brought me some novels, because

he said he knew I cared for nothing else, which was mean of the dear

old fellow.’ How ‘Aunt Margery came to dinner, and sat with me all

afternoon, and was very amusing. What a clever old thing she is!’ How,

‘about six o’clock, I heard papa’s voice, and looked up, wondering what

had dragged him away from his beloved Dante, at that hour, and I saw

him coming along with a gentleman, a stranger, the very handsomest man

I ever saw.’ Then followed a minute description of the introduction, of

every word that Jerome had said, that Aunt Margery and papa had said,

that ‘I’ had said, and in addition, what ‘I’ thought on the subject: To

her diary Nita might betray, and did betray what she would conceal from

all others, the fact that from the moment in which she had looked up

and met Jerome’s eyes, she had been fascinated, spell-bound, possessed

with the thought of him.

Much unpublished as well as published rubbish is written every year,

and Nita Bolton’s journal was not an exception to the rule that most

young ladies’ journals are not worth the time that is spent upon them.

Her cousin John having discovered once by accident that Nita kept a

journal, had ever since oppressed her at intervals with cruel remarks

upon it, questions as to what she had written about, insinuating

inquiries, ‘Did you mention how agreeable I made myself the other

night?’ and so on.

Mr. Bolton had laughed a little when he heard about it, and had said:

‘She’s dull. Girls must have some outlet for their feelings. It’s

better to sentimentalise in a diary than with a curate. I’d rather she

sat up late scribbling, than rose at cockcrow to get cold at “early

celebrations,” and all that rubbish—eh, Jack?’

To which ‘Jack’ always and devoutly yielded his assent.

Nita, on this particular occasion, had more and darker reflections to

make than usual, upon the dark and tortuous ways of ‘Destiny.’ Such

effusions might be the result of a mere surface feeling, or they might

be the indications of some deeper, more tragic emotion. Who was to say?

Nita herself less than anyone.

‘I never,’ she wrote, ‘_never_ before saw, or imagined anyone in the

least like him. It was like seeing a new kind of creature.’

Then there was a long pause, as she laid her pen down, folded her

hands, and pondered. Then she took up her pen again and wrote:

‘He may well look sad and melancholy, and gaze sorrowfully on the scene

around him. He may well look long and gravely at _me_ when he speaks

to me. Only quite a short time ago, he supposed himself the heir to

all this place, and now he is dispossessed, and it is _I_ who shall

sometime have it! What romances there are in the world, far wilder

romances than one reads of in books. How will it all end? What hand has

brought us together in this strange manner—I and he, of all persons

in the world? This is indeed one of those dark mazes of life through

which one must wander on trust—one can _know_ nothing.’

Having written thus far, Nita carefully read over the chronicle,

closed and locked the book, and put it away. Then, starting with a

sudden movement, she ran to the window, opened it and leaned out,

looking forth upon the moonlight. To a romantic mind and one given

to sentimental musings, Wellfield Abbey must have been provocative

of much moon-gazing and many reveries. Nita Bolton was romantic, was

sentimental, in no small degree, though these qualities had been well

kept in check by the healthy and natural though quiet life which she

had lived, and by the perpetual shafts of satire directed against all

sentiment by her three associates—her father, her Aunt Margery, and

her cousin, John Leyburn. But the tendency to weaving romance out of

her surroundings, if they would by any means allow it, was there,

powerful, though dormant. The fire smouldered. It needed but a spark

to kindle it. The sudden appearance of Jerome Wellfield supplied that

spark. Nita’s innate love of sentiment and romance was aroused. It

appeared as if life suddenly contained a new, fresh interest. It was

long before the girl undressed, and then it was long before she slept.

At last slumber came, and dreams in which Wellfield had no part.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

WITH THE STREAM.

Morning again—a hazy, glorious August morning. When Wellfield threw

open his window, a draught of air scented with everything that is

sweetest and most exquisite was borne into the room. The heavy trees

outside stood motionless; the dazzling spikes of gladiolus, and the

parterres of geraniums looked dim in the morning mist which still hung

white and palpable over the course of the river. Each day that Jerome

passed here was fairer than the last; each morning and each evening

made more palpable to him what a goodly heritage had departed from

him, and fallen to the lot of others. This may have influenced his

course: who shall say what and where is the first upspringing of that

current which, slight at first, presently grows so strong as to sway

our actions and decide our ‘will’ to some particular course?

