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THE WELLFIELDS.

THE WELLFIELDS.
A Novel.
BY
JESSIE FOTHERGILL,
AUTHOR OF ‘THE FIRST VIOLIN’ AND ‘PROBATION.’
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1880.
[All Rights Reserved.]

CONTENTS OF VOL. III.

STAGE IV.

THE WELLFIELDS.

STAGE IV.

CHAPTER I.
A REED SHAKEN IN THE WIND.

Wellfield’s position had not been altogether an enviable one, during the last few months. In his letter to Sara, summoning Avice home, he had casually mentioned having had money troubles, and this was true. He had shortly before heard from Mr. Netley, that now that his father’s affairs were finally wound up, nothing would remain to him save three to four hundred pounds, then lying in the bank to his account, representing at most some twenty pounds a year. With this delightful information in his pocket he repaired one day to Burnham as usual, and during the morning had an interview with Mr. Bolton, in which that gentleman, all unconscious of what had happened, offered him the post of foreign correspondent to his house, at a salary of two hundred a year. He was surprised at the manner in which the proposition was received. Wellfield started, and exclaimed,

‘Mr. Bolton–I–cannot thank you–you do not know what this is to me.’

With which, leaning his elbows on the table, he covered his face with his hands. In truth, his emotion was almost overpowering; this event appealed strongly to all the superstitious elements of his nature. Here, when he had just been debating on his way to Burnham whether he should not that very morning explain his circumstances to Mr. Bolton, and then and there take his leave, leaving a message for Nita, and so cut the Gordian knot which he spent hours daily in futilely attempting to untie–now, at this very moment came the only man who could help him, and proffered him such tangible assistance that, it seemed to his nature, it would be madness to refuse it. A great strain had been put upon his nerves lately. He had expected and feared the news which he had that morning received, but he had waited for it as if paralysed. Now, everything, gratitude, necessity, convenience, pointed out to him that he must remain where he was. It was most improbable that anywhere else he would receive so much money, or be able to find work which he could do competently. Poor, weak and vacillating heart, which recognised honour and truth when it saw them, but which was too weak and vain to lay hold of them and keep them! Surely natures like his are more to be pitied than any others when their time comes for struggling and deciding–the natures which can see the right, but which never perform it, if the wrong offers an easier task at the moment.

Mr. Bolton was naturally surprised. ‘Why, Wellfield,’ he asked, ‘what ails you?’

Jerome lifted his face from his hands, pale and worn, and took the letter from his pocket.

‘If you read that, you will understand what I must feel on receiving your offer,’ he remarked.

‘Ah, indeed! I do see,’ said Mr. Bolton, when he had finished it. ‘Yes–well, you need not fret so much about that now. Things don’t look so bad. You have this salary coming in, and something to start with as well.’

‘Yes–it is the feeling of relief, after all this strain which overcame me for the moment,’ he answered; and added, earnestly, ‘Believe me, Mr. Bolton, I shall never cease to be grateful for the goodness I have received from you and yours, all this time–I, of all others!’

He spoke as he felt, and the remembrance of Nita’s goodness, and all that it implied–of the miserable entanglement in the back ground, out of which he could in no way emerge with honour, let the affair terminate as it might–all this brought a mist before his eyes, and a lump into his throat.

‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Bolton, ‘never talk of that. We are not barbarians, to turn a stranger from our doors.’

Jerome went back to Wellfield that afternoon, firmly resolved to write to Sara Ford, and ask her to set him free. When it came to the point, he ‘could’ not do it. He could picture only too vividly what such a letter would mean to her. It was Saturday afternoon. He would wait until to-morrow, when he would go up to Brentwood to the morning service, and would see Somerville and consult with him. Perhaps he might even tell him the whole truth. He did not know. He went often to the services at Brentwood now. They soothed him, and he found a satisfaction in going there. Indeed, when one reflects upon the fact that there are many natures partaking of the characteristics of his, one sees how to these natures some form of religion, of an infallible institution outside themselves, and yet within their reach, is an absolute necessity; and one begins to perceive more clearly why agnosticism has never been popular.

Wellfield could never have been an agnostic. He and such as he have not the mental and moral toughness of fibre which enables a man to contemplate the mystery of the heavens above and the earth beneath; of the life and the death, and the pain and the evil that are upon the earth, of his own feelings and speculations, and their origin, and the purpose and destiny of them–and then, while reverently owning ‘I know nothing, and I will assert nothing, upon these things,’ has yet the courage to live up to an ethical code as high, as pure, and as stern as that of St. John or of Christ–expecting nothing from a life to come, as to the existence of which he is in absolute ignorance. The more part of mankind want none of this; they want a religion, a thing that will let them sin, and prescribe to them how they must get forgiven. Such a religion was found in perfection at Brentwood, and thither Jerome repaired.

There was an unusually splendid service that morning. A great dignitary–a cardinal–preached. The sermon set forth eloquently the rewards of faith and obedience. He assumed that all present had overcome the initiatory difficulties, that they were all entirely faithful and entirely obedient; and then he proceeded to depict their happiness even here upon earth, not to mention the joys which awaited them in heaven.

Wellfield listened; he saw others listening: a haughty-looking woman in widow’s weeds, just on the other side of the aisle. She was Mrs. Latheby of Latheby, whose only son was being educated at Brentwood. He knew her well by sight; her pride and reserve were proverbial. Yet she wiped tears from her eyes as she listened to the sermon. There was a profound silence–a silence full of suppressed emotion, as the sermon progressed. Faith and obedience; nothing to do but submit that private judgment which is usually so ill-trained, and which invariably causes such trouble, and ye shall have rest unto your souls.

That was the burden of the discourse–that was what echoed with so seductive a sound in Wellfield’s ears.

After the service he saw Somerville; he was presented to Mrs. Latheby, who remembered his mother, and told him so; adding with the regretful smile which lent such pathos and sweetness to her proud and still beautiful face:

‘Ah, Mr. Wellfield, if that beautiful mother of yours had been here to-day, how happy she would have been in what she had heard ... and it gives me a melancholy pleasure to think that had she lived to bring you up, you might have been standing here, one of us, not a looker-on, out in the cold.’

‘You are far too good, madam, to think of me at all,’ he replied, moved somewhat by her words, and yet under the influence of the emotion which the cardinal’s word-picture had aroused.

‘I must ever take an interest in the only son of Annunciata Wellfield,’ she answered; ‘and I want you to come and see me–will you?’

‘I shall only be too honoured.’

‘Then I shall write this week, and appoint a day for you and Mr. Somerville to dine at Latheby–if you can come, father.’

‘I shall no doubt be able to come,’ replied Somerville.

Mrs. Latheby waited in the parlour to have an interview with his Eminence. Somerville walked with Wellfield along the lane towards his home. Wellfield told him what had happened.

‘I am superstitious, I suppose, according to your notions,’ said Somerville, ‘and I call it a sign.’

‘I do not call it superstition,’ stammered Wellfield. ‘I have myself been thinking to-day that–that—’

‘That you ought to follow my advice, and ask for Miss Bolton’s hand,’ was the firm, decided reply.

‘If it were not for this miserable business in the background——’

‘It is your duty to tell the truth to one lady, or to get some one to do it for you,’ said Somerville, in a smooth, even voice, which yet cut his hearer like a whip. He winced.

‘If you mean to stay here, you ought at least in duty and honour either to propose to Miss Bolton, or to tell her that you are bound to another woman.’

‘Do you suppose I don’t know that?’ retorted Wellfield, almost fiercely. ‘Have I not been debating within myself until I am almost mad, how to tell her.’

‘You are nervous, perhaps. Would you like me to do it for you?’

‘You–heaven forbid!’ he exclaimed passionately. ‘That would be to ruin–I mean, I must think about it again. I will decide to-morrow.’

‘As you are taking the matter into consideration,’ observed Somerville, with scarcely disguised insolence, ‘I would really strongly advise you to reflect whether it would not be in every way more advisable to tell the other lady that you wish to be free.’

‘Do you wish to insult me?’ asked Wellfield, pale with passion.

‘To insult you! I am simply trying to advise you for the best. Remember, you are now dependent upon this post of Mr. Bolton’s. If you, or anyone else, lets Miss Bolton know that you are engaged elsewhere, it might be bad for your prospects. Girls who have an idea–however mistaken–that their feelings have been trifled with, are apt to be vindictive.’

There was a palpable sneer beneath the even politeness of his tone. He had taken out the whip–the whip which Wellfield’s own pleasant sins had knotted into a cord, and which his own weakness and vacillation had put into the other’s hand. The very first stroke had drawn blood. With a chest heaving convulsively, and a glitter in his eyes of anything but agreeable import, Wellfield clenched his hands behind him, and said, composing himself with an effort rendered efficacious by dire necessity.

‘I see what you mean, but I must think about it.’

‘Yes, do,’ retorted his monitor, with a smile. ‘And I must return, or I shall receive a reprimand. Good-morning. I will stroll down to Monk’s Gate to-morrow evening. Shall I find you in?’

‘I expect so,’ said Wellfield, sullenly.

They parted. Somerville smiled as he took his way towards Brentwood.

‘He will come back,’ he thought. ‘He has gone too far. He cannot do without me ... and he is half won. Mrs. Latheby must flatter him, as she can flatter for us and for her Church. He will come. I see him coming. And when he is married to Miss Bolton, of course she must learn the truth, or they might live in such harmony that my game would be spoiled.’

Somerville called early on the following evening, and it was during this visit that the arrangements were made for Avice’s return. Jerome was thankful for the suggestion. He dared not go to fetch her himself. He dared not face Sara. But one side of his character–his pride, we must call it, for want of a better name–the pride which did not prevent him from making love to one woman while solemnly engaged to another, pricked him sorely at the idea that Avice was receiving Sara’s kindness and living under her care. He did not know how he was to explain it, nor did he much care. He was getting callous, and reckless, and anxious only to find a way out of the coil. Somerville had received his orders suddenly, and was to set out almost immediately. Perhaps the visit of his Eminence had something to do with the matter. He had had a long conversation with Father Somerville, and had bestowed his blessing upon him before parting. Jerome accordingly wrote that letter to Sara, and on the following morning Somerville set out on his travels.

CHAPTER II.
A CONSUMMATION.

One afternoon, 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 way home, 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 see him, 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 her cheeks, 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 he has 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; and leave Wellfield, never to return to it.’

He had spoken this time without rhyme or reason; without any arrière 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; she could 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 your right–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 shall die of 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 if she 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 in me to 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 that he 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–my Nita!’

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 to the 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 fellow like 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.

CHAPTER III.
CONSEQUENCES.

Wellfield, at last left alone to ponder upon his position, felt himself in thoroughly evil case. Once or twice a wonder crossed his mind as to whether there were yet time to turn back, retrace his steps along this dire and darksome path; fight his way back to the light, and to Sara Ford; confess everything, and put himself and his fate in her hands. He had a longing to do it, but when he reflected what that course involved, he had not the courage. It was to lose every assured present advantage for a problematical one; for he could not–at least he said so to himself–be sure that Sara would forgive; and if she did not——

He followed Mr. Bolton’s advice, and it struck him once or twice that it was an unusual thing for a man in Mr. Bolton’s position to have deliberately invited a ruined man like himself, without friends and without references, to marry his only daughter, and enter his family. Perhaps, had he heard Mr. Bolton’s confidential conversation of the night before with John Leyburn, he might have felt the distinction less flattering. John and Mr. Bolton had agreed that a great change had come over Nita, and both of them, though they did not openly speak it out, and confess it, owned tacitly that they considered that change had been brought about by her feelings for Jerome Wellfield. And Mr. Bolton had said:

‘He’ll never be any great shakes as a man of business, but it seems to me that it is safe enough to put the management of his own–what used to be his own–place into his hands. He will have every inducement to care for it. And if it will make Nita happy, why should I refuse her that happiness simply because the man has no money? He is steady and honest, that seems certain. I’ve taken the trouble and the precaution to find out all about his college career, and his habits there. It’s all quite satisfactory–less backbone than I could have wished in my girl’s husband, but no vice; music and painting and æsthetics–Nita likes that sort of thing. Do you think I am a great fool?’

‘I think you are behaving in a very natural and very sensible manner,’ said John. ‘He seems to me to be all you say; and if he only makes Nita happy, what more is needed?’

‘Exactly what I think,’ said Mr. Bolton. ‘Now, leave your books and come and have supper with us. We haven’t seen as much of you as we ought to have done.’

John shut up the great folio book on ornithology which he had been studying when Mr. Bolton arrived, and picked up some water-colour drawings of different wild birds which lay beside the book. They were exquisitely finished, and, as one could see, copied by a faithful and loving hand, from nature.

‘I promised these things to Nita,’ he casually observed. ‘Perhaps she won’t care much about them now. But I will take them, at any rate.’

Mr. Bolton picked them up and looked at them.

‘They are very nice,’ he observed. ‘I wish some other people had such innocent tastes and habits, and would confine their studies to natural objects like these.’

John laughed, a little sarcastically, as he put away his book, and taking the sketches in his hand announced that he was ready.

‘When Nita is married–or if she marries, Jack, you’ll have to look out for a wife yourself,’ observed Mr. Bolton.

‘Perhaps Nita will look out for some one, then, and do the courting for me,’ said John, drily. ‘I have no mind to begin it on my own account–and am not likely to find favour if I did.’

‘There you talk rubbish, despite that sage head of yours,’ replied his elderly friend. ‘Suppose you delegate the choice to my cousin; she has a wonderfully good opinion of you.’

John laughed aloud. ‘If her opinion of me is so high, it might be a dangerous thing to confide the choice to her,’ he remarked.

‘She might take a fancy to Abbot’s Knoll, and the master of it!’ exclaimed Mr. Bolton, highly delighted. ‘There is no accounting for the presumptuous fancies which enter a young man’s head. Here we are!’

They had gone in, little suspecting the scene which was even then coming to an end, and the rest of the evening had been passed as has been related.

Jerome naturally knew nothing of all this conversation. He went to the Abbey the following morning, and there was an unpleasantly-suggestive rhyme running in his head as he took his way there–that rhyme which gives the excellent advice:

‘Be sure you’re well off with the old love

Before you are on with the new.’

He found Nita at home, and alone–startled and surprised to see him; overwhelmed with confusion as the sight of him recalled the scene of last night.

Muttering some incoherent words she would have made her escape, but Jerome stopped her, and taking her hands, looked into her face with an expression of such intense gravity, even severity, that she gazed up at him spell-bound and fascinated.

‘Did your father say anything to you this morning about me?’ he asked.

‘No,’ whispered Nita. ‘Why–what–he has not told you to go away–oh, he has not told you that?’

‘No. We were talking about you last night, Nita, and he told me this, that if you would marry me, I might stay; but if not, then I was to go. What do you say? May I stay? Will you let me try to make you happy, or must I go?’

Nita was nerveless, cold, and trembling–perhaps never in her life had she felt so unhappy as in this moment–which should have been the one of supreme delight–when the man she loved with all her soul asked her to be his wife.

‘Jerome–I–do you mean that you wish this?’ she asked, desperately plunging into the question.

‘I mean that I wish it more than anything in the world; and listen, Nita–I would not conceal this from you–that I have loved, and loved deeply, before ever I knew you: but that is all over, gone, done with, finished! I cannot offer you all the passion of a first strong love, but I can offer you my life’s devotion, if you will be so good, so wonderfully good, as to take it.’

He saw the blank shade that came over her face: he believed that she was going to summon up her strength of will to refuse him. If she did, what was left to him–what in this world to make life worth an hour’s living?

‘Nita!’ he pleaded, in dire and dreadful earnest; ‘for God’s sake think before you speak! Do not cast me away! Try to bear with me–or–or–I shall be the most miserable wretch that ever lived!’

There was passion–there was even anguish in his tone–emotions which Nita read there, and which overpowered her. All her love, all her self-abnegation rushed out to meet him:

‘Oh, Jerome, if you care for my love–if it will give you one hour’s comfort–it is yours, it is yours! And my whole life with it–for I love you better than you can ever know.’

‘Better than I can ever deserve, try as I may,’ he murmured, in the deep tone of conviction, as he folded her in his arms, and soothed the passionate agitation which shook her–and tried to quench the tears which rushed from her eyes–tears which none could have named with certainty as being of joy or of grief.

But the die was cast: the bargain was struck. He might return to his home with a mind free of care for the future; but with all the diviner elements in his nature degraded, soiled, maimed, for they had been dragged through the dust, and grievously maltreated.

Avice and her escorts arrived late that afternoon, and he met them, and they went with him to his house. That is, Avice and Ellen went with him–Somerville returned to Brentwood.

Avice felt a chill dismay strike her heart, at her brother’s reception of her. There was an absence, a constraint, a coldness in all his words and movements, which would not be removed. She expressed her delight at the sight of her new home, and he absently replied that it was very well, but rather dreary. She felt very soon that some miserable explanation was to come. It came almost directly. They had got into the house, and Avice had taken off her things, and was somewhat languidly partaking of the meal which had been placed before her. Suddenly she said:

‘Jerome, you have never once asked after Sara.’

She saw his face suddenly turn pale, and his lips set. The hand which had been lying on the table, trifling with a paper-knife, closed upon that knife quickly and firmly: he raised his eyes to his sister’s face, and said coldly:

‘Miss Ford–how is she?’

‘Miss Ford!’ ejaculated the young girl, horror-struck. ‘Jerome! what has happened? You speak as if she was nothing to you.’

‘Nor is she anything to me now,’ he answered, with that cold and pitiless cruelty, unbending and unremorseful, which so often appears in weak natures when they are driven to choose between themselves and another–when the moment comes in which egoistic or altruistic feelings can no longer be evenly balanced–in which one set must prevail over the other.

‘Sara–nothing to you! I–I do not understand,’ she stammered, with a sickening sensation of fear and bewilderment.

‘I will explain,’ he said, with the same cold glitter in his eyes, his lips drawn to the same thin line–a look she had never seen him wear before, and which sent her heart leaping to her throat.

‘For heaven’s sake, Jerome, do not look at me in that manner!’ she cried. ‘It is just–just as papa used to look when he thought some one wanted punishing.’

‘Do not interrupt with such vague, foolish nonsense,’ he replied impatiently. ‘I am going to write to Miss Ford to-night, to set her free from her engagement to me. And I–wish to be free from her. I am going to marry some one else.’

Avice had pushed back her chair, and sat looking wildly at him; her hands clenched tightly; her breath coming quickly, but unable to speak a word.

‘It is as well you should understand this,’ he said, again beginning to balance the paper-knife. ‘To-night you will want to rest, I suppose, but afterwards you will have to meet the lady I speak of; and it is to be hoped you will conduct yourself with more composure, more self-respect, in fact, than you display at present.’

Then Avice found words.

‘Do you imagine that I will be false just because it pleases you to be so!’ she exclaimed. ‘If you choose to behave like a coward and a liar–yes, a coward and a liar,’ she repeated, looking full into his eyes with an unblenching scorn that scorched him, ‘and that to the noblest woman that ever lived, I am neither a coward nor a liar. I will have nothing to do with this girl you are going to marry. You have brought me home, and you can make me miserable, I suppose. And you can make me see her, I dare say; but you can never make me like her, or behave as if I liked her, or as if I wished her to be my sister. And I never will. You may take my word for it. I stand by Sara Ford to the last, if I had to die for it.’

She spoke with vehement passion, and looked transformed. She spoke too like a woman, not like a child any more. And yet she was but a child, and a helpless one. He answered composedly:

‘It is as well that you have shown me by this specimen how you intend to behave. I will give you till to-morrow morning to reflect upon your position. Allow me to remind you that I never asked you to behave to Miss Bolton as if you liked her. It will be perfectly immaterial to her how you behave. But I want civility from you towards my future wife, or, if you choose to withhold it, I shall have to exert my authority as your guardian, and remove you–in other words, my dear little girl, I have no wish to make your life uncomfortable, but unless you can obey me without making scenes like this, I shall send you to school.’

Now ‘school’ had been the horror, and the bugbear, and the bête noire of Miss Wellfield’s life from her earliest childhood. She had often been threatened with it; and seldom had the threat failed to work its soothing spell. On hearing Jerome’s words now–on seeing the cool unrelenting expression in his eyes, and the slight sarcastic smile upon his lips, and recognising the absolute power he held over her destiny–how easily he could make her miserable, if not so easily happy; remembering that Sara was far away, and that under the circumstances she might never see that dear friend again; remembering that she had never seen this Miss Bolton, who might be quite ignorant of all that had happened–remembering, in short, her own helplessness and desolation, she burst into a passion of tears, of hopeless, agonised weeping, exclaiming now and then:

‘What a home-coming! Oh, what a dreadful coming home!’

Jerome let her cry in the corner of the settee, and took no notice of her; till about seven o’clock he rose from his chair, went to her and put his hand upon her shoulder. She looked up, her face all tear-stained and pitiful; her golden hair tumbled about her head.

‘I am going to the Abbey, and shall not be in till after ten o’clock,’ he said. ‘Am I to tell Miss Bolton that I may take you to see her to-morrow, or not?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Avice, hopelessly.

‘Ah, you will know by to-morrow. I shall tell her that I intend to bring you. Good-evening. I should advise you to go to bed before long.’

But she did not go to bed. She sat in a stupor of grief and bewilderment. While she had been crying, Jerome had written a letter. Her passion had irritated him, and he had allowed his irritation to influence his words to Sara. He had ‘set her free’ (no need to put such a pitiful document into print–it was feeble and despicable, illogical, and yet stabbing like a dagger, as such productions–the efforts of selfishness to kick down the ladder by which it has risen–always must be). ‘He would not stand in her way, he who had nothing to offer her–no faintest prospect of a home, or of anything worthy to give her.’ In short, under the pretence of consulting her interests, Jerome Wellfield very decidedly asked Sara Ford to dismiss him, to release him from his bond.

Avice, of course, knew nothing of this. She only knew that she had come home to find everything miserable, to find an impostor in the brother to whom she had given the whole worship of her youthful heart. And yet, was he an impostor, or was he not rather a very wicked, dark, bad man, like some Byronic hero?

She sat in the corner of the settee, darkly brooding, when some one tapped quickly at the front-door; and then she heard it open, and a man’s step in the little porch. Some one entered, saying in a slow, lazy voice:

‘I say, Wellfield, I thought I’d call to wish—— Oh, I beg your pardon!’ followed in a more animated accent.

Avice looked at the speaker, and saw a tall, clumsy-looking young man peering at her, rather than looking, from a pair of short-sighted brown eyes. On his homely, square-cut face there was an expression of some embarrassment, not partaken of in the least by Miss Wellfield. She rose, made a gracious bow, mentally casting a reflection of some dismay upon her probably dishevelled appearance, and said, with self-possession:

‘My brother has gone to the Abbey.’

To herself she was thinking, ‘What a great, queer, awkward-looking creature. Surely he can’t belong to one of those “fossilised Roman Catholic families” whom Jerome told me about, as being the only aborigines fit to visit.’

‘Oh! I saw the light in the window, and supposed he was in. I did not know you had arrived.’

‘Do you want to see him particularly?’

‘Oh, another time will do, I suppose. He has just got engaged to my cousin and my greatest friend, and I came to wish him joy.’

A pause. Then Avice said:

‘Miss Bolton is your cousin. Then of course you know her?’

‘I have known her since she was a baby.’

‘Then you must be Mr. Leyburn, I am sure. Jerome often used to speak of you in his letters.’

‘Yes, that is my name,’ said John, unable to take his eyes from the figure before him, with her lovely flushed face, ruffled golden hair, and violet eyes at once bright with recent tears and dark and tired with the fatigue of travelling, and, it must be confessed, with an overpowering drowsiness, to which she had been just on the point of yielding when he arrived. She was like nothing he had ever seen before, and he felt tongue-tied and paralysed in her presence–as if, if he spoke, he would infallibly say something idiotic, even drivelling, and as though, if he moved, his boots would creak, or he would fall over something. Together with these sensations, an intense anxiety neither to speak as a fool, nor to tumble down; which combined currents of emotion rendered his position anything but an agreeable one.

Avice herself had begun to think:

‘He is fearfully clumsy, but I am sure he has honest eyes; and if he has known this horrid girl all his life, he can tell me something about her. I shall ask him.’

She therefore said:

‘I was too tired to go out to-night, and—’

‘And I am keeping you,’ exclaimed John, hastily, shocked at the reflections called up by this discovery.

‘Not at all. I wish you would tell me something about Miss Bolton, as you know her so well. Is she pretty?’

John looked involuntarily at the lovely face and form confronting him, and replied, slowly:

‘Not very–but she is a perfect angel of goodness, and very nice.’

‘Ah!’ said Avice, looking earnestly at him, while a new element seemed introduced into the complication. If Miss Bolton was good and nice, it was not Sara Ford alone who had been wronged.

‘Is she clever?’ she pursued.

‘She may not be exactly a genius,’ said John, ‘but she is the very least stupid girl I ever knew. She is charming. I–I should think you would like her,’ he added, a little confusedly.

‘It is to be hoped I may, as she is to be my brother’s wife,’ said Avice, in so sharp and bitter a tone that John looked at her in astonishment. Avice saw the look, and said hastily: ‘The engagement is a surprise to me. I only heard of it this evening.’

‘Because it was only decided this morning,’ said John, with a beaming smile. ‘Nita only told me of it herself this afternoon. I’ve been congratulating her, and it is good to see her so happy. And I think I shall pursue Wellfield up to the Abbey, and give him my good wishes there. Nita will not mind. Good-night, Miss Wellfield.’

John’s drawl saved his sentences from the appearance of abruptness which might otherwise have marred their beauty.

‘Good-night,’ said Avice, absently.

She held out her hand, and he shook it, and then let himself out, painfully conscious that he knocked his feet together, and dashed an umbrella or two to the ground in his exit, in a manner of which Wellfield, and such as he, would never have been guilty.

As for Avice, she was reflecting more and more hopelessly on the situation. Good, clever, charming, and very happy. Then it was evident that she loved Jerome very much–and if she knew nothing, it was not she who was to blame.

Avice carried her meditations to her room, where weariness soon overcame her. In sleep she forgot alike the long journey home, the strange, cold reception accorded to her, the dreadful news Jerome had given her, her own anguish, and the great wrong done to Sara Ford. She forgot even to wonder whether she should consent to go and see Miss Bolton the following day, or sternly choose a dreary fate, and, for the sake of duty, go to school.

CHAPTER IV.
‘WOO’D AND MARRIED, AND A’.’

With the morning, when Jerome asked her what she was going to do, Avice replied:

‘The only thing, there is for me to do I suppose. I must go and see her, since you insist upon it.’

The flash in her eyes, as she spoke, was as far removed from meekness as anything well could be. Jerome recognised, he could not help it, traces of Sara’s influence–of her free, grand, bold nature in his quiet little sister.

With Sara no good quality was suppressed, and he had noticed, even yesterday, a franker, freer, more open bearing in his sister. It was disagreeably apparent again to-day, because, of course, independent outspokenness must be inconvenient and irksome to a selfishness which has had to descend to subterfuge and intrigue, and the conscience of which is no longer a ‘flawless crystal.’ Yes, he recognised the broad, bold seal of Sara’s soul stamped upon this fragile-looking girl.

‘I am glad you have begun to think and speak more reasonably,’ he said coolly.

‘I do not think any differently,’ she flashed out. ‘I think exactly the same; but I have heard things about Miss Bolton which make me think that I ought to pity her, not hate her; and I shall be silent about you and what you have done, because I believe it will be for the best–not because I agree with you.’

‘I shall be in to lunch at half-past one,’ he said, ‘and afterwards we can go up to the Abbey.’

He could not answer her, but he could not silence her, and his feelings were not enviable. Avice, he perceived had the whip-like tongue of her father, only with her the whip was used to scourge all that was not ‘pure and of good report.’

‘Very well,’ she replied, indifferently. ‘I shall probably go and see Ellen off to the station, and after that I shall remain indoors.’

‘Ellen!’ he exclaimed, for he had forgotten her. He went into the kitchen, and gave her the letter which she carried to Sara Ford. He could not meet the woman’s eyes; he could not look either easy, or natural, or self-possessed, as he desired her to give the letter, without adding word or message. He perceived, without looking at her, that she held herself stiffly, and received the envelope and his commission in perfect silence. Then he went into the parlour again, and had taken his hat off the peg, when Avice called out in a voice from which all the liquid tenderness of their first acquaintance had vanished:

‘Jerome, is it permitted me to write to my friend Miss Ford?’

He turned back upon her with scintillating eyes, and teeth set.

‘Avice, take care how you go too far,’ he said.

But there was not a drop of craven blood in her veins. There was dauntless defiance in her open glance, as she said:

‘Surely you never wish me to speak of her as your friend again! And I merely ask to hear what you have to say, because I intend to write whatever your answer may be. I wished to take precautions–that’s all. I intend, metaphorically, to cast myself at her feet, and beg her not to visit the sins of my brother too hardly upon me.’

‘Since you have made up your mind what to do, it was unnecessary to ask me,’ he answered, setting his teeth.

‘I take that as a most gracious permission. I am glad that you see and speak more reasonably,’ she retorted, mocking his own words.

He did not speak, but left the house, and during his short journey to the station he felt–it was a degrading feeling, no doubt–but he, Jerome Wellfield, who, six months ago, had been as proud, as fastidious, and as exclusive a young man as any one of them that trod this earth, crouched morally at that moment, like a whipped hound. He was conscious of a cowardly longing to make Avice and Nita known to one another as speedily as possible. He had an intuitive conviction that Nita’s charm would soon win Avice’s heart, and then his mistress’s purity and sweetness would stand between him and his sister’s tongue. It was a delightful, an elevating, a soul-inspiring position, and he enjoyed it to the full.

Avice, left behind, broke down, burst into a passion of tears, and, engrossed in her sorrow, was surprised by Ellen, who was going away. To her she gave the broken messages which Ellen had repeated to her mistress. She was in too sore distress to go with Mrs. Nelson to the station; but parted from her with more floods of tears, and cried long after she had gone, till she had a headache, and everything looked blurred and dim before her eyes, and while she was in this condition some one knocked at the door, and on the servant opening it, Avice heard a soft, gentle voice ask if Miss Wellfield was at home, and the answer in the affirmative of the country servant, who would have said the same thing had Avice been fainting, or raving in a delirium. No escape was possible, for the front-door of the old house opened, as has been said, straight into the irregular-shaped, raftered parlour.

She gazed earnestly at the figure of the girl who now entered, with a great dun-coloured mastiff at her side, whose demeanour proclaimed him an inseparable companion. She saw a slight, pretty figure in a large sealskin paletot and a shady velvet hat with a large black feather drooping round the brim, and soft-hued brown velvet dress. Compared with the splendid beauty and queenly presence of that other woman this was an insignificant apparition enough, but Avice’s eye and heart instantly appreciated the charm of the sympathetic eyes, the mobile face, and gentle manner.

Nita came forward, looking like anything rather than a rich heiress who had just triumphantly bought away by her gold the allegiance of another woman’s lover–which was the character in which Avice had pictured her to herself: it was she who was blushing and embarrassed, and who said, almost timidly:

‘I could not wait till afternoon to see you; and I did not like Jerome to bring you up to the Abbey to me, as if I were some one so dreadfully grand. I thought we could get on better without him’–she smiled–‘and I hope you don’t mind my having come.’

She held out her hand. Avice was overpowered. With all her wrath and indignation she was but a soft-hearted girl. The instant she saw Nita she comprehended that it was she who had been deceived all along. She felt she could not hate this girl, even to remain loyal to Sara Ford. She stood still and silent, with a quivering lip. Nita saw it, and took both her hands, saying:

‘I hope you don’t mind. I will go away if you do.’

‘No–no. It is very kind–very good of you to come,’ said Avice, her voice dying away; breaking down entirely, she wept again, as she realised the miserable hopelessness of the whole affair.

‘What is the matter?’ said Nita, sitting down beside her. ‘Why do you cry? Is it because Jerome has asked me to marry him? I hope not?’

‘It–it is because I have left a very dear friend,’ Avice stammered, and then, with a huge effort, she recovered herself. It would not do–she must be composed.

‘Ah, that is sad. But do try not to be too sorry. I hope you will be my friend. I have so longed to see you, and I have asked so many questions about you that I am sure Jerome must have been weary of answering them.’

(‘“Jerome” at every other word,’ thought Avice. ‘I am sure she must be desperately fond of him. It is dreadful.’)

She recovered herself, lifted her head, dried her eyes, and smiled valiantly.

‘I’m very stupid,’ she said.

She could not address words of welcome to Nita, and the latter noticed it, but was resolved to ignore it, and to make her new sister love her sooner or later.

‘What a beautiful dog you have!’ said Avice, stooping to caress him.

‘That is Speedwell–my greatest friend, next to John Leyburn. By the way, John said he had disturbed you last night, and he feared you would think him rude.’

‘I thought him funny,’ said Avice, a small smile beginning to creep to the corners of her mouth. Nita sat and looked at her, and suddenly exclaimed:

‘How beautiful you are! I always thought no one could be handsomer than Jerome, but you are like him–“only more so,” as John says. I hope you won’t think me rude if I look at you rather often.’

This kind of innocent flattery was very pleasant. Avice began to cheer up, to forget Ellen on her way to Sara with that dreadful letter. An hour’s conversation made the girls like one another thoroughly. Nita was not satisfied until she had carried Avice off to the Abbey, and left a message for Jerome, desiring him, if he wanted either of them, to come and seek them there.

Here Avice was solemnly introduced to Mr. Bolton and to Aunt Margaret; and in observing the latter found such keen entertainment as to make her forget her troubles. It was only when suddenly Jerome stood before them, and she saw him kiss Nita, and the quick, enraptured smile of the latter, that the pain suddenly returned for a moment; and the thought of Sara, alone, gave her a bitter pang.

John Leyburn joined the party at supper, and was observed to be unusually silent; in fact, almost speechless. When Nita, being apart with him during the evening, innocently observed:

‘What do you think of her, John? is she not lovely?’ the unhappy young man blushed crimson, and, not looking at ‘her’ at all, fumbled wildly amongst some books, and stammered:

‘She’s–yes, she’s–rather good-looking.’

‘John!’ exclaimed Nita, looking at him for a moment, and then breaking into laughter, not loud but prolonged, and of intense enjoyment.

‘Well?’ said John, maddened in the consciousness that he had said the very thing he least wished to express; ‘rather good-looking’ being the very last description he would have wished to apply to Avice Wellfield.

The evening passed over. As Jerome and his sister walked home, he did not ask her what she thought of Nita, and she did not volunteer any observation on the subject. Only, as she held out her hand and wished him good-night, he asked:

‘Well, have you decided whether you will stay with me, or go to school?’

She replied, coldly,

‘I should prefer to stay here,’ and left him.

Indeed, she had quite decided that she would prefer to stay there. Avice had to learn early to decide in a difficult matter: she found herself face to face with a hard problem; she acted as a girl, as one inexperienced and untried, with no great range of observation, no extensive data to go upon, was likely to act. She was conscious that Jerome had done wrong; she was aware that Sara Ford, at least, must be suffering cruelly from his wrong-doing, and the problem was, whether she ought to tell Nita Bolton what she knew, or whether she ought not to tell her. She ended by not telling her; it seemed enough that there should be one heartbreak in the case. Nita’s joy in her love, her happiness, her high spirits, smote upon the other girl’s heart many a time during the short engagement that lasted only while settlements were being made, and legal affairs settled: she could not find it in her heart to smite down that joy and happiness; she could not convince herself that it was right to do so.

Meanwhile, two or three days passed, and then Jerome had news–if news it could be called, wordless and yet eloquent as it was–of Sara. A small packet arrived one morning, and the label belonging to it was directed in her hand; bold, clear, and legible. He opened it, and found the sapphire hoop he had given her when she had promised to marry him. Nothing else–not a word–not a syllable–but that was enough, and more than enough. It contained his ‘freedom,’ and her condemnation of him–a condemnation too utter, too strong and intense for words. Wellfield had arrived at that pitch of moral degradation in which he felt relieved rather than otherwise, when the ring was in his keeping again. He had opened the packet at the breakfast-table. Avice saw the ring, and with suave but treacherous sweetness of accent, inquired:

‘Is that a present for Miss Bolton?’

Jerome made no answer. He wished the whole business were over, but he felt no compunction now; no thought of turning back or relenting entered his mind.

The marriage was not to be delayed. They only waited until settlements could be arranged, and in cases like that, settlements are not apt to be tedious affairs. Mr. Bolton (suffice it to say this) acted generously. Both Nita and Jerome were amply provided for during Mr. Bolton’s lifetime. At his death they were again to have an access of property, but the great bulk of his estate was so arranged that it should fall to Nita’s children, especially to an eldest son, in case there should be one. And there was a stipulation that Wellfield should continue to attend to business in Burnham–at least, during Mr. Bolton’s lifetime.

To this Jerome agreed, nothing loth; for a constant leisure, with no fixed or settled occupation, was a prospect he did not like to contemplate.

Everything ran smoothly–wheels which are oiled with that infallible solution known as ‘wealth’ usually do run smoothly. Nita had lost all her first doubts and fears. Jerome was an assiduous lover; under the new influence she bloomed into life and vigour, and something that was very near being beauty. The sad November closed for her in a blaze of sunshine. The death of the old year was to be the birth of her new life; the entrance to a long, sun-lighted path, down which she was to travel for the remainder of her life. Aunt Margaret’s ‘croakings’ had to cease. Mr. Bolton daily congratulated himself upon the success of his experiment; daily felt that he had done right in seeking Nita’s happiness, not the gratification of whatever ambition might have underlaid his money-making diligence of the last twenty years.

On the second of December–her twentieth birthday–a dank, mournful, sad-looking morning, with the leaden clouds covering up the hills, and a raw mist rising from the river–on this morning Anita Bolton became the wife of Jerome Wellfield; Avice and John officiating as bridesmaid and groomsman, Aunt Margaret as guest, and Mr. Bolton in his natural capacity as father, and giver-away of the bride.

When it came to Nita’s turn to say ‘I will’ to all the portentous questions asked, Avice saw, with a sudden thrill, and a quick remembrance of all the dark background of this wedding ceremony, how the girl made a perceptible pause, and raising her face, turned it towards her bridegroom, looked directly into his eyes, a full, inquiring glance, and then, with a faint smile, and a little nervous sigh, repeated slowly and deliberately:

‘I will.’

It was over. The ring was placed upon Nita’s hand; she walked down the aisle of the quaint old church–grey and hoary with the recollections and the dust of many centuries of the dead–down that aisle she went, Jerome Wellfield’s wife.

STAGE V.

CHAPTER I.
SARA.

‘For life is not as idle ore,

But iron dug from central gloom:

And heated hot with burning fears,

And dipped in baths of hissing tears,

And battered with the strokes of doom,

To shape and use.’

Ellen Nelson had conjured her young lady not to fret, for that there was no man in the world who was worth it. But her words had been spoken into ears made unconscious of their meaning by the heart’s agony–and for answer, Miss Ford had fainted in her old nurse’s arms; or, if not absolutely fainting, she had been stunned and stupid with despair and the shock and horror of the blow. But that merciful unconsciousness did not last long. Soon she roused again to reality; opening her eyes, and perplexed at first to account for the blank dejection she felt–for the throbbing of her temples, and the aching of her heart. Then it all rushed over her mind: Ellen’s arrival; her brief, portentous words–the letter she had brought–Sara started up.

‘Ellen, where is the letter I was reading?’

‘Never mind the letter, Miss Ford. It will do you no good to read it.’

‘I wish to see it. Give it to me, if you please.’

Reluctantly, Ellen was obliged to yield up the hated scrap of paper, which her mistress read through again, with a calm and unmoved countenance. Then she took off Jerome’s ring, and with hands that were now as steady as need be, made it up into a little parcel, directed it, and said:

‘Ellen, I am very sorry to send you out again, so tired as you are; but if you love me, you must go and put this in the post for me–get it registered, or whatever it needs–I don’t know. There is a quarter of an hour. I dare not trust it to anyone else.’

‘Surely I will, ma’am, this moment. And ... you won’t be working yourself into a state again, while I am out?’

‘Certainly not. Why should I? That packet that you hold in your hand–when it is safely gone, I shall be at peace.’