Wellfield’s reflections, as he walked towards Brentwood, were far from being agreeable. He had Sara’s letter, with its calm acceptance of the fact that he loved her as she loved him—she spoke of it as if it had been one of the ordinances of nature—unalterable as the laws of the Medes and Persians. She showed him at the same time how very much she loved him, and that stroked his self-complacency the right way; but the other feeling chafed him. Inevitably, from his character, from the inborn, inherited tendencies of his nature, he asked himself, ‘What right had she to accept so unquestioningly his love—to assume that nothing could change it—nothing shake it?’ She little knew the temptations that were cast in his way—temptations from which she was free. He forgot how persistently he had pressed the point upon her. What would she do in case some other man were to fall in love with her, as he was almost sure to do? Yet, as he remembered her few strong simple expressions of devotion to himself, the whole extent of his love for her rushed over him; he seemed to be once more under the potent spell of her individuality—of her noble, upright, simple nature; to feel once more the magic of her beauty, which answered so harmoniously to her nature, as some Beethoven symphony answers in the grand and original carving of its outward form to the grand and original fire of the thoughts which gave it birth—as the greatest poems take the most perfect shape, and are written in the most melodiously arranged words. Yes, he knew he loved her—he knew that all the higher part of his nature loved and worshipped her; but he knew that she had clear eyes, and that oppressed him; and he knew that had those eyes beheld him, as he sat alone with Nita Bolton by the river that afternoon, they would have scorched him; had they seen Nita’s downcast face, and watched her embarrassed replies to some of his questions, or beheld the still more embarrassed silence which had been to him so eloquent, they would—how would they have looked? Never at him again with the light of love in them. He no longer said to himself that he would tell Nita to-morrow: he had gone too far for that. All he could do now was to drift.
In this uncomfortable frame of mind he ascended the slope which led to the gates of the drive through the park at Brentwood. Right before him stretched a perfectly straight road, some quarter of a mile in length, between two green meadows, each of which meadows was bordered by a belt of dark firs. Many persons were, like himself, wending towards the mass of grey buildings, and the great stone gate-posts, and the two huge square fish-ponds, which lay at the end of this long road. A bell, too, was tolling somewhere amongst the mass of buildings—some old, some new, some not yet finished, which form the outward portion of the great Jesuit College of Brentwood. Arrived at the entrance, between the two fish-ponds, he inquired his way to the church, and was directed where to go. Entering by a side-door, by some mistake, he found himself in that portion of the church reserved for the students of the college. Pausing, and looking round, he was accosted by a tall, grave-looking ‘philosopher’—a Spaniard, evidently—and, to judge from outward appearances, no small personage by birth and breeding. Accepting his offer of a place, Jerome found himself between the Spanish youth and another foreigner in one of the front benches facing the high altar. There was a dreamy calm over everything until the service began. The congregation came slowly dropping in, chiefly rustics, countrymen, women, and children, and here and there some group or isolated figure of unquestionably higher rank and station.
With the different stages of the service Wellfield forgot his troubles. It brought back associations of youth and pleasure, of music and student-days—associations in nowise connected with Wellfield, with his present life and surroundings—rather it led him to forget them, which he was only too willing to do. The ritual was gorgeous, the music magnificent, the choir and the organist first-rate. It soothed him, calmed him, eased him, as all such observances must soothe and ease those who can accept the principles which give rise to them. On their knees they knelt, and again and again sounded, in strains of exquisite supplication, the great cry, common to all humanity— Dona nobis pacem! Ay! give us peace; though every moment we are off our knees we may be doing, thinking, planning, hoping that which will destroy peace, yet, Power that we invoke, heed not that, but, since we fall on our knees, and set it to music, and are for the moment in earnest—‘Give us peace!’ It is a cry common to all; and those who pin their faith on creeds imagine that it will be answered. Perhaps the conviction saves some from madness, and others from blank despair—lulls some consciences, shoots a ray of hope into some hearts—makes their lives bearable to those who believe that peace comes from a source outside themselves—but remains a delusion all the same. To-night, it had the effect of a drug upon Jerome Wellfield’s conscience. Dona nobis pacem! Surely there would be some way ‘shown’ to him out of it all. Dona nobis pacem! This strife could not be meant to go on for ever. For once in his life, he prayed—prayed from his very heart—‘Give us peace!’
Somerville, who took no part in the service, watched him curiously from his place, in a somewhat retired corner. The keen-eyed, quick-witted priest rapidly noted the points of resemblance between Jerome Wellfield and his two companions. Both the latter belonged to old Roman Catholic families, and bore names of world-wide celebrity; both were amongst the eldest and most advanced of the students, and already showing signs of manhood, in deep voices and a dark line on the upper lip; they might, therefore, justly be compared with Wellfield. All three had the same high-bred pride of bearing, the pale, rather disdainful, features; the same distinctly haughty carriage of head and shoulders—to each and all was common a certain dreamy schwärmerisch expression, indefinable, but palpable—an expression which any acute observer must have noted.
‘Anyone coming in, and not knowing the circumstances,’ thought Somerville; ‘knowing only that this is a Jesuit seminary, and that over there the students sit, would inevitably say, “What a thoroughly Roman Catholic-looking trio—especially that eldest one in the middle!”’ He watched with more intentness still. Father Somerville was zealous for his faith—he was ambitious too; he knew that in his Church services of a tangible kind met with tangible rewards. To say that he then and there formed a scheme, which he decided at all hazards to carry out, would be to do a clever man egregious injustice. Simply, he had a subtle brain and a natural turn for intrigue, which of course his education and career had fostered. He saw possibilities—possibilities which excited his active brain, and kindled his ambition and imagination.
‘They were Catholics before—till not more than a hundred years ago,’ he thought. ‘His mother was Catholic of the Catholic. Why not Catholics again, if anything? Who knows? Time will show.’
The service over, there was a sermon, and presently the congregation broke up, and streamed out into the open air. The students marched off in procession, and departed by a side-door. Somerville just paused as he passed, to whisper to Jerome:
‘If you will wait in the garden or on the playground, I will join you in a few moments.’
And following this direction, Wellfield went out by the west-door, and took his way to the broad space on the brow of the hill, which seemed to form quite a little tableland in itself, and which was the playground of Brentwood College. He paced about there, and watched the crimson and purple pomp of the August sunset. It was a scene such as one rarely beholds, rendered remarkable, too, by ancient historical associations, and by the present fact, that, though within twenty or thirty miles of all the great manufacturing towns and most powerful radical centres of Lancashire, it was a Roman Catholic strong-hold; in matters of religion a conservative nook, where change crept on leaden foot. From this elevated vantage-ground Wellfield saw many things associated with his own family and its history. There was the ancient grey manor-house and church of Millholm; in which church was a ‘Wellfield chapel,’ where ancestors of his had their marble tombs, including that of the boy, the last direct heir male to Brentwood, who had come to his death by eating poisonous berries in a wood. It was after his death that Brentwood had passed into the hands of the Jesuits. From his present standpoint he could see the three rivers, each more beautiful than the other, which came very near to meeting, and which had given rise to the old rhyme which Nita had repeated to him yesterday:
‘Hodder and Calder, and Ribble and rain,