On going downstairs, he found the breakfast-table spread, and Mr.

Bolton seated at it. Nita was standing in the window, the newspaper in

one hand, while the other caressed the head of her great dun-coloured

mastiff, Speedwell—another dear friend who, like nature, ‘never would

betray the heart that loved’ him. Mr. Bolton made a measured apology

for beginning his breakfast, adding that he had to go to Burnham by the

nine o’clock train, but would be in to dinner in the middle of the day,

and he hoped Mr. Wellfield would do just what was agreeable to him, and

Nita would do her best to entertain him.

With which Nita also advanced, looking rather pale, but also almost

pretty. She laid down the paper, remarking:

‘There’s nothing in it, papa. The market is up, and there is a leading

article absolutely annihilating the Opposition, so let that content you

until this evening.’

‘I suppose it must,’ said he, rising; and wishing them good-morning, he

departed.

Nita, when breakfast was over, proposed a tour round the garden, she

had some orders to give the gardener, and must go to the farm, or

perhaps he would prefer to stay indoors.

‘I should prefer to go with you if I may,’ he said; and they strolled

out together.

Nita appeared quite at home outside the house. During their progress

round the garden Jerome grew more interested in her, and with him,

to be interested in a woman was to do his utmost to make himself

interesting to her. Nita was not aware of this idiosyncrasy; and a

man cannot say to a woman, ‘Do not make yourself interesting to me,

or I shall try in turn to captivate you.’ The rules of etiquette do

not allow such a statement, but when a man’s heart is given in one

direction, he may intimate that fact, and make it quite palpable to

another woman, without absolutely saying in so many words, ‘I am

engaged; do not fall in love with me,’ and he may do this without

hurting her feelings or her self-respect. Jerome Wellfield did not do

this.

‘There is a farm belonging to the Abbey,’ observed Nita, ‘and papa

leaves all the management of it to me: he only cares for his books

when he leaves business, so I have the farm and the gardens and the

house—indeed, everything connected with our life here—to look after.’

‘Quite alone?’ asked Jerome.

‘Yes; because I have no brothers or sisters, and very few friends. I am

the only one, and I am glad of it.’

‘Are you? Is it not rather lonely?’

‘I never feel lonely. I don’t know what it is to feel lonely. And

sometimes I think it is only the heroines of novels who ever do feel

so; but when I once said so to Aunt Margaret, she said who was I to

talk? and desired me to wait until I had had a little more experience

of life.’

‘Let us hope you may never have any experience in that line,’ said

Jerome, smiling.

‘Why, do you know what it is to be lonely?’

‘No; I have never felt particularly oppressed by that sensation. But,

talking about brothers and sisters, I should have thought you would

have been—we won’t say less lonely, since you take exception to the

term—but would have enjoyed life more if you had had some of them.’

‘I don’t see it,’ persisted Nita. ‘I am very happy as I am. I like my

own way. I don’t care to be interfered with. A brother would take the

first place in papa’s heart, and have the first say in everything; and

a sister—no, I would rather not.’

‘You are exclusive, and contented. Some day you will have power

more undivided than now, even,’ said Jerome, dwelling with a morbid

persistency on the idea which at present haunted him. ‘I suppose you

like thinking of that too?’

‘Yes,’ said Nita, frankly and unthinkingly, ‘I do; I love to think that

I am not going to leave this dear old place, ever. And I love to think

that some day, though I hope not for a very long time, it will be my

very own.’

She looked up at him with a smile, as she finished; met his eyes, read

the expression in them, stopped abruptly, and said, in a voice of

consternation:

‘Oh dear, oh dear!’

Her face was covered with a flood of colour. For a moment she put her

hand before it, as if to cover it, then dropped it again.

‘What must you think of me?’ she exclaimed, in a voice full of tears.

‘Pray forgive me, if you can!’

‘Pray do not distress yourself,’ he rejoined, a curious flavour, half

bitterness, half amusement, in his voice—‘I led up to it; I wanted to

hear you confess it. I felt sure you were too natural not to feel so.

You are quite right; you and yours have not stolen the place. You came

by it honestly, and have a right to rejoice in it if you like.’

