Decorated HeadingCHAPTER II.A CONSUMMATION.Decorated Horizontal Rule.Oneafternoon, on returning from Burnham, Jerome found a letter awaiting him. It was that which Somerville had written from Elberthal, and it set Wellfield’s heart on fire. Somerville in his calculations had not forgotten to reckon among the possible effects of his communication that one which might lead Jerome to rush back again to Sara’s feet, shocked into honesty by the fear of losing her. But the priest had decided again, ‘No; he will remember that if he leaves Mr. Bolton he leaves all his subsistence; that his sister is on her wayhome, and he has nowhere to place her; and above all, that he cannot present himself to Miss Ford in the character of injured innocence, considering the manner in which he has been conducting himself. Besides, it will be so much easier for him to stay where he is and propose to Miss Bolton.’Whether by chance, or in consequence of extreme and almost superhuman cleverness, Somerville had managed to calculate with mathematical correctness. Wellfield’s first impulse, on reading the letter, was to rush off then and there in all haste, and never to pause until he had found Sara, and clasped her in his arms, looked into her eyes, received the assurance of her love. Then, across this fever of impatience came the thought, creeping chilly:‘When she turns and asks you to explain your late treatment of her, what are you to say?’He knew she might love with an utter abandonment of self; but should she once suspect falsehood, it would all have to be disproved, all made clear and clean, before she would touch his hand and speak tenderly again. And it was too hard, too cruel. Avice was on her way home. Sooner or later Sara would learn something of what had transpired here, at Wellfield... What was all this talk about her favouring some other man? Again the impulse was strong, if not to go to her, to seize pen and paper, and ask what it all meant. And again came the cruel, sudden check. She would have a perfect right to retort with a similar question–to ask him what his conduct meant–to demand a reason for his late ambiguous treatment of her. He might not write. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. What was he to do? His counsellor was away. For the first time he realised, by the intensity of his wish to seehim, what a hold Somerville had gained upon his mind.It was a dreary, gusty November evening. Round the solid walls of the old house of Monk’s Gate, the wind wuthered sadly and fitfully; the deep-set lattices did not shake–one only heard the sound of the wind. No passing vehicles disturbed the ear. The quiet country road was profoundly still.No one came to relieve his solitude, or to divert his mind from its miserable debate with his conscience. He sat there perfectly alone, until at last he could bear it no longer. He would go to the Abbey, and join them there. There would be cheerful voices, honest faces; words to listen to–not this hideous silence, broken only by the dismal sighing of the wind about the roofs, and in the trees.He snatched up his hat, opened the door, and sallied forth into the night. The Abbey gate was close at hand. Soon he was within that dark portal, beneath the now leafless avenue which shaded the river walk;he could hear the swollen stream rushing noisily along. He saw a light in the drawing-room windows, and, with an effort, he gathered himself together, so as to appear composed and collected, for they would not understand his disturbance, and the fear lest by betraying it he should ‘appear unto men a fool’ was sufficient to give him outward calm.Of course, when the servant opened the door, Wellfield asked for Miss Bolton, and was told she was in. But he was in the habit now of going unannounced into the drawing-room. The page knew it, and retired. Jerome hung up his hat, took his way to the drawing-room door, and with a brief preliminary knock, entered.A large fire was burning in the ample grate, but no lamps were lighted. No one was in the room, either, except Nita, who was kneeling upon a tiger-skin, straight in front of the fire–her dog Speedwell by her side. Her hands were clasped before her; her eyes wide open, and hercheeks, with them, exposed to the full fierceness of the glowing fire.But she heard him come: heard his footstep, and started up–a deeper blush mantling through the red which the heat of the fire had called forth.Jerome came slowly up to her, and stooped over her, and the firelight shone into his eyes, and showed the hollows in his pale cheek.‘Are you quite alone?’ he asked, and there was no surprise in his accent, for it had flashed upon his mind, as he came in and found her by herself, that perhaps this too was a ‘sign,’ as Somerville had called it.‘Yes,’ replied Nita, rising to her feet. ‘Papa has gone up to Abbot’s Knoll, to see John: it is a wonder for him to be out, as you know. I don’t know what plots they are concocting, I’m sure. John is perfectly mad about some bird–a reed-warbler, he calls it–which he vows hehas found by the river here, and he is going to overthrow some great authority, who says they are never found so far north.’‘And Miss Shuttleworth?’ asked Wellfield, unconsciously acting on his secret desire to know the coast clear.‘Aunt Margaret has got a tea-party of school-teachers. She always has one about this time. Did you want to see papa?’‘I am afraid I don’t quite know what I want,’ he answered, with a great sigh of exceeding weariness, as he rested his elbow on the mantelpiece, and looked at her with his sombre, mournful eyes. ‘I don’t think I do want to see your father–at least, I felt very glad when I saw you alone. I think I want to escape from myself and my thoughts, Nita.’‘Why, do your thoughts trouble you?’ she asked, softly and timidly.‘Sometimes they do, very much–to-night particularly. Will you let me sit with you a little while, or must I go back again to Monk’s Gate and solitude?’‘Oh, Mr. Wellfield, you know that you are always welcome here, when it pleases you to come!’‘That is a good hearing,’ he answered, and such was the odd mixture of the man’s nature, he felt that it was good. He felt that from Nita he would receive no blows or buffets, or rough words–nothing but (metaphorically speaking) tenderest caresses and softest whispers. To go back to solitude, and the harsh accusations of conscience, and the disagreeable anticipations for the future, was not in him; so he stayed.‘Do you never feel restless?’ he went on. ‘Do you never feel as if you would like to set off on some indefinite journey, and without knowing where you were going–with a sort of “onwards–but whither?” feeling,that you would just like to go on and on, and for ever on, till life itself came to a stop? Have you never felt it?’‘Yes, often,’ said Nita, in a low voice. She was standing opposite to him, on the other side of the fireplace. Her hands–soft, pretty, little white hands–were folded lightly one over the other. Jerome, in his idle sentimentalising, had time to notice that she had on very pretty black-lace mittens, and that the stones of some rings sparkled through them; that a gold bracelet was pushed tightly up the rounded arm. He scarcely observed her averted face–her eyes looking into the fire; her rapidly-heaving bosom; and he prosed on, because he liked talking to her–because it was easy to make himself out sad, and blighted and persecuted.‘I felt sure you had,’ he said. ‘That is what I feel to-night. But for your father’s goodness to me–but for the stern mandate of reason and necessity and common sense, I would set off now, this moment; andleave Wellfield, never to return to it.’He had spoken this time without rhyme or reason; without anyarrière pensée–any calculation as to the effect his words might have upon her; and when he saw what it was, even he was startled.‘Leave Wellfield! Go away!’ she exclaimed, turning suddenly pallid. ‘What makes you say such a thing?’‘Should you care much if I did?’ he asked recklessly and ruthlessly. ‘Would it–can I believe it would make any difference to you?’He was standing before her, looking, as the girl in her sad infatuation thought, so noble, so calm, so undaunted, after all his misfortunes–undisturbed–only sad and a little despondent after his reverses–more of a hero than ever. Ah! if she might only tell him what she felt and wished! But at the moment something held her back; shecould not say all–could not speak the words her heart was breaking to utter. She drew a long breath, and said:‘You–it would make me very sad if you went away, for then I should feel more than ever what interlopers we must seem to you. I should feel that we had driven you out from your old home. And you speak of papa’s goodness–but is it goodness? I don’t call it the work for you–drudging in an office in that way, like some common clerk. I should think after a time it would drive you almost mad.’‘Oh no! It is only the getting into harness that is such hard work–the learning how to become a machine. I fancy when that is accomplished, and the routine mastered, one can go on easily enough–almost unconsciously. I shall get used to it sometime. Meanwhile, I am thankful to be so well off.’‘You are not thankful to be well off when you know you are very ill off,’ said Nita, with agitation. ‘And you will never get used to it.If you could you would not be what you are–it would not all be so horrible.... Oh, I wish the Abbey–I wish the money were mine, that I might ask you to take it as yourright–your inheritance! But I can do nothing, nothing; I am powerless, helpless, and I believe it will kill me!’She turned away and threw herself upon a couch, burying her face in the cushions, and trying to stifle her sobs. For, with a great, overwhelming rush, the conviction had come to her of what she had really said–a sense of intolerable shame, an agony of humiliation was torturing her.For one moment Wellfield gazed at her, at the prostrate form and heaving shoulders, convulsed with sobs. Then he made a step to the sofa, and knelt down beside her.‘Nita!’ he whispered, ‘dear Nita! Look up! I want to speak to you.’But she would not raise her face, exclaiming in a broken, stifled voice:‘No, no! don’t ask me! I cannot look at you. I can never look at you again. Oh, leave me! Mr. Wellfield–Jerome! for the love of heaven leave me, or I shall die–I shalldieof shame!’‘You shall not die of shame,’ he said, in the same low, persuasive voice. ‘Nita, you shall look at me, my good angel, and hear what I have to say to you.’With gentle but irresistible force he drew her hands away, and lifted her head, and made her look at him, and in that moment he had, perhaps, forgotten the existence of Sara Ford.‘Why do you speak of shame, Nita?’ he asked, looking tenderly into her piteous face. ‘What shame can there possibly be in giving way to such a generous impulse, and in showing a lonely, fallen man that there is one sweet woman left who cares for him, and would make him happy ifshe might? Heaven bless you, dear, for such goodness. But you know–you must know, why I cannot take you in my arms and say, “I accept that goodness, and offer you my life’s devotion in return for it.” You know it would be the basest conduct on my part towards your father, who has treated me with unheard-of goodness. I know he wishes you to marry, and I know he would consider it the height of presumption inmeto ask for you.’‘Oh, don’t speak of such things–of marriage and such horrors!’ she almost moaned, struggling to free her hands; but he went on:‘No, I must face my future as best I may, and it will be with the better cheer from the knowledge that goodness such as yours exists–goodness which I worship and honour all the more in that you have made it known to me.’‘Oh, don’t! don’t speak of it! I cannot bear it!’ she cried, wrenching her hands away, and again covering her face from his sight. She felt as if she were in some strange, delirious dream. Wellfield’s looks and tones thrilled through every nerve. Did he love her? Did he mean that if he dared, he would tell her so? She knew not what to think. She only knew thathe knew, and that say or do what she might, she could never undo the fact that she had betrayed herself; and that the one thing which would have made it all right–would have made the difference between a nightmare and a vision of Paradise–the knowledge that he loved her–was wanting. Yes, despite his caressing tones, his eloquent eyes, his tender words, she did not understand that he loved her.‘Do not be so distressed,’ he said. ‘I will never speak of it again, if you desire me to be silent. I will forget it–anything–only, dear, do not be so unhappy!’‘I hear them coming,’ said Nita, her ear preternaturally quick. ‘I hear their voices. I cannot see them–they must not see me. Tell them–tell them I am ill–for I am–and–let me go!’‘Yes–stop one moment, Nita!’ he answered, clasping his arm round her waist, as she was darting past him.‘Let me go!’ she breathed again, but her voice died away as his lips met hers–once and again, and he said, in a low, passionate voice:‘There! We have that, whatever may happen in the future. Nita–myNita!’He loosed his arm, and she had flashed past him, and out of the room, in a second.Jerome was left standing on the rug, feeling, he too, as if he had just gone through some mad fit of delirium. What had hurried him on to that act of a moment ago? He stood with bated breath, and eyebrows drawn together–then breathing again, a long, nervous breath, he muttered:‘By G–, I am a villain!’And in the moment that ensued between this confession of conscience, and the entrance of the others, he had time too to realise that one cannot be a villain one moment, and have done with the villainy and its effects in the next instant. One woman’s heart, at least, must go near to break, in punishment for his sin of this night–or rather, for this night’s consummation of his sin. It lay with him to decide which woman must suffer–Nita, who was here, close by, and whose agonies he must watch; or Sara Ford, away in Elberthal, and alone, now–and whom he would not be able to see, let her have what she might to endure–Sara, who had loved him all along–who loved him still, as he knew, and would have known, had fifty letters come to tell him how devoted she and Rudolf Falkenberg were, the one to the other. Which woman was to have the blow from his cowardly hand?An ugly problem; one which would require answering very soon–but not to-night. It might be delayed till to-morrow.He felt a sense of relief at this, as Mr. Bolton and John Leyburn came in, and they began to ask him why he was alone, and what had become of Nita.The three men supped alone that night. When John Leyburn was departing, and Wellfield was about to go with him, Mr. Bolton stopped him, saying he wanted to speak to him. Jerome, still thankful to have excuses which delayed his home-going, remained willingly. One other surprise was in store for him that night. Mr. Bolton, in his usual stilted and pedantic, but most distinct and unequivocal style, informed him that he had that evening been taking counsel with John Leyburn, as his most trusted friend, upon several important matters. That in the main John agreed with him, and that he wished to lose no time in telling him, Jerome Wellfield, that, after profound consideration, he had come tothe conclusion that it would be for his own pleasure and his daughter’s happiness if a marriage between her and him–Wellfield–could be concluded.‘If you feel warranted, by your feelings towards her, in proposing to her, you have my permission to do so. If not–you will excuse my speaking plainly–your visits here will have to cease, for I do not wish her happiness to be imperilled.’Wellfield passed his hand over his eyes: he was almost stunned. At that moment things stood out clearly, and, so it seemed to him, the right bearings of them. To think of ever marrying Sara now was hopeless. Love must be cast aside, and duty embraced instead. He was perhaps not conscious that he was elaborately and ingeniously evading and concealing the truth, when he said:‘But for feeling sure that I should displease you exceedingly, and that it would be an ill return for your benefits, for a penniless fellowlike myself to speak to her, I should have proposed to her to-night.’Mr. Bolton’s face brightened.‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I knew there was a liking on both sides. That makes it smooth. Propose to her to-morrow morning, instead of to-night. You will have her to yourself, for I shall be in town.’They shook hands, but Wellfield’s eyes did not meet those of Mr. Bolton as he went through the ceremony. He went away. Then it was upon that proud head of Sara Ford that the stroke was to fall, and he was the miserable wretch whose hand was to deal it.
Decorated HeadingCHAPTER II.A CONSUMMATION.Decorated Horizontal Rule.Oneafternoon, on returning from Burnham, Jerome found a letter awaiting him. It was that which Somerville had written from Elberthal, and it set Wellfield’s heart on fire. Somerville in his calculations had not forgotten to reckon among the possible effects of his communication that one which might lead Jerome to rush back again to Sara’s feet, shocked into honesty by the fear of losing her. But the priest had decided again, ‘No; he will remember that if he leaves Mr. Bolton he leaves all his subsistence; that his sister is on her wayhome, and he has nowhere to place her; and above all, that he cannot present himself to Miss Ford in the character of injured innocence, considering the manner in which he has been conducting himself. Besides, it will be so much easier for him to stay where he is and propose to Miss Bolton.’Whether by chance, or in consequence of extreme and almost superhuman cleverness, Somerville had managed to calculate with mathematical correctness. Wellfield’s first impulse, on reading the letter, was to rush off then and there in all haste, and never to pause until he had found Sara, and clasped her in his arms, looked into her eyes, received the assurance of her love. Then, across this fever of impatience came the thought, creeping chilly:‘When she turns and asks you to explain your late treatment of her, what are you to say?’He knew she might love with an utter abandonment of self; but should she once suspect falsehood, it would all have to be disproved, all made clear and clean, before she would touch his hand and speak tenderly again. And it was too hard, too cruel. Avice was on her way home. Sooner or later Sara would learn something of what had transpired here, at Wellfield... What was all this talk about her favouring some other man? Again the impulse was strong, if not to go to her, to seize pen and paper, and ask what it all meant. And again came the cruel, sudden check. She would have a perfect right to retort with a similar question–to ask him what his conduct meant–to demand a reason for his late ambiguous treatment of her. He might not write. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. What was he to do? His counsellor was away. For the first time he realised, by the intensity of his wish to seehim, what a hold Somerville had gained upon his mind.It was a dreary, gusty November evening. Round the solid walls of the old house of Monk’s Gate, the wind wuthered sadly and fitfully; the deep-set lattices did not shake–one only heard the sound of the wind. No passing vehicles disturbed the ear. The quiet country road was profoundly still.No one came to relieve his solitude, or to divert his mind from its miserable debate with his conscience. He sat there perfectly alone, until at last he could bear it no longer. He would go to the Abbey, and join them there. There would be cheerful voices, honest faces; words to listen to–not this hideous silence, broken only by the dismal sighing of the wind about the roofs, and in the trees.He snatched up his hat, opened the door, and sallied forth into the night. The Abbey gate was close at hand. Soon he was within that dark portal, beneath the now leafless avenue which shaded the river walk;he could hear the swollen stream rushing noisily along. He saw a light in the drawing-room windows, and, with an effort, he gathered himself together, so as to appear composed and collected, for they would not understand his disturbance, and the fear lest by betraying it he should ‘appear unto men a fool’ was sufficient to give him outward calm.Of course, when the servant opened the door, Wellfield asked for Miss Bolton, and was told she was in. But he was in the habit now of going unannounced into the drawing-room. The page knew it, and retired. Jerome hung up his hat, took his way to the drawing-room door, and with a brief preliminary knock, entered.A large fire was burning in the ample grate, but no lamps were lighted. No one was in the room, either, except Nita, who was kneeling upon a tiger-skin, straight in front of the fire–her dog Speedwell by her side. Her hands were clasped before her; her eyes wide open, and hercheeks, with them, exposed to the full fierceness of the glowing fire.But she heard him come: heard his footstep, and started up–a deeper blush mantling through the red which the heat of the fire had called forth.Jerome came slowly up to her, and stooped over her, and the firelight shone into his eyes, and showed the hollows in his pale cheek.‘Are you quite alone?’ he asked, and there was no surprise in his accent, for it had flashed upon his mind, as he came in and found her by herself, that perhaps this too was a ‘sign,’ as Somerville had called it.‘Yes,’ replied Nita, rising to her feet. ‘Papa has gone up to Abbot’s Knoll, to see John: it is a wonder for him to be out, as you know. I don’t know what plots they are concocting, I’m sure. John is perfectly mad about some bird–a reed-warbler, he calls it–which he vows hehas found by the river here, and he is going to overthrow some great authority, who says they are never found so far north.’‘And Miss Shuttleworth?’ asked Wellfield, unconsciously acting on his secret desire to know the coast clear.‘Aunt Margaret has got a tea-party of school-teachers. She always has one about this time. Did you want to see papa?’‘I am afraid I don’t quite know what I want,’ he answered, with a great sigh of exceeding weariness, as he rested his elbow on the mantelpiece, and looked at her with his sombre, mournful eyes. ‘I don’t think I do want to see your father–at least, I felt very glad when I saw you alone. I think I want to escape from myself and my thoughts, Nita.’‘Why, do your thoughts trouble you?’ she asked, softly and timidly.‘Sometimes they do, very much–to-night particularly. Will you let me sit with you a little while, or must I go back again to Monk’s Gate and solitude?’‘Oh, Mr. Wellfield, you know that you are always welcome here, when it pleases you to come!’‘That is a good hearing,’ he answered, and such was the odd mixture of the man’s nature, he felt that it was good. He felt that from Nita he would receive no blows or buffets, or rough words–nothing but (metaphorically speaking) tenderest caresses and softest whispers. To go back to solitude, and the harsh accusations of conscience, and the disagreeable anticipations for the future, was not in him; so he stayed.‘Do you never feel restless?’ he went on. ‘Do you never feel as if you would like to set off on some indefinite journey, and without knowing where you were going–with a sort of “onwards–but whither?” feeling,that you would just like to go on and on, and for ever on, till life itself came to a stop? Have you never felt it?’‘Yes, often,’ said Nita, in a low voice. She was standing opposite to him, on the other side of the fireplace. Her hands–soft, pretty, little white hands–were folded lightly one over the other. Jerome, in his idle sentimentalising, had time to notice that she had on very pretty black-lace mittens, and that the stones of some rings sparkled through them; that a gold bracelet was pushed tightly up the rounded arm. He scarcely observed her averted face–her eyes looking into the fire; her rapidly-heaving bosom; and he prosed on, because he liked talking to her–because it was easy to make himself out sad, and blighted and persecuted.‘I felt sure you had,’ he said. ‘That is what I feel to-night. But for your father’s goodness to me–but for the stern mandate of reason and necessity and common sense, I would set off now, this moment; andleave Wellfield, never to return to it.’He had spoken this time without rhyme or reason; without anyarrière pensée–any calculation as to the effect his words might have upon her; and when he saw what it was, even he was startled.‘Leave Wellfield! Go away!’ she exclaimed, turning suddenly pallid. ‘What makes you say such a thing?’‘Should you care much if I did?’ he asked recklessly and ruthlessly. ‘Would it–can I believe it would make any difference to you?’He was standing before her, looking, as the girl in her sad infatuation thought, so noble, so calm, so undaunted, after all his misfortunes–undisturbed–only sad and a little despondent after his reverses–more of a hero than ever. Ah! if she might only tell him what she felt and wished! But at the moment something held her back; shecould not say all–could not speak the words her heart was breaking to utter. She drew a long breath, and said:‘You–it would make me very sad if you went away, for then I should feel more than ever what interlopers we must seem to you. I should feel that we had driven you out from your old home. And you speak of papa’s goodness–but is it goodness? I don’t call it the work for you–drudging in an office in that way, like some common clerk. I should think after a time it would drive you almost mad.’‘Oh no! It is only the getting into harness that is such hard work–the learning how to become a machine. I fancy when that is accomplished, and the routine mastered, one can go on easily enough–almost unconsciously. I shall get used to it sometime. Meanwhile, I am thankful to be so well off.’‘You are not thankful to be well off when you know you are very ill off,’ said Nita, with agitation. ‘And you will never get used to it.If you could you would not be what you are–it would not all be so horrible.... Oh, I wish the Abbey–I wish the money were mine, that I might ask you to take it as yourright–your inheritance! But I can do nothing, nothing; I am powerless, helpless, and I believe it will kill me!’She turned away and threw herself upon a couch, burying her face in the cushions, and trying to stifle her sobs. For, with a great, overwhelming rush, the conviction had come to her of what she had really said–a sense of intolerable shame, an agony of humiliation was torturing her.For one moment Wellfield gazed at her, at the prostrate form and heaving shoulders, convulsed with sobs. Then he made a step to the sofa, and knelt down beside her.‘Nita!’ he whispered, ‘dear Nita! Look up! I want to speak to you.’But she would not raise her face, exclaiming in a broken, stifled voice:‘No, no! don’t ask me! I cannot look at you. I can never look at you again. Oh, leave me! Mr. Wellfield–Jerome! for the love of heaven leave me, or I shall die–I shalldieof shame!’‘You shall not die of shame,’ he said, in the same low, persuasive voice. ‘Nita, you shall look at me, my good angel, and hear what I have to say to you.’With gentle but irresistible force he drew her hands away, and lifted her head, and made her look at him, and in that moment he had, perhaps, forgotten the existence of Sara Ford.‘Why do you speak of shame, Nita?’ he asked, looking tenderly into her piteous face. ‘What shame can there possibly be in giving way to such a generous impulse, and in showing a lonely, fallen man that there is one sweet woman left who cares for him, and would make him happy ifshe might? Heaven bless you, dear, for such goodness. But you know–you must know, why I cannot take you in my arms and say, “I accept that goodness, and offer you my life’s devotion in return for it.” You know it would be the basest conduct on my part towards your father, who has treated me with unheard-of goodness. I know he wishes you to marry, and I know he would consider it the height of presumption inmeto ask for you.’‘Oh, don’t speak of such things–of marriage and such horrors!’ she almost moaned, struggling to free her hands; but he went on:‘No, I must face my future as best I may, and it will be with the better cheer from the knowledge that goodness such as yours exists–goodness which I worship and honour all the more in that you have made it known to me.’‘Oh, don’t! don’t speak of it! I cannot bear it!’ she cried, wrenching her hands away, and again covering her face from his sight. She felt as if she were in some strange, delirious dream. Wellfield’s looks and tones thrilled through every nerve. Did he love her? Did he mean that if he dared, he would tell her so? She knew not what to think. She only knew thathe knew, and that say or do what she might, she could never undo the fact that she had betrayed herself; and that the one thing which would have made it all right–would have made the difference between a nightmare and a vision of Paradise–the knowledge that he loved her–was wanting. Yes, despite his caressing tones, his eloquent eyes, his tender words, she did not understand that he loved her.‘Do not be so distressed,’ he said. ‘I will never speak of it again, if you desire me to be silent. I will forget it–anything–only, dear, do not be so unhappy!’‘I hear them coming,’ said Nita, her ear preternaturally quick. ‘I hear their voices. I cannot see them–they must not see me. Tell them–tell them I am ill–for I am–and–let me go!’‘Yes–stop one moment, Nita!’ he answered, clasping his arm round her waist, as she was darting past him.‘Let me go!’ she breathed again, but her voice died away as his lips met hers–once and again, and he said, in a low, passionate voice:‘There! We have that, whatever may happen in the future. Nita–myNita!’He loosed his arm, and she had flashed past him, and out of the room, in a second.Jerome was left standing on the rug, feeling, he too, as if he had just gone through some mad fit of delirium. What had hurried him on to that act of a moment ago? He stood with bated breath, and eyebrows drawn together–then breathing again, a long, nervous breath, he muttered:‘By G–, I am a villain!’And in the moment that ensued between this confession of conscience, and the entrance of the others, he had time too to realise that one cannot be a villain one moment, and have done with the villainy and its effects in the next instant. One woman’s heart, at least, must go near to break, in punishment for his sin of this night–or rather, for this night’s consummation of his sin. It lay with him to decide which woman must suffer–Nita, who was here, close by, and whose agonies he must watch; or Sara Ford, away in Elberthal, and alone, now–and whom he would not be able to see, let her have what she might to endure–Sara, who had loved him all along–who loved him still, as he knew, and would have known, had fifty letters come to tell him how devoted she and Rudolf Falkenberg were, the one to the other. Which woman was to have the blow from his cowardly hand?An ugly problem; one which would require answering very soon–but not to-night. It might be delayed till to-morrow.He felt a sense of relief at this, as Mr. Bolton and John Leyburn came in, and they began to ask him why he was alone, and what had become of Nita.The three men supped alone that night. When John Leyburn was departing, and Wellfield was about to go with him, Mr. Bolton stopped him, saying he wanted to speak to him. Jerome, still thankful to have excuses which delayed his home-going, remained willingly. One other surprise was in store for him that night. Mr. Bolton, in his usual stilted and pedantic, but most distinct and unequivocal style, informed him that he had that evening been taking counsel with John Leyburn, as his most trusted friend, upon several important matters. That in the main John agreed with him, and that he wished to lose no time in telling him, Jerome Wellfield, that, after profound consideration, he had come tothe conclusion that it would be for his own pleasure and his daughter’s happiness if a marriage between her and him–Wellfield–could be concluded.‘If you feel warranted, by your feelings towards her, in proposing to her, you have my permission to do so. If not–you will excuse my speaking plainly–your visits here will have to cease, for I do not wish her happiness to be imperilled.’Wellfield passed his hand over his eyes: he was almost stunned. At that moment things stood out clearly, and, so it seemed to him, the right bearings of them. To think of ever marrying Sara now was hopeless. Love must be cast aside, and duty embraced instead. He was perhaps not conscious that he was elaborately and ingeniously evading and concealing the truth, when he said:‘But for feeling sure that I should displease you exceedingly, and that it would be an ill return for your benefits, for a penniless fellowlike myself to speak to her, I should have proposed to her to-night.’Mr. Bolton’s face brightened.‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I knew there was a liking on both sides. That makes it smooth. Propose to her to-morrow morning, instead of to-night. You will have her to yourself, for I shall be in town.’They shook hands, but Wellfield’s eyes did not meet those of Mr. Bolton as he went through the ceremony. He went away. Then it was upon that proud head of Sara Ford that the stroke was to fall, and he was the miserable wretch whose hand was to deal it.
Decorated Heading
Decorated Horizontal Rule.
Oneafternoon, on returning from Burnham, Jerome found a letter awaiting him. It was that which Somerville had written from Elberthal, and it set Wellfield’s heart on fire. Somerville in his calculations had not forgotten to reckon among the possible effects of his communication that one which might lead Jerome to rush back again to Sara’s feet, shocked into honesty by the fear of losing her. But the priest had decided again, ‘No; he will remember that if he leaves Mr. Bolton he leaves all his subsistence; that his sister is on her wayhome, and he has nowhere to place her; and above all, that he cannot present himself to Miss Ford in the character of injured innocence, considering the manner in which he has been conducting himself. Besides, it will be so much easier for him to stay where he is and propose to Miss Bolton.’
Whether by chance, or in consequence of extreme and almost superhuman cleverness, Somerville had managed to calculate with mathematical correctness. Wellfield’s first impulse, on reading the letter, was to rush off then and there in all haste, and never to pause until he had found Sara, and clasped her in his arms, looked into her eyes, received the assurance of her love. Then, across this fever of impatience came the thought, creeping chilly:
‘When she turns and asks you to explain your late treatment of her, what are you to say?’
He knew she might love with an utter abandonment of self; but should she once suspect falsehood, it would all have to be disproved, all made clear and clean, before she would touch his hand and speak tenderly again. And it was too hard, too cruel. Avice was on her way home. Sooner or later Sara would learn something of what had transpired here, at Wellfield... What was all this talk about her favouring some other man? Again the impulse was strong, if not to go to her, to seize pen and paper, and ask what it all meant. And again came the cruel, sudden check. She would have a perfect right to retort with a similar question–to ask him what his conduct meant–to demand a reason for his late ambiguous treatment of her. He might not write. He buried his face in his hands and groaned. What was he to do? His counsellor was away. For the first time he realised, by the intensity of his wish to seehim, what a hold Somerville had gained upon his mind.
It was a dreary, gusty November evening. Round the solid walls of the old house of Monk’s Gate, the wind wuthered sadly and fitfully; the deep-set lattices did not shake–one only heard the sound of the wind. No passing vehicles disturbed the ear. The quiet country road was profoundly still.
No one came to relieve his solitude, or to divert his mind from its miserable debate with his conscience. He sat there perfectly alone, until at last he could bear it no longer. He would go to the Abbey, and join them there. There would be cheerful voices, honest faces; words to listen to–not this hideous silence, broken only by the dismal sighing of the wind about the roofs, and in the trees.
He snatched up his hat, opened the door, and sallied forth into the night. The Abbey gate was close at hand. Soon he was within that dark portal, beneath the now leafless avenue which shaded the river walk;he could hear the swollen stream rushing noisily along. He saw a light in the drawing-room windows, and, with an effort, he gathered himself together, so as to appear composed and collected, for they would not understand his disturbance, and the fear lest by betraying it he should ‘appear unto men a fool’ was sufficient to give him outward calm.
Of course, when the servant opened the door, Wellfield asked for Miss Bolton, and was told she was in. But he was in the habit now of going unannounced into the drawing-room. The page knew it, and retired. Jerome hung up his hat, took his way to the drawing-room door, and with a brief preliminary knock, entered.
A large fire was burning in the ample grate, but no lamps were lighted. No one was in the room, either, except Nita, who was kneeling upon a tiger-skin, straight in front of the fire–her dog Speedwell by her side. Her hands were clasped before her; her eyes wide open, and hercheeks, with them, exposed to the full fierceness of the glowing fire.
But she heard him come: heard his footstep, and started up–a deeper blush mantling through the red which the heat of the fire had called forth.
Jerome came slowly up to her, and stooped over her, and the firelight shone into his eyes, and showed the hollows in his pale cheek.
‘Are you quite alone?’ he asked, and there was no surprise in his accent, for it had flashed upon his mind, as he came in and found her by herself, that perhaps this too was a ‘sign,’ as Somerville had called it.
‘Yes,’ replied Nita, rising to her feet. ‘Papa has gone up to Abbot’s Knoll, to see John: it is a wonder for him to be out, as you know. I don’t know what plots they are concocting, I’m sure. John is perfectly mad about some bird–a reed-warbler, he calls it–which he vows hehas found by the river here, and he is going to overthrow some great authority, who says they are never found so far north.’
‘And Miss Shuttleworth?’ asked Wellfield, unconsciously acting on his secret desire to know the coast clear.
‘Aunt Margaret has got a tea-party of school-teachers. She always has one about this time. Did you want to see papa?’
‘I am afraid I don’t quite know what I want,’ he answered, with a great sigh of exceeding weariness, as he rested his elbow on the mantelpiece, and looked at her with his sombre, mournful eyes. ‘I don’t think I do want to see your father–at least, I felt very glad when I saw you alone. I think I want to escape from myself and my thoughts, Nita.’
‘Why, do your thoughts trouble you?’ she asked, softly and timidly.
‘Sometimes they do, very much–to-night particularly. Will you let me sit with you a little while, or must I go back again to Monk’s Gate and solitude?’
‘Oh, Mr. Wellfield, you know that you are always welcome here, when it pleases you to come!’
‘That is a good hearing,’ he answered, and such was the odd mixture of the man’s nature, he felt that it was good. He felt that from Nita he would receive no blows or buffets, or rough words–nothing but (metaphorically speaking) tenderest caresses and softest whispers. To go back to solitude, and the harsh accusations of conscience, and the disagreeable anticipations for the future, was not in him; so he stayed.
‘Do you never feel restless?’ he went on. ‘Do you never feel as if you would like to set off on some indefinite journey, and without knowing where you were going–with a sort of “onwards–but whither?” feeling,that you would just like to go on and on, and for ever on, till life itself came to a stop? Have you never felt it?’
‘Yes, often,’ said Nita, in a low voice. She was standing opposite to him, on the other side of the fireplace. Her hands–soft, pretty, little white hands–were folded lightly one over the other. Jerome, in his idle sentimentalising, had time to notice that she had on very pretty black-lace mittens, and that the stones of some rings sparkled through them; that a gold bracelet was pushed tightly up the rounded arm. He scarcely observed her averted face–her eyes looking into the fire; her rapidly-heaving bosom; and he prosed on, because he liked talking to her–because it was easy to make himself out sad, and blighted and persecuted.
‘I felt sure you had,’ he said. ‘That is what I feel to-night. But for your father’s goodness to me–but for the stern mandate of reason and necessity and common sense, I would set off now, this moment; andleave Wellfield, never to return to it.’
He had spoken this time without rhyme or reason; without anyarrière pensée–any calculation as to the effect his words might have upon her; and when he saw what it was, even he was startled.
‘Leave Wellfield! Go away!’ she exclaimed, turning suddenly pallid. ‘What makes you say such a thing?’
‘Should you care much if I did?’ he asked recklessly and ruthlessly. ‘Would it–can I believe it would make any difference to you?’
He was standing before her, looking, as the girl in her sad infatuation thought, so noble, so calm, so undaunted, after all his misfortunes–undisturbed–only sad and a little despondent after his reverses–more of a hero than ever. Ah! if she might only tell him what she felt and wished! But at the moment something held her back; shecould not say all–could not speak the words her heart was breaking to utter. She drew a long breath, and said:
‘You–it would make me very sad if you went away, for then I should feel more than ever what interlopers we must seem to you. I should feel that we had driven you out from your old home. And you speak of papa’s goodness–but is it goodness? I don’t call it the work for you–drudging in an office in that way, like some common clerk. I should think after a time it would drive you almost mad.’
‘Oh no! It is only the getting into harness that is such hard work–the learning how to become a machine. I fancy when that is accomplished, and the routine mastered, one can go on easily enough–almost unconsciously. I shall get used to it sometime. Meanwhile, I am thankful to be so well off.’
‘You are not thankful to be well off when you know you are very ill off,’ said Nita, with agitation. ‘And you will never get used to it.If you could you would not be what you are–it would not all be so horrible.... Oh, I wish the Abbey–I wish the money were mine, that I might ask you to take it as yourright–your inheritance! But I can do nothing, nothing; I am powerless, helpless, and I believe it will kill me!’
She turned away and threw herself upon a couch, burying her face in the cushions, and trying to stifle her sobs. For, with a great, overwhelming rush, the conviction had come to her of what she had really said–a sense of intolerable shame, an agony of humiliation was torturing her.
For one moment Wellfield gazed at her, at the prostrate form and heaving shoulders, convulsed with sobs. Then he made a step to the sofa, and knelt down beside her.
‘Nita!’ he whispered, ‘dear Nita! Look up! I want to speak to you.’
But she would not raise her face, exclaiming in a broken, stifled voice:
‘No, no! don’t ask me! I cannot look at you. I can never look at you again. Oh, leave me! Mr. Wellfield–Jerome! for the love of heaven leave me, or I shall die–I shalldieof shame!’
‘You shall not die of shame,’ he said, in the same low, persuasive voice. ‘Nita, you shall look at me, my good angel, and hear what I have to say to you.’
