‘There’s an express to Bolton, sir, in five minutes. If you took that, you might perhaps have a special on from there.’
This was the only plan, and he took it. He was in Bolton in half an hour. A few inquiries there. Yes–they would send him on with a special if he liked, but not for an hour. The line was blocked, and it could not be done before then.
A sudden thought struck Jerome. One of his horses had been sent to Bolton two days before he left, for a certain dealer to dispose of: he knew it must still be there, for he had left orders that nothing was to be concluded about it till his return. The man’s place was close to the station, and it was but ten o’clock. It was a twenty miles’ ride to Wellfield, but with a swift horse he might be there sooner than by waiting an hour for a special train.
How it was settled he knew not. His white intent face, and something of a silent urgency in his whole manner, caused the men to hasten their work. In little more than ten minutes he rode out of the town along the great north-eastern road.
It was a moonlight night, and bitter cold–a contrast to that of twenty-four hours ago. He settled himself into his saddle, set his teeth, and tried to think it was a short way. He never confessed the feeling to himself, but he had little hope–his feeling was, not that he hastened to give Nita the comfort of his presence as soon as possible, but that he rode a race to speak to her and hear her speak to him before she died.
The horse was fresh, was ready, and willing for the work; he shook his head, stretched his long legs and lean flanks, and ‘his thundering hoofs consumed the ground.’ Bending his head before the bitter air, Jerome gave him rein, and they flew quickly past village and farm and town, through one great dingy mass of square buildings and tall chimneys after another; through streets dazzling with lights, and flaring gin-palace windows, into a long stretch of quiet country, with the moon shining serenely on the silent fields.
It seemed an eternity till he came to Burnham, the last great town before Wellfield, and some six miles away from it. Outside the town, beside a brook, he paused to water his horse; then, with a word of encouragement, and a pat on the neck, the good beast resumed its long, swinging stride, and there at last, in the moonlight, he sees the first home landmark, the great shape of Penhull, grey and ghast in the moonbeams. Nearer and nearer to that well-known shape, till he saw the long wooded ridge on which Brentwood stands, and then down a hill, betwixt thick woods; there stands the old white church at the end of the street, here he is on the stones of Wellfield village–up its whole length in a moment’s space, in at the Abbey gate–his horse’s hoofs sound hollow on the turf of the river walk. The gate stands open; his eye scans the windows. That was Nita’s room, and a light shone behind the blind.
He flung himself off his horse, and almost staggered into the house. The drawing-room door stood wide open, and as he entered a man came out; he looked desperately into the face of Nita’s old friend.
‘Leyburn–my wife–is–is she—’
‘Yes, she is living still,’ said John, putting his arm within his, and leading him to the foot of the stairs. ‘In her own room,’ added Leyburn. ‘Miss Shuttleworth and your sister are—’