He lingered long, unaccountably attracted and fascinated. In such a quiet nook a man might drone out his life, and soon be utterly forgotten—might live on from year to year, and watch the seasons come and go, the flowers bloom and fade, and spring again; might observe the sunlight and the storm-shadows sweep across the broad sides of Penhull, and might at last die and be carried to the graveyard which spread around the old church—might there be laid to his rest, and none be the wiser. He shivered slightly, as he vividly pictured all this; then, slowly descending the stairs, went out—how hot and balmy the outside air felt, after the dampness of the house!—locked the door behind him, and bent his steps towards the Abbey. [Illustration] CHAPTER III. THE NEW MAN AND THE OLD ACRES. Wellfield had only a very short distance to walk before he came to another great cavernous archway, the ‘Abbot’s Gate,’ and the second principal entrance to the Abbey. Great beech-trees clustered around it. It was quite dark and cool and gloomy, but a little door in the great wooden gates stood open, and gave him a curious little oblong glimpse into a sunny courtyard, where everything stood still and hot and quiet, and in which, as he stepped into it, there was not a sign of life. One side of the Abbey building, what was left of it, faced him; the windows looked into this paved court, and appeared to be windows of offices, kitchens, etc. Green tubs, filled with a blaze of scarlet geraniums, made brilliant spots of colour here and there. To the left was a high wall, and a fine old stone archway. He knew the way well. Through that archway he must pass to go round to the front entrance of the house, which was chiefly composed of what had once been the private apartments of the abbots of Wellfield. He glanced up at the top of the archway and saw, on the oblong slab which was let into it, the legend, ‘J. W., 15—.’ It stood for John Wellfield, as he knew; the said John having been the first Wellfield who had taken up his abode in the Abbey, after its demolishment under the glorious dispensation of Henry VIII. ‘My initials!’ murmured Jerome. ‘I wonder this man has not rent out the stone, and inscribed his own instead.’