The Wellfields: A novel. Vol. 2 of 3

by Jessie Fothergill

Nita was perfectly silent. Her under-lip quivered a little. Tears rushed to her eyes and blinded her. She had kept up all along a brave show of light-heartedness and carelessness; but Wellfield had laid his spell upon her from the first moment of meeting him. So long as he merely talked nonsense to her, she could appear indifferent. The moment he touched deeper springs, her heart gave way, and her outward gaiety collapsed. They were both absorbed—both in danger. Nita was struggling to choke back her emotion; but the thought of this poor, proud, lonely fellow at her side, disinherited, and grateful even for her goodness, was an overpowering one. Wellfield himself was watching her with an agreeable sensation of power.

At this juncture, while Nita’s hands retained scarcely any hold on the reins, they slowly turned a sharp corner in the road, arriving at the summit of a hill, and were suddenly confronted by a panting, groaning, snorting traction-engine, industriously toiling up the hill with two huge trucks full of blocks of white stone; and urged onwards by its engineer and stoker with loud phrases and ejaculations as if it had been a living creature.

Nita’s roans failed to recognise any kinship in this strange and hideous monster. They shied, swerved, plunged for a moment; then bolting, tore along the short space of level ground at the top of the hill, and proceeded to rush at full gallop down the next incline. Jerome saw that Nita turned suddenly pale, and set her teeth. She knew what was coming, and he did not. She tightened her hold on the reins, but the roans were young and strong and fresh; her wrists were small and slender. They dashed round the first curve of the road, and from Nita’s lips escaped a low ‘Ah!’ as they saw before them a straight steep hill, at the bottom of which was a deep mill-dam, then a mill-race, rushing swiftly along; a narrow stone bridge spanned the stream at the foot of the hill, and on the opposite side rose another hill as steep as the one down which they were tearing.

Jerome quickly laid his hand on her wrist. Personal cowardice in moments like this was not amongst his faults.

‘Let them alone!’ said Nita, between her teeth. ‘They don’t know your hand: you shall not touch them.’

Without a word, he put forth his other hand, broke her clenched fingers apart, as if they had been straws, and took the ribbons from her hold. The frantic animals felt a new hand—a firmer, but a fresh one, and for the moment their terror increased. Down the hill they flew, and the carriage swayed ominously to and fro. Jerome with a side-glance saw the face of the girl beside him, white as death. She did not clutch at the rail, or in any way try to hold herself fast, but clenched her hands before her on her knees, and looked towards the mill-race—towards the deep, green pool above the bridge and the foaming fall below it, and to the grey-stone mill sleeping peacefully on the other side.

Then Jerome perceived that, lumbering slowly towards them on the bridge, were two large lorries, piled with bales of cotton goods, and he knew that to run into them meant death. All the despondency he had felt—all the wish to be rid of life and its unasked-for, uncalled-for burdens disappeared, and only the desire to conquer this impending fate remained behind. He found himself mechanically measuring either side of the road, to see if there was no side-way—no escape from the end to which they seemed to be rushing, and his hold on the reins tightened and tightened till it grew to a strain in which he expended all his strength.

They were within twenty yards of the bridge, and as yet he had seen no way out of it. He saw every slightest action of all around him, and it recorded itself as indelibly upon his consciousness as if he had had hours of leisure in which to observe it all. He saw how the two stolid-looking carters suddenly became aware of the nature of the position—saw them cast up their hands and run to their horses’ heads, to pull them as far to one side as possible.

‘Idiots!’ he thought, ‘as if that would do any good!’ and even as he thought it, he perceived to the left hand of the road a square embrasure, such as is found in the north of England frequently, though I know not if they exist in the south. In such an embrasure the stones are piled up which the breakers have to operate upon, and in this particular one were piles of stones already broken: it was walled round, and below the wall the bank of the field sloped steeply down. If he could not rein in the horses, and they leaped the wall, the results were not agreeable subjects of contemplation, but even they would be less dreadful than the gruesome fate proffered by the mill-race and the little stone bridge.

He succeeded in turning the horses into the embrasure, and they, confronted suddenly by a four-feet high stone wall, plunged madly, and attempted to force their way out again. But the hand that held them had at last mastered them. They were curbed. Dancing about in the narrow space, they were forced to contain themselves, till the groom jumped down, and one of the carters, coming forward, took their heads, and Jerome was at last free to guide them back to the road, and to look at his companion.