‘I will accompany you for a part of the way,’ said Somerville, and after wishing his hosts good-night, Jerome set out with the companion whose influence he felt already to be strong, but which was in fact far stronger than he knew, or would have liked to know—strong because it was the influence of a calm, concentrated, yet flexible nature upon one which, though variable was not flexible; though passionate, was not strong.
Still broad moonlight, they had no difficulty in making their way through the scented lanes and between the tangled hedgerows. They walked onwards, discoursing of different things, until they had left Brentwood more than a mile behind, and found themselves at the top of a hill, from which, looking down, they could see all the village of Wellfield; its old church; the winding river, and the Abbey walls and gates slumbering in the moonlight. They paused, and looked down upon it.
‘It is very beautiful,’ observed the priest at last.
‘God knows it is,’ responded Wellfield.
Another pause, when Somerville laid his hand upon the other’s shoulder, and said, in a slow, reflective, earnest voice:
‘I wish to heaven that you were master there!’
Wellfield laughed a short, mirthless laugh. He knew what was meant, and the impulse to speak freely was strong—so strong that he followed it.
‘That will never be. You have some power of divination, I am certain. Since your conversation with me yesterday morning, I have been convinced that what you said is true. I might be master there if I—chose.’
‘Then why not?’
‘Because to do it, I must sell myself body and soul. It would be hell upon earth for her—and for me too.’