He made a step onwards, inwardly wondering a little why he _had_ led up

to this topic. Nita’s face was downcast, as she said, in a deep tone of

annoyance and vexation:

‘It does not matter. I am a little fool, I believe. After all my

resolutions that I would not drop a syllable that could wound you while

you were here—_idiot_ that I am!’

‘Did you make such resolutions?’ asked Wellfield, suddenly stopping

again, and bending his eyes beneath their frowning brows upon her.

‘Yes. Oh, don’t look so severe, Mr. Wellfield, or I shall have to go

in. Indeed it was an oversight, my saying such a thing.’

‘I wish you would not take it so to heart,’ he said, with a short

laugh. ‘It is well that I should learn to grow accustomed to my

position. You have given me the first lesson, that is all. Shall we go

on?’

Nita answered nothing, but paced on beside him. Jerome was fully aware

in his secret heart that his last speech was claptrap; but if it had

the same effect upon Nita as if it had been fresh from the real well

of pathos, what did it matter? There was a vague feeling present in

his mind, that Nita seemed to take a good deal of interest in him—a

feeling which gave him suddenly great interest in her.

‘You are very fond of the Abbey, then?’ he asked.

‘Yes—very.’

‘Why so? What makes you like it so much? Stop! I am sure you need not

give orders to the gardener this very moment. Take one other turn with

me on the river walk. Why are you so devoted to the Abbey?’

‘I can hardly tell,’ she answered, a little shyly. (Evidently she

was dreadfully afraid of hurting him by any second remark like that

one which had already, as it were, exploded like a conversational

bombshell. To her he was still the lord of the soil, despite her love

for the place, and her keen sense of joy in the possession of it. He

saw the feeling in a moment, and it gratified him.) ‘I hardly know,’

repeated Nita; ‘it seems to have grown part of my life—it is so

different from other places. It suits me. I was so glad when we came

here.’

‘And you knew when you came that you were the only child of your

father, and you liked the idea of sometime reigning at the old place?’

pursued Jerome, tranquilly.

‘Yes. Oh, do please excuse me. I did like it very much. But if I had

known about you, I should not have liked it; and I shall not like it

now.’

‘Known about me!—you mean that you were unaware of the existence of

such a person?’

‘No; I had heard of you. But Aunt Margaret—is a little prejudiced, I

think. She knows all the traditions of the place, and all the histories

of all the old families in it, and she used to say that—that your

father——’

‘What about my father, Miss Bolton?’

‘It was not your father in particular. It was the Wellfield family.

She had a dislike to—no, not a dislike. Aunt Margaret never has such

strong feelings as likes and dislikes. She said your family were proud

and unscrupulous, that they had never worked for others, or cared for

any but themselves; that they were—but I have no business to say such

things,’ said Nita, who had by this time become so nervous and so

confused as not really to know what she was saying, and who rambled

on, fascinated by the calm, pale face and intent dark eyes of her

companion. She spoke of the old Wellfields as if they had been a dream,

and did not realise that this man beside her was actually one of the

race.

‘Go on, please,’ he said; and Nita continued, as if it had been a

lesson she was repeating by heart.

‘That they were selfish and luxurious——’

‘The last fault will not be laid to their charge in this generation, at

least,’ observed Jerome. ‘Well, what else?’

‘I am only saying all this because you _make_ me!’ said Nita, with

almost passionate protest in her voice, ‘not because I wish to. She

says—but I will tell you no more. I will not be so odious. If you

really desire to hear such things, ask Aunt Margaret. She will tell

you, and will not spare anything on account of your name and your race.’

‘Thank you. I shall have a little conversation with her some day. I can

quite imagine that she thought it was an unmitigated benefit when the

Abbey passed from the hands of our dissolute race into the honest and

untainted ones of your father.’

‘I knew you would never forgive me, and yet you would make me go on,’

said Nita, in a tone of despairing resignation. ‘I can’t help it. I

wash my hands of it.’

‘You at least may “wash your hands in innocency,”’ he replied. ‘Since

my old home is never to be mine, I would as soon you had it as anyone;

and since you wish for it more than for anything in the world——’

‘There is one thing now which I feel that I wish for more,’ said Nita,

in a vibrating voice.

‘Is there? What is that?’

‘That you—that those whose home it really is, should own it once

again. I would gladly leave it now to let you come into it.’

‘That is generously said, and I thank you for it,’ said Jerome, in a

voice not altogether unmoved. His eyes looked gratefully into hers. He

took her hand, and carried it to his lips. Nita thrilled from head to

foot. Was this the same world as the world of twenty-four hours ago?

‘To know that goes as near as anything can to reconciling me to my

inevitable loss,’ he said, still in a low tone, as they resumed their

way.

They left the solitary, silent river walk, dangerous in its beauty and

its associations, for the more prosaic regions of the kitchen-garden.

While they waited for the gardener to come, Nita said:

‘Don’t let me keep you here. I shall be ever so long; and then I have

to go to the farm. You will want to go down to Monk’s Gate, I daresay.’

‘I do; but I am emboldened to ask a favour of you, first.’

‘What is that?’

‘When you have quite finished your business here, will it be too much

to ask you to come down to Monk’s Gate, and give me a little advice?

There is some furniture in it, but I don’t know whether it can be used.

I am a man, you see, and naturally helpless in such a case. If you did

not mind very much——’

‘I shall be delighted. I will come down as soon as ever I have

finished. Shall I find you there?’

‘You will find me there. If not in the house, in the garden; and if not

in the garden, in the house. Thank you, very much.’

Lifting his hat he left her, and went down the river walk.

Adamson, the gardener, found his young mistress strangely distraite

and forgetful—a phenomenon which puzzled him, for he was wont to

bear admiring testimony to her clearness of head, and readiness of

comprehension, saying: ‘Eh, but hoo’s a rare sharp un, is Miss Bolton.

Hoo’s a chip of the ’owd block in more ways nor one, _hoo_ is.’

* * * * *

Wellfield, meanwhile, had taken his way down the river walk, the

entrance to which was in the village street, close beside the ancient

stone bridge. On the other side of this bridge, a stony, steep,

wood-shaded walk led invitingly up a hill, then bent round to the left,

leaving the rest of that enticing way to conjecture. This path, as

Jerome remembered, took one to the top of a hill called Wellfield Nab

or Neb, or simply ‘the Nab.’ He remembered climbing it sixteen years

ago, with his tutor and John Leyburn; and the glorious view of the

surrounding country which it commanded, he remembered too.

At the foot of the Nab, almost out of sight from the bridge, he could

just catch a glimpse of a couple of gables, belonging to the Abbot’s

Knoll house—Leyburn’s dwelling. John rode every morning to his mill,

which was some two miles distant, on the road to Burnham.

Down the quaint paved street Jerome walked towards the church, that

ancient ‘white church under the hill,’ which had weathered so many

storms and troubles. A sleepy place, Wellfield—a place which seemed

forgotten of all men save the few who lived in it.

Monk’s Gate was only a very few minutes’ walk from the church, the

clock of which struck eleven as Jerome opened the gate of the garden.

He unlocked the door, and went into the house again, but did not remain

there long. He felt that he really did require Nita’s assistance, and

must wait until she arrived.

The quiet and sunshine of the old-fashioned, untidy garden were

congenial to him. He wandered about it, inhaling the scent of roses

and carnations, and the rich, spicy odours of picotees and the

old-fashioned white pink. The sun shone pleasantly upon everything,

doing his best towards ripening the young pears and apples on the

trees, and bringing the flowers into more ample bloom. Where is the

charm that can compete with that which pervades an old-fashioned

English garden?—the flavour of grace and quaintness, and the

suggestions of a ‘gentle life’ which hang about such a garden are to be

found nowhere else.

Wellfield had turned his back to the gate, and was looking at the

great, blunt, boulder-shaped head of Penhull, and observing the purple

mist of heather which clothed its mighty sides, when a voice behind him

said:

‘Mr. Wellfield!’

He turned, a curious thrill shooting through him. The speaker must,

he thought, have almost stolen up to him, so noiseless had been

his approach. He confronted a tall, spare man, in the dress of an

ecclesiastic. The voice in which he had spoken was soft and musical; he

took off his hat with a smile, as Jerome’s eyes met his, and the smile

was a singularly fascinating one, giving an expression of exceeding

graciousness and sweetness to a pale, finely cut, ascetic-looking

countenance. There was a courtly grace in the man’s appearance, in his

bow and manner.

