‘But it is, without any exaggeration. He has been one of the most successful manufacturers in Burnham, and does an immense foreign trade: perhaps your knowledge of foreign languages might be useful to him. Knowledge is power, you know, let fools say what they may against it,’ observed Father Somerville, who had a way of throwing out hints which suggested the largest possibilities, in a casual careless way which was quite peculiar to him.
‘It is no small thing to be one of the wealthiest manufacturers of Burnham,’ he went on. ‘In plain English, it means an income like that of a nobleman—an income which in this case is not one quarter spent, but which goes on accumulating in excellent investments.... And Miss Bolton is sole heiress?’
‘Yes—so I understand,’ said Jerome, absently, his mind occupied with the priest’s suggestion that perhaps his knowledge of languages might prove useful to Mr. Bolton. Why not? It would be well for him if it should turn out to be so. The natural indolence of his half-southern temperament made the idea of strenuous exertion in search of employment, which hardly could in the nature of things be remunerative, utterly abhorrent to him; and he grasped with the more eagerness at the idea suggested by Somerville’s words.
The latter was tempted to smile at what at first appeared the obtuseness of the young man. But he was a man of the world. Wellfield’s absence of mind, and his unconsciousness of the hint which lay behind that remark about the sole heiress, might be an innocence which would certainly be refreshing in one who must have been the object of so much matrimonial angling as Jerome Wellfield, in the days when he had been the supposed heir to the Abbey and a fortune; but it also might not be innocence at all. It might be that some deeper reason caused that obtuseness. Probably young Wellfield was in love already. With his disposition, and with the life he had led, it was most unlikely that he should have travelled so far in life without ever having had his heart touched.
Pablo Somerville knew when to be reserved and when to be open, even cynically open and candid. He judged this a fitting occasion on which to display the latter qualities.
‘She knows it, I should imagine?’ he said.
‘Yes—of course, yes. She told me this morning how pleased she often felt at the idea of one day owning the Abbey,’ said Jerome, still not awake to the palpable bearings of the case.
(‘Quelle bêtise! —how like a roturier!’ flashed rapidly through Somerville’s mind; ‘if she likes the Abbey, no doubt she would like the owner—the once owner!’)
Aloud, he said, striking at once me, and sharply:
‘Has a mariage de convenance never occurred to you as a way out of your difficulties?’ he inquired, in a thoroughly matter-of-fact, composed tone.