CHAPTER IV.
‘WOO’D AND MARRIED, AND A’.’
With the morning, when Jerome asked her what she was going to do, Avice replied:
‘The only thing, there is for me to do I suppose. I must go and see her, since you insist upon it.’
The flash in her eyes, as she spoke, was as far removed from meekness as anything well could be. Jerome recognised, he could not help it, traces of Sara’s influence–of her free, grand, bold nature in his quiet little sister.
With Sara no good quality was suppressed, and he had noticed, even yesterday, a franker, freer, more open bearing in his sister. It was disagreeably apparent again to-day, because, of course, independent outspokenness must be inconvenient and irksome to a selfishness which has had to descend to subterfuge and intrigue, and the conscience of which is no longer a ‘flawless crystal.’ Yes, he recognised the broad, bold seal of Sara’s soul stamped upon this fragile-looking girl.
‘I am glad you have begun to think and speak more reasonably,’ he said coolly.
‘I do not think any differently,’ she flashed out. ‘I think exactly the same; but I have heard things about Miss Bolton which make me think that I ought to pity her, not hate her; and I shall be silent about you and what you have done, because I believe it will be for the best–not because I agree with you.’
‘I shall be in to lunch at half-past one,’ he said, ‘and afterwards we can go up to the Abbey.’
He could not answer her, but he could not silence her, and his feelings were not enviable. Avice, he perceived had the whip-like tongue of her father, only with her the whip was used to scourge all that was not ‘pure and of good report.’
‘Very well,’ she replied, indifferently. ‘I shall probably go and see Ellen off to the station, and after that I shall remain indoors.’
‘Ellen!’ he exclaimed, for he had forgotten her. He went into the kitchen, and gave her the letter which she carried to Sara Ford. He could not meet the woman’s eyes; he could not look either easy, or natural, or self-possessed, as he desired her to give the letter, without adding word or message. He perceived, without looking at her, that she held herself stiffly, and received the envelope and his commission in perfect silence. Then he went into the parlour again, and had taken his hat off the peg, when Avice called out in a voice from which all the liquid tenderness of their first acquaintance had vanished:
‘Jerome, is it permitted me to write to my friend Miss Ford?’
He turned back upon her with scintillating eyes, and teeth set.
‘Avice, take care how you go too far,’ he said.
But there was not a drop of craven blood in her veins. There was dauntless defiance in her open glance, as she said:
‘Surely you never wish me to speak of her as your friend again! And I merely ask to hear what you have to say, because I intend to write whatever your answer may be. I wished to take precautions–that’s all. I intend, metaphorically, to cast myself at her feet, and beg her not to visit the sins of my brother too hardly upon me.’
‘Since you have made up your mind what to do, it was unnecessary to ask me,’ he answered, setting his teeth.
‘I take that as a most gracious permission. I am glad that you see and speak more reasonably,’ she retorted, mocking his own words.
He did not speak, but left the house, and during his short journey to the station he felt–it was a degrading feeling, no doubt–but he, Jerome Wellfield, who, six months ago, had been as proud, as fastidious, and as exclusive a young man as any one of them that trod this earth, crouched morally at that moment, like a whipped hound. He was conscious of a cowardly longing to make Avice and Nita known to one another as speedily as possible. He had an intuitive conviction that Nita’s charm would soon win Avice’s heart, and then his mistress’s purity and sweetness would stand between him and his sister’s tongue. It was a delightful, an elevating, a soul-inspiring position, and he enjoyed it to the full.
Avice, left behind, broke down, burst into a passion of tears, and, engrossed in her sorrow, was surprised by Ellen, who was going away. To her she gave the broken messages which Ellen had repeated to her mistress. She was in too sore distress to go with Mrs. Nelson to the station; but parted from her with more floods of tears, and cried long after she had gone, till she had a headache, and everything looked blurred and dim before her eyes, and while she was in this condition some one knocked at the door, and on the servant opening it, Avice heard a soft, gentle voice ask if Miss Wellfield was at home, and the answer in the affirmative of the country servant, who would have said the same thing had Avice been fainting, or raving in a delirium. No escape was possible, for the front-door of the old house opened, as has been said, straight into the irregular-shaped, raftered parlour.
She gazed earnestly at the figure of the girl who now entered, with a great dun-coloured mastiff at her side, whose demeanour proclaimed him an inseparable companion. She saw a slight, pretty figure in a large sealskin paletot and a shady velvet hat with a large black feather drooping round the brim, and soft-hued brown velvet dress. Compared with the splendid beauty and queenly presence of that other woman this was an insignificant apparition enough, but Avice’s eye and heart instantly appreciated the charm of the sympathetic eyes, the mobile face, and gentle manner.