For a moment Wellfield paused, then, bowing in his turn, said:

‘Surely I cannot be mistaken—you are the Father Pablo Somerville whom

I met years ago?’

‘The same,’ he replied. ‘I am glad to find you remember me. For me, I

saw you as I passed the garden, and concluded it was you; but had I met

you anywhere else, I should have known you instantly.’

‘Am I so little changed, then?’

‘Not much. And,’ with a slight smile, ‘even had you changed a good

deal, yours is not a face one soon forgets.’

Wellfield held out his hand, saying cordially, ‘I am glad to see you.’

He felt glad. In Somerville’s presence he felt at ease—felt as though

he were with one of his own kind; a sensation he had never experienced

since before his father’s death, and which was pleasant to him, as it

is pleasant to return to European civilisation, with its beloved and

elaborate shams, after wandering amidst the primitive and repulsive

honesty of savages; as it is pleasant to return to stove-heated rooms

and a perfumed atmosphere, to rich meats and dainty wines, after a

forced sojourn amongst bare boards, hard pallets, and a diet of bread

and water. Such exactly was the sensation experienced now by Wellfield,

as he clasped hands with this high-bred, polished-looking priest and

man of the world.

‘I would ask you into my house, but I doubt whether there is a chair in

it fit to sit upon. I only arrived here yesterday, and am surveying now

all the home that I have.’

‘The Abbey has passed away from you, as I heard,’ observed Somerville.

‘That is a pity, for many reasons. We at Brentwood at least regret

it. In the old days, when your forefathers belonged to us, Wellfield

Abbey was noted far and wide for the munificence of its gifts, and the

splendour of its hospitality. Even in the days when your people were

Protestants, they have always been gentlemen—Wellfields, despite the

Protestantism, and they have never treated us churlishly. Down to the

last visit of your late father to the Abbey, we were always received

with hospitality and kindness—then, especially, for Mrs. Wellfield was

there——’

‘My mother!’ exclaimed Jerome, eagerly, ‘Did you ever see her? Were you

at the Abbey then?’

‘It is a long time ago. Twenty-four years ago. I was a lad of thirteen;

and I was even then destined for the priesthood. I have been at

Brentwood all my life. I was taken by one of the professors, to call

at Wellfield Abbey, and I remember it well to this day. It was winter

weather, and there were roaring fires all over the old house. Mr.

Wellfield complained of everything being heated to furnace-heat. Your

beautiful young mother—and she _was_ beautiful—sat crouching over a

huge fire, with you—a little infant—swathed in warm shawls, in her

arms. I think all the beauty of her beautiful land was concentrated in

her. What wonder that I sat and gazed at her, and thought her like the

Madonna, and wondered how Father Leigh presumed to talk, and even laugh

with her?’

‘You remember all this!’ exclaimed Jerome, earnestly. ‘Since I

came here, almost every hour has brought back some incident, some

recollection, some remembered face, which have made the reverse more

cruel, and more terrible to bear, than I had imagined anything could

be.’

‘I can well believe it. _Autres temps, autres mœurs._ Things are

changed now, from that time of gracious hospitality and high-bred

courtesy. The present owner of Wellfield Abbey’ (a slight sneer played

about the finely-cut lips) ‘detests “Papists” with a truly Protestant

candour and liberality. I must say, even if it appear like boasting,

that his bigotry is his misfortune, since the “Papists” he objects to

are the only society worthy of the name in the neighbourhood.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Jerome, whose face had grown dark during this

discourse. He was pacing with Somerville up and down the gravel walk.

‘Yes. The Lathebys of Latheby—do you remember them?’

‘The name I know well enough. What of them?’

‘They were formerly on the best of terms with the Abbey. You must

come and see the exquisite chapel which Mrs. Latheby has offered to

Brentwood. And the Ormes of Brownhill, and some others—these are the

only gentry, and the only cultivated people for miles around. But Mr.

Bolton does not care to associate with such popish _canaille_.’

He smiled again, more sneeringly than before, and Jerome felt his heart

warm towards him. This classification of Mr. Bolton with one world, and

of himself with quite another, was not unpleasant to him.

‘Many things have happened which go sorely against the grain with me,’

he rejoined. ‘The mischief of it is, my hands are tied. I am powerless,

because I am moneyless.’

