THE WELLFIELDS.

CONTENTS OF VOL. III.

STAGE IV.

[Pg 1]

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 [Pg 2] 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, [Pg 3] 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 [Pg 4] 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, [Pg 5] 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 [Pg 6] 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 [Pg 7] 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 [Pg 8] 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 [Pg 9] 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.’

[Pg 10]

‘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 [Pg 11] 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 [Pg 12] 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, [Pg 13] 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.’

[Pg 14]

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 [Pg 15] letter to Sara, and on the following morning Somerville set out on his travels.

[Pg 16]

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 [Pg 17] 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?’

[Pg 18]

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 [Pg 19] 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; [Pg 20] 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 [Pg 21] 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 [Pg 22] 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.

[Pg 23]

‘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, [Pg 24] 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 [Pg 25] leave Wellfield, never to return to it.’