Nita came forward, looking like anything rather than a rich heiress who had just triumphantly bought away by her gold the allegiance of another woman’s lover–which was the character in which Avice had pictured her to herself: it was she who was blushing and embarrassed, and who said, almost timidly:
‘I could not wait till afternoon to see you; and I did not like Jerome to bring you up to the Abbey to me, as if I were some one so dreadfully grand. I thought we could get on better without him’–she smiled–‘and I hope you don’t mind my having come.’
She held out her hand. Avice was overpowered. With all her wrath and indignation she was but a soft-hearted girl. The instant she saw Nita she comprehended that it was she who had been deceived all along. She felt she could not hate this girl, even to remain loyal to Sara Ford. She stood still and silent, with a quivering lip. Nita saw it, and took both her hands, saying:
‘I hope you don’t mind. I will go away if you do.’
‘No–no. It is very kind–very good of you to come,’ said Avice, her voice dying away; breaking down entirely, she wept again, as she realised the miserable hopelessness of the whole affair.
‘What is the matter?’ said Nita, sitting down beside her. ‘Why do you cry? Is it because Jerome has asked me to marry him? I hope not?’
‘It–it is because I have left a very dear friend,’ Avice stammered, and then, with a huge effort, she recovered herself. It would not do–she must be composed.
‘Ah, that is sad. But do try not to be too sorry. I hope you will be my friend. I have so longed to see you, and I have asked so many questions about you that I am sure Jerome must have been weary of answering them.’
(‘“Jerome” at every other word,’ thought Avice. ‘I am sure she must be desperately fond of him. It is dreadful.’)
She recovered herself, lifted her head, dried her eyes, and smiled valiantly.
‘I’m very stupid,’ she said.
She could not address words of welcome to Nita, and the latter noticed it, but was resolved to ignore it, and to make her new sister love her sooner or later.
‘What a beautiful dog you have!’ said Avice, stooping to caress him.
‘That is Speedwell–my greatest friend, next to John Leyburn. By the way, John said he had disturbed you last night, and he feared you would think him rude.’
‘I thought him funny,’ said Avice, a small smile beginning to creep to the corners of her mouth. Nita sat and looked at her, and suddenly exclaimed:
‘How beautiful you are! I always thought no one could be handsomer than Jerome, but you are like him–“only more so,” as John says. I hope you won’t think me rude if I look at you rather often.’
This kind of innocent flattery was very pleasant. Avice began to cheer up, to forget Ellen on her way to Sara with that dreadful letter. An hour’s conversation made the girls like one another thoroughly. Nita was not satisfied until she had carried Avice off to the Abbey, and left a message for Jerome, desiring him, if he wanted either of them, to come and seek them there.
Here Avice was solemnly introduced to Mr. Bolton and to Aunt Margaret; and in observing the latter found such keen entertainment as to make her forget her troubles. It was only when suddenly Jerome stood before them, and she saw him kiss Nita, and the quick, enraptured smile of the latter, that the pain suddenly returned for a moment; and the thought of Sara, alone, gave her a bitter pang.
John Leyburn joined the party at supper, and was observed to be unusually silent; in fact, almost speechless. When Nita, being apart with him during the evening, innocently observed:
‘What do you think of her, John? is she not lovely?’ the unhappy young man blushed crimson, and, not looking at ‘her’ at all, fumbled wildly amongst some books, and stammered:
‘She’s–yes, she’s–rather good-looking.’
‘John!’ exclaimed Nita, looking at him for a moment, and then breaking into laughter, not loud but prolonged, and of intense enjoyment.
‘Well?’ said John, maddened in the consciousness that he had said the very thing he least wished to express; ‘rather good-looking’ being the very last description he would have wished to apply to Avice Wellfield.
The evening passed over. As Jerome and his sister walked home, he did not ask her what she thought of Nita, and she did not volunteer any observation on the subject. Only, as she held out her hand and wished him good-night, he asked:
‘Well, have you decided whether you will stay with me, or go to school?’
She replied, coldly,
‘I should prefer to stay here,’ and left him.
Indeed, she had quite decided that she would prefer to stay there. Avice had to learn early to decide in a difficult matter: she found herself face to face with a hard problem; she acted as a girl, as one inexperienced and untried, with no great range of observation, no extensive data to go upon, was likely to act. She was conscious that Jerome had done wrong; she was aware that Sara Ford, at least, must be suffering cruelly from his wrong-doing, and the problem was, whether she ought to tell Nita Bolton what she knew, or whether she ought not to tell her. She ended by not telling her; it seemed enough that there should be one heartbreak in the case. Nita’s joy in her love, her happiness, her high spirits, smote upon the other girl’s heart many a time during the short engagement that lasted only while settlements were being made, and legal affairs settled: she could not find it in her heart to smite down that joy and happiness; she could not convince herself that it was right to do so.
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.