WELLFIELD.
The feelings were varied, the emotions complicated which, that spring
and summer, held sway in the hearts of the household at Wellfield Abbey.
At the time of Nita’s marriage, Mr. Bolton had retired to Monk’s Gate,
with his _Dante_, and his books of voyages and travels; and there Avice
Wellfield had been of great solace to him, as she had unconsciously
betrayed in her letters to Sara.
John Leyburn generously divided his attentions between Monk’s Gate and
the Abbey; a plan which made little real difference in the amount of
his company bestowed upon either place, for often the Abbey party would
be at Monk’s Gate, or Monk’s Gate would go to the Abbey; and thus they
all met nearly as much as before.
At the Abbey, Nita was, as she always had been, the mistress. Jerome
and Avice were the new elements. Jerome, probably by way of blunting
disagreeable reflections, had taken in good earnest to business; and if
he did not care to reflect upon the means by which he had arrived at
his present position, he had perhaps some comfort in the knowledge that
_in_ that state of life he was doing what approximated, at any rate, to
his duty, so far as he knew how.
Mr. Bolton went seldomer to the office, and had begun to trust more
power and responsibility into the hands of his son-in-law. He had
privately told John that his health was not all he could wish, but
that he desired not to alarm Nita, and he therefore confided to him
alone that his heart was wrong. He had privately consulted a great
doctor or two, and they all said the same thing. He therefore desired
gradually to retire from the business. Thus more and more work fell
upon Jerome’s shoulders, and yet they were not overloaded. He went
eagerly and readily to work: in this employment, which a year ago
would have been utterly distasteful to him, he found some distraction;
for the atmosphere at home was not altogether cheering. When a man
has acted in a base and cowardly manner, but yet has sufficient moral
sensitiveness left to desire that his surroundings may think well
of him, it is a galling thing when one who is a portion of those
surroundings tacitly shows him that she knows he has not been all that
he ought to have been–to her and to others; and that, judging, not
by some superlative code of high morality, but by the common hacked
and hewed standard of honesty and decency patronised by the ordinary,
unremarkable man, that he has not even washed his hands in the common
brown soap and water of this working-day world, let alone cleansing
them in the finer and more subtle essences of chivalry.
For some months after their marriage Nita continued to worship her
husband with a silent, intense passion of devotion which soothed
and pleased him, even while he was uneasily conscious of a certain
volcanic, sulphurous sort of atmosphere, while he had the idea that
he was as it were standing on the edge of a crater–a position not
without its discomforts. Nita never asked him any question as to that
other love of which he had spoken to her; she appeared satisfied with
his emphatic assurance that it was ‘over, gone, passed away’ entirely,
and she rejoiced in what he did give her of tenderness and affection.
He never knew what it was that caused the change in her. He never
asked, for he dared not, or Nita might perhaps have been able to tell
him that one evening when he was away, Father Somerville had called
to see him, and finding him out, had kindly bestowed his society upon
her for half an hour. As it was, she never mentioned the interview
except in the most casual way, merely saying that Mr. Somerville had
been disappointed to find Jerome out. She did not mention that she
had learnt during that half hour her own true position with regard
to her husband, and his with regard to her–that she had heard about
it without moving a muscle, and had sent Father Somerville away
entirely disappointed of his hope to turn that position to his own
advantage. The holy father came and went as before; Mrs. Wellfield
never condescended to express any dislike to his visits. Jerome knew
nothing of this; what he did know was that Nita’s whole manner and
being had sustained a nameless yet palpable change; she did not show
him coldness, nor aversion, but there was a wistful sadness, which
gradually grew into a dejection–a quiet sorrow which at times tortured
him.
It was very soon after she had learnt that she was to become a mother
that this change became apparent in Nita. It was in vain that he
lavished upon her every outward care and attention; that he watched
her footsteps, and hung upon her looks, and attended her wherever she
went. It was in vain that he would refuse invitations and tell her he
did not care to go out until she could go out again too; in vain that
he gratified, and even tried to anticipate her every wish: she faded
and drooped before his eyes. And he dared not go beyond this outward
form of devotion. He dared not ask the reason of the inward grief
that consumed her, because he knew what the answer would be. He was
perfectly satisfied that she knew something–how much he knew not, and
that again he dared not ask–but something she knew of the deceit he
had practised towards her; that he had taken her for his wife holding
a lie in his right hand. The position grew terrible, even ghastly to
him. Sometimes he wished that she would reproach him; tell him what she
knew, ask him why he had treated her so–then he could at least have
promised that since they were bound together, he would never deceive
her any more, but would honestly devote his life to making her happy.
But Nita never did anything of the kind. She was most gentle, and
seemed to shrink in every way from giving him pain. With unstinting
hand and ample generosity she asserted his rights in everything,
and showed the most boundless confidence in him; making a point, if
anything of the slightest importance were referred to her, of saying
that she knew nothing about it, they must ask Mr. Wellfield. She never
appeared to shrink from being alone with him, though, when it happened
that they were alone, she would sit for hours silent, unless he spoke.
When he talked to her she always tried to keep up the conversation. But
she was woefully and mournfully changed. Between her and Avice existed
a great, if not a demonstrative friendship. Jerome was thankful for
it, and that his wife and his sister had no unseemly disputes. The
only times when Nita was really bright, or at all like her old self,
were those occasions on which her father was with them. Then she would
collect her energies (and Jerome painfully felt that her gaiety was
the result of such a collecting of energy, and not spontaneous), and
be even merry, and that so exactly in her old manner that her father
never suspected anything wrong, and put down her somewhat wan face and
languid movements to her physical condition.
‘Are you happy, my child?’ he asked one afternoon, when he and she
were strolling beside the river. This was very shortly before his death.
‘Quite happy, papa,’ she answered, and he concluded that the tears
which filled her eyes as she looked up at him were tears of happiness.
‘And Jerome is all he should be–eh?’
‘You may see for yourself what Jerome is to me,’ replied Nita, in a
vibrating voice, and with a heightened colour. ‘Surely no wife was ever
treated with the attention that he gives to me!’
‘Well, well, I was but joking,’ he answered, with profound
satisfaction. ‘When I bought the Abbey, Nita, years ago, I often
thought to myself that the Wellfields were a proud, extravagant race,
and that their inheritance had passed away from them for ever, into
hands that were honester than theirs, and better able to look after
it. Then comes this youngster, and will have my daughter. It is
strange–almost like a romance, I think, sometimes. It seems that a
Wellfield is to have the old place again; it is not to be a Radical
stronghold, as I had once fancied it would be. Better so, perhaps. At
any rate, it was best that you should marry the man of your choice, be
he rich or poor, Wellfield or Smith–and be happy with him. When I do
go, I shall go in peace, knowing that you are settled in the home you
love, with the man you love.’
‘There never was anyone who had such a good father as I have. But
he is very wicked when he says anything about “going,” in peace or
otherwise,’ replied Nita, with something like her old smile.
After this they went into the house, and John came down to supper,
for they still kept up the old hours, in every-day life, at least.
Mr. Bolton also remained, and to all outward semblance a very happy,
united family group was gathered there. Jerome offered to accompany
his father-in-law to Monk’s Gate, as he had wished to speak with him on
a matter of business. The business was soon settled, and then, as they
stood at the garden-door of Monk’s Gate, Mr. Bolton suddenly said:
‘Nita and I had a stroll by the river this afternoon. I was talking to
her about you.’
‘Yes?’ said Jerome, his heart giving a sudden throb as he wondered
_what_ they had talked about him.
‘When you were married, I had some fears. Now I have none. I can see
that my girl is happy. I wish you could have seen her face as she said
to me, “You can see for yourself what Jerome is to me.” Sometimes I
think I shall not last very long——’
‘God forbid that you should be right in your idea, sir.’