With gentle but irresistible force he drew her hands away, and lifted her head, and made her look at him, and in that moment he had, perhaps, forgotten the existence of Sara Ford.
‘Why do you speak of shame, Nita?’ he asked, looking tenderly into her piteous face. ‘What shame can there possibly be in giving way to such a generous impulse, and in showing a lonely, fallen man that there is one sweet woman left who cares for him, and would make him happy ifshe might? Heaven bless you, dear, for such goodness. But you know–you must know, why I cannot take you in my arms and say, “I accept that goodness, and offer you my life’s devotion in return for it.” You know it would be the basest conduct on my part towards your father, who has treated me with unheard-of goodness. I know he wishes you to marry, and I know he would consider it the height of presumption inmeto ask for you.’
‘Oh, don’t speak of such things–of marriage and such horrors!’ she almost moaned, struggling to free her hands; but he went on:
‘No, I must face my future as best I may, and it will be with the better cheer from the knowledge that goodness such as yours exists–goodness which I worship and honour all the more in that you have made it known to me.’
‘Oh, don’t! don’t speak of it! I cannot bear it!’ she cried, wrenching her hands away, and again covering her face from his sight. She felt as if she were in some strange, delirious dream. Wellfield’s looks and tones thrilled through every nerve. Did he love her? Did he mean that if he dared, he would tell her so? She knew not what to think. She only knew thathe knew, and that say or do what she might, she could never undo the fact that she had betrayed herself; and that the one thing which would have made it all right–would have made the difference between a nightmare and a vision of Paradise–the knowledge that he loved her–was wanting. Yes, despite his caressing tones, his eloquent eyes, his tender words, she did not understand that he loved her.
‘Do not be so distressed,’ he said. ‘I will never speak of it again, if you desire me to be silent. I will forget it–anything–only, dear, do not be so unhappy!’
‘I hear them coming,’ said Nita, her ear preternaturally quick. ‘I hear their voices. I cannot see them–they must not see me. Tell them–tell them I am ill–for I am–and–let me go!’
‘Yes–stop one moment, Nita!’ he answered, clasping his arm round her waist, as she was darting past him.
‘Let me go!’ she breathed again, but her voice died away as his lips met hers–once and again, and he said, in a low, passionate voice:
‘There! We have that, whatever may happen in the future. Nita–myNita!’
He loosed his arm, and she had flashed past him, and out of the room, in a second.
Jerome was left standing on the rug, feeling, he too, as if he had just gone through some mad fit of delirium. What had hurried him on to that act of a moment ago? He stood with bated breath, and eyebrows drawn together–then breathing again, a long, nervous breath, he muttered:
‘By G–, I am a villain!’
And in the moment that ensued between this confession of conscience, and the entrance of the others, he had time too to realise that one cannot be a villain one moment, and have done with the villainy and its effects in the next instant. One woman’s heart, at least, must go near to break, in punishment for his sin of this night–or rather, for this night’s consummation of his sin. It lay with him to decide which woman must suffer–Nita, who was here, close by, and whose agonies he must watch; or Sara Ford, away in Elberthal, and alone, now–and whom he would not be able to see, let her have what she might to endure–Sara, who had loved him all along–who loved him still, as he knew, and would have known, had fifty letters come to tell him how devoted she and Rudolf Falkenberg were, the one to the other. Which woman was to have the blow from his cowardly hand?
An ugly problem; one which would require answering very soon–but not to-night. It might be delayed till to-morrow.
He felt a sense of relief at this, as Mr. Bolton and John Leyburn came in, and they began to ask him why he was alone, and what had become of Nita.
The three men supped alone that night. When John Leyburn was departing, and Wellfield was about to go with him, Mr. Bolton stopped him, saying he wanted to speak to him. Jerome, still thankful to have excuses which delayed his home-going, remained willingly. One other surprise was in store for him that night. Mr. Bolton, in his usual stilted and pedantic, but most distinct and unequivocal style, informed him that he had that evening been taking counsel with John Leyburn, as his most trusted friend, upon several important matters. That in the main John agreed with him, and that he wished to lose no time in telling him, Jerome Wellfield, that, after profound consideration, he had come tothe conclusion that it would be for his own pleasure and his daughter’s happiness if a marriage between her and him–Wellfield–could be concluded.
‘If you feel warranted, by your feelings towards her, in proposing to her, you have my permission to do so. If not–you will excuse my speaking plainly–your visits here will have to cease, for I do not wish her happiness to be imperilled.’
Wellfield passed his hand over his eyes: he was almost stunned. At that moment things stood out clearly, and, so it seemed to him, the right bearings of them. To think of ever marrying Sara now was hopeless. Love must be cast aside, and duty embraced instead. He was perhaps not conscious that he was elaborately and ingeniously evading and concealing the truth, when he said:
‘But for feeling sure that I should displease you exceedingly, and that it would be an ill return for your benefits, for a penniless fellowlike myself to speak to her, I should have proposed to her to-night.’
Mr. Bolton’s face brightened.
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I knew there was a liking on both sides. That makes it smooth. Propose to her to-morrow morning, instead of to-night. You will have her to yourself, for I shall be in town.’
They shook hands, but Wellfield’s eyes did not meet those of Mr. Bolton as he went through the ceremony. He went away. Then it was upon that proud head of Sara Ford that the stroke was to fall, and he was the miserable wretch whose hand was to deal it.