‘I have heard of your losses,’ said Father Somerville, ‘and regret

them. You will believe me, Mr. Wellfield, when I say that we at

Brentwood would have welcomed you back in any case, rich or poor, with

the Abbey or without it, as a gentleman and a civilised being. We shall

welcome you as it is, if you decide to settle amongst us—welcome you

heartily. And you will think no wrong when I say that had you been

coming amongst us to take that position which in the sight of heaven

you ought to have, we should have welcomed you, not more sincerely, but

perhaps more openly and ceremoniously.’

‘You flatter me,’ said Jerome, a flush of something like pleasure on

his cheek. ‘Such a welcome can by no means be indifferent to me. As to

settling here myself, it seems the only thing for me to do at present.

At any rate, even if I should have to leave, I shall bring my sister

here, and she will live here.’

‘Your sister! How old is Miss Wellfield, if I may ask?’

‘Sixteen. She is at present in Germany with—a friend.’

‘I see. When you have settled things, you will bring her here. And

yourself—pardon these inquiries, and do not answer them if you think

them not allowable, but——’

‘They are more than allowable. They are very kind; and I feel it

a privilege to be able to speak to you of my affairs,’ returned

Wellfield, with some animation. ‘Myself, I consider destitute until I

have found some employment. What little remains of my fortune, I shall

devote entirely to my sister’s use. With strict economy, and in this

quiet place, I may make it suffice for her wants. They say trade is

good. I may succeed in finding a clerk’s place in some office, in which

a “thorough knowledge of several foreign languages” is a desideratum,

though, to tell the truth, I should first have to learn the entire

technique of any business I entered. I should be a bad bargain at first

for any employer, whatever glories I might attain to later in the

matter of book-keeping or correspondence. Still, I may earn enough to

keep me—what do I know?’

He threw up his head, and laughed a little, plunging his hands into

his pockets. Father Somerville watched him narrowly and unobserved.

The study pleased him, interested him, made him curious to pursue it

further.

There was a pause till the priest said:

‘If I remember aright, you are a good musician, Mr. Wellfield.’

‘Yes. It is the only thing I have—the only talent my God has given me.

Of much use it appears it will be to me!’

‘Hush, hush, sir! As you say, your God has given it to you, and He

doubtless had some purpose in so endowing you.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ muttered Jerome. ‘It is not my habit to speak

in that manner; but I have been harassed almost to madness by the

embarrassments and difficulties of my position. Sometimes I have

wondered whether the last Wellfield was sent into the world to make a

name and a fortune on the stage.’

‘I can well understand your feelings. Where are you staying?’ he added,

suddenly. ‘At an inn? Will you not come and take shelter with us at

Brentwood. They would be——’

‘I thank you. I am staying at the Abbey.’

‘Ah, at the Abbey? Then you simply came down here for a stroll. Will

they turn you out of the Abbey as a polluted thing if you enter

Brentwood to take a meal there?’

‘I don’t suppose they would; but at this moment I am waiting, and must

continue to wait until she comes, for Miss Bolton, who has been kind

enough to promise me her assistance in deciding what part of the lumber

inside here is fit to keep and which is good only to be cast into the

fire.’

‘You know Miss Bolton, then?’

‘I made her acquaintance, and that of her father, yesterday; and they

asked me to stay with them until my business here was done.’

‘Her father is enormously rich.’

‘Is he? I knew he must be rich from the sum he paid my father for the

Abbey. I did not know his wealth was “enormous.”’

‘But it is, without any exaggeration. He has been one of the most

successful manufacturers in Burnham, and does an immense foreign trade:

perhaps your knowledge of foreign languages might be useful to him.

Knowledge _is_ power, you know, let fools say what they may against

it,’ observed Father Somerville, who had a way of throwing out hints

which suggested the largest possibilities, in a casual careless way

which was quite peculiar to him.

‘It is no small thing to be one of the wealthiest manufacturers of

Burnham,’ he went on. ‘In plain English, it means an income like that

of a nobleman—an income which in this case is not one quarter spent,

but which goes on accumulating in excellent investments.... And Miss

Bolton is sole heiress?’

‘Yes—so I understand,’ said Jerome, absently, his mind occupied with

the priest’s suggestion that perhaps his knowledge of languages might

prove useful to Mr. Bolton. Why not? It would be well for him if it

should turn out to be so. The natural indolence of his half-southern

temperament made the idea of strenuous exertion in search of

employment, which hardly could in the nature of things be remunerative,

utterly abhorrent to him; and he grasped with the more eagerness at the

idea suggested by Somerville’s words.

The latter was tempted to smile at what at first appeared the

obtuseness of the young man. But he was a man of the world. Wellfield’s

absence of mind, and his unconsciousness of the hint which lay behind

that remark about the sole heiress, might be an innocence which would

certainly be refreshing in one who must have been the object of so much

matrimonial angling as Jerome Wellfield, in the days when he had been

the supposed heir to the Abbey and a fortune; but it also might not

be innocence at all. It might be that some deeper reason caused that

obtuseness. Probably young Wellfield was in love already. With his

disposition, and with the life he had led, it was most unlikely that he

should have travelled so far in life without ever having had his heart

touched.

Pablo Somerville knew when to be reserved and when to be open, even

cynically open and candid. He judged this a fitting occasion on which

to display the latter qualities.

‘She knows it, I should imagine?’ he said.

‘Yes—of course, yes. She told me this morning how pleased she often

felt at the idea of one day owning the Abbey,’ said Jerome, still not

awake to the palpable bearings of the case.

(‘_Quelle bêtise!_—how like a _roturier_!’ flashed rapidly through

Somerville’s mind; ‘if she likes the Abbey, no doubt she would like the

owner—the once owner!’)

Aloud, he said, striking at once me, and sharply:

‘Has a _mariage de convenance_ never occurred to you as a way out

of your difficulties?’ he inquired, in a thoroughly matter-of-fact,

composed tone.

Jerome abruptly came to a dead stop. His eyes leaped to the other’s

face. The priest looked at him with a slight cool smile, half rallying,

half surprised.

‘Never,’ at last replied Wellfield, almost frigidly. But his heart was

beating fast and suddenly.

‘I am surprised at that. I should fancy it would be very easily

arranged. And then, if you really wish for employment, nothing would be

easier than to find it. It is always to be bought, if you will pay dear

enough for it. Were you but a Catholic, I know of one—two marriages of

that kind, which might soon be negotiated through our influence. As it

is, I am not Jesuit enough to pretend that I would connive at marrying

a Catholic heiress to a heretic, even where the heretic is Jerome

Wellfield.’

Jerome laughed a little. ‘It would certainly be a good deal to expect,’

said he.

‘It would, since you would probably not only marry the heiress, but

convert her, if you wished to. But why should you not think of Miss

Bolton? You would soon win her, and, with her, regain your patrimony

and your home.’

He did not expatiate upon the subject. Jerome, engrossed by his real

love, had absolutely not once thought of Miss Bolton in the light in

which she was now held up to him. She was very rich. Some time she

would be the mistress of Wellfield Abbey. He rather liked her, in

a superior, patronising kind of way, but otherwise she was utterly

indifferent to him; whereas every fibre of his heart was powerfully

drawn in another direction.

‘Impossible, Father! The circumstances make it out of the question,’

said he, coldly and decisively.

‘The course is clear,’ said the priest, calmly. ‘Miss Bolton is not

engaged. She is anything but disagreeable or stupid. Considering her

training, she is a marvel of refinement; and if you married her you

could make her into what you pleased. You have no rivals, and if you

had, none here who could for a moment compete with yourself.’

‘Pardon me; I know nothing of Miss Bolton’s feelings, of course, but

unless I am much mistaken I have—should have, I mean—a rival in her

cousin, John Leyburn, as good a fellow as ever breathed.’

Father Somerville laughed—laughed as a man laughs who has heard a jest

full of a quaint conceit which delights him. He had a musical laugh,

and there was nothing offensive in his manner.

‘A good fellow enough, and liberal minded. I have encountered him once

or twice on local business. But a girl like Miss Bolton wants something

more than a good fellow for a husband—something different, at least.

She lives alone, reads novels and poetry, has known Mr. Leyburn all her

life, while you—bah! my dear sir, the idea of a rivalry is absurd.’

‘Your imagination is vivid. I say again, it is out of the question. No.

Wellfield is gone from me, and I must abide without it as best I may.’

(‘A woman in the case, assuredly,’ thought the priest, ‘or he would

never hesitate. No Wellfield ever did hesitate at so easy a means of

making himself at ease again. It was honest work that always made that

race kick and plunge.’)

Before he could speak aloud the gate had been opened, and Nita,

accompanied by Speedwell, her mastiff, entered the garden.

‘We must drop that topic,’ murmured Somerville with a slight smile, as

he bowed low to the girl, who returned the salutation very slightly,

saying with marked coolness of manner to Jerome:

‘You are engaged, Mr. Wellfield. I am intruding, and will come another

time.’

‘By no means,’ said Somerville, quickly. ‘I must go—I was on the point

of taking leave.’

‘But I shall see you again,’ said Jerome.

‘Certainly, and often, if I consult my own inclination,’ said

Somerville, with his strange, sweet smile. ‘Call at Brentwood, and

ask for me at any hour after vespers, and I shall receive you with

pleasure.’

Nita, followed by her dog, had walked into the house while these

farewell amenities were taking place.

‘Will you not come to-morrow?’ added Father Somerville.

‘Thank you. I shall be glad to do so.’

‘That is well. Then, _auf Wiedersehen_!’

He lifted his hat, and was gone. Jerome entered the house, and found

Nita standing at the window of the larger parlour, motionless, her

eyes fixed upon the retreating figure of the priest in his long black

soutane. Speedwell, his forepaws upon the window-ledge, looked too.

Nita did not hear Jerome. She was too absorbed in her watch, but as he

entered, he saw her pat her dog’s head and heard a low ‘Ss-s!’ from her

lips.

‘Miss Bolton!’ he exclaimed, in astonishment, while Speedwell’s low,

thunderous growl was exchanged for two deep, angry barks.

Nita started, turned, and laughed.

‘Are you shocked?’ she said. ‘I do so hate that man. I call him the

“Polished Panther.” I should not wish to be rude to him if he is a

friend of yours, but for myself, I cannot stand him, and that is all

about it.’

‘I can hardly call him a friend, though he is an old acquaintance. Do

you know what post he has at Brentwood?’

‘Oh, you know they go through a course. They don’t keep on teaching the

same thing. I heard the other day that he was teaching history—Jesuit

history, of course, which proves beyond dispute that the Jesuits always

have been right, ever since the first one first founded the order, and

that everyone else always has been and will be wrong. That is what

Father Somerville is teaching at present, I believe.’

‘You speak with heat, and surely with a little prejudice,’ said he,

smiling, but—insensibly it seemed—his manner towards her had changed,

had taken a shade more of interest, of familiarity; there was a subtle

difference both in his feelings towards her, and the behaviour which

expressed those feelings. ‘Father Somerville is an accomplished——’

‘Deceiver! Oh yes; I know he is. He would deceive anyone less clever

than himself. I dislike him exceedingly, and so does Speedwell. Well,

shall we look at your furniture, Mr. Wellfield?’

‘Thank you,’ said Jerome, accepting the hint, if hint it were—‘if you

don’t mind.’

They began with the room in which they were standing, and Nita soon

displayed capacities for arranging and settling and turning things

to the best advantage, which perfectly astonished Jerome. Numbers of

things which he was about to cast aside as being utterly useless,

she quickly reclaimed, remarking that they only wanted such and such

repairs to make them serviceable and even good.

‘And it would be sinful to throw away a scrap of this old furniture,’

she added. ‘You can’t buy any like it except for fabulous prices, and

then you are never sure that you are not being cheated. I am convinced

that for fifty pounds or so, you may make the house very nice—at

least if you will let me dispose of the fifty pounds for you,’ she

added, colouring a little; ‘for I am sure you would be like a child—so

helpless—if you went alone to a furniture shop.’

‘I do not doubt it, and would accept your offer gratefully if I did not

think it was imposing on your kindness.’

‘Not at all. We will drive into Burnham to-morrow, and see about it,’

replied Nita. ‘Meantime, it is nearly dinner-time, and papa will be

waiting. Shall we go back to the Abbey?’

Jerome accompanied her to her home, with new agitation in his breast,

and a vague wonder whether, for the future, Monk’s Gate were to be his

home.

END OF VOL. I.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD.

_J. S. & Sons._

Footnote.

[Footnote A: _Mein Genügen_—‘my content,’ or ‘my delight.’]

Transcriber’s Notes.

1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical

errors.

2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.