‘Anyhow, Nita is all I have, and I thank you, Wellfield, for making her
happy. It gives to my old age all that it needs to make it contented.’
He wrung Wellfield’s hand, who answered, in a voice of some emotion:
‘My wife is an angel. I do not deserve her.’
‘Pooh! “An angel not too bright and good–” What is it? I know I am
quoting it wrong, but it comes to the same thing. Good-night, boy! God
bless you!’
Jerome, as he walked home, bit his lips, and his heart seemed burnt up
within him with shame.
‘Gad! what a blackguard I feel when this sort of thing happens!’ he
muttered, as he went in.
Avice had gone to bed. John Leyburn had departed. Nita was in her
dressing-room, where Jerome found her.
‘You are tired?’ he asked, a new emotion in his face and eyes, as he
bent over her.
‘A little, dear. Nothing much. I suppose you are busy?’
‘Yes. It is only a quarter-past ten. I am going to read for an hour. I
have been–I mean your father has been speaking to me about you. He has
been thanking me for making you _happy_. My God, Nita! How can I look
at you and confess it! But some day’–he clasped her hand–‘some day,
you shall be happy–you shall, my wife.’
He dared not trust himself to say any more, but left her.
Nita sat still in the same position, not weeping–she did not very
often weep now–but looking down at the wedding-ring on her hand, and
wondering if that _some day_ would ever come.
It was but a very few days after this that Mr. Bolton’s death took
place. Nita was very quiet, and apparently not much disturbed about
it. She spoke about it to no one, except that when she first saw John
Leyburn after it, she thanked him for all he had been to her father;
and she one day said to Jerome that now the Abbey belonged to him, she
wished very much that he would settle Monk’s Gate upon Avice for her
own, unless he objected.
‘And there is another thing,’ she added; ‘I believe Avice and John are
very fond of one another, and I want you, if he proposes for her, to
give your consent.’
‘Avice and John! My dear child, you are dreaming!’
‘Oh no, I am not. I know all about it as well as if they had told me;
and oh, Jerome, don’t come between them, please.’
‘I think you are match-making a little; but if it should turn out so, I
shall certainly not oppose it, and I will see about Monk’s Gate being
settled upon Avice at once.’
Nita thanked him, and the subject dropped.
Mr. Bolton’s will was much applauded by all who heard of it, as
being very just and righteous–a pattern of a will. Needless to go
into details. The property was left to Nita and her husband on trust,
subject to certain restrictions, for their lifetime, when the bulk of
it went to a prospective elder son, proper provision being made for
what other children there might be, and for Nita, if she were left a
widow.
Having left behind him these right and equitable provisions, Mr. Bolton
was laid away to his rest in Wellfield churchyard, and allowed to sleep
out his long sleep in peace.
After this the household at the Abbey went on much as usual. Nita,
though subdued, did not look utterly unhappy. Yet she was a most
unhappy wife, and Jerome knew it well, and felt the unhappiness to
be beyond his power of curing. Nothing would restore her happiness
now, and nothing give her full contentment, except the knowledge that
he loved her–perhaps not even that, if she knew all of his conduct
towards Sara–for Nita was tender-hearted. In the meantime, there was
that unalterable fact–the past, the one thing that no power in the
heavens above or in the earth beneath could make different, or cause to
be as if it had not been.
Mr. Bolton was gone. John and Avice continued to bicker and squabble in
a polite way, and were as much engrossed in one another as two really
unselfish persons can be. Nita, as time progressed, kept more in the
house, spent more hours on her sofa, with book and work, with Avice by
her side, or Jerome, or alone with her dog Speedwell. She often sent
them away, telling them she liked to be alone, and did not wish them to
be tied to her. Jerome once uneasily inquired of Avice:
‘Are you sure Nita really prefers to be left with her book? What book
is that she reads in so much?’
For Nita always closed the book when he approached, and laid it beside
her in a manner which did not permit him to take it up.
‘It is the _Imitatione Christi_, Jerome; and I think she does like to
be left with it,’ said Avice, abruptly.
