‘Mr. Wellfield!’
He turned, a curious thrill shooting through him. The speaker must, he thought, have almost stolen up to him, so noiseless had been his approach. He confronted a tall, spare man, in the dress of an ecclesiastic. The voice in which he had spoken was soft and musical; he took off his hat with a smile, as Jerome’s eyes met his, and the smile was a singularly fascinating one, giving an expression of exceeding graciousness and sweetness to a pale, finely cut, ascetic-looking countenance. There was a courtly grace in the man’s appearance, in his bow and manner.
For a moment Wellfield paused, then, bowing in his turn, said:
‘Surely I cannot be mistaken—you are the Father Pablo Somerville whom I met years ago?’
‘The same,’ he replied. ‘I am glad to find you remember me. For me, I saw you as I passed the garden, and concluded it was you; but had I met you anywhere else, I should have known you instantly.’
‘Am I so little changed, then?’
‘Not much. And,’ with a slight smile, ‘even had you changed a good deal, yours is not a face one soon forgets.’
Wellfield held out his hand, saying cordially, ‘I am glad to see you.’ He felt glad. In Somerville’s presence he felt at ease—felt as though he were with one of his own kind; a sensation he had never experienced since before his father’s death, and which was pleasant to him, as it is pleasant to return to European civilisation, with its beloved and elaborate shams, after wandering amidst the primitive and repulsive honesty of savages; as it is pleasant to return to stove-heated rooms and a perfumed atmosphere, to rich meats and dainty wines, after a forced sojourn amongst bare boards, hard pallets, and a diet of bread and water. Such exactly was the sensation experienced now by Wellfield, as he clasped hands with this high-bred, polished-looking priest and man of the world.
‘I would ask you into my house, but I doubt whether there is a chair in it fit to sit upon. I only arrived here yesterday, and am surveying now all the home that I have.’
‘The Abbey has passed away from you, as I heard,’ observed Somerville. ‘That is a pity, for many reasons. We at Brentwood at least regret it. In the old days, when your forefathers belonged to us, Wellfield Abbey was noted far and wide for the munificence of its gifts, and the splendour of its hospitality. Even in the days when your people were Protestants, they have always been gentlemen—Wellfields, despite the Protestantism, and they have never treated us churlishly. Down to the last visit of your late father to the Abbey, we were always received with hospitality and kindness—then, especially, for Mrs. Wellfield was there——’