Decorated HeadingCHAPTER IX.A MYSTERY.‘Oh snows so pure, oh peaks so high!I shall not reach you till I die!’Songs of Two Worlds.Decorated First Letter.Wellfieldfound his way somehow to the station, and waited for the train to Frankfort, pacing about the little asphalted platform with feelings of the most horrible shame and humiliation–a longing to quit the place, to lose the recollection of it–a sensation that he belonged to a different world, a lower order of creature than she did, and that to approach her was folly, and must necessarily result in disaster,in singed feathers and maimed pinions. Blended with this was a sudden yearning, stronger than he had ever felt before, to see once more the gentle eyes of the wife who, he knew, would never love any other than him, let his shortcomings or the nobility of the other be never so strongly contrasted. Truly, could his moral stature, his innermostich, have been disrobed then and placed naked before the eyes of men, it must have presented but a sorry, grovelling kind of figure.The slow, jog-trot train came rumbling in, and bore him in leisurely fashion past all the little stations, till at last, long after half-past eight, they arrived at Frankfort.He trailed his steps slowly up the street to the hotel. What he had just gone through mentally–the moral scourging he had just sustained, had exhausted him more than the hardest day of physical exertion could have done. He felt used up–todtmüde, as he dragged himself up thesteps into the dazzling light of the hall, filled with piles of luggage and groups of visitors–men smoking, girls flirting with them, parties of people taking their coffee, an incessant passing to and fro, and cheerful bustle.It seemed that there was to be no pause, no reprieve in the sequence of his calamities just then. A waiter came up to him, and asked if he were the person to whom ‘dieses telegram’ was addressed.Mechanically he took it; his apprehension dulled with the moral castigation from which he was freshly come, and opened it, dully wondering from whom it came, and what in the world it was about.‘John Leyburn,Wellfield.To Jerome Wellfield, Esq.,–Hotel, Frankfort-am-Main.‘Your wife has a son. She is very ill. Return at once, or you may betoo late.’For the first moment this seemed the one drop too much. With a kind offaint groan, he dropped into a chair that stood hard by, and propped— his throbbing head upon his hands, feeling as if to move another step would be impossible.But this was but for a moment. He raised his head at last, and saw that one person had been compassionate enough to come forward, and speak to him–a stout, comely English matron, who, bravely overcoming her insular reserve, said:‘I fear you are ill. Is there nothing we can do for you?’He raised so haggard a face, such wretched eyes towards her, that she half-started; but Jerome, touched inexpressibly by the one drop of sympathy of this motherly-looking woman, answered brokenly:‘I am not ill, madam, I thank you. I–my wife–you may see—’He put the paper into her hand, and went upstairs to put up his things, and hasten to the night train for Brussels and Calais, which he knewleft in about half an hour’s time. When he came down again, and had paid his bill, and was going out into the night with his wretchedness, the same kind-looking matron stepped up to him, and said, all her stiffness melted away:‘I hope you will find your wife better, and not worse, when you get home. I can feel for you, and I shall think of you, for I have daughters of my own.’‘Thank you for your goodness–you are very kind,’ he said quickly, his voice breaking, as he hurried away.‘Poor young fellow! I wonder if his wife will get better,’ said the prosperous-looking matron to her husband.‘Pooh, my dear! A perfect stranger! The thing is sure to be in theTimesif she does die. That “poor young fellow” must be young Wellfield of Wellfield. I wonder how he came to be here.’‘He has a great trouble of some kind, and I hope his poor wife will not die,’ repeated the lady.The kindly words of the strange lady put a momentary warmth into his heart, and he thought of them more than once on his journey home.We all know what a journey from such a place to London is. Jerome, inquiring on the way, found that with the best will in the world he could not be in Manchester before nine o’clock the following night, and from Manchester how was he to get to that out-of-the-world place Wellfield? He dared not stop to think of it, but made his way onwards as fast as he could. The twenty-four hours of travelling and waiting, and waiting and travelling, seemed an eternity. He knew how they must all be waiting for him, and Nita–he stopped that thought instantly–it never got so far as the wonder whether she were dead or alive.Manchester at last–after time, on a clear moonlight night. Into a hansom, with urgent demands for speed, from the London Road Station, down the long length of noisy Piccadilly and Market Street, up the hill to the Victoria Station. He breathlessly asked the porter who strolled up to him, ‘The train for Wellfield–how long?’‘Last train left twenty minutes ago, sir–the slow one–doesn’t get in till eleven.’‘Imustbe there to-night,’ he repeated, mechanically.‘There’s an express to Bolton, sir, in five minutes. If you took that, you might perhaps have a special on from there.’This was the only plan, and he took it. He was in Bolton in half an hour. A few inquiries there. Yes–they would send him on with a special if he liked, but not for an hour. The line was blocked, and it couldnot be done before then.A sudden thought struck Jerome. One of his horses had been sent to Bolton two days before he left, for a certain dealer to dispose of: he knew it must still be there, for he had left orders that nothing was to be concluded about it till his return. The man’s place was close to the station, and it was but ten o’clock. It was a twenty miles’ ride to Wellfield, but with a swift horse he might be there sooner than by waiting an hour for a special train.How it was settled he knew not. His white intent face, and something of a silent urgency in his whole manner, caused the men to hasten their work. In little more than ten minutes he rode out of the town along the great north-eastern road.It was a moonlight night, and bitter cold–a contrast to that of twenty-four hours ago. He settled himself into his saddle, set histeeth, and tried to think it was a short way. He never confessed the feeling to himself, but he had little hope–his feeling was, not that he hastened to give Nita the comfort of his presence as soon as possible, but that he rode a race to speak to her and hear her speak to him before she died.The horse was fresh, was ready, and willing for the work; he shook his head, stretched his long legs and lean flanks, and ‘his thundering hoofs consumed the ground.’ Bending his head before the bitter air, Jerome gave him rein, and they flew quickly past village and farm and town, through one great dingy mass of square buildings and tall chimneys after another; through streets dazzling with lights, and flaring gin-palace windows, into a long stretch of quiet country, with the moon shining serenely on the silent fields.It seemed an eternity till he came to Burnham, the last great town before Wellfield, and some six miles away from it. Outside the town,beside a brook, he paused to water his horse; then, with a word of encouragement, and a pat on the neck, the good beast resumed its long, swinging stride, and there at last, in the moonlight, he sees the first home landmark, the great shape of Penhull, grey and ghast in the moonbeams. Nearer and nearer to that well-known shape, till he saw the long wooded ridge on which Brentwood stands, and then down a hill, betwixt thick woods; there stands the old white church at the end of the street, here he is on the stones of Wellfield village–up its whole length in a moment’s space, in at the Abbey gate–his horse’s hoofs sound hollow on the turf of the river walk. The gate stands open; his eye scans the windows. That was Nita’s room, and a light shone behind the blind.He flung himself off his horse, and almost staggered into the house. The drawing-room door stood wide open, and as he entered a man cameout; he looked desperately into the face of Nita’s old friend.‘Leyburn–my wife–is–is she—’‘Yes, she is living still,’ said John, putting his arm within his, and leading him to the foot of the stairs. ‘In her own room,’ added Leyburn. ‘Miss Shuttleworth and your sister are—’‘Yes–thanks!’ he answered, running up the stairs and finding himself at last in the subdued light of Nita’s room, hearing Avice’s voice exclaim:‘Oh, Jerome! Thank God!’He neither saw nor heeded anyone, but strode to Nita’s side, and knelt by her bed, controlling himself with a great effort.‘Is it you, Jerome?’ said a feeble changed voice. Avice and Miss Shuttleworth had left them, the latter sobbing uncontrollably.‘Don’t speak, Nita, my darling! I am here, I shall never leave you till you are well again!’ he murmured.‘I must speak, Jerome. I want to say–you will love my baby–oh!’ She began to weep pitifully.‘Hush, hush!’ he implored her. ‘Nita, hush! Let me loveyou, my child.’‘And you will not let him forget thatIwas his mother, and should have loved him dearly if I had stayed with him,’ she went on, in a voice ever fainter and fainter.‘You shall teach him yourself, my wife. Ah, Nita, you must not leave me! God knows how I need you and your love and your forgiveness!’‘Jerome,’ with a sudden flicker of life and strength, ‘do you love me a little?’‘As God is above us, Nita, I love you dearly,’ he answered; and he spoke what was the truth at the moment, at least.‘I am glad that I was able to speak to you,’ she said. ‘But if—’These were the last words. When, alarmed by the long silence, Avice and Miss Shuttleworth entered the room, they found Wellfield kneelingstill beside his dead wife, holding her cold hands to his breast, and motionless almost as herself.
Decorated HeadingCHAPTER IX.A MYSTERY.‘Oh snows so pure, oh peaks so high!I shall not reach you till I die!’Songs of Two Worlds.Decorated First Letter.Wellfieldfound his way somehow to the station, and waited for the train to Frankfort, pacing about the little asphalted platform with feelings of the most horrible shame and humiliation–a longing to quit the place, to lose the recollection of it–a sensation that he belonged to a different world, a lower order of creature than she did, and that to approach her was folly, and must necessarily result in disaster,in singed feathers and maimed pinions. Blended with this was a sudden yearning, stronger than he had ever felt before, to see once more the gentle eyes of the wife who, he knew, would never love any other than him, let his shortcomings or the nobility of the other be never so strongly contrasted. Truly, could his moral stature, his innermostich, have been disrobed then and placed naked before the eyes of men, it must have presented but a sorry, grovelling kind of figure.The slow, jog-trot train came rumbling in, and bore him in leisurely fashion past all the little stations, till at last, long after half-past eight, they arrived at Frankfort.He trailed his steps slowly up the street to the hotel. What he had just gone through mentally–the moral scourging he had just sustained, had exhausted him more than the hardest day of physical exertion could have done. He felt used up–todtmüde, as he dragged himself up thesteps into the dazzling light of the hall, filled with piles of luggage and groups of visitors–men smoking, girls flirting with them, parties of people taking their coffee, an incessant passing to and fro, and cheerful bustle.It seemed that there was to be no pause, no reprieve in the sequence of his calamities just then. A waiter came up to him, and asked if he were the person to whom ‘dieses telegram’ was addressed.Mechanically he took it; his apprehension dulled with the moral castigation from which he was freshly come, and opened it, dully wondering from whom it came, and what in the world it was about.‘John Leyburn,Wellfield.To Jerome Wellfield, Esq.,–Hotel, Frankfort-am-Main.‘Your wife has a son. She is very ill. Return at once, or you may betoo late.’For the first moment this seemed the one drop too much. With a kind offaint groan, he dropped into a chair that stood hard by, and propped— his throbbing head upon his hands, feeling as if to move another step would be impossible.But this was but for a moment. He raised his head at last, and saw that one person had been compassionate enough to come forward, and speak to him–a stout, comely English matron, who, bravely overcoming her insular reserve, said:‘I fear you are ill. Is there nothing we can do for you?’He raised so haggard a face, such wretched eyes towards her, that she half-started; but Jerome, touched inexpressibly by the one drop of sympathy of this motherly-looking woman, answered brokenly:‘I am not ill, madam, I thank you. I–my wife–you may see—’He put the paper into her hand, and went upstairs to put up his things, and hasten to the night train for Brussels and Calais, which he knewleft in about half an hour’s time. When he came down again, and had paid his bill, and was going out into the night with his wretchedness, the same kind-looking matron stepped up to him, and said, all her stiffness melted away:‘I hope you will find your wife better, and not worse, when you get home. I can feel for you, and I shall think of you, for I have daughters of my own.’‘Thank you for your goodness–you are very kind,’ he said quickly, his voice breaking, as he hurried away.‘Poor young fellow! I wonder if his wife will get better,’ said the prosperous-looking matron to her husband.‘Pooh, my dear! A perfect stranger! The thing is sure to be in theTimesif she does die. That “poor young fellow” must be young Wellfield of Wellfield. I wonder how he came to be here.’‘He has a great trouble of some kind, and I hope his poor wife will not die,’ repeated the lady.The kindly words of the strange lady put a momentary warmth into his heart, and he thought of them more than once on his journey home.We all know what a journey from such a place to London is. Jerome, inquiring on the way, found that with the best will in the world he could not be in Manchester before nine o’clock the following night, and from Manchester how was he to get to that out-of-the-world place Wellfield? He dared not stop to think of it, but made his way onwards as fast as he could. The twenty-four hours of travelling and waiting, and waiting and travelling, seemed an eternity. He knew how they must all be waiting for him, and Nita–he stopped that thought instantly–it never got so far as the wonder whether she were dead or alive.Manchester at last–after time, on a clear moonlight night. Into a hansom, with urgent demands for speed, from the London Road Station, down the long length of noisy Piccadilly and Market Street, up the hill to the Victoria Station. He breathlessly asked the porter who strolled up to him, ‘The train for Wellfield–how long?’‘Last train left twenty minutes ago, sir–the slow one–doesn’t get in till eleven.’‘Imustbe there to-night,’ he repeated, mechanically.‘There’s an express to Bolton, sir, in five minutes. If you took that, you might perhaps have a special on from there.’This was the only plan, and he took it. He was in Bolton in half an hour. A few inquiries there. Yes–they would send him on with a special if he liked, but not for an hour. The line was blocked, and it couldnot be done before then.A sudden thought struck Jerome. One of his horses had been sent to Bolton two days before he left, for a certain dealer to dispose of: he knew it must still be there, for he had left orders that nothing was to be concluded about it till his return. The man’s place was close to the station, and it was but ten o’clock. It was a twenty miles’ ride to Wellfield, but with a swift horse he might be there sooner than by waiting an hour for a special train.How it was settled he knew not. His white intent face, and something of a silent urgency in his whole manner, caused the men to hasten their work. In little more than ten minutes he rode out of the town along the great north-eastern road.It was a moonlight night, and bitter cold–a contrast to that of twenty-four hours ago. He settled himself into his saddle, set histeeth, and tried to think it was a short way. He never confessed the feeling to himself, but he had little hope–his feeling was, not that he hastened to give Nita the comfort of his presence as soon as possible, but that he rode a race to speak to her and hear her speak to him before she died.The horse was fresh, was ready, and willing for the work; he shook his head, stretched his long legs and lean flanks, and ‘his thundering hoofs consumed the ground.’ Bending his head before the bitter air, Jerome gave him rein, and they flew quickly past village and farm and town, through one great dingy mass of square buildings and tall chimneys after another; through streets dazzling with lights, and flaring gin-palace windows, into a long stretch of quiet country, with the moon shining serenely on the silent fields.It seemed an eternity till he came to Burnham, the last great town before Wellfield, and some six miles away from it. Outside the town,beside a brook, he paused to water his horse; then, with a word of encouragement, and a pat on the neck, the good beast resumed its long, swinging stride, and there at last, in the moonlight, he sees the first home landmark, the great shape of Penhull, grey and ghast in the moonbeams. Nearer and nearer to that well-known shape, till he saw the long wooded ridge on which Brentwood stands, and then down a hill, betwixt thick woods; there stands the old white church at the end of the street, here he is on the stones of Wellfield village–up its whole length in a moment’s space, in at the Abbey gate–his horse’s hoofs sound hollow on the turf of the river walk. The gate stands open; his eye scans the windows. That was Nita’s room, and a light shone behind the blind.He flung himself off his horse, and almost staggered into the house. The drawing-room door stood wide open, and as he entered a man cameout; he looked desperately into the face of Nita’s old friend.‘Leyburn–my wife–is–is she—’‘Yes, she is living still,’ said John, putting his arm within his, and leading him to the foot of the stairs. ‘In her own room,’ added Leyburn. ‘Miss Shuttleworth and your sister are—’‘Yes–thanks!’ he answered, running up the stairs and finding himself at last in the subdued light of Nita’s room, hearing Avice’s voice exclaim:‘Oh, Jerome! Thank God!’He neither saw nor heeded anyone, but strode to Nita’s side, and knelt by her bed, controlling himself with a great effort.‘Is it you, Jerome?’ said a feeble changed voice. Avice and Miss Shuttleworth had left them, the latter sobbing uncontrollably.‘Don’t speak, Nita, my darling! I am here, I shall never leave you till you are well again!’ he murmured.‘I must speak, Jerome. I want to say–you will love my baby–oh!’ She began to weep pitifully.‘Hush, hush!’ he implored her. ‘Nita, hush! Let me loveyou, my child.’‘And you will not let him forget thatIwas his mother, and should have loved him dearly if I had stayed with him,’ she went on, in a voice ever fainter and fainter.‘You shall teach him yourself, my wife. Ah, Nita, you must not leave me! God knows how I need you and your love and your forgiveness!’‘Jerome,’ with a sudden flicker of life and strength, ‘do you love me a little?’‘As God is above us, Nita, I love you dearly,’ he answered; and he spoke what was the truth at the moment, at least.‘I am glad that I was able to speak to you,’ she said. ‘But if—’These were the last words. When, alarmed by the long silence, Avice and Miss Shuttleworth entered the room, they found Wellfield kneelingstill beside his dead wife, holding her cold hands to his breast, and motionless almost as herself.
Decorated Heading
‘Oh snows so pure, oh peaks so high!I shall not reach you till I die!’Songs of Two Worlds.
‘Oh snows so pure, oh peaks so high!I shall not reach you till I die!’Songs of Two Worlds.
‘Oh snows so pure, oh peaks so high!I shall not reach you till I die!’Songs of Two Worlds.
‘Oh snows so pure, oh peaks so high!I shall not reach you till I die!’Songs of Two Worlds.
‘Oh snows so pure, oh peaks so high!
I shall not reach you till I die!’
Songs of Two Worlds.
Decorated First Letter.
Wellfieldfound his way somehow to the station, and waited for the train to Frankfort, pacing about the little asphalted platform with feelings of the most horrible shame and humiliation–a longing to quit the place, to lose the recollection of it–a sensation that he belonged to a different world, a lower order of creature than she did, and that to approach her was folly, and must necessarily result in disaster,in singed feathers and maimed pinions. Blended with this was a sudden yearning, stronger than he had ever felt before, to see once more the gentle eyes of the wife who, he knew, would never love any other than him, let his shortcomings or the nobility of the other be never so strongly contrasted. Truly, could his moral stature, his innermostich, have been disrobed then and placed naked before the eyes of men, it must have presented but a sorry, grovelling kind of figure.
The slow, jog-trot train came rumbling in, and bore him in leisurely fashion past all the little stations, till at last, long after half-past eight, they arrived at Frankfort.
He trailed his steps slowly up the street to the hotel. What he had just gone through mentally–the moral scourging he had just sustained, had exhausted him more than the hardest day of physical exertion could have done. He felt used up–todtmüde, as he dragged himself up thesteps into the dazzling light of the hall, filled with piles of luggage and groups of visitors–men smoking, girls flirting with them, parties of people taking their coffee, an incessant passing to and fro, and cheerful bustle.
It seemed that there was to be no pause, no reprieve in the sequence of his calamities just then. A waiter came up to him, and asked if he were the person to whom ‘dieses telegram’ was addressed.
Mechanically he took it; his apprehension dulled with the moral castigation from which he was freshly come, and opened it, dully wondering from whom it came, and what in the world it was about.
‘John Leyburn,Wellfield.To Jerome Wellfield, Esq.,–Hotel, Frankfort-am-Main.‘Your wife has a son. She is very ill. Return at once, or you may betoo late.’
‘John Leyburn,Wellfield.To Jerome Wellfield, Esq.,–Hotel, Frankfort-am-Main.‘Your wife has a son. She is very ill. Return at once, or you may betoo late.’
For the first moment this seemed the one drop too much. With a kind offaint groan, he dropped into a chair that stood hard by, and propped— his throbbing head upon his hands, feeling as if to move another step would be impossible.
But this was but for a moment. He raised his head at last, and saw that one person had been compassionate enough to come forward, and speak to him–a stout, comely English matron, who, bravely overcoming her insular reserve, said:
‘I fear you are ill. Is there nothing we can do for you?’
He raised so haggard a face, such wretched eyes towards her, that she half-started; but Jerome, touched inexpressibly by the one drop of sympathy of this motherly-looking woman, answered brokenly:
‘I am not ill, madam, I thank you. I–my wife–you may see—’
He put the paper into her hand, and went upstairs to put up his things, and hasten to the night train for Brussels and Calais, which he knewleft in about half an hour’s time. When he came down again, and had paid his bill, and was going out into the night with his wretchedness, the same kind-looking matron stepped up to him, and said, all her stiffness melted away:
‘I hope you will find your wife better, and not worse, when you get home. I can feel for you, and I shall think of you, for I have daughters of my own.’
‘Thank you for your goodness–you are very kind,’ he said quickly, his voice breaking, as he hurried away.
‘Poor young fellow! I wonder if his wife will get better,’ said the prosperous-looking matron to her husband.
‘Pooh, my dear! A perfect stranger! The thing is sure to be in theTimesif she does die. That “poor young fellow” must be young Wellfield of Wellfield. I wonder how he came to be here.’
‘He has a great trouble of some kind, and I hope his poor wife will not die,’ repeated the lady.
The kindly words of the strange lady put a momentary warmth into his heart, and he thought of them more than once on his journey home.
We all know what a journey from such a place to London is. Jerome, inquiring on the way, found that with the best will in the world he could not be in Manchester before nine o’clock the following night, and from Manchester how was he to get to that out-of-the-world place Wellfield? He dared not stop to think of it, but made his way onwards as fast as he could. The twenty-four hours of travelling and waiting, and waiting and travelling, seemed an eternity. He knew how they must all be waiting for him, and Nita–he stopped that thought instantly–it never got so far as the wonder whether she were dead or alive.
Manchester at last–after time, on a clear moonlight night. Into a hansom, with urgent demands for speed, from the London Road Station, down the long length of noisy Piccadilly and Market Street, up the hill to the Victoria Station. He breathlessly asked the porter who strolled up to him, ‘The train for Wellfield–how long?’
‘Last train left twenty minutes ago, sir–the slow one–doesn’t get in till eleven.’
‘Imustbe there to-night,’ he repeated, mechanically.
‘There’s an express to Bolton, sir, in five minutes. If you took that, you might perhaps have a special on from there.’
This was the only plan, and he took it. He was in Bolton in half an hour. A few inquiries there. Yes–they would send him on with a special if he liked, but not for an hour. The line was blocked, and it couldnot be done before then.
A sudden thought struck Jerome. One of his horses had been sent to Bolton two days before he left, for a certain dealer to dispose of: he knew it must still be there, for he had left orders that nothing was to be concluded about it till his return. The man’s place was close to the station, and it was but ten o’clock. It was a twenty miles’ ride to Wellfield, but with a swift horse he might be there sooner than by waiting an hour for a special train.
How it was settled he knew not. His white intent face, and something of a silent urgency in his whole manner, caused the men to hasten their work. In little more than ten minutes he rode out of the town along the great north-eastern road.
It was a moonlight night, and bitter cold–a contrast to that of twenty-four hours ago. He settled himself into his saddle, set histeeth, and tried to think it was a short way. He never confessed the feeling to himself, but he had little hope–his feeling was, not that he hastened to give Nita the comfort of his presence as soon as possible, but that he rode a race to speak to her and hear her speak to him before she died.
The horse was fresh, was ready, and willing for the work; he shook his head, stretched his long legs and lean flanks, and ‘his thundering hoofs consumed the ground.’ Bending his head before the bitter air, Jerome gave him rein, and they flew quickly past village and farm and town, through one great dingy mass of square buildings and tall chimneys after another; through streets dazzling with lights, and flaring gin-palace windows, into a long stretch of quiet country, with the moon shining serenely on the silent fields.
It seemed an eternity till he came to Burnham, the last great town before Wellfield, and some six miles away from it. Outside the town,beside a brook, he paused to water his horse; then, with a word of encouragement, and a pat on the neck, the good beast resumed its long, swinging stride, and there at last, in the moonlight, he sees the first home landmark, the great shape of Penhull, grey and ghast in the moonbeams. Nearer and nearer to that well-known shape, till he saw the long wooded ridge on which Brentwood stands, and then down a hill, betwixt thick woods; there stands the old white church at the end of the street, here he is on the stones of Wellfield village–up its whole length in a moment’s space, in at the Abbey gate–his horse’s hoofs sound hollow on the turf of the river walk. The gate stands open; his eye scans the windows. That was Nita’s room, and a light shone behind the blind.
He flung himself off his horse, and almost staggered into the house. The drawing-room door stood wide open, and as he entered a man cameout; he looked desperately into the face of Nita’s old friend.
‘Leyburn–my wife–is–is she—’
‘Yes, she is living still,’ said John, putting his arm within his, and leading him to the foot of the stairs. ‘In her own room,’ added Leyburn. ‘Miss Shuttleworth and your sister are—’
‘Yes–thanks!’ he answered, running up the stairs and finding himself at last in the subdued light of Nita’s room, hearing Avice’s voice exclaim:
‘Oh, Jerome! Thank God!’
He neither saw nor heeded anyone, but strode to Nita’s side, and knelt by her bed, controlling himself with a great effort.
‘Is it you, Jerome?’ said a feeble changed voice. Avice and Miss Shuttleworth had left them, the latter sobbing uncontrollably.
‘Don’t speak, Nita, my darling! I am here, I shall never leave you till you are well again!’ he murmured.
‘I must speak, Jerome. I want to say–you will love my baby–oh!’ She began to weep pitifully.
‘Hush, hush!’ he implored her. ‘Nita, hush! Let me loveyou, my child.’
‘And you will not let him forget thatIwas his mother, and should have loved him dearly if I had stayed with him,’ she went on, in a voice ever fainter and fainter.
‘You shall teach him yourself, my wife. Ah, Nita, you must not leave me! God knows how I need you and your love and your forgiveness!’
‘Jerome,’ with a sudden flicker of life and strength, ‘do you love me a little?’
‘As God is above us, Nita, I love you dearly,’ he answered; and he spoke what was the truth at the moment, at least.
‘I am glad that I was able to speak to you,’ she said. ‘But if—’
These were the last words. When, alarmed by the long silence, Avice and Miss Shuttleworth entered the room, they found Wellfield kneelingstill beside his dead wife, holding her cold hands to his breast, and motionless almost as herself.