‘Mr. Wellfield, I think?’ he said, fixing his deep-set, dark eyes upon Wellfield’s face, but not betraying, by either look or expression, that he was particularly struck in any way by his visitor.
‘Yes,’ said Jerome, bowing; ‘I presume you are Mr. Bolton?’
‘The same. Will you not be seated?’
Jerome had been standing in one of the windows. At Mr. Bolton’s suggestion he took a chair, and a feeling curiously akin to mortification began to steal over him. Mr. Bolton was so very evidently the master-spirit here. Wellfield felt himself so entirely reduced to the level of a stranger—a mere casual caller, in his old home, that at first he could hardly speak.
How was he to introduce himself? How account for his presence there, for he had come in his usual half-dreaming manner: with no set aim or purpose—no clear and tangible excuse; driven only by a longing to see the place, and by a half-acknowledged feeling of defiant unwillingness to be deterred by this stranger from stepping into the house which he persistently looked upon as ‘his by right.’ It has been said that when the elder Wellfield sent his son into the world, he had not overburdened him with moral maxims for his guidance. Jerome had been left to decide upon his own ethical code—a plan which has its snares and pitfalls as well as its advantages. Mr. Bolton’s calm presence of mind, and his evident ease and pleasure in his surroundings, caused a strange pang to Wellfield, and roused a feeling of resentment at once unreasonable and ridiculous. And yet, he felt, he must be courtesy itself, or all his own feelings and ideas as to what was his due would not prevent the usurper from somewhat unceremoniously casting him forth.
‘You may think this a strange intrusion on my part,’ he began, on the spur of the moment. ‘Indeed, I begin to think myself that it is.’
‘As to that, I can say nothing, Mr. Wellfield, until I hear your errand. In the meantime, I do not think it strange at all that you should call at the Abbey if you were in this neighbourhood.’
‘You have no doubt heard of my father’s death?’
‘I have, and indirectly, of his losses—which, I suppose, will be your losses. I was sorry to learn about them.’
Jerome bowed slightly. ‘It is in consequence of those losses that I am here. I learnt from Mr. Netley, my solicitor, that the Monk’s Gate house still belongs to me, and I came over here to see if it could be made habitable. I could not resist coming on to see the old place of all—trusting to your kindness to allow me to stroll round once or twice.’