‘Let me go!’ she breathed again, but her voice died away as his lips met hers–once and again, and he said, in a low, passionate voice:
‘There! We have that, whatever may happen in the future. Nita–my Nita!’
He loosed his arm, and she had flashed past him, and out of the room, in a second.
Jerome was left standing on the rug, feeling, he too, as if he had just gone through some mad fit of delirium. What had hurried him on to that act of a moment ago? He stood with bated breath, and eyebrows drawn together–then breathing again, a long, nervous breath, he muttered:
‘By G–, I am a villain!’
And in the moment that ensued between this confession of conscience, and the entrance of the others, he had time too to realise that one cannot be a villain one moment, and have done with the villainy and its effects in the next instant. One woman’s heart, at least, must go near to break, in punishment for his sin of this night–or rather, for this night’s consummation of his sin. It lay with him to decide which woman must suffer–Nita, who was here, close by, and whose agonies he must watch; or Sara Ford, away in Elberthal, and alone, now–and whom he would not be able to see, let her have what she might to endure–Sara, who had loved him all along–who loved him still, as he knew, and would have known, had fifty letters come to tell him how devoted she and Rudolf Falkenberg were, the one to the other. Which woman was to have the blow from his cowardly hand?
An ugly problem; one which would require answering very soon–but not to-night. It might be delayed till to-morrow.
He felt a sense of relief at this, as Mr. Bolton and John Leyburn came in, and they began to ask him why he was alone, and what had become of Nita.
The three men supped alone that night. When John Leyburn was departing, and Wellfield was about to go with him, Mr. Bolton stopped him, saying he wanted to speak to him. Jerome, still thankful to have excuses which delayed his home-going, remained willingly. One other surprise was in store for him that night. Mr. Bolton, in his usual stilted and pedantic, but most distinct and unequivocal style, informed him that he had that evening been taking counsel with John Leyburn, as his most trusted friend, upon several important matters. That in the main John agreed with him, and that he wished to lose no time in telling him, Jerome Wellfield, that, after profound consideration, he had come to the conclusion that it would be for his own pleasure and his daughter’s happiness if a marriage between her and him–Wellfield–could be concluded.
‘If you feel warranted, by your feelings towards her, in proposing to her, you have my permission to do so. If not–you will excuse my speaking plainly–your visits here will have to cease, for I do not wish her happiness to be imperilled.’