Decorated HeadingCHAPTER VII.WELLFIELD.Decorated First Letter.Thefeelings 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 hisDante, 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 ofhis 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 thatinthat 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, butthat 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 neverasked, 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 showhim 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, andthat 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 happenedthat 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 shewere 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 isstrange–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 accompanyhis 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 wonderedwhatthey 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 youhappy. 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 thatsome daywould 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 JohnLeyburn 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, asbeing 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 conducttowards 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 besideher in a manner which did not permit him to take it up.‘It is theImitatione 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 FatherRavignac, 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, thoughhe 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 heryet. 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 hisown 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 wasascertained 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.
Decorated HeadingCHAPTER VII.WELLFIELD.Decorated First Letter.Thefeelings 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 hisDante, 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 ofhis 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 thatinthat 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, butthat 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 neverasked, 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 showhim 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, andthat 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 happenedthat 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 shewere 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 isstrange–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 accompanyhis 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 wonderedwhatthey 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 youhappy. 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 thatsome daywould 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 JohnLeyburn 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, asbeing 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 conducttowards 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 besideher in a manner which did not permit him to take it up.‘It is theImitatione 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 FatherRavignac, 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, thoughhe 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 heryet. 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 hisown 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 wasascertained 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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Thefeelings 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 hisDante, 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 ofhis 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 thatinthat 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, butthat 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 neverasked, 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 showhim 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, andthat 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 happenedthat 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 shewere 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 isstrange–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 accompanyhis 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 wonderedwhatthey 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 youhappy. 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 thatsome daywould 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 JohnLeyburn 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, asbeing 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 conducttowards 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 besideher in a manner which did not permit him to take it up.
‘It is theImitatione 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 FatherRavignac, 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, thoughhe 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 heryet. 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 hisown 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 wasascertained 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.