‘Very well. The key is in my keeping at my office. You shall have it. You shall judge for yourself. Meantime, don’t be in any hurry to leave me. Turn things well over in your mind before you decide to live at Monk’s Gate, or anywhere else. I will do all I can to help you forward.’ ‘You are very kind,’ said Jerome, still absently, his mind still vaguely reaching out after some path from his difficulties. Before going to sleep, he added a postscript to his letter to Sara. ‘Netley tells me he thinks there will be a pittance left, which makes my mind easier with respect to my sister. Ah, my love, I never realised till this night, the _power_ of money. The want of it makes me feel unscrupulous.’ [Illustration] CHAPTER II. MONK’S GATE. It was a glorious afternoon in the beginning of August, on which Wellfield left Manchester for his two hours’ journey to Wellfield, to arrive at which spot he had to pass through some of the roughest, dirtiest, richest and most prosperous of the numerous manufacturing towns of Lancashire. Burnham was the last of these towns—a place of great size, great riches, and of an absolutely stupendous ugliness—a great collection of ugly, grimy buildings, paved streets, and ghastly-looking tall chimneys, the whole planted at the bottom of a hollow which had once been as fair as valley could be, in the rough, stony moorland style of sparkling stream and rugged rock. Even now, when the veil of smoke permitted one to see them, high and beautiful hills might be perceived, blue, calm and eternal. The prospect of them gave one a longing to ascend them, and from their summits to breathe an air which should be free and pure. After Burnham came one or two little wayside stations, and then Wellfield. The railway here ran over a high viaduct, much raised above the village. Jerome felt his heart throb as he looked out, and saw below him on the right, slumbering amid orchard trees and some fine old elms, some ancient brown walls, two vast and massive gateways—a broken line which showed where the cloisters had formerly run beside the river. That was the Abbey, which, with its grounds, took up pretty nearly as much space as all the rest of the village put together. He saw the calm river gliding by; then raised his eyes to where in sturdy pride old Penhull stretched his great carcase, shutting all in to the east. It was a fair land—it was a goodly heritage, and his heart was bitter within him.