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diff --git a/1587-h/1587-h.htm b/1587-h/1587-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e87367f --- /dev/null +++ b/1587-h/1587-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15457 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Black Robe, by Wilkie Collins + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Black Robe, by Wilkie Collins + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Black Robe + +Author: Wilkie Collins + +Release Date: February 21, 2006 [EBook #1587] +Last Updated: September 11, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK ROBE *** + + + + +Produced by James Rusk and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE BLACK ROBE + </h1> + <h2> + by Wilkie Collins + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link_4_0001"><b>BEFORE THE STORY.</b></a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link_4_0002">FIRST SCENE.—BOULOGNE-SUR-MER.—THE + DUEL.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link_4_0003">SECOND SCENE.—VANGE ABBEY.—THE + FOREWARNINGS</a><br /> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link_4_0004"><big><b>THE STORY.</b></big></a><br /> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link_4_0005"><b>BOOK THE FIRST.</b></a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0001">CHAPTER I.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0002">CHAPTER II.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0003">CHAPTER III.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0004">CHAPTER IV.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0005">CHAPTER V.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0006">CHAPTER VI.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0007">CHAPTER VII.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0008">CHAPTER VIII.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0009">CHAPTER IX.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0010">CHAPTER X.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0011">CHAPTER XI.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0012">CHAPTER XII.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0013">CHAPTER XIII</a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link_4_0019"><b>BOOK THE SECOND.</b></a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0014">CHAPTER I.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0015">CHAPTER II.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0016">CHAPTER III.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0017">CHAPTER IV.</a><br /> <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link_4_0024"><b>BOOK THE THIRD.</b></a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0018">CHAPTER I.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0019">CHAPTER II.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0020">CHAPTER III.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0021">CHAPTER IV.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0022">CHAPTER V.</a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link_4_0030"><b>BOOK THE FOURTH.</b></a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0023">CHAPTER I.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0024">CHAPTER II.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0025">CHAPTER III.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0026">CHAPTER IV.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0027">CHAPTER V.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0028">CHAPTER VI.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0029">CHAPTER VII.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0030">CHAPTER VIII.</a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#link_4_0039"><b>BOOK THE FIFTH.</b></a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0031">CHAPTER I.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0032">CHAPTER II.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0033">CHAPTER III.</a> + </p> + <p class="toc2"> + <a href="#linkCH0034">CHAPTER IV.</a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link_4_0001" id="link_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a><br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <h2> + BEFORE THE STORY. <a name="link_4_0002" id="link_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + FIRST SCENE.—BOULOGNE-SUR-MER.—THE DUEL. + </h2> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + THE doctors could do no more for the Dowager Lady Berrick. + </p> + <p> + When the medical advisers of a lady who has reached seventy years of age + recommend the mild climate of the South of France, they mean in plain + language that they have arrived at the end of their resources. Her + ladyship gave the mild climate a fair trial, and then decided (as she + herself expressed it) to “die at home.” Traveling slowly, she had reached + Paris at the date when I last heard of her. It was then the beginning of + November. A week later, I met with her nephew, Lewis Romayne, at the club. + </p> + <p> + “What brings you to London at this time of year?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “The fatality that pursues me,” he answered grimly. “I am one of the + unluckiest men living.” + </p> + <p> + He was thirty years old; he was not married; he was the enviable possessor + of the fine old country seat, called Vange Abbey; he had no poor + relations; and he was one of the handsomest men in England. When I add + that I am, myself, a retired army officer, with a wretched income, a + disagreeable wife, four ugly children, and a burden of fifty years on my + back, no one will be surprised to hear that I answered Romayne, with + bitter sincerity, in these words: + </p> + <p> + “I wish to heaven I could change places with you!” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to heaven you could!” he burst out, with equal sincerity on his + side. “Read that.” + </p> + <p> + He handed me a letter addressed to him by the traveling medical attendant + of Lady Berrick. After resting in Paris, the patient had continued her + homeward journey as far as Boulogne. In her suffering condition, she was + liable to sudden fits of caprice. An insurmountable horror of the Channel + passage had got possession of her; she positively refused to be taken on + board the steamboat. In this difficulty, the lady who held the post of her + “companion” had ventured on a suggestion. Would Lady Berrick consent to + make the Channel passage if her nephew came to Boulogne expressly to + accompany her on the voyage? The reply had been so immediately favorable, + that the doctor lost no time in communicating with Mr. Lewis Romayne. This + was the substance of the letter. + </p> + <p> + It was needless to ask any more questions—Romayne was plainly on his + way to Boulogne. I gave him some useful information. “Try the oysters,” I + said, “at the restaurant on the pier.” + </p> + <p> + He never even thanked me. He was thinking entirely of himself. + </p> + <p> + “Just look at my position,” he said. “I detest Boulogne; I cordially share + my aunt’s horror of the Channel passage; I had looked forward to some + months of happy retirement in the country among my books—and what + happens to me? I am brought to London in this season of fogs, to travel by + the tidal train at seven to-morrow morning—and all for a woman with + whom I have no sympathies in common. If I am not an unlucky man—who + is?” + </p> + <p> + He spoke in a tone of vehement irritation which seemed to me, under the + circumstances, to be simply absurd. But <i>my</i> nervous system is not + the irritable system—sorely tried by night study and strong tea—of + my friend Romayne. “It’s only a matter of two days,” I remarked, by way of + reconciling him to his situation. + </p> + <p> + “How do I know that?” he retorted. “In two days the weather may be stormy. + In two days she may be too ill to be moved. Unfortunately, I am her heir; + and I am told I must submit to any whim that seizes her. I’m rich enough + already; I don’t want her money. Besides, I dislike all traveling—and + especially traveling alone. You are an idle man. If you were a good + friend, you would offer to go with me.” He added, with the delicacy which + was one of the redeeming points in his wayward character. “Of course as my + guest.” + </p> + <p> + I had known him long enough not to take offense at his reminding me, in + this considerate way, that I was a poor man. The proposed change of scene + tempted me. What did I care for the Channel passage? Besides, there was + the irresistible attraction of getting away from home. The end of it was + that I accepted Romayne’s invitation. + </p> + <p class="center"> + II. + </p> + <p> + SHORTLY after noon, on the next day, we were established at Boulogne—near + Lady Berrick, but not at her hotel. “If we live in the same house,” + Romayne reminded me, “we shall be bored by the companion and the doctor. + Meetings on the stairs, you know, and exchanging bows and small talk.” He + hated those trivial conventionalities of society, in which, other people + delight. When somebody once asked him in what company he felt most at + ease? he made a shocking answer—he said, “In the company of dogs.” + </p> + <p> + I waited for him on the pier while he went to see her ladyship. He joined + me again with his bitterest smile. “What did I tell you? She is not well + enough to see me to-day. The doctor looks grave, and the companion puts + her handkerchief to her eyes. We may be kept in this place for weeks to + come.” + </p> + <p> + The afternoon proved to be rainy. Our early dinner was a bad one. This + last circumstance tried his temper sorely. He was no gourmand; the + question of cookery was (with him) purely a matter of digestion. Those + late hours of study, and that abuse of tea to which I have already + alluded, had sadly injured his stomach. The doctors warned him of serious + consequences to his nervous system, unless he altered his habits. He had + little faith in medical science, and he greatly overrated the restorative + capacity of his constitution. So far as I know, he had always neglected + the doctors’ advice. + </p> + <p> + The weather cleared toward evening, and we went out for a walk. We passed + a church—a Roman Catholic church, of course—the doors of which + were still open. Some poor women were kneeling at their prayers in the dim + light. “Wait a minute,” said Romayne. “I am in a vile temper. Let me try + to put myself into a better frame of mind.” + </p> + <p> + I followed him into the church. He knelt down in a dark corner by himself. + I confess I was surprised. He had been baptized in the Church of England; + but, so far as outward practice was concerned, he belonged to no religious + community. I had often heard him speak with sincere reverence and + admiration of the spirit of Christianity—but he never, to my + knowledge, attended any place of public worship. When we met again outside + the church, I asked if he had been converted to the Roman Catholic faith. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said. “I hate the inveterate striving of that priesthood after + social influence and political power as cordially as the fiercest + Protestant living. But let us not forget that the Church of Rome has great + merits to set against great faults. Its system is administered with an + admirable knowledge of the higher needs of human nature. Take as one + example what you have just seen. The solemn tranquillity of that church, + the poor people praying near me, the few words of prayer by which I + silently united myself to my fellow-creatures, have calmed me and done me + good. In <i>our</i> country I should have found the church closed, out of + service hours.” He took my arm and abruptly changed the subject. “How will + you occupy yourself,” he asked, “if my aunt receives me to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + I assured him that I should easily find ways and means of getting through + the time. The next morning a message came from Lady Berrick, to say that + she would see her nephew after breakfast. Left by myself, I walked toward + the pier, and met with a man who asked me to hire his boat. He had lines + and bait, at my service. Most unfortunately, as the event proved, I + decided on occupying an hour or two by sea fishing. + </p> + <p> + The wind shifted while we were out, and before we could get back to the + harbor, the tide had turned against us. It was six o’clock when I arrived + at the hotel. A little open carriage was waiting at the door. I found + Romayne impatiently expecting me, and no signs of dinner on the table. He + informed me that he had accepted an invitation, in which I was included, + and promised to explain everything in the carriage. + </p> + <p> + Our driver took the road that led toward the High Town. I subordinated my + curiosity to my sense of politeness, and asked for news of his aunt’s + health. + </p> + <p> + “She is seriously ill, poor soul,” he said. “I am sorry I spoke so + petulantly and so unfairly when we met at the club. The near prospect of + death has developed qualities in her nature which I ought to have seen + before this. No matter how it may be delayed, I will patiently wait her + time for the crossing to England.” + </p> + <p> + So long as he believed himself to be in the right, he was, as to his + actions and opinions, one of the most obstinate men I ever met with. But + once let him be convinced that he was wrong, and he rushed into the other + extreme—became needlessly distrustful of himself, and needlessly + eager in seizing his opportunity of making atonement. In this latter mood + he was capable (with the best intentions) of committing acts of the most + childish imprudence. With some misgivings, I asked how he had amused + himself in my absence. + </p> + <p> + “I waited for you,” he said, “till I lost all patience, and went out for a + walk. First, I thought of going to the beach, but the smell of the harbor + drove me back into the town; and there, oddly enough, I met with a man, a + certain Captain Peterkin, who had been a friend of mine at college.” + </p> + <p> + “A visitor to Boulogne?” I inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “A resident?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The fact is, I lost sight of Peterkin when I left Oxford—and + since that time he seems to have drifted into difficulties. We had a long + talk. He is living here, he tells me, until his affairs are settled.” + </p> + <p> + I needed no further enlightenment—Captain Peterkin stood as plainly + revealed to me as if I had known him for years. “Isn’t it a little + imprudent,” I said, “to renew your acquaintance with a man of that sort? + Couldn’t you have passed him, with a bow?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne smiled uneasily. “I daresay you’re right,” he answered. “But, + remember, I had left my aunt, feeling ashamed of the unjust way in which I + had thought and spoken of her. How did I know that I mightn’t be wronging + an old friend next, if I kept Peterkin at a distance? His present position + may be as much his misfortune, poor fellow, as his fault. I was half + inclined to pass him, as you say—but I distrusted my own judgment. + He held out his hand, and he was so glad to see me. It can’t be helped + now. I shall be anxious to hear your opinion of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Are we going to dine with Captain Peterkin?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I happened to mention that wretched dinner yesterday at our hotel. + He said, ‘Come to my boarding-house. Out of Paris, there isn’t such a + table d’hote in France.’ I tried to get off it—not caring, as you + know, to go among strangers—I said I had a friend with me. He + invited you most cordially to accompany me. More excuses on my part only + led to a painful result. I hurt Peterkin’s feelings. ‘I’m down in the + world,’ he said, ‘and I’m not fit company for you and your friends. I beg + your pardon for taking the liberty of inviting you!’ He turned away with + the tears in his eyes. What could I do?” + </p> + <p> + I thought to myself, “You could have lent him five pounds, and got rid of + his invitation without the slightest difficulty.” If I had returned in + reasonable time to go out with Romayne, we might not have met the captain—or, + if we had met him, my presence would have prevented the confidential talk + and the invitation that followed. I felt I was to blame—and yet, how + could I help it? It was useless to remonstrate: the mischief was done. + </p> + <p> + We left the Old Town on our right hand, and drove on, past a little colony + of suburban villas, to a house standing by itself, surrounded by a stone + wall. As we crossed the front garden on our way to the door, I noticed + against the side of the house two kennels, inhabited by two large + watch-dogs. Was the proprietor afraid of thieves? + </p> + <p class="center"> + III. + </p> + <p> + THE moment we were introduced to the drawing-room, my suspicions of the + company we were likely to meet with were fully confirmed. + </p> + <p> + “Cards, billiards, and betting”—there was the inscription legibly + written on the manner and appearance of Captain Peterkin. The bright-eyed + yellow old lady who kept the boarding-house would have been worth five + thousand pounds in jewelry alone, if the ornaments which profusely covered + her had been genuine precious stones. The younger ladies present had their + cheeks as highly rouged and their eyelids as elaborately penciled in black + as if they were going on the stage, instead of going to dinner. We found + these fair creatures drinking Madeira as a whet to their appetites. Among + the men, there were two who struck me as the most finished and complete + blackguards whom I had ever met with in all my experience, at home and + abroad. One, with a brown face and a broken nose, was presented to us by + the title of “Commander,” and was described as a person of great wealth + and distinction in Peru, traveling for amusement. The other wore a + military uniform and decorations, and was spoken of as “the General.” A + bold bullying manner, a fat sodden face, little leering eyes, and + greasy-looking hands, made this man so repellent to me that I privately + longed to kick him. Romayne had evidently been announced, before our + arrival, as a landed gentleman with a large income. Men and women vied in + servile attentions to him. When we went into the dining-room, the + fascinating creature who sat next to him held her fan before her face, and + so made a private interview of it between the rich Englishman and herself. + With regard to the dinner, I shall only report that it justified Captain + Peterkin’s boast, in some degree at least. The wine was good, and the + conversation became gay to the verge of indelicacy. Usually the most + temperate of men, Romayne was tempted by his neighbors into drinking + freely. I was unfortunately seated at the opposite extremity of the table, + and I had no opportunity of warning him. + </p> + <p> + The dinner reached its conclusion, and we all returned together, on the + foreign plan, to coffee and cigars in the drawing-room. The women smoked, + and drank liqueurs as well as coffee, with the men. One of them went to + the piano, and a little impromptu ball followed, the ladies dancing with + their cigarettes in their mouths. Keeping my eyes and ears on the alert, I + saw an innocent-looking table, with a surface of rosewood, suddenly + develop a substance of green cloth. At the same time, a neat little + roulette-table made its appearance from a hiding-place in a sofa. Passing + near the venerable landlady, I heard her ask the servant, in a whisper, + “if the dogs were loose?” After what I had observed, I could only conclude + that the dogs were used as a patrol, to give the alarm in case of a + descent of the police. It was plainly high time to thank Captain Peterkin + for his hospitality, and to take our leave. + </p> + <p> + “We have had enough of this,” I whispered to Romayne in English. “Let us + go.” + </p> + <p> + In these days it is a delusion to suppose that you can speak + confidentially in the English language, when French people are within + hearing. One of the ladies asked Romayne, tenderly, if he was tired of her + already. Another reminded him that it was raining heavily (as we could all + hear), and suggested waiting until it cleared up. The hideous General + waved his greasy hand in the direction of the card table, and said, “The + game is waiting for us.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne was excited, but not stupefied, by the wine he had drunk. He + answered, discreetly enough, “I must beg you to excuse me; I am a poor + card player.” + </p> + <p> + The General suddenly looked grave. “You are speaking, sir, under a strange + misapprehension,” he said. “Our game is lansquenet—essentially a + game of chance. With luck, the poorest player is a match for the whole + table.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne persisted in his refusal. As a matter of course, I supported him, + with all needful care to avoid giving offense. The General took offense, + nevertheless. He crossed his arms on his breast, and looked at us + fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Does this mean, gentlemen, that you distrust the company?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The broken-nosed Commander, hearing the question, immediately joined us, + in the interests of peace—bearing with him the elements of + persuasion, under the form of a lady on his arm. + </p> + <p> + The lady stepped briskly forward, and tapped the General on the shoulder + with her fan. “I am one of the company,” she said, “and I am sure Mr. + Romayne doesn’t distrust <i>me</i>.” She turned to Romayne with her most + irresistible smile. “A gentleman always plays cards,” she resumed, “when + he has a lady for a partner. Let us join our interests at the table—and, + dear Mr. Romayne, don’t risk too much!” She put her pretty little purse + into his hand, and looked as if she had been in love with him for half her + lifetime. + </p> + <p> + The fatal influence of the sex, assisted by wine, produced the inevitable + result. Romayne allowed himself to be led to the card table. For a moment + the General delayed the beginning of the game. After what had happened, it + was necessary that he should assert the strict sense of justice that was + in him. “We are all honorable men,” he began. + </p> + <p> + “And brave men,” the Commander added, admiring the General. + </p> + <p> + “And brave men,” the General admitted, admiring the Commander. “Gentlemen, + if I have been led into expressing myself with unnecessary warmth of + feeling, I apologize, and regret it. + </p> + <p> + “Nobly spoken!” the Commander pronounced. The General put his hand on his + heart and bowed. The game began. + </p> + <p> + As the poorest man of the two I had escaped the attentions lavished by the + ladies on Romayne. At the same time I was obliged to pay for my dinner, by + taking some part in the proceedings of the evening. Small stakes were + allowed, I found, at roulette; and, besides, the heavy chances in favor of + the table made it hardly worth while to run the risk of cheating in this + case. I placed myself next to the least rascally-looking man in the + company, and played roulette. + </p> + <p> + For a wonder, I was successful at the first attempt. My neighbor handed me + my winnings. “I have lost every farthing I possess,” he whispered to me, + piteously, “and I have a wife and children at home.” I lent the poor + wretch five francs. He smiled faintly as he looked at the money. “It + reminds me,” he said, “of my last transaction, when I borrowed of that + gentleman there, who is betting on the General’s luck at the card table. + Beware of employing him as I did. What do you think I got for my note of + hand of four thousand francs? A hundred bottles of champagne, fifty + bottles of ink, fifty bottles of blacking, three dozen handkerchiefs, two + pictures by unknown masters, two shawls, one hundred maps, <i>and</i>—five + francs.” + </p> + <p> + We went on playing. My luck deserted me; I lost, and lost, and lost again. + From time to time I looked round at the card table. The “deal” had fallen + early to the General, and it seemed to be indefinitely prolonged. A heap + of notes and gold (won mainly from Romayne, as I afterward discovered) lay + before him. As for my neighbor, the unhappy possessor of the bottles of + blacking, the pictures by unknown masters, and the rest of it, he won, and + then rashly presumed on his good fortune. Deprived of his last farthing, + he retired into a corner of the room, and consoled himself with a cigar. I + had just arisen, to follow his example, when a furious uproar burst out at + the card table. + </p> + <p> + I saw Romayne spring up, and snatch the cards out of the General’s hand. + “You scoundrel!” he shouted, “you are cheating!” The General started to + his feet in a fury. “You lie!” he cried. I attempted to interfere, but + Romayne had already seen the necessity of controlling himself. “A + gentleman doesn’t accept an insult from a swindler,” he said, coolly. + “Accept this, then!” the General answered—and spat on him. In an + instant Romayne knocked him down. + </p> + <p> + The blow was dealt straight between his eyes: he was a gross big-boned + man, and he fell heavily. For the time he was stunned. The women ran, + screaming, out of the room. The peaceable Commander trembled from head to + foot. Two of the men present, who, to give them their due, were no + cowards, locked the doors. “You don’t go,” they said, “till we see whether + he recovers or not.” Cold water, assisted by the landlady’s smelling + salts, brought the General to his senses after a while. He whispered + something to one of his friends, who immediately turned to me. “The + General challenges Mr. Romayne,” he said. “As one of his seconds, I demand + an appointment for to-morrow morning.” I refused to make any appointment + unless the doors were first unlocked, and we were left free to depart. + “Our carriage is waiting outside,” I added. “If it returns to the hotel + without us, there will be an inquiry.” This latter consideration had its + effect. On their side, the doors were opened. On our side, the appointment + was made. We left the house. + </p> + <p class="center"> + IV. + </p> + <p> + IN consenting to receive the General’s representative, it is needless to + say that I merely desired to avoid provoking another quarrel. If those + persons were really impudent enough to call at the hotel, I had arranged + to threaten them with the interference of the police, and so to put an end + to the matter. Romayne expressed no opinion on the subject, one way or the + other. His conduct inspired me with a feeling of uneasiness. The filthy + insult of which he had been made the object seemed to be rankling in his + mind. He went away thoughtfully to his own room. “Have you nothing to say + to me?” I asked. He only answered: “Wait till to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + The next day the seconds appeared. + </p> + <p> + I had expected to see two of the men with whom we had dined. To my + astonishment, the visitors proved to be officers of the General’s + regiment. They brought proposals for a hostile meeting the next morning; + the choice of weapons being left to Romayne as the challenged man. + </p> + <p> + It was now quite plain to me that the General’s peculiar method of + card-playing had, thus far, not been discovered and exposed. He might keep + doubtful company, and might (as I afterward heard) be suspected in certain + quarters. But that he still had, formally-speaking, a reputation to + preserve, was proved by the appearance of the two gentlemen present as his + representatives. They declared, with evident sincerity, that Romayne had + made a fatal mistake; had provoked the insult offered to him; and had + resented it by a brutal and cowardly outrage. As a man and a soldier, the + General was doubly bound to insist on a duel. No apology would be + accepted, even if an apology were offered. + </p> + <p> + In this emergency, as I understood it, there was but one course to follow. + I refused to receive the challenge. + </p> + <p> + Being asked for my reasons, I found it necessary to speak within certain + limits. Though we knew the General to be a cheat, it was a delicate matter + to dispute his right to claim satisfaction, when he had found two officers + to carry his message. I produced the seized cards (which Romayne had + brought away with him in his pocket), and offered them as a formal proof + that my friend had not been mistaken. + </p> + <p> + The seconds—evidently prepared for this circumstance by their + principal—declined to examine the cards. In the first place, they + said, not even the discovery of foul play (supposing the discovery to have + been really made) could justify Romayne’s conduct. In the second place, + the General’s high character made it impossible, under any circumstances, + that he could be responsible. Like ourselves, he had rashly associated + with bad company; and he had been the innocent victim of an error or a + fraud, committed by some other person present at the table. + </p> + <p> + Driven to my last resource, I could now only base my refusal to receive + the challenge on the ground that we were Englishmen, and that the practice + of dueling had been abolished in England. Both the seconds at once + declined to accept this statement in justification of my conduct. + </p> + <p> + “You are now in France,” said the elder of the two, “where a duel is the + established remedy for an insult, among gentlemen. You are bound to + respect the social laws of the country in which you are for the time + residing. If you refuse to do so, you lay yourselves open to a public + imputation on your courage, of a nature too degrading to be more + particularly alluded to. Let us adjourn this interview for three hours on + the ground of informality. We ought to confer with <i>two</i> gentlemen, + acting on Mr. Romayne’s behalf. Be prepared with another second to meet + us, and reconsider your decision before we call again.” + </p> + <p> + The Frenchmen had barely taken their departure by one door, when Romayne + entered by another. + </p> + <p> + “I have heard it all,” he said, quietly. “Accept the challenge.” + </p> + <p> + I declare solemnly that I left no means untried of opposing my friend’s + resolution. No man could have felt more strongly convinced than I did, + that nothing could justify the course he was taking. My remonstrances were + completely thrown away. He was deaf to sense and reason, from the moment + when he had heard an imputation on his courage suggested as a possible + result of any affair in which he was concerned. + </p> + <p> + “With your views,” he said, “I won’t ask you to accompany me to the + ground. I can easily find French seconds. And mind this, if you attempt to + prevent the meeting, the duel will take place elsewhere—and our + friendship is at an end from that moment.” + </p> + <p> + After this, I suppose it is needless to add that I accompanied him to the + ground the next morning as one of his seconds. + </p> + <p class="center"> + V. + </p> + <p> + WE were punctual to the appointed hour—eight o’clock. + </p> + <p> + The second who acted with me was a French gentleman, a relative of one of + the officers who had brought the challenge. At his suggestion, we had + chosen the pistol as our weapon. Romayne, like most Englishmen at the + present time, knew nothing of the use of the sword. He was almost equally + inexperienced with the pistol. + </p> + <p> + Our opponents were late. They kept us waiting for more than ten minutes. + It was not pleasant weather to wait in. The day had dawned damp and + drizzling. A thick white fog was slowly rolling in on us from the sea. + </p> + <p> + When they did appear, the General was not among them. A tall, well-dressed + young man saluted Romayne with stern courtesy, and said to a stranger who + accompanied him: “Explain the circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger proved to be a surgeon. He entered at once on the necessary + explanation. The General was too ill to appear. He had been attacked that + morning by a fit—the consequence of the blow that he had received. + Under these circumstances, his eldest son (Maurice) was now on the ground + to fight the duel on his father’s behalf; attended by the General’s + seconds, and with the General’s full approval. + </p> + <p> + We instantly refused to allow the duel to take place, Romayne loudly + declaring that he had no quarrel with the General’s son. Upon this, + Maurice broke away from his seconds; drew off one of his gloves; and + stepping close up to Romayne, struck him on the face with the glove. “Have + you no quarrel with me now?” the young Frenchman asked. “Must I spit on + you, as my father did?” His seconds dragged him away, and apologized to us + for the outbreak. But the mischief was done. Romayne’s fiery temper + flashed in his eyes. “Load the pistols,” he said. After the insult + publicly offered to him, and the outrage publicly threatened, there was no + other course to take. + </p> + <p> + It had been left to us to produce the pistols. We therefore requested the + seconds of our opponent to examine and to load them. While this was being + done, the advancing sea-fog so completely enveloped us that the duelists + were unable to see each other. We were obliged to wait for the chance of a + partial clearing in the atmosphere. Romayne’s temper had become calm + again. The generosity of his nature spoke in the words which he now + addressed to his seconds. “After all,” he said, “the young man is a good + son—he is bent on redressing what he believes to be his father’s + wrong. Does his flipping his glove in my face matter to me? I think I + shall fire in the air.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall refuse to act as your second if you do,” answered the French + gentleman who was assisting us. “The General’s son is famous for his skill + with the pistol. If you didn’t see it in his face just now, I did—he + means to kill you. Defend your life, sir!” I spoke quite as strongly, to + the same purpose, when my turn came. Romayne yielded—he placed + himself unreservedly in our hands. + </p> + <p> + In a quarter of an hour the fog lifted a little. We measured the distance, + having previously arranged (at my suggestion) that the two men should both + fire at the same moment, at a given signal. Romayne’s composure, as they + faced each other, was, in a man of his irritable nervous temperament, + really wonderful. I placed him sidewise, in a position which in some + degree lessened his danger, by lessening the surface exposed to the + bullet. My French colleague put the pistol into his hand, and gave him the + last word of advice. “Let your arm hang loosely down, with the barrel of + the pistol pointing straight to the ground. When you hear the signal, only + lift your arm as far as the elbow; keep the elbow pressed against your + side—and fire.” We could do no more for him. As we drew aside—I + own it—my tongue was like a cinder in my mouth, and a horrid inner + cold crept through me to the marrow of my bones. + </p> + <p> + The signal was given, and the two shots were fired at the same time. + </p> + <p> + My first look was at Romayne. He took off his hat, and handed it to me + with a smile. His adversary’s bullet had cut a piece out of the brim of + his hat, on the right side. He had literally escaped by a hair-breadth. + </p> + <p> + While I was congratulating him, the fog gathered again more thickly than + ever. Looking anxiously toward the ground occupied by our adversaries, we + could only see vague, shadowy forms hurriedly crossing and recrossing each + other in the mist. Something had happened! My French colleague took my arm + and pressed it significantly. “Leave <i>me</i> to inquire,” he said. + Romayne tried to follow; I held him back—we neither of us exchanged + a word. + </p> + <p> + The fog thickened and thickened, until nothing was to be seen. Once we + heard the surgeon’s voice, calling impatiently for a light to help him. No + light appeared that <i>we</i> could see. Dreary as the fog itself, the + silence gathered round us again. On a sudden it was broken, horribly + broken, by another voice, strange to both of us, shrieking hysterically + through the impenetrable mist. “Where is he?” the voice cried, in the + French language. “Assassin! Assassin! where are you?” Was it a woman? or + was it a boy? We heard nothing more. The effect upon Romayne was terrible + to see. He who had calmly confronted the weapon lifted to kill him, + shuddered dumbly like a terror-stricken animal. I put my arm round him, + and hurried him away from the place. + </p> + <p> + We waited at the hotel until our French friend joined us. After a brief + interval he appeared, announcing that the surgeon would follow him. + </p> + <p> + The duel had ended fatally. The chance course of the bullet, urged by + Romayne’s unpracticed hand, had struck the General’s son just above the + right nostril—had penetrated to the back of his neck—and had + communicated a fatal shock to the spinal marrow. He was a dead man before + they could take him back to his father’s house. + </p> + <p> + So far, our fears were confirmed. But there was something else to tell, + for which our worst presentiments had not prepared us. + </p> + <p> + A younger brother of the fallen man (a boy of thirteen years old) had + secretly followed the dueling party, on their way from his father’s house—had + hidden himself—and had seen the dreadful end. The seconds only knew + of it when he burst out of his place of concealment, and fell on his knees + by his dying brother’s side. His were the frightful cries which we had + heard from invisible lips. The slayer of his brother was the “assassin” + whom he had vainly tried to discover through the fathomless obscurity of + the mist. + </p> + <p> + We both looked at Romayne. He silently looked back at us, like a man + turned to stone. I tried to reason with him. + </p> + <p> + “Your life was at your opponent’s mercy,” I said. “It was <i>he</i> who + was skilled in the use of the pistol; your risk was infinitely greater + than his. Are you responsible for an accident? Rouse yourself, Romayne! + Think of the time to come, when all this will be forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “Never,” he said, “to the end of my life.” + </p> + <p> + He made that reply in dull, monotonous tones. His eyes looked wearily and + vacantly straight before him. I spoke to him again. He remained + impenetrably silent; he appeared not to hear, or not to understand me. The + surgeon came in, while I was still at a loss what to say or do next. + Without waiting to be asked for his opinion, he observed Romayne + attentively, and then drew me away into the next room. + </p> + <p> + “Your friend is suffering from a severe nervous shock,” he said. “Can you + tell me anything of his habits of life?” + </p> + <p> + I mentioned the prolonged night studies and the excessive use of tea. The + surgeon shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “If you want my advice,” he proceeded, “take him home at once. Don’t + subject him to further excitement, when the result of the duel is known in + the town. If it ends in our appearing in a court of law, it will be a mere + formality in this case, and you can surrender when the time comes. Leave + me your address in London.” + </p> + <p> + I felt that the wisest thing I could do was to follow his advice. The boat + crossed to Folkestone at an early hour that day—we had no time to + lose. Romayne offered no objection to our return to England; he seemed + perfectly careless what became of him. “Leave me quiet,” he said; “and do + as you like.” I wrote a few lines to Lady Berrick’s medical attendant, + informing him of the circumstances. A quarter of an hour afterward we were + on board the steamboat. + </p> + <p> + There were very few passengers. After we had left the harbor, my attention + was attracted by a young English lady—traveling, apparently, with + her mother. As we passed her on the deck she looked at Romayne with + compassionate interest so vividly expressed in her beautiful face that I + imagined they might be acquainted. With some difficulty, I prevailed + sufficiently over the torpor that possessed him to induce him to look at + our fellow passenger. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that charming person?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he replied, with the weariest indifference. “I never saw her before. + I’m tired—tired—tired! Don’t speak to me; leave me by myself.” + </p> + <p> + I left him. His rare personal attractions—of which, let me add, he + never appeared to be conscious—had evidently made their natural + appeal to the interest and admiration of the young lady who had met him by + chance. The expression of resigned sadness and suffering, now visible in + his face, added greatly no doubt to the influence that he had + unconsciously exercised over the sympathies of a delicate and sensitive + woman. It was no uncommon circumstance in his past experience of the sex—as + I myself well knew—to be the object, not of admiration only, but of + true and ardent love. He had never reciprocated the passion—had + never even appeared to take it seriously. Marriage might, as the phrase + is, be the salvation of him. Would he ever marry? + </p> + <p> + Leaning over the bulwark, idly pursuing this train of thought, I was + recalled to present things by a low sweet voice—the voice of the + lady of whom I had been thinking. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me for disturbing you,” she said; “I think your friend wants you.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with the modesty and self-possession of a highly-bred woman. A + little heightening of her color made her, to my eyes, more beautiful than + ever. I thanked her, and hastened back to Romayne. + </p> + <p> + He was standing by the barred skylight which guarded the machinery. I + instantly noticed a change in him. His eyes wandering here and there, in + search of me, had more than recovered their animation—there was a + wild look of terror in them. He seized me roughly by the arm and pointed + down to the engine-room. + </p> + <p> + “What do you hear there?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I hear the thump of the engines.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing else?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. What do <i>you</i> hear?” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly turned away. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you,” he said, “when we get on shore.” <a name="link_4_0003" + id="link_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + SECOND SCENE.—VANGE ABBEY.—THE FOREWARNINGS + </h2> + <h3> + VI. + </h3> + <p> + As we approached the harbor at Folkestone, Romayne’s agitation appeared to + subside. His head drooped; his eyes half closed—he looked like a + weary man quietly falling asleep. + </p> + <p> + On leaving the steamboat, I ventured to ask our charming fellow-passenger + if I could be of any service in reserving places in the London train for + her mother and herself. She thanked me, and said they were going to visit + some friends at Folkestone. In making this reply, she looked at Romayne. + “I am afraid he is very ill,” she said, in gently lowered tones. Before I + could answer, her mother turned to her with an expression of surprise, and + directed her attention to the friends whom she had mentioned, waiting to + greet her. Her last look, as they took her away, rested tenderly and + sorrowfully on Romayne. He never returned it—he was not even aware + of it. As I led him to the train he leaned more and more heavily on my + arm. Seated in the carriage, he sank at once into profound sleep. + </p> + <p> + We drove to the hotel at which my friend was accustomed to reside when he + was in London. His long sleep on the journey seemed, in some degree, to + have relieved him. We dined together in his private room. When the + servants had withdrawn, I found that the unhappy result of the duel was + still preying on his mind. + </p> + <p> + “The horror of having killed that man,” he said, “is more than I can bear + alone. For God’s sake, don’t leave me!” + </p> + <p> + I had received letters at Boulogne, which informed me that my wife and + family had accepted an invitation to stay with some friends at the + sea-side. Under these circumstances I was entirely at his service. Having + quieted his anxiety on this point, I reminded him of what had passed + between us on board the steamboat. He tried to change the subject. My + curiosity was too strongly aroused to permit this; I persisted in helping + his memory. + </p> + <p> + “We were looking into the engine-room,” I said; “and you asked me what I + heard there. You promised to tell me what <i>you</i> heard, as soon as we + got on shore—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped me, before I could say more. + </p> + <p> + “I begin to think it was a delusion,” he answered. “You ought not to + interpret too literally what a person in my dreadful situation may say. + The stain of another man’s blood is on me—” + </p> + <p> + I interrupted him in my turn. “I refuse to hear you speak of yourself in + that way,” I said. “You are no more responsible for the Frenchman’s death + than if you had been driving, and had accidentally run over him in the + street. I am not the right companion for a man who talks as you do. The + proper person to be with you is a doctor.” I really felt irritated with + him—and I saw no reason for concealing it. + </p> + <p> + Another man, in his place, might have been offended with me. There was a + native sweetness in Romayne’s disposition, which asserted itself even in + his worst moments of nervous irritability. He took my hand. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be hard on me,” he pleaded. “I will try to think of it as you do. + Make some little concession on your side. I want to see how I get through + the night. We will return to what I said to you on board the steamboat + to-morrow morning. Is it agreed?” + </p> + <p> + It was agreed, of course. There was a door of communication between our + bedrooms. At his suggestion it was left open. “If I find I can’t sleep,” + he explained, “I want to feel assured that you can hear me if I call to + you.” + </p> + <p> + Three times in the night I woke, and, seeing the light burning in his + room, looked in at him. He always carried some of his books with him when + he traveled. On each occasion when I entered the room, he was reading + quietly. “I suppose I forestalled my night’s sleep on the railway,” he + said. “It doesn’t matter; I am content. Something that I was afraid of has + not happened. I am used to wakeful nights. Go back to bed, and don’t be + uneasy about me.” + </p> + <p> + The next morning the deferred explanation was put off again. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind waiting a little longer?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not if you particularly wish it.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you do me another favor? You know that I don’t like London. The + noise in the streets is distracting. Besides, I may tell you I have a sort + of distrust of noise, since—” He stopped, with an appearance of + confusion. + </p> + <p> + “Since I found you looking into the engine-room?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I don’t feel inclined to trust the chances of another night in + London. I want to try the effect of perfect quiet. Do you mind going back + with me to Vange? Dull as the place is, you can amuse yourself. There is + good shooting, as you know.” + </p> + <p> + In an hour more we had left London. + </p> + <p class="center"> + VII. + </p> + <p> + VANGE ABBEY is, I suppose, the most solitary country house in England. If + Romayne wanted quiet, it was exactly the place for him. + </p> + <p> + On the rising ground of one of the wildest moors in the North Riding of + Yorkshire, the ruins of the old monastery are visible from all points of + the compass. There are traditions of thriving villages clustering about + the Abbey, in the days of the monks, and of hostleries devoted to the + reception of pilgrims from every part of the Christian world. Not a + vestige of these buildings is left. They were deserted by the pious + inhabitants, it is said, at the time when Henry the Eighth suppressed the + monasteries, and gave the Abbey and the broad lands of Vange to his + faithful friend and courtier, Sir Miles Romayne. In the next generation, + the son and heir of Sir Miles built the dwelling-house, helping himself + liberally from the solid stone walls of the monastery. With some + unimportant alterations and repairs, the house stands, defying time and + weather, to the present day. + </p> + <p> + At the last station on the railway the horses were waiting for us. It was + a lovely moonlight night, and we shortened the distance considerably by + taking the bridle path over the moor. Between nine and ten o’clock we + reached the Abbey. + </p> + <p> + Years had passed since I had last been Romayne’s guest. Nothing, out of + the house or in the house, seemed to have undergone any change in the + interval. Neither the good North-country butler, nor his buxom Scotch + wife, skilled in cookery, looked any older: they received me as if I had + left them a day or two since, and had come back again to live in + Yorkshire. My well-remembered bedroom was waiting for me; and the + matchless old Madeira welcomed us when my host and I met in the + inner-hall, which was the ordinary dining-room of the Abbey. + </p> + <p> + As we faced each other at the well-spread table, I began to hope that the + familiar influences of his country home were beginning already to breathe + their blessed quiet over the disturbed mind of Romayne. In the presence of + his faithful old servants, he seemed to be capable of controlling the + morbid remorse that oppressed him. He spoke to them composedly and kindly; + he was affectionately glad to see his old friend once more in the old + house. + </p> + <p> + When we were near the end of our meal, something happened that startled + me. I had just handed the wine to Romayne, and he had filled his glass—when + he suddenly turned pale, and lifted his head like a man whose attention is + unexpectedly roused. No person but ourselves was in the room; I was not + speaking to him at the time. He looked round suspiciously at the door + behind him, leading into the library, and rang the old-fashioned handbell + which stood by him on the table. The servant was directed to close the + door. + </p> + <p> + “Are you cold?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “No.” He reconsidered that brief answer, and contradicted himself. “Yes—the + library fire has burned low, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + In my position at the table, I had seen the fire: the grate was heaped + with blazing coals and wood. I said nothing. The pale change in his face, + and his contradictory reply, roused doubts in me which I had hoped never + to feel again. + </p> + <p> + He pushed away his glass of wine, and still kept his eyes fixed on the + closed door. His attitude and expression were plainly suggestive of the + act of listening. Listening to what? + </p> + <p> + After an interval, he abruptly addressed me. “Do you call it a quiet + night?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “As quiet as quiet can be,” I replied. “The wind has dropped—and + even the fire doesn’t crackle. Perfect stillness indoors and out.” + </p> + <p> + “Out?” he repeated. For a moment he looked at me intently, as if I had + started some new idea in his mind. I asked as lightly as I could if I had + said anything to surprise him. Instead of answering me, he sprang to his + feet with a cry of terror, and left the room. + </p> + <p> + I hardly knew what to do. It was impossible, unless he returned + immediately to let this extraordinary proceeding pass without notice. + After waiting for a few minutes I rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + The old butler came in. He looked in blank amazement at the empty chair. + “Where’s the master?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + I could only answer that he had left the table suddenly, without a word of + explanation. “He may perhaps be ill,” I added. “As his old servant, you + can do no harm if you go and look for him. Say that I am waiting here, if + he wants me.” + </p> + <p> + The minutes passed slowly and more slowly. I was left alone for so long a + time that I began to feel seriously uneasy. My hand was on the bell again, + when there was a knock at the door. I had expected to see the butler. It + was the groom who entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “Garthwaite can’t come down to you, sir,” said the man. “He asks, if you + will please go up to the master on the Belvidere.” + </p> + <p> + The house—extending round three sides of a square—was only two + stories high. The flat roof, accessible through a species of hatchway, and + still surrounded by its sturdy stone parapet, was called “The Belvidere,” + in reference as usual to the fine view which it commanded. Fearing I knew + not what, I mounted the ladder which led to the roof. Romayne received me + with a harsh outburst of laughter—that saddest false laughter which + is true trouble in disguise. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s something to amuse you!” he cried. “I believe old Garthwaite + thinks I am drunk—he won’t leave me up here by myself.” + </p> + <p> + Letting this strange assertion remain unanswered, the butler withdrew. As + he passed me on his way to the ladder, he whispered: “Be careful of the + master! I tell you, sir, he has a bee in his bonnet this night.” + </p> + <p> + Although not of the north country myself, I knew the meaning of the + phrase. Garthwaite suspected that the master was nothing less than mad! + </p> + <p> + Romayne took my arm when we were alone—we walked slowly from end to + end of the Belvidere. The moon was, by this time, low in the heavens; but + her mild mysterious light still streamed over the roof of the house and + the high heathy ground round it. I looked attentively at Romayne. He was + deadly pale; his hand shook as it rested on my arm—and that was all. + Neither in look nor manner did he betray the faintest sign of mental + derangement. He had perhaps needlessly alarmed the faithful old servant by + something that he had said or done. I determined to clear up that doubt + immediately. + </p> + <p> + “You left the table very suddenly,” I said. “Did you feel ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Not ill,” he replied. “I was frightened. Look at me—I’m frightened + still.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + Instead of answering, he repeated the strange question which he had put to + me downstairs. + </p> + <p> + “Do you call it a quiet night?” + </p> + <p> + Considering the time of year, and the exposed situation of the house, the + night was almost preternaturally quiet. Throughout the vast open country + all round us, not even a breath of air could be heard. The night-birds + were away, or were silent at the time. But one sound was audible, when we + stood still and listened—the cool quiet bubble of a little stream, + lost to view in the valley-ground to the south. + </p> + <p> + “I have told you already,” I said. “So still a night I never remember on + this Yorkshire moor.” + </p> + <p> + He laid one hand heavily on my shoulder. “What did the poor boy say of me, + whose brother I killed?” he asked. “What words did we hear through the + dripping darkness of the mist?” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t encourage you to think of them. I refuse to repeat the words.” + </p> + <p> + He pointed over the northward parapet. + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t matter whether you accept or refuse,” he said, “I hear the boy + at this moment—there!” + </p> + <p> + He repeated the horrid words—marking the pauses in the utterance of + them with his finger, as if they were sounds that he heard: + </p> + <p> + “Assassin! Assassin! where are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” I cried. “You don’t mean that you really <i>hear</i> the + voice?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear what I say? I hear the boy as plainly as you hear me. The + voice screams at me through the clear moonlight, as it screamed at me + through the sea-fog. Again and again. It’s all round the house. <i>That</i> + way now, where the light just touches on the tops of the heather. Tell the + servants to have the horses ready the first thing in the morning. We leave + Vange Abbey to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + These were wild words. If he had spoken them wildly, I might have shared + the butler’s conclusion that his mind was deranged. There was no undue + vehemence in his voice or his manner. He spoke with a melancholy + resignation—he seemed like a prisoner submitting to a sentence that + he had deserved. Remembering the cases of men suffering from nervous + disease who had been haunted by apparitions, I asked if he saw any + imaginary figure under the form of a boy. + </p> + <p> + “I see nothing,” he said; “I only hear. Look yourself. It is in the last + degree improbable—but let us make sure that nobody has followed me + from Boulogne, and is playing me a trick.” + </p> + <p> + We made the circuit of the Belvidere. On its eastward side the house wall + was built against one of the towers of the old Abbey. On the westward + side, the ground sloped steeply down to a deep pool or tarn. Northward and + southward, there was nothing to be seen but the open moor. Look where I + might, with the moonlight to make the view plain to me, the solitude was + as void of any living creature as if we had been surrounded by the awful + dead world of the moon. + </p> + <p> + “Was it the boy’s voice that you heard on the voyage across the Channel?” + I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I heard it for the first time—down in the engine-room; rising + and falling, rising and falling, like the sound of the engines + themselves.” + </p> + <p> + “And when did you hear it again?” + </p> + <p> + “I feared to hear it in London. It left me, I should have told you, when + we stepped ashore out of the steamboat. I was afraid that the noise of the + traffic in the streets might bring it back to me. As you know, I passed a + quiet night. I had the hope that my imagination had deceived me—that + I was the victim of a delusion, as people say. It is no delusion. In the + perfect tranquillity of this place the voice has come back to me. While we + were at table I heard it again—behind me, in the library. I heard it + still, when the door was shut. I ran up here to try if it would follow me + into the open air. It <i>has</i> followed me. We may as well go down again + into the hall. I know now that there is no escaping from it. My dear old + home has become horrible to me. Do you mind returning to London tomorrow?” + </p> + <p> + What I felt and feared in this miserable state of things matters little. + The one chance I could see for Romayne was to obtain the best medical + advice. I sincerely encouraged his idea of going back to London the next + day. + </p> + <p> + We had sat together by the hall fire for about ten minutes, when he took + out his handkerchief, and wiped away the perspiration from his forehead, + drawing a deep breath of relief. “It has gone!” he said faintly. + </p> + <p> + “When you hear the boy’s voice,” I asked, “do you hear it continuously?” + </p> + <p> + “No, at intervals; sometimes longer, sometimes shorter.” + </p> + <p> + “And thus far, it comes to you suddenly, and leaves you suddenly?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do my questions annoy you?” + </p> + <p> + “I make no complaint,” he said sadly. “You can see for yourself—I + patiently suffer the punishment that I have deserved.” + </p> + <p> + I contradicted him at once. “It is nothing of the sort! It’s a nervous + malady, which medical science can control and cure. Wait till we get to + London.” + </p> + <p> + This expression of opinion produced no effect on him. + </p> + <p> + “I have taken the life of a fellow-creature,” he said. “I have closed the + career of a young man who, but for me, might have lived long and happily + and honorably. Say what you may, I am of the race of Cain. <i>He</i> had + the mark set on his brow. I have <i>my</i> ordeal. Delude yourself, if you + like, with false hopes. I can endure—and hope for nothing. + Good-night.” + </p> + <p class="center"> + VIII. + </p> + <p> + EARLY the next morning, the good old butler came to me, in great + perturbation, for a word of advice. + </p> + <p> + “Do come, sir, and look at the master! I can’t find it in my heart to wake + him.” + </p> + <p> + It was time to wake him, if we were to go to London that day. I went into + the bedroom. Although I was no doctor, the restorative importance of that + profound and quiet sleep impressed itself on me so strongly, that I took + the responsibility of leaving him undisturbed. The event proved that I had + acted wisely. He slept until noon. There was no return of “the torment of + the voice”—as he called it, poor fellow. We passed a quiet day, + excepting one little interruption, which I am warned not to pass over + without a word of record in this narrative. + </p> + <p> + We had returned from a ride. Romayne had gone into the library to read; + and I was just leaving the stables, after a look at some recent + improvements, when a pony-chaise with a gentleman in it drove up to the + door. He asked politely if he might be allowed to see the house. There + were some fine pictures at Vange, as well as many interesting relics of + antiquity; and the rooms were shown, in Romayne’s absence, to the very few + travelers who were adventurous enough to cross the heathy desert that + surrounded the Abbey. On this occasion, the stranger was informed that Mr. + Romayne was at home. He at once apologized—with an appearance of + disappointment, however, which induced me to step forward and speak to + him. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Romayne is not very well,” I said; “and I cannot venture to ask you + into the house. But you will be welcome, I am sure, to walk round the + grounds, and to look at the ruins of the Abbey.” + </p> + <p> + He thanked me, and accepted the invitation. I find no great difficulty in + describing him, generally. He was elderly, fat and cheerful; buttoned up + in a long black frockcoat, and presenting that closely shaven face and + that inveterate expression of watchful humility about the eyes, which we + all associate with the reverend personality of a priest. + </p> + <p> + To my surprise, he seemed, in some degree at least, to know his way about + the place. He made straight for the dreary little lake which I have + already mentioned, and stood looking at it with an interest which was so + incomprehensible to me, that I own I watched him. + </p> + <p> + He ascended the slope of the moorland, and entered the gate which led to + the grounds. All that the gardeners had done to make the place attractive + failed to claim his attention. He walked past lawns, shrubs, and + flower-beds, and only stopped at an old stone fountain, which tradition + declared to have been one of the ornaments of the garden in the time of + the monks. Having carefully examined this relic of antiquity, he took a + sheet of paper from his pocket, and consulted it attentively. It might + have been a plan of the house and grounds, or it might not—I can + only report that he took the path which led him, by the shortest way, to + the ruined Abbey church. + </p> + <p> + As he entered the roofless inclosure, he reverently removed his hat. It + was impossible for me to follow him any further, without exposing myself + to the risk of discovery. I sat down on one of the fallen stones, waiting + to see him again. It must have been at least half an hour before he + appeared. He thanked me for my kindness, as composedly as if he had quite + expected to find me in the place that I occupied. + </p> + <p> + “I have been deeply interested in all that I have seen,” he said. “May I + venture to ask, what is perhaps an indiscreet question on the part of a + stranger?” + </p> + <p> + I ventured, on my side, to inquire what the question might be. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Romayne is indeed fortunate,” he resumed, “in the possession of this + beautiful place. He is a young man, I think?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he married?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse my curiosity. The owner of Vange Abbey is an interesting person to + all good antiquaries like myself. Many thanks again. Good-day.” + </p> + <p> + His pony-chaise took him away. His last look rested—not on me—but + on the old Abbey. + </p> + <p class="center"> + IX. + </p> + <p> + MY record of events approaches its conclusion. + </p> + <p> + On the next day we returned to the hotel in London. At Romayne’s + suggestion, I sent the same evening to my own house for any letters which + might be waiting for me. His mind still dwelt on the duel; he was morbidly + eager to know if any communication had been received from the French + surgeon. + </p> + <p> + When the messenger returned with my letters, the Boulogne postmark was on + one of the envelopes. At Romayne’s entreaty, this was the letter that I + opened first. The surgeon’s signature was at the end. + </p> + <p> + One motive for anxiety—on my part—was set at rest in the first + lines. After an official inquiry into the circumstances, the French + authorities had decided that it was not expedient to put the survivor of + the duelists on his trial before a court of law. No jury, hearing the + evidence, would find him guilty of the only charge that could be formally + brought against him—the charge of “homicide by premeditation.” + Homicide by misadventure, occurring in a duel, was not a punishable + offense by the French law. My correspondent cited many cases in proof of + it, strengthened by the publicly-expressed opinion of the illustrious + Berryer himself. In a word, we had nothing to fear. + </p> + <p> + The next page of the letter informed us that the police had surprised the + card playing community with whom we had spent the evening at Boulogne, and + that the much-bejeweled old landlady had been sent to prison for the + offense of keeping a gambling-house. It was suspected in the town that the + General was more or less directly connected with certain disreputable + circumstances discovered by the authorities. In any case, he had retired + from active service. + </p> + <p> + He and his wife and family had left Boulogne, and had gone away in debt. + No investigation had thus far succeeded in discovering the place of their + retreat. + </p> + <p> + Reading this letter aloud to Romayne, I was interrupted by him at the last + sentence. + </p> + <p> + “The inquiries must have been carelessly made,” he said. “I will see to it + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “What interest can you have in the inquiries?” I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “The strongest possible interest,” he answered. “It has been my one hope + to make some little atonement to the poor people whom I have so cruelly + wronged. If the wife and children are in distressed circumstances (which + seems to be only too likely) I may place them beyond the reach of anxiety—anonymously, + of course. Give me the surgeon’s address. I shall write instructions for + tracing them at my expense—merely announcing that an Unknown Friend + desires to be of service to the General’s family.” + </p> + <p> + This appeared to me to be a most imprudent thing to do. I said so plainly—and + quite in vain. With his customary impetuosity, he wrote the letter at + once, and sent it to the post that night. + </p> + <p class="center"> + X. + </p> + <p> + ON the question of submitting himself to medical advice (which I now + earnestly pressed upon him), Romayne was disposed to be equally + unreasonable. But in this case, events declared themselves in my favor. + </p> + <p> + Lady Berrick’s last reserves of strength had given way. She had been + brought to London in a dying state while we were at Vange Abbey. Romayne + was summoned to his aunt’s bedside on the third day of our residence at + the hotel, and was present at her death. The impression produced on his + mind roused the better part of his nature. He was more distrustful of + himself, more accessible to persuasion than usual. In this gentler frame + of mind he received a welcome visit from an old friend, to whom he was + sincerely attached. The visit—of no great importance in itself—led, + as I have since been informed, to very serious events in Romayne’s later + life. For this reason, I briefly relate what took place within my own + healing. + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring—well known in society as the head of an old English + Catholic family, and the possessor of a magnificent gallery of pictures—was + distressed by the change for the worse which he perceived in Romayne when + he called at the hotel. I was present when they met, and rose to leave the + room, feeling that the two friends might perhaps be embarrassed by the + presence of a third person. Romayne called me back. “Lord Loring ought to + know what has happened to me,” he said. “I have no heart to speak of it + myself. Tell him everything, and if he agrees with you, I will submit to + see the doctors.” With those words he left us together. + </p> + <p> + It is almost needless to say that Lord Loring did agree with me. He was + himself disposed to think that the moral remedy, in Romayne’s case, might + prove to be the best remedy. + </p> + <p> + “With submission to what the doctors may decide,” his lordship said, “the + right thing to do, in my opinion, is to divert our friend’s mind from + himself. I see a plain necessity for making a complete change in the + solitary life that he has been leading for years past. Why shouldn’t he + marry? A woman’s influence, by merely giving a new turn to his thoughts, + might charm away that horrible voice which haunts him. Perhaps you think + this a merely sentimental view of the case? Look at it practically, if you + like, and you come to the same conclusion. With that fine estate—and + with the fortune which he has now inherited from his aunt—it is his + duty to marry. Don’t you agree with me?” + </p> + <p> + “I agree most cordially. But I see serious difficulties in your lordship’s + way. Romayne dislikes society; and, as to marrying, his coldness toward + women seems (so far as I can judge) to be one of the incurable defects of + his character.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring smiled. “My dear sir, nothing of that sort is incurable, if we + can only find the right woman.” + </p> + <p> + The tone in which he spoke suggested to me that he had got “the right + woman”—and I took the liberty of saying so. He at once acknowledged + that I had guessed right. + </p> + <p> + “Romayne is, as you say, a difficult subject to deal with,” he resumed. + “If I commit the slightest imprudence, I shall excite his suspicion—and + there will be an end of my hope of being of service to him. I shall + proceed carefully, I can tell you. Luckily, poor dear fellow, he is fond + of pictures! It’s quite natural that I should ask him to see some recent + additions to my gallery—isn’t it? There is the trap that I set! I + have a sweet girl to tempt him, staying at my house, who is a little out + of health and spirits herself. At the right moment, I shall send word + upstairs. She may well happen to look in at the gallery (by the merest + accident) just at the time when Romayne is looking at my new pictures. The + rest depends, of course, on, the effect she produces. If you knew her, I + believe you would agree with me that the experiment is worth trying.” + </p> + <p> + Not knowing the lady, I had little faith in the success of the experiment. + No one, however, could doubt Lord Loring’s admirable devotion to his + friend—and with that I was fain to be content. + </p> + <p> + When Romayne returned to us, it was decided to submit his case to a + consultation of physicians at the earliest possible moment. When Lord + Loring took his departure, I accompanied him to the door of the hotel, + perceiving that he wished to say a word more to me in private. He had, it + seemed, decided on waiting for the result of the medical consultation + before he tried the effect of the young lady’s attractions; and he wished + to caution me against speaking prematurely of visiting the picture gallery + to our friend. + </p> + <p> + Not feeling particularly interested in these details of the worthy + nobleman’s little plot, I looked at his carriage, and privately admired + the two splendid horses that drew it. The footman opened the door for his + master, and I became aware, for the first time, that a gentleman had + accompanied Lord Loring to the hotel, and had waited for him in the + carriage. The gentleman bent forward, and looked up from a book that he + was reading. To my astonishment, I recognized the elderly, fat and + cheerful priest who had shown such a knowledge of localities, and such an + extraordinary interest in Vange Abbey! + </p> + <p> + It struck me as an odd coincidence that I should see the man again in + London, so soon after I had met with him in Yorkshire. This was all I + thought about it, at the time. If I had known then, what I know now, I + might have dreamed, let us say, of throwing that priest into the lake at + Vange, and might have reckoned the circumstance among the wisely-improved + opportunities of my life. + </p> + <p> + To return to the serious interests of the present narrative, I may now + announce that my evidence as an eye-witness of events has come to an end. + The day after Lord Loring’s visit, domestic troubles separated me, to my + most sincere regret, from Romayne. I have only to add, that the foregoing + narrative of personal experience has been written with a due sense of + responsibility, and that it may be depended on throughout as an exact + statement of the truth. + </p> + <p> + JOHN PHILIP HYND, (late Major, 110th Regiment). <a name="link_4_0004" + id="link_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORY. <a name="link_4_0005" id="link_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK THE FIRST. <a name="linkCH0001" id="linkCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <h3> + THE CONFIDENCES. + </h3> + <p> + IN an upper room of one of the palatial houses which are situated on the + north side of Hyde Park, two ladies sat at breakfast, and gossiped over + their tea. + </p> + <p> + The elder of the two was Lady Loring—still in the prime of life; + possessed of the golden hair and the clear blue eyes, the + delicately-florid complexion, and the freely developed figure, which are + among the favorite attractions popularly associated with the beauty of + Englishwomen. Her younger companion was the unknown lady admired by Major + Hynd on the sea passage from France to England. With hair and eyes of the + darkest brown; with a pure pallor of complexion, only changing to a faint + rose tint in moments of agitation; with a tall graceful figure, + incompletely developed in substance and strength—she presented an + almost complete contrast to Lady Loring. Two more opposite types of beauty + it would have been hardly possible to place at the same table. + </p> + <p> + The servant brought in the letters of the morning. Lady Loring ran through + her correspondence rapidly, pushed away the letters in a heap, and poured + herself out a second cup of tea. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing interesting this morning for me,” she said. “Any news of your + mother, Stella?” + </p> + <p> + The young lady handed an open letter to her hostess, with a faint smile. + “See for yourself, Adelaide,” she answered, with the tender sweetness of + tone which made her voice irresistibly charming—“and tell me if + there were ever two women so utterly unlike each other as my mother and + myself.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring ran through the letter, as she had run through her own + correspondence. “Never, dearest Stella, have I enjoyed myself as I do in + this delightful country house—twenty-seven at dinner every day, + without including the neighbors—a little carpet dance every evening—we + play billiards, and go into the smoking room—the hounds meet three + times a week—all sorts of celebrities among the company, famous + beauties included—such dresses! such conversation!—and serious + duties, my dear, not neglected—high church and choral service in the + town on Sundays—recitations in the evening from Paradise Lost, by an + amateur elocutionist—oh, you foolish, headstrong child! why did you + make excuses and stay in London, when you might have accompanied me to + this earthly Paradise?—are you really ill?—my love to Lady + Loring—and of course, if you <i>are</i> ill, you must have medical + advice—they ask after you so kindly here—the first dinner bell + is ringing, before I have half done my letter—what <i>am</i> I to + wear?—why is my daughter not here to advise me,” etc., etc., etc. + </p> + <p> + “There is time to change your mind and advise your mother,” Lady Loring + remarked with grave irony as she returned the letter. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t even speak of it!” said Stella. “I really know no life that I + should not prefer to the life that my mother is enjoying at this moment. + What should I have done, Adelaide, if you had not offered me a happy + refuge in your house? <i>My</i> ‘earthly Paradise’ is here, where I am + allowed to dream away my time over my drawings and my books, and to resign + myself to poor health and low spirits, without being dragged into society, + and (worse still) threatened with that ‘medical advice’ in which, when she + isn’t threatened with it herself, my poor dear mother believes so + implicitly. I wish you would hire me as your ‘companion,’ and let me stay + here for the rest of my life.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring’s bright face became grave while Stella was speaking. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” she said kindly, “I know well how you love retirement, and how + differently you think and feel from other young women of your age. And I + am far from forgetting what sad circumstances have encouraged the natural + bent of your disposition. But, since you have been staying with me this + time, I see something in you which my intimate knowledge of your character + fails to explain. We have been friends since we were together at school—and, + in those old days, we never had any secrets from each other. You are + feeling some anxiety, or brooding over some sorrow, of which I know + nothing. I don’t ask for your confidence; I only tell you what I have + noticed—and I say with all my heart, Stella, I am sorry for you.” + </p> + <p> + She rose, and, with intuitive delicacy, changed the subject. “I am going + out earlier than usual this morning,” she resumed. “Is there anything I + can do for you?” She laid her hand tenderly on Stella’s shoulder, waiting + for the reply. Stella lifted the hand and kissed it with passionate + fondness. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think me ungrateful,” she said; “I am only ashamed.” Her head sank + on her bosom; she burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring waited by her in silence. She well knew the girl’s + self-contained nature, always shrinking, except in moments of violent + emotion, from the outward betrayal of its trials and its sufferings to + others. The true depth of feeling which is marked by this inbred modesty + is most frequently found in men. The few women who possess it are without + the communicative consolations of the feminine heart. They are the noblest—-and + but too often the unhappiest of their sex. + </p> + <p> + “Will you wait a little before you go out?” Stella asked softly. + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring returned to the chair that she had left—hesitated for a + moment—and then drew it nearer to Stella. “Shall I sit by you?” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “Close by me. You spoke of our school days just now Adelaide. There was + some difference between us. Of all the girls I was the youngest—and + you were the eldest, or nearly the eldest, I think?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite the eldest, my dear. There is a difference of ten years between us. + But why do you go back to that?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s only a recollection. My father was alive then. I was at first + home-sick and frightened in the strange place, among the big girls. You + used to let me hide my face on your shoulder, and tell me stories. May I + hide in the old way and tell <i>my</i> story?” + </p> + <p> + She was now the calmest of the two. The elder woman turned a little pale, + and looked down in silent anxiety at the darkly beautiful head that rested + on her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “After such an experience as mine has been,” said Stella, “would you think + it possible that I could ever again feel my heart troubled by a man—and + that man a stranger?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear! I think it quite possible. You are only now in your twenty-third + year. You were innocent of all blame at that wretched by-gone time which + you ought never to speak of again. Love and be happy, Stella—if you + can only find the man who is worthy of you. But you frighten me when you + speak of a stranger. Where did you meet with him?” + </p> + <p> + “On our way back from Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “Traveling in the same carriage with you?” + </p> + <p> + “No—it was in crossing the Channel. There were few travelers in the + steamboat, or I might never have noticed him.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he speak to you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think he even looked at me.” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn’t say much for his taste, Stella.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t understand. I mean, I have not explained myself properly. He + was leaning on the arm of a friend; weak and worn and wasted, as I + supposed, by some long and dreadful illness. There was an angelic + sweetness in his face—such patience! such resignation! For heaven’s + sake keep my secret. One hears of men falling in love with women at first + sight. But a woman who looks at a man, and feels—oh, it’s shameful! + I could hardly take my eyes off him. If he had looked at me in return, I + don’t know what I should have done—I burn when I think of it. He was + absorbed in his suffering and his sorrow. My last look at his beautiful + face was on the pier, before they took me away. The perfect image of him + has been in my heart ever since. In my dreams I see him as plainly as I + see you now. Don’t despise me, Adelaide!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, you interest me indescribably. Do you suppose he was in our rank + of life? I mean, of course, did he look like a gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “There could be no doubt of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Do try to describe him, Stella. Was he tall and well dressed?” + </p> + <p> + “Neither tall nor short—rather thin—quiet and graceful in all + his movements—dressed plainly, in perfect taste. How can I describe + him? When his friend brought him on board, he stood at the side of the + vessel, looking out thoughtfully toward the sea. Such eyes I never saw + before, Adelaide, in any human face—so divinely tender and sad—and + the color of them that dark violet blue, so uncommon and so beautiful—too + beautiful for a man. I may say the same of his hair. I saw it completely. + For a minute or two he removed his hat—his head was fevered, I think—and + he let the sea breeze blow over it. The pure light brown of his hair was + just warmed by a lovely reddish tinge. His beard was of the same color; + short and curling, like the beards of the Roman heroes one sees in + pictures. I shall never see him again—and it is best for me that I + shall not. What can I hope from a man who never once noticed me? But I <i>should</i> + like to hear that he had recovered his health and his tranquillity, and + that his life was a happy one. It has been a comfort to me, Adelaide, to + open my heart to you. I am getting bold enough to confess everything. + Would you laugh at me, I wonder, if I—?” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. Her pale complexion softly glowed into color; her grand dark + eyes brightened—she looked her loveliest at that moment. + </p> + <p> + “I am far more inclined, Stella, to cry over you than to laugh at you,” + said Lady Loring. “There is something, to my mind, very sad about this + adventure of yours. I wish I could find out who the man is. Even the best + description of a person falls so short of the reality!” + </p> + <p> + “I thought of showing you something,” Stella continued, “which might help + you to see him as I saw him. It’s only making one more acknowledgment of + my own folly.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean a portrait of him!” Lady Loring exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “The best that I could do from recollection,” Stella answered sadly. + </p> + <p> + “Bring it here directly!” + </p> + <p> + Stella left the room and returned with a little drawing in pencil. The + instant Lady Loring looked at it, she recognized Romayne and started + excitedly to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “You know him!” cried Stella. + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring had placed herself in an awkward position. Her husband had + described to her his interview with Major Hynd, and had mentioned his + project for bringing Romayne and Stella together, after first exacting a + promise of the strictest secrecy from his wife. She felt herself bound—doubly + bound, after what she had now discovered—to respect the confidence + placed in her; and this at the time when she had betrayed herself to + Stella! With a woman’s feline fineness of perception, in all cases of + subterfuge and concealment, she picked a part of the truth out of the + whole, and answered harmlessly without a moment’s hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “I have certainly seen him,” she said—“probably at some party. But I + see so many people, and I go to so many places, that I must ask for time + to consult my memory. My husband might help me, if you don’t object to my + asking him,” she added slyly. + </p> + <p> + Stella snatched the drawing away from her, in terror. “You don’t mean that + you will tell Lord Loring?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “My dear child! how can you be so foolish? Can’t I show him the drawing + without mentioning who it was done by? His memory is a much better one + than mine. If I say to him, ‘Where did we meet that man?’—he may + tell me at once—he may even remember the name. Of course, if you + like to be kept in suspense, you have only to say so. It rests with you to + decide.” + </p> + <p> + Poor Stella gave way directly. She returned the drawing, and + affectionately kissed her artful friend. Having now secured the means of + consulting her husband without exciting suspicion, Lady Loring left the + room. + </p> + <p> + At that time in the morning, Lord Loring was generally to be found either + in the library or the picture gallery. His wife tried the library first. + On entering the room, she found but one person in it—not the person + of whom she was in search. There, buttoned up in his long frock coat, and + surrounded by books of all sorts and sizes, sat the plump elderly priest + who had been the especial object of Major Hynd’s aversion. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Father Benwell,” said Lady Loring; “I hope I don’t + interrupt your studies?” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell rose and bowed with a pleasant paternal smile. “I am only + trying to organize an improved arrangement of the library,” he said, + simply. “Books are companionable creatures—members, as it were, of + his family, to a lonely old priest like myself. Can I be of any service to + your ladyship?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Father. If you can kindly tell me where Lord Loring is—” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure! His lordship was here five minutes since—he is now in + the picture gallery. Pray permit me!” + </p> + <p> + With a remarkably light and easy step for a man of his age and size, he + advanced to the further end of the library, and opened a door which led + into the gallery. + </p> + <p> + “Lord Loring is among the pictures,” he announced. “And alone.” He laid a + certain emphasis on the last word, which might or might not (in the case + of a spiritual director of the household) invite a word of explanation. + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring merely said, “Just what I wanted; thank you once more, Father + Benwell”—and passed into the picture gallery. + </p> + <p> + Left by himself again in the library, the priest walked slowly to and fro, + thinking. His latent power and resolution began to show themselves darkly + in his face. A skilled observer would now have seen plainly revealed in + him the habit of command, and the capacity for insisting on his right to + be obeyed. From head to foot, Father Benwell was one of those valuable + soldiers of the Church who acknowledge no defeat, and who improve every + victory. + </p> + <p> + After a while, he returned to the table at which he had been writing when + Lady Loring entered the room. An unfinished letter lay open on the desk. + He took up his pen and completed it in these words: “I have therefore + decided on trusting this serious matter in the hands of Arthur Penrose. I + know he is young—but we have to set against the drawback of his + youth, the counter-merits of his incorruptible honesty and his true + religious zeal. No better man is just now within my reach—and there + is no time to lose. Romayne has recently inherited a large increase of + fortune. He will be the object of the basest conspiracies—conspiracies + of men to win his money, and (worse still) of women to marry him. Even + these contemptible efforts may be obstacles in the way of our righteous + purpose, unless we are first in the field. Penrose left Oxford last week. + I expect him here this morning, by my invitation. When I have given him + the necessary instructions, and have found the means of favorably + introducing him to Romayne, I shall have the honor of forwarding a + statement of our prospects so far.” + </p> + <p> + Having signed these lines, he addressed the letter to “The Reverend the + Secretary, Society of Jesus, Rome.” As he closed and sealed the envelope, + a servant opened the door communicating with the hall, and announced: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Arthur Penrose.” <a name="linkCH0002" id="linkCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + THE JESUITS. + </h3> + <p> + FATHER BENWELL rose, and welcomed the visitor with his paternal smile. “I + am heartily glad to see you,” he said—and held out his hand with a + becoming mixture of dignity and cordiality. Penrose lifted the offered + hand respectfully to his lips. As one of the “Provincials” of the Order, + Father Benwell occupied a high place among the English Jesuits. He was + accustomed to acts of homage offered by his younger brethren to their + spiritual chief. “I fear you are not well,” he proceeded gently. “Your + hand is feverish, Arthur.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Father—I am as well as usual.” + </p> + <p> + “Depression of spirits, perhaps?” Father Benwell persisted. + </p> + <p> + Penrose admitted it with a passing smile. “My spirits are never very + lively,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell shook his head in gentle disapproval of a depressed state + of spirits in a young man. “This must be corrected,” he remarked. + “Cultivate cheerfulness, Arthur. I am myself, thank God, a naturally + cheerful man. My mind reflects, in some degree (and reflects gratefully), + the brightness and beauty which are part of the great scheme of creation. + A similar disposition is to be cultivated—I know instances of it in + my own experience. Add one more instance, and you will really gratify me. + In its seasons of rejoicing, our Church is eminently cheerful. Shall I add + another encouragement? A great trust is about to be placed in you. Be + socially agreeable, or you will fail to justify the trust. This is Father + Benwell’s little sermon. I think it has a merit, Arthur—it is a + sermon soon over.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose looked up at his superior, eager to hear more. + </p> + <p> + He was a very young man. His large, thoughtful, well-opened gray eyes, and + his habitual refinement and modesty of manner, gave a certain attraction + to his personal appearance, of which it stood in some need. In stature he + was little and lean; his hair had become prematurely thin over his broad + forehead; there were hollows already in his cheeks, and marks on either + side of his thin, delicate lips. He looked like a person who had passed + many miserable hours in needlessly despairing of himself and his + prospects. With all this, there was something in him so irresistibly + truthful and sincere—so suggestive, even where he might be wrong, of + a purely conscientious belief in his own errors—that he attached + people to him without an effort, and often without being aware of it + himself. What would his friends have said if they had been told that the + religious enthusiasm of this gentle, self-distrustful, melancholy man, + might, in its very innocence of suspicion and self-seeking, be perverted + to dangerous uses in unscrupulous hands? His friends would, one and all, + have received the scandalous assertion with contempt; and Penrose himself, + if he had heard of it, might have failed to control his temper for the + first time in his life. + </p> + <p> + “May I ask a question, without giving offense?” he said, timidly. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell took his hand. “My dear Arthur, let us open our minds to + each other without reserve. What is your question?” + </p> + <p> + “You have spoken, Father, of a great trust that is about to be placed in + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You are anxious, no doubt, to hear what it is?” + </p> + <p> + “I am anxious to know, in the first place, if it requires me to go back to + Oxford.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell dropped his young friend’s hand. “Do you dislike Oxford?” + he asked, observing Penrose attentively. + </p> + <p> + “Bear with me, Father, if I speak too confidently. I dislike the deception + which has obliged me to conceal that I am a Catholic and a priest.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell set this little difficulty right, with the air of a man who + could make benevolent allowance for unreasonable scruples. “I think, + Arthur, you forget two important considerations,” he said. “In the first + place, you have a dispensation from your superiors, which absolves you of + all responsibility in respect of the concealment that you have practiced. + In the second place, we could only obtain information of the progress + which our Church is silently making at the University by employing you in + the capacity of—let me say, an independent observer. However, if it + will contribute to your ease of mind, I see no objection to informing you + that you will <i>not</i> be instructed to return to Oxford. Do I relieve + you?” + </p> + <p> + There could be no question of it. Penrose breathed more freely, in every + sense of the word. + </p> + <p> + “At the same time,” Father Benwell continued, “let us not misunderstand + each other. In the new sphere of action which we design for you, you will + not only be at liberty to acknowledge that you are a Catholic, it will be + absolutely necessary that you should do so. But you will continue to wear + the ordinary dress of an English gentleman, and to preserve the strictest + secrecy on the subject of your admission to the priesthood, until you are + further advised by myself. Now, dear Arthur, read that paper. It is the + necessary preface to all that I have yet to say to you.” + </p> + <p> + The “paper” contained a few pages of manuscript relating the early history + of Vange Abbey, in the days of the monks, and the circumstances under + which the property was confiscated to lay uses in the time of Henry the + Eighth. Penrose handed back the little narrative, vehemently expressing + his sympathy with the monks, and his detestation of the King. + </p> + <p> + “Compose yourself, Arthur,” said Father Benwell, smiling pleasantly. “We + don’t mean to allow Henry the Eighth to have it all his own way forever.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose looked at his superior in blank bewilderment. His superior + withheld any further information for the present. + </p> + <p> + “Everything in its turn,” the discreet Father resumed; “the turn of + explanation has not come yet. I have something else to show you first. One + of the most interesting relics in England. Look here.” + </p> + <p> + He unlocked a flat mahogany box, and displayed to view some writings on + vellum, evidently of great age. + </p> + <p> + “You have had a little sermon already,” he said. “You shall have a little + story now. No doubt you have heard of Newstead Abbey—famous among + the readers of poetry as the residence of Byron? King Henry treated + Newstead exactly as he treated Vange Abbey! Many years since, the lake at + Newstead was dragged, and the brass eagle which had served as the lectern + in the old church was rescued from the waters in which it had lain for + centuries. A secret receptacle was discovered in the body of the eagle, + and the ancient title-deeds of the Abbey were found in it. The monks had + taken that method of concealing the legal proof of their rights and + privileges, in the hope—a vain hope, I need hardly say—that a + time might come when Justice would restore to them the property of which + they had been robbed. Only last summer, one of our bishops, administering + a northern diocese, spoke of these circumstances to a devout Catholic + friend, and said he thought it possible that the precaution taken by the + monks at Newstead might also have been taken by the monks at Vange. The + friend, I should tell you, was an enthusiast. Saying nothing to the bishop + (whose position and responsibilities he was bound to respect), he took + into his confidence persons whom he could trust. One night—in the + absence of the present proprietor, or, I should rather say, the present + usurper, of the estate—the lake at Vange was privately dragged, with + a result that proved the bishop’s conjecture to be right. Read those + valuable documents. Knowing your strict sense of honor, my son, and your + admirable tenderness of conscience, I wish you to be satisfied of the + title of the Church to the lands of Vange, by evidence which is beyond + dispute.” + </p> + <p> + With this little preface, he waited while Penrose read the title-deeds. + “Any doubt on your mind?” he asked, when the reading had come to an end. + </p> + <p> + “Not the shadow of a doubt.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the Church’s right to the property clear?” + </p> + <p> + “As clear, Father, as words can make it.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. We will lock up the documents. Arbitrary confiscation, Arthur, + even on the part of a king, cannot override the law. What the Church once + lawfully possessed, the Church has a right to recover. Any doubt about + that in your mind?” + </p> + <p> + “Only the doubt of <i>how</i> the Church can recover. Is there anything in + this particular case to be hoped from the law?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing whatever.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet, Father, you speak as if you saw some prospect of the restitution + of the property. By what means can the restitution be made?” + </p> + <p> + “By peaceful and worthy means,” Father Benwell answered. “By honorable + restoration of the confiscated property to the Church, on the part of the + person who is now in possession of it.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose was surprised and interested. “Is the person a Catholic?” he + asked, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet.” Father Benwell laid a strong emphasis on those two little + words. His fat fingers drummed restlessly on the table; his vigilant eyes + rested expectantly on Penrose. “Surely you understand me, Arthur?” he + added, after an interval. + </p> + <p> + The color rose slowly in the worn face of Penrose. “I am afraid to + understand you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I am not sure that it is my better sense which understands. I am afraid, + Father, it may be my vanity and presumption.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell leaned back luxuriously in his chair. “I like that + modesty,” he said, with a relishing smack of his lips as if modesty was as + good as a meal to him. “There is power of the right sort, Arthur, hidden + under the diffidence that does you honor. I am more than ever satisfied + that I have been right in reporting you as worthy of this most serious + trust. I believe the conversion of the owner of Vange Abbey is—in + your hands—no more than a matter of time.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask what his name is?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. His name is Lewis Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + “When do you introduce me to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible to say. I have not yet been introduced myself.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know Mr. Romayne?” + </p> + <p> + “I have never even seen him.” + </p> + <p> + These discouraging replies were made with the perfect composure of a man + who saw his way clearly before him. Sinking from one depth of perplexity + to another, Penrose ventured on putting one last question. “How am I to + approach Mr. Romayne?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I can only answer that, Arthur, by admitting you still further into my + confidence. It is disagreeable to me,” said the reverend gentleman, with + the most becoming humility, “to speak of myself. But it must be done. + Shall we have a little coffee to help us through the coming extract from + Father Benwell’s autobiography? Don’t look so serious, my son! When the + occasion justifies it, let us take life lightly.” He rang the bell and + ordered the coffee, as if he was the master of the house. The servant + treated him with the most scrupulous respect. He hummed a little tune, and + talked at intervals of the weather, while they were waiting. “Plenty of + sugar, Arthur?” he inquired, when the coffee was brought in. “No! Even in + trifles, I should have been glad to feel that there was perfect sympathy + between us. I like plenty of sugar myself.” + </p> + <p> + Having sweetened his coffee with the closest attention to the process, he + was at liberty to enlighten his young friend. He did it so easily and so + cheerfully that a far less patient man than Penrose would have listened to + him with interest. <a name="linkCH0003" id="linkCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + THE INTRODUCTION TO ROMAYNE. + </h3> + <p> + “EXCEPTING my employment here in the library,” Father Benwell began, “and + some interesting conversation with Lord Loring, to which I shall presently + allude, I am almost as great a stranger in this house, Arthur, as + yourself. When the object which we now have in view was first taken + seriously into consideration, I had the honor of being personally + acquainted with Lord Loring. I was also aware that he was an intimate and + trusted friend of Romayne. Under these circumstances, his lordship + presented himself to our point of view as a means of approaching the owner + of Vange Abbey without exciting distrust. I was charged accordingly with + the duty of establishing myself on terms of intimacy in this house. By way + of making room for me, the spiritual director of Lord and Lady Loring was + removed to a cure of souls in Ireland. And here I am in his place! + By-the-way, don’t treat me (when we are in the presence of visitors) with + any special marks of respect. I am not Provincial of our Order in Lord + Loring’s house—I am one of the inferior clergy.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose looked at him with admiration. “It is a great sacrifice to make, + Father, in your position and at your age.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, Arthur. A position of authority involves certain temptations + to pride. I feel this change as a lesson in humility which is good for me. + For example, Lady Loring (as I can plainly see) dislikes and distrusts me. + Then, again, a young lady has recently arrived here on a visit. She is a + Protestant, with all the prejudices incident to that way of thinking—avoids + me so carefully, poor soul, that I have never seen her yet. These rebuffs + are wholesome reminders of his fallible human nature, to a man who has + occupied a place of high trust and command. Besides, there have been + obstacles in my way which have had an excellent effect in rousing my + energies. How do you feel, Arthur, when you encounter obstacles?” + </p> + <p> + “I do my best to remove them, Father. But I am sometimes conscious of a + sense of discouragement.” + </p> + <p> + “Curious,” said Father Benwell. “I am only conscious, myself, of a sense + of impatience. What right has an obstacle to get in <i>my</i> way?—that + is how I look at it. For example, the first thing I heard, when I came + here, was that Romayne had left England. My introduction to him was + indefinitely delayed; I had to look to Lord Loring for all the information + I wanted relating to the man and his habits. There was another obstacle! + Not living in the house, I was obliged to find an excuse for being + constantly on the spot, ready to take advantage of his lordship’s leisure + moments for conversation. I sat down in this room, and I said to myself, + ‘Before I get up again, I mean to brush these impertinent obstacles out of + my way!’ The state of the books suggested the idea of which I was in + search. Before I left the house, I was charged with the rearrangement of + the library. From that moment I came and went as often as I liked. + Whenever Lord Loring was disposed for a little talk, there I was, to lead + the talk in the right direction. And what is the result? On the first + occasion when Romayne presents himself I can place you in a position to + become his daily companion. All due, Arthur, in the first instance, to my + impatience of obstacles. Amusing, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Penrose was perhaps deficient in the sense of humor. Instead of being + amused, he appeared to be anxious for more information. + </p> + <p> + “In what capacity am I to be Mr. Romayne’s companion?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell poured himself out another cup of coffee. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I tell you first,” he suggested, “how circumstances present + Romayne to us as a promising subject for conversion. He is young; still a + single man; not compromised by any illicit connection; romantic, + sensitive, highly cultivated. No near relations are alive to influence + him; and, to my certain knowledge, his estate is not entailed. He has + devoted himself for years past to books, and is collecting materials for a + work of immense research, on the Origin of Religions. Some great sorrow or + remorse—Lord Loring did not mention what it was—has told + seriously on his nervous system, already injured by night study. Add to + this, that he is now within our reach. He has lately returned to London, + and is living quite alone at a private hotel. For some reason which I am + not acquainted with, he keeps away from Vange Abbey—the very place, + as I should have thought, for a studious man.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose began to be interested. “Have you been to the Abbey?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I made a little excursion to that part of Yorkshire, Arthur, not long + since. A very pleasant trip—apart from the painful associations + connected with the ruin and profanation of a sacred place. There is no + doubt about the revenues. I know the value of that productive part of the + estate which stretches southward, away from the barren region round the + house. Let us return for a moment to Romayne, and to your position as his + future companion. He has had his books sent to him from Vange, and has + persuaded himself that continued study is the one remedy for his troubles, + whatever they may be. At Lord Loring’s suggestion, a consultation of + physicians was held on his case the other day.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he so ill as that?” Penrose exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “So it appears,” Father Benwell replied. “Lord Loring is mysteriously + silent about the illness. One result of the consultation I extracted from + him, in which you are interested. The doctors protested against his + employing himself on his proposed work. He was too obstinate to listen to + them. There was but one concession that they could gain from him—he + consented to spare himself, in some small degree, by employing an + amanuensis. It was left to Lord Loring to find the man. I was consulted by + his lordship; I was even invited to undertake the duty myself. Each one in + his proper sphere, my son! The person who converts Romayne must be young + enough and pliable enough to be his friend and companion. Your part is + there, Arthur—you are the future amanuensis. How does the prospect + strike you now?” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Father! I fear I am unworthy of the confidence which + is placed in me.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” + </p> + <p> + Penrose answered with unfeigned humility. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I may fail to justify your belief in me,” he said, “unless I + can really feel that I am converting Mr. Romayne for his own soul’s sake. + However righteous the cause may be, I cannot find, in the restitution of + the Church property, a sufficient motive for persuading him to change his + religious faith. There is something so serious in the responsibility which + you lay on me, that I shall sink under the burden unless my whole heart is + in the work. If I feel attracted toward Mr. Romayne when I first see him; + if he wins upon me, little by little, until I love him like a brother—then, + indeed, I can promise that his conversion shall be the dearest object of + my life. But if there is not this intimate sympathy between us—forgive + me if I say it plainly—I implore you to pass me over, and to commit + the task to the hands of another man.” + </p> + <p> + His voice trembled; his eyes moistened. Father Benwell handled his young + friend’s rising emotion with the dexterity of a skilled angler humoring + the struggles of a lively fish. + </p> + <p> + “Good Arthur!” he said. “I see much—too much, dear boy—of + self-seeking people. It is as refreshing to me to hear you, as a draught + of water to a thirsty man. At the same time, let me suggest that you are + innocently raising difficulties, where no difficulties exist. I have + already mentioned as one of the necessities of the case that you and + Romayne should be friends. How can that be, unless there is precisely that + sympathy between you which you have so well described? I am a sanguine + man, and I believe you will like each other. Wait till you see him.” + </p> + <p> + As the words passed his lips, the door that led to the picture gallery was + opened. Lord Loring entered the library. + </p> + <p> + He looked quickly round him—apparently in search of some person who + might, perhaps, be found in the room. A shade of annoyance showed itself + in his face, and disappeared again, as he bowed to the two Jesuits. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let me disturb you,” he said, looking at Penrose. “Is this the + gentleman who is to assist Mr. Romayne?” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell presented his young friend. “Arthur Penrose, my lord. I + ventured to suggest that he should call here to-day, in case you wished to + put any questions to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite needless, after your recommendation,” Lord Loring answered, + graciously. “Mr. Penrose could not have come here at a more appropriate + time. As it happens, Mr. Romayne has paid us a visit today—he is now + in the picture gallery.” + </p> + <p> + The priests looked at each other. Lord Loring left them as he spoke. He + walked to the opposite door of the library—opened it—glanced + round the hall, and at the stairs—and returned again, with the + passing expression of annoyance visible once more. “Come with me to the + gallery, gentlemen,” he said; “I shall be happy to introduce you to Mr. + Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose accepted the proposal. Father Benwell pointed with a smile to the + books scattered about him. “With permission, I will follow your lordship,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + “Who was my lord looking for?” That was the question in Father Benwell’s + mind, while he put some of the books away on the shelves, and collected + the scattered papers on the table, relating to his correspondence with + Rome. It had become a habit of his life to be suspicious of any + circumstances occurring within his range of observation, for which he was + unable to account. He might have felt some stronger emotion on this + occasion, if he had known that the conspiracy in the library to convert + Romayne was matched by the conspiracy in the picture gallery to marry him. + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring’s narrative of the conversation which had taken place between + Stella and herself had encouraged her husband to try his proposed + experiment without delay. “I shall send a letter at once to Romayne’s + hotel,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Inviting him to come here to-day?” her ladyship inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I shall say I particularly wish to consult him about a picture. Are + we to prepare Stella to see him? or would it be better to let the meeting + take her by surprise?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not!” said Lady Loring. “With her sensitive disposition, I am + afraid of taking Stella by surprise. Let me only tell her that Romayne is + the original of her portrait, and that he is likely to call on you to see + the picture to-day—and leave the rest to me.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring’s suggestion was immediately carried out. In the first fervor + of her agitation, Stella had declared that her courage was not equal to a + meeting with Romayne on that day. Becoming more composed, she yielded to + Lady Loring’s persuasion so far as to promise that she would at least make + the attempt to follow her friend to the gallery. “If I go down with you,” + she said, “it will look as if we had arranged the thing between us. I + can’t bear even to think of that. Let me look in by myself, as if it was + by accident.” Consenting to this arrangement, Lady Loring had proceeded + alone to the gallery, when Romayne’s visit was announced. The minutes + passed, and Stella did not appear. It was quite possible that she might + shrink from openly presenting herself at the main entrance to the gallery, + and might prefer—especially if she was not aware of the priest’s + presence in the room—to slip in quietly by the library door. Failing + to find her, on putting this idea to the test, Lord Loring had discovered + Penrose, and had so hastened the introduction of the younger of the two + Jesuits to Romayne. + </p> + <p> + Having gathered his papers together, Father Benwell crossed the library to + the deep bow-window which lighted the room, and opened his dispatch-box, + standing on a small table in the recess. Placed in this position, he was + invisible to any person entering the room by the hall door. He had secured + his papers in the dispatch-box, and had just closed and locked it, when he + heard the door cautiously opened. + </p> + <p> + The instant afterward the rustling of a woman’s dress over the carpet + caught his ear. Other men might have walked out of the recess and shown + themselves. Father Benwell stayed where he was, and waited until the lady + crossed his range of view. + </p> + <p> + The priest observed with cold attention her darkly-beautiful eyes and + hair, her quickly-changing color, her modest grace of movement. Slowly, + and in evident agitation, she advanced to the door of the picture gallery—and + paused, as if she was afraid to open it. Father Benwell heard her sigh to + herself softly, “Oh, how shall I meet him?” She turned aside to the + looking-glass over the fire-place. The reflection of her charming face + seemed to rouse her courage. She retraced her steps, and timidly opened + the door. Lord Loring must have been close by at the moment. His voice + immediately made itself heard in the library. + </p> + <p> + “Come in, Stella—come in! Here is a new picture for you to see; and + a friend whom I want to present to you, who must be your friend too—Mr. + Lewis Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + The door was closed again. Father Benwell stood still as a statue in the + recess, with his head down, deep in thought. After a while he roused + himself, and rapidly returned to the writing table. With a roughness + strangely unlike his customary deliberation of movement, he snatched a + sheet of paper out of the case, and frowning heavily, wrote these lines on + it:—“Since my letter was sealed, I have made a discovery which must + be communicated without the loss of a post. I greatly fear there may be a + woman in our way. Trust me to combat this obstacle as I have combated + other obstacles. In the meantime, the work goes on. Penrose has received + his first instructions, and has to-day been presented to Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + He addressed this letter to Rome, as he had addressed the letter preceding + it. “Now for the woman!” he said to himself—and opened the door of + the picture gallery. <a name="linkCH0004" id="linkCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + FATHER BENWELL HITS. + </h3> + <p> + ART has its trials as well as its triumphs. It is powerless to assert + itself against the sordid interests of everyday life. The greatest book + ever written, the finest picture ever painted, appeals in vain to minds + preoccupied by selfish and secret cares. On entering Lord Loring’s + gallery, Father Benwell found but one person who was not looking at the + pictures under false pretenses. + </p> + <p> + Innocent of all suspicion of the conflicting interests whose struggle now + centered in himself, Romayne was carefully studying the picture which had + been made the pretext for inviting him to the house. He had bowed to + Stella, with a tranquil admiration of her beauty; he had shaken hands with + Penrose, and had said some kind words to his future secretary—and + then he had turned to the picture, as if Stella and Penrose had ceased + from that moment to occupy his mind. + </p> + <p> + “In your place,” he said quietly to Lord Loring, “I should not buy this + work.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me to have the serious defect of the modern English school of + painting. A total want of thought in the rendering of the subject, + disguised under dexterous technical tricks of the brush. When you have + seen one of that man’s pictures, you have seen all. He manufactures—he + doesn’t paint.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell came in while Romayne was speaking. He went through the + ceremonies of introduction to the master of Vange Abbey with perfect + politeness, but a little absently. His mind was bent on putting his + suspicion of Stella to the test of confirmation. Not waiting to be + presented, he turned to her with the air of fatherly interest and + chastened admiration which he well knew how to assume in his intercourse + with women. + </p> + <p> + “May I ask if you agree with Mr. Romayne’s estimate of the picture?” he + said, in his gentlest tones. + </p> + <p> + She had heard of him, and of his position in the house. It was quite + needless for Lady Loring to whisper to her, “Father Benwell, my dear!” Her + antipathy identified him as readily as her sympathy might have identified + a man who had produced a favorable impression on her. “I have no + pretension to be a critic,” she answered, with frigid politeness. “I only + know what I personally like or dislike.” + </p> + <p> + The reply exactly answered Father Benwell’s purpose. It diverted Romayne’s + attention from the picture to Stella. The priest had secured his + opportunity of reading their faces while they were looking at each other. + </p> + <p> + “I think you have just stated the true motive for all criticism,” Romayne + said to Stella. “Whether we only express our opinions of pictures or books + in the course of conversation or whether we assert them at full length, + with all the authority of print, we are really speaking, in either case, + of what personally pleases or repels us. My poor opinion of that picture + means that it says nothing to Me. Does it say anything to You?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled gently as he put the question to her, but there was no betrayal + of emotion in his eyes or in his voice. Relieved of anxiety, so far as + Romayne was concerned, Father Benwell looked at Stella. + </p> + <p> + Steadily as she controlled herself, the confession of her heart’s secret + found its way into her face. The coldly composed expression which had + confronted the priest when she spoke to him, melted away softly under the + influence of Romayne’s voice and Romayne’s look. Without any positive + change of color, her delicate skin glowed faintly, as if it felt some + animating inner warmth. Her eyes and lips brightened with a new vitality; + her frail elegant figure seemed insensibly to strengthen and expand, like + the leaf of a flower under a favoring sunny air. When she answered Romayne + (agreeing with him, it is needless to say), there was a tender + persuasiveness in her tones, shyly inviting him still to speak to her and + still to look at her, which would in itself have told Father Benwell the + truth, even if he had not been in a position to see her face. Confirmed in + his doubts of her, he looked, with concealed suspicion, at Lady Loring + next. Sympathy with Stella was undisguisedly expressed to him in the + honest blue eyes of Stella’s faithful friend. + </p> + <p> + The discussion on the subject of the unfortunate picture was resumed by + Lord Loring, who thought the opinions of Romayne and Stella needlessly + severe. Lady Loring, as usual, agreed with her husband. While the general + attention was occupied in this way, Father Benwell said a word to Penrose—thus + far, a silent listener to the discourse on Art. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen the famous portrait of the first Lady Loring, by + Gainsborough?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he took Penrose by + the arm, and led him away to the picture—which had the additional + merit, under present circumstances, of hanging at the other end of the + gallery. + </p> + <p> + “How do you like Romayne?” Father Benwell put the question in low + peremptory tones, evidently impatient for a reply. + </p> + <p> + “He interests me already,” said Penrose. “He looks so ill and so sad, and + he spoke to me so kindly—” + </p> + <p> + “In short,” Father Benwell interposed, “Romayne has produced a favorable + impression on you. Let us get on to the next thing. You must produce a + favorable impression on Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose sighed. “With the best will to make myself agreeable to people + whom I like,” he said, “I don’t always succeed. They used to tell me at + Oxford that I was shy—and I am afraid that is against me. I wish I + possessed some of your social advantages, Father!” + </p> + <p> + “Leave it to me, son! Are they still talking about the picture?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I have something more to say to you. Have you noticed the young lady?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought her beautiful—but she looks a little cold.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell smiled. “When you are as old as I am,” he said, “you will + not believe in appearances where women are concerned. Do you know what I + think of her? Beautiful, if you like—and dangerous as well.” + </p> + <p> + “Dangerous! In what way?” + </p> + <p> + “This is for your private ear, Arthur. She is in love with Romayne. Wait a + minute! And Lady Loring—unless I am entirely mistaken in what I + observed—knows it and favors it. The beautiful Stella may be the + destruction of all our hopes, unless we keep Romayne out of her way.” + </p> + <p> + These words were whispered with an earnestness and agitation which + surprised Penrose. His superior’s equanimity was not easily overthrown. + “Are you sure, Father, of what you say?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I am quite sure—or I should not have spoken.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think Mr. Romayne returns the feeling?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, luckily. You must use your first friendly influence over him—what + is her name? Her surname, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Eyrecourt. Miss Stella Eyrecourt.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. You must use your influence (when you are quite sure that it + <i>is</i> an influence) to keep Mr. Romayne away from Miss Eyrecourt.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose looked embarrassed. “I am afraid I should hardly know how to do + that,” he said “But I should naturally, as his assistant, encourage him to + keep to his studies.” + </p> + <p> + Whatever Arthur’s superior might privately think of Arthur’s reply, he + received it with outward indulgence. “That will come to the same thing,” + he said. “Besides, when I get the information I want—this is + strictly between ourselves—I may be of some use in placing obstacles + in the lady’s way.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose started. “Information!” he repeated. “What information?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me something before I answer you,” said Father Benwell. “How old do + you take Miss Eyrecourt to be?” + </p> + <p> + “I am not a good judge in such matters. Between twenty and twenty-five, + perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + “We will take her age at that estimate, Arthur. In former years, I have + had opportunities of studying women’s characters in the confessional. Can + you guess what my experience tells me of Miss Eyrecourt?” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “A lady is not in love for the first time when she is between twenty and + twenty-five years old—that is my experience,” said Father Benwell. + “If I can find a person capable of informing me, I may make some valuable + discoveries in the earlier history of Miss Eyrecourt’s life. No more, now. + We had better return to our friends.” <a name="linkCH0005" id="linkCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + FATHER BENWELL MISSES. + </h3> + <p> + THE group before the picture which had been the subject of dispute was + broken up. In one part of the gallery, Lady Loring and Stella were + whispering together on a sofa. In another part, Lord Loring was speaking + privately to Romayne. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you will like Mr. Penrose?” his lordship asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—so far as I can tell at present. He seems to be modest and + intelligent.” + </p> + <p> + “You are looking ill, my dear Romayne. Have you again heard the voice that + haunts you?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne answered with evident reluctance. “I don’t know why,” he said—“but + the dread of hearing it again has oppressed me all this morning. To tell + you the truth, I came here in the hope that the change might relieve me.” + </p> + <p> + “Has it done so?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—thus far.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t that suggest, my friend, that a greater change might be of use to + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ask me about it, Loring! I can go through my ordeal—but I + hate speaking of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us speak of something else then,” said Lord Loring. “What do you + think of Miss Eyrecourt?” + </p> + <p> + “A very striking face; full of expression and character. Leonardo would + have painted a noble portrait of her. But there is something in her manner—” + He stopped, unwilling or unable to finish the sentence. + </p> + <p> + “Something you don’t like?” Lord Loring suggested. + </p> + <p> + “No; something I don’t quite understand. One doesn’t expect to find any + embarrassment in the manner of a well-bred woman. And yet she seemed to be + embarrassed when she spoke to me. Perhaps I produced an unfortunate + impression on her.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring laughed. “In any man but you, Romayne, I should call that + affectation.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” Romayne asked, sharply. + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring looked unfeignedly surprised. “My dear fellow, do you really + think you are the sort of man who impresses a woman unfavorably at first + sight? For once in your life, indulge in the amiable weakness of doing + yourself justice—and find a better reason for Miss Eyrecourt’s + embarrassment.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time since he and his friend had been talking together, + Romayne turned toward Stella. He innocently caught her in the act of + looking at him. A younger woman, or a woman of weaker character, would + have looked away again. Stella’s noble head drooped; her eyes sank slowly, + until they rested on her long white hands crossed upon her lap. For a + moment more Romayne looked at her with steady attention. + </p> + <p> + He roused himself, and spoke to Lord Loring in lowered tones. + </p> + <p> + “Have you known Miss Eyrecourt for a long time?” + </p> + <p> + “She is my wife’s oldest and dearest friend. I think, Romayne, you would + feel interested in Stella, if you saw more of her.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne bowed in silent submission to Lord Loring’s prophetic remark. “Let + us look at the pictures,” he said, quietly. + </p> + <p> + As he moved down the gallery, the two priests met him. Father Benwell saw + his opportunity of helping Penrose to produce a favorable impression. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive the curiosity of an old student, Mr. Romayne,” he said in his + pleasant, cheerful way. “Lord Loring tells me you have sent to the country + for your books. Do you find a London hotel favorable to study?” + </p> + <p> + “It is a very quiet hotel,” Romayne answered, “and the people know my + ways.” He turned to Arthur. “I have my own set of rooms, Mr. Penrose,” he + continued—“with a room at your disposal. I used to enjoy the + solitude of my house in the country. My tastes have lately changed—there + are times now when I want to see the life in the streets, as a relief. + Though we are in a hotel, I can promise that you will not be troubled by + interruptions, when you kindly lend me the use of your pen.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell answered before Penrose could speak. “You may perhaps find + my young friend’s memory of some use to you, Mr. Romayne, as well as his + pen. Penrose has studied in the Vatican Library. If your reading leads you + that way, he knows more than most men of the rare old manuscripts which + treat of the early history of Christianity.” + </p> + <p> + This delicately managed reference to the projected work on “The Origin of + Religions” produced its effect. + </p> + <p> + “I should like very much, Mr. Penrose, to speak to you about those + manuscripts,” Romayne said. “Copies of some of them may perhaps be in the + British Museum. Is it asking too much to inquire if you are disengaged + this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “I am entirely at your service, Mr. Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + “If you will kindly call at my hotel in an hour’s time, I shall have + looked over my notes, and shall be ready for you with a list of titles and + dates. There is the address.” + </p> + <p> + With those words, he advanced to take his leave of Lady Loring and Stella. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell was a man possessed of extraordinary power of foresight—but + he was not infallible. Seeing that Romayne was on the point of leaving the + house, and feeling that he had paved the way successfully for Romayne’s + amanuensis, he too readily assumed that there was nothing further to be + gained by remaining in the gallery. Moreover, the interval before Penrose + called at the hotel might be usefully filled up by some wise words of + advice, relating to the religious uses to which he might turn his + intercourse with his employer. Making one of his ready and plausible + excuses, he accordingly returned with Penrose to the library—and so + committed (as he himself discovered at a later time) one of the few + mistakes in the long record of his life. + </p> + <p> + In the meanwhile, Romayne was not permitted to bring his visit to a + conclusion without hospitable remonstrance on the part of Lady Loring. She + felt for Stella, with a woman’s enthusiastic devotion to the interests of + true love; and she had firmly resolved that a matter so trifling as the + cultivation of Romayne’s mind should not be allowed to stand in the way of + the far more important enterprise of opening his heart to the influence of + the sex. + </p> + <p> + “Stay and lunch with us,” she said, when he held out his hand to bid her + good-by. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Lady Loring, I never take lunch.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, come and dine with us—no party; only ourselves. + Tomorrow, and next day, we are disengaged. Which day shall it be?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne still resisted. “You are very kind. In my state of health, I am + unwilling to make engagements which I may not be able to keep.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring was just as resolute on her side. She appealed to Stella. “Mr. + Romayne persists, my dear, in putting me off with excuses. Try if you can + persuade him.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> am not likely to have any influence, Adelaide.” + </p> + <p> + The tone in which she replied struck Romayne. He looked at her. Her eyes, + gravely meeting his eyes, held him with a strange fascination. She was not + herself conscious how openly all that was noble and true in her nature, + all that was most deeply and sensitively felt in her aspirations, spoke at + that moment in her look. Romayne’s face changed: he turned pale under the + new emotion that she had roused in him. Lady Loring observed him + attentively. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you underrate your influence, Stella?” she suggested. + </p> + <p> + Stella remained impenetrable to persuasion. “I have only been introduced + to Mr. Romayne half an hour since,” she said. “I am not vain enough to + suppose that I can produce a favorable impression on any one in so short a + time.” + </p> + <p> + She had expressed, in other words, Romayne’s own idea of himself, in + speaking of her to Lord Loring. He was struck by the coincidence. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we have begun, Miss Eyrecourt, by misinterpreting one another,” + he said. “We may arrive at a better understanding when I have the honor of + meeting you again.” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated and looked at Lady Loring. She was not the woman to let a + fair opportunity escape her. “We will say to-morrow evening,” she resumed, + “at seven o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow,” said Romayne. He shook hands with Stella, and left the + picture gallery. + </p> + <p> + Thus far, the conspiracy to marry him promised even more hopefully than + the conspiracy to convert him. And Father Benwell, carefully instructing + Penrose in the next room, was not aware of it! + </p> + <p> + But the hours, in their progress, mark the march of events as surely as + they mark the march of time. The day passed, the evening came—and, + with its coming, the prospects of the conversion brightened in their turn. + </p> + <p> + Let Father Benwell himself relate how it happened—in an extract from + his report to Rome, written the same evening. + </p> + <p> + “... I had arranged with Penrose that he should call at my lodgings, and + tell me how he had prospered at the first performance of his duties as + secretary to Romayne. + </p> + <p> + “The moment he entered the room the signs of disturbance in his face told + me that something serious had happened. I asked directly if there had been + any disagreement between Romayne and himself. + </p> + <p> + “He repeated the word with every appearance of surprise. ‘Disagreement?’ + he said. ‘No words can tell how sincerely I feel for Mr. Romayne. I cannot + express to you, Father, