‘I’ll try to give it up,’ said Nita, meekly. ‘Shall we go with you to the great gate? Mr. Wellfield, would you like to come?’
Jerome accompanied the two ladies to the great gate. Then Nita thought she would walk on with Miss Shuttleworth to her house, and Jerome thought he would stroll round the grounds. Nita told him that they supped at half-past eight, and she disappeared with Miss Shuttleworth through the gate. Jerome wandered back along the river walk, and through the old gardens, and strolled and loitered amongst the trees. Presently the sun declined, and gorgeous hues of purple and gold and crimson set the western sky ablaze, and coloured the water of the river with changing tints. The trees waved softly overhead—the water murmured placidly as it rolled by. All was still and quiet, and he tried to realise that he was here—a stranger. It was all so familiar as to be almost weirdly so. These strange faces, strange owners, jarred upon him. He could not understand how they came to be so at home there—so at ease in his home. As for him—when he should have supplied Monk’s Gate with a little furniture, just enough to make it habitable, and established Avice here, his ready-cash would be almost exhausted, and then what was to become of him? The pittance—not certain, but probable—of which Mr. Netley had spoken, remained. He could not live upon that—he might die upon it, starve upon it, go mad upon it; he could not live upon it—as a man with his ideas, his hopes, his inborn, inbred habits and feelings, understands life, even in its narrowest sense.
After a long time spent in such meditations—meditations which dimmed the beauty of the sunset, and marred the evening’s glory, he looked up, and found that the pomp of the Sonnenuntergang was over; the purple and gold had disappeared; the sky was grey again. It must be supper-time. He bent his steps towards the house.
Entering the hall he saw Nita going across it, with a large crystal bowl of flowers in her hand. She had on a black flowing dress of something soft and gauzy, with knots of brightly-hued ribbons here and there. Whether by design or by accident, she had greatly improved her appearance, and looked as nearly pretty as it was possible for her to be; but the air of delicacy and a slight languor, speaking of a constitution not of the strongest kind, prevented her from being really beautiful. But she was agreeable, even attractive to look at, and had quaint original little ways which gave a charm to her. If she did not move with the air of a great lady, nor shine with the noble beauty of Sara Ford, she was yet not without her charm, as Jerome felt, when she paused, balancing the vase in her hands, looking up at him and smiling.
‘You have had a long stroll, Mr. Wellfield, and I am sure you will be tired. William,’ she added, to a page-boy who then appeared upon the scene, ‘show Mr. Wellfield to the blue-room, and send Mary to see that he has all he wants.’
When Jerome came down again, the same boy appeared, and invited him into the drawing-room. How well he remembered it as he had last seen it, and how great was the contrast between the dim old room of sixteen years ago and the luxurious one of to-day, furnished in the richest and most approved style, with gorgeously decorated ceiling, and every kind of ‘upholsterer’s darling’ in the shape of easy-chairs, couches and lounges, scattered about!
Nita was there with her work, and Mr. Bolton with the newspapers, and a third person, a young man whose face, as Jerome looked at him, brought back the past with a vividness, with a rush, as it were, which more than ever carried him backwards, and made the immediate past seem like a dream in the light of sixteen years ago.
‘John Leyburn, if I am in my right mind!’ he exclaimed, for him almost eagerly.
‘I think you may safely assume that your judgment does not misguide you.’
‘Though you do say that the evidence of your own senses is the last thing you would believe, John,’ observed Nita, with asperity.