Wellfield did not speak; his gaze was blank, and he scarcely knew or saw who was there, or what had passed.
‘I will come this evening and ask after you,’ said John; ‘and you can see me if you choose.’
With which, and with a mute inclination of the head to the others, he went away to his home. A new love, fresh and strong, had sprung up in his heart. But he had loved Nita well, too, with faithful, brotherly love, and his heart was heavy. Her going made a great blank space in his life.
Somerville turned to Avice, and said in a low voice:
‘If it gets too much for you, Miss Wellfield’–he glanced significantly at Jerome–‘send for me, and I will come instantly.’
With which he, too, turned and left them.
Slowly they walked from the churchyard, in at the Abbey gate, up the river walk, and towards the house.
It was a soft, mild October noontide. The sun shone with mellow, tempered warmth; the hues were varied of the fading leaves and the autumn flowers; birds chirped here and there, and the river rushed, as the two figures, black, and, as it seemed, incongruous, paced slowly up the walk. As they entered the house, Avice said pleadingly:
‘Jerome, won’t you go and see Nita’s baby? He is such a lovely child. I am sure it would make you less grieved.’
‘No, no! not yet, at any rate.’