CHAPTER VIII.
THE FIRST OF BRENTWOOD.
‘I found myself in a richly adorned temple, in which incense was burning, where lights were twinkling above the altar, and where the music was such as to ravish away my very senses. And as I fell upon my knees, the choir, which from its sweetness I could have thought celestial, repeated many times in moving accents, the wish of my heart—so that it became verily a prayer—and I poured out my soul in unison— dona nobis pacem.’
The following day was Sunday, and on the arrival of the letters, Jerome found two for himself, one bearing the Elberthal post-mark, the sight of which made his heart beat. The other was directed in a hand he did not know, but turning it over, he saw printed on the flap of the envelope ‘Brentwood.’
‘It must be from Somerville, of course,’ he thought, opening it quickly, and his conjecture was right.
‘My Dear Mr. Wellfield,
‘Will you, if you have no other engagement, and if the evening is
fine, come up to Brentwood to the evening service? I should like to
present you to the Superior, and we shall be happy if you will remain
and sup with us.
‘Sincerely yours,
‘Pablo Somerville.’
This invitation gave him a sense of relief, inexplicable, but strong. With Father Somerville he felt entirely at his ease; felt that he was understood, was not taken to be a hero, or anything else that he really was not. Here, at the Abbey, he had the very opposite sensation. He knew that he was looked upon in the light of an unusual and remarkable phenomenon. He knew, for he had a keen, sympathetic intuition in such matters, that Mr. Bolton treated him with a respect he was not wont to show to strangers—especially penniless ones—that even Miss Shuttleworth’s pointed and elaborate incivility arose chiefly from a feeling she had that he was dangerous. John Leyburn alone appeared to preserve his natural, deliberate, unembarrassed manner.
Nita—Jerome felt very uncomfortable when he thought of Nita—very uncomfortable as his eyes wandered from Sara Ford’s handwriting to Anita Bolton’s face, which face he saw was pale, and the reason of which pallor he knew as well as if some one had arisen and proclaimed it aloud to him. They were all, without exception, under a false impression in regard to him. How easy, exclaims a devoted adherent of right-doing, to remove that false impression! How very easy casually to let them all know that he was promised and vowed to another woman! Was not the excuse there in the shape of Sara’s letter? Why not mention that it was from the girl he was engaged to? What easier? Ah! what to some natures? And to others what more difficult? Unfortunately it was difficult to Jerome. He did resolve, as he looked at Nita that morning, and saw the difficulty she had in meeting his eyes, that he would not make love to her any more; that he would be cold to her even. Such natures as his are given to making such resolutions in momentary silence and reflectiveness; and when the moment comes for not making love, for displaying coldness, they never recognise it; it is always ‘not now, another time!’ And this, not for fear of hurting a woman’s feelings, though they would say so, even to themselves, but because the flattery of a woman’s love is too sweet a dram to be forborne. It was easy for Jerome Wellfield as he sat exchanging commonplaces at the breakfast-table with Nita—and Nita’s father—to swear to himself that such commonplaces alone should be the yea, yea, and the nay, nay, of his entire conversation with her. When the moment came, in which he found himself alone with her, or apart with her, the old trick of the eyes, the old smoothness of the tongue slips back again, as if by some fatality. So long as she believes him he will make love to her; so long as she will worship him, he will accept the worship, and will delight in it—and could not refuse it when it was offered, were the alternative a plunge into the nethermost abyss of remorse—into the scorching flames of discovery. Therefore, it may be predicted with mathematical certainty that he will read that letter that lies before him; that it will both charm and distress him—the first by its worship of himself; the next by making him see that the writer believes him as single-hearted as she is herself. After reading it, he will vow to himself, much and more, ‘I must tell her—I will tell her.’ And he will go to her, and will tell her—how precious her sympathy is to him, and how perfect is her nature, and he will look love, if he does not speak it.
While he was longing to open Sara’s letter, and vowing great vows to undeceive Nita as early as might be, she said: