‘It seems to me that in any case, on my father’s death, I should have been reduced to poverty, for, had the money been remaining, I should have made it my first object to regain the Abbey—if I had had to spend every farthing to do so.’
‘You would have found it no easy task, Mr. Wellfield. Mr. Bolton is greatly attached to the place, and I don’t think any price would tempt him.’
Jerome winced—it was galling in the extreme to have to hear of this man in possession with so firm a grasp upon what he had always regarded as his. He hated the thought, and once again, stronger than ever, the desire rushed over him to oust the usurper from his place. And once again succeeded the recoil, the miserable sense of poverty and helplessness, of impotency, which made his temples throb and his blood boil. He sat, with knitted brows, in moody silence, till at last he asked abruptly:
‘And this Monk’s Gate—is it habitable?’
‘Oh, I should say so. I believe there is even some antiquated furniture in it.’
‘I shall go over and see it, at any rate, before I decide upon anything else.’
‘Very well. The key is in my keeping at my office. You shall have it. You shall judge for yourself. Meantime, don’t be in any hurry to leave me. Turn things well over in your mind before you decide to live at Monk’s Gate, or anywhere else. I will do all I can to help you forward.’
‘You are very kind,’ said Jerome, still absently, his mind still vaguely reaching out after some path from his difficulties.
Before going to sleep, he added a postscript to his letter to Sara.
‘Netley tells me he thinks there will be a pittance left, which makes my mind easier with respect to my sister. Ah, my love, I never realised till this night, the power of money. The want of it makes me feel unscrupulous.’