Meanwhile, two or three days passed, and then Jerome had news–if news it could be called, wordless and yet eloquent as it was–of Sara. A small packet arrived one morning, and the label belonging to it was directed in her hand; bold, clear, and legible. He opened it, and found the sapphire hoop he had given her when she had promised to marry him. Nothing else–not a word–not a syllable–but that was enough, and more than enough. It contained his ‘freedom,’ and her condemnation of him–a condemnation too utter, too strong and intense for words. Wellfield had arrived at that pitch of moral degradation in which he felt relieved rather than otherwise, when the ring was in his keeping again. He had opened the packet at the breakfast-table. Avice saw the ring, and with suave but treacherous sweetness of accent, inquired:
‘Is that a present for Miss Bolton?’
Jerome made no answer. He wished the whole business were over, but he felt no compunction now; no thought of turning back or relenting entered his mind.
The marriage was not to be delayed. They only waited until settlements could be arranged, and in cases like that, settlements are not apt to be tedious affairs. Mr. Bolton (suffice it to say this) acted generously. Both Nita and Jerome were amply provided for during Mr. Bolton’s lifetime. At his death they were again to have an access of property, but the great bulk of his estate was so arranged that it should fall to Nita’s children, especially to an eldest son, in case there should be one. And there was a stipulation that Wellfield should continue to attend to business in Burnham–at least, during Mr. Bolton’s lifetime.
To this Jerome agreed, nothing loth; for a constant leisure, with no fixed or settled occupation, was a prospect he did not like to contemplate.
Everything ran smoothly–wheels which are oiled with that infallible solution known as ‘wealth’ usually do run smoothly. Nita had lost all her first doubts and fears. Jerome was an assiduous lover; under the new influence she bloomed into life and vigour, and something that was very near being beauty. The sad November closed for her in a blaze of sunshine. The death of the old year was to be the birth of her new life; the entrance to a long, sun-lighted path, down which she was to travel for the remainder of her life. Aunt Margaret’s ‘croakings’ had to cease. Mr. Bolton daily congratulated himself upon the success of his experiment; daily felt that he had done right in seeking Nita’s happiness, not the gratification of whatever ambition might have underlaid his money-making diligence of the last twenty years.
On the second of December–her twentieth birthday–a dank, mournful, sad-looking morning, with the leaden clouds covering up the hills, and a raw mist rising from the river–on this morning Anita Bolton became the wife of Jerome Wellfield; Avice and John officiating as bridesmaid and groomsman, Aunt Margaret as guest, and Mr. Bolton in his natural capacity as father, and giver-away of the bride.
When it came to Nita’s turn to say ‘I will’ to all the portentous questions asked, Avice saw, with a sudden thrill, and a quick remembrance of all the dark background of this wedding ceremony, how the girl made a perceptible pause, and raising her face, turned it towards her bridegroom, looked directly into his eyes, a full, inquiring glance, and then, with a faint smile, and a little nervous sigh, repeated slowly and deliberately:
‘I will.’
It was over. The ring was placed upon Nita’s hand; she walked down the aisle of the quaint old church–grey and hoary with the recollections and the dust of many centuries of the dead–down that aisle she went, Jerome Wellfield’s wife.