‘The Abbey has passed away from you, as I heard,’ observed Somerville. ‘That is a pity, for many reasons. We at Brentwood at least regret it. In the old days, when your forefathers belonged to us, Wellfield Abbey was noted far and wide for the munificence of its gifts, and the splendour of its hospitality. Even in the days when your people were Protestants, they have always been gentlemen—Wellfields, despite the Protestantism, and they have never treated us churlishly. Down to the last visit of your late father to the Abbey, we were always received with hospitality and kindness—then, especially, for Mrs. Wellfield was there——’ ‘My mother!’ exclaimed Jerome, eagerly, ‘Did you ever see her? Were you at the Abbey then?’ ‘It is a long time ago. Twenty-four years ago. I was a lad of thirteen; and I was even then destined for the priesthood. I have been at Brentwood all my life. I was taken by one of the professors, to call at Wellfield Abbey, and I remember it well to this day. It was winter weather, and there were roaring fires all over the old house. Mr. Wellfield complained of everything being heated to furnace-heat. Your beautiful young mother—and she _was_ beautiful—sat crouching over a huge fire, with you—a little infant—swathed in warm shawls, in her arms. I think all the beauty of her beautiful land was concentrated in her. What wonder that I sat and gazed at her, and thought her like the Madonna, and wondered how Father Leigh presumed to talk, and even laugh with her?’ ‘You remember all this!’ exclaimed Jerome, earnestly. ‘Since I came here, almost every hour has brought back some incident, some recollection, some remembered face, which have made the reverse more cruel, and more terrible to bear, than I had imagined anything could be.’ ‘I can well believe it. _Autres temps, autres mœurs._ Things are changed now, from that time of gracious hospitality and high-bred courtesy. The present owner of Wellfield Abbey’ (a slight sneer played about the finely-cut lips) ‘detests “Papists” with a truly Protestant candour and liberality. I must say, even if it appear like boasting, that his bigotry is his misfortune, since the “Papists” he objects to are the only society worthy of the name in the neighbourhood.’ ‘I suppose so,’ said Jerome, whose face had grown dark during this discourse. He was pacing with Somerville up and down the gravel walk. ‘Yes. The Lathebys of Latheby—do you remember them?’ ‘The name I know well enough. What of them?’ ‘They were formerly on the best of terms with the Abbey. You must come and see the exquisite chapel which Mrs. Latheby has offered to Brentwood. And the Ormes of Brownhill, and some others—these are the only gentry, and the only cultivated people for miles around. But Mr. Bolton does not care to associate with such popish _canaille_.’