The one other intimate visitor beside John Leyburn, was Father
Somerville. Nita saw very little of him. She now never offered
the slightest remark upon his visits, almost ignoring them. Both
Jerome and Avice imagined that her dislike to him had merged into a
neutral feeling. Somerville himself, and he alone, was conscious how
completely he was held at arm’s length by the lady of the house, by
the insignificant girl whom he had covertly sneered at many a time,
even while he was advising Wellfield to marry her. He did not speak of
it to anyone, but Nita’s treatment of himself galled him, and it is
to be feared that his bosom was not inhabited solely by that angelic
mildness, that indifference to all slights and injuries which Father
Ravignac, at any rate, would have us believe animates the breast of
every true Jesuit. Father Somerville had expected that Mrs. Wellfield
would be unhappy; he had even taken active steps for making her
unhappy, and he had expected that her unhappiness would cause her to
take counsel with some one, perhaps with him, who so well knew how
to invite confidence. But that unhappiness had had quite a different
effect. It had transformed the ‘insignificant girl’ into a perfectly
dignified, self-possessed woman–a very sad woman, certainly, but one
who wore her crown of sorrow without cries or appeals–one whose grief
was confessed, if at all, as between herself and her God–not to him,
or to any like him. He was bitterly mortified, and while his keen
insight told him the truth, he could not help admiring and wishing the
more that he could gain any influence over her.
He had the more power over Jerome–a power which he valued, though
he would as a matter of taste have preferred the other, since there
was assuredly more glory in being able to influence a pure and exalted
soul, than one weakened by selfishness and enervated by a feeling of
self-contempt. He had not failed to probe Jerome Wellfield’s heart,
as opportunity was afforded. One day, in a fit of almost intolerable
remorse, when he had just heard the news of Sara’s having been at the
point of death, and of her marriage with Falkenberg, and when, as it
seemed to him, his wife was fading away before his eyes, consumed with
her sorrow, Jerome had confessed–it could be called nothing else. The
temptation of confiding in one whom he felt to be so much stronger and
more self-sufficing–one whose hold on life and the things of life
was so much firmer than his own, had proved too strong. Wellfield had
told him the whole story of his love for Sara Ford–of his conduct
towards her, and that, when he dared to think of it, he loved her
yet. For a short time it gave him relief, then Somerville let him
know, by degrees, that he had fastened a chain about his wrists–that
he was, to a certain extent, in his power; he hinted, in short, that
Mrs. Wellfield might take umbrage at the story, if it were related
to her. Wellfield cursed his own weakness for a time, and soon began
to long inexpressibly for some change of scene, however fleeting. He
had deteriorated–that goes without saying. Deterioration–mental
and moral–is as natural, as inevitable a consequence of a series of
actions such as his had lately been, as the sequence of the seasons,
the rhythm of seedtime and harvest, of reaping and garnering is
inevitable, as, to use the hackneyed scripture, to sow the wind and
reap the whirlwind is inevitable.
But of course the deterioration had scarcely yet begun visibly to
manifest itself. His wife’s state had more influence with him than his
own restless longings. His place was beside her–every voice of nature
and of duty told him so, and he obeyed their mandate. The summer passed
on. Nita did not expect her confinement until the end of October–and
until that was over he must assuredly remain with her.
Things were, then, in this state at the beginning of October, when one
of those things happened which do happen sometimes–little things in
seeming, and which yet make grim sport with the greater things which
seem of so much more importance.
A commercial house in Frankfort failed–a house with which Mr. Bolton’s
firm had always done a large amount of business. A meeting of creditors
was called, at which it was highly desirable that principals should
be present. Wellfield wished to remain at home and let it pass, but
Avice having incautiously spoken about it, Nita insisted, with a
determination that was almost vehement, that he should go. It was
ascertained that he could easily go and return in a week, and as a
telegram requesting his presence came to add to the pressure, he went
one morning in the first half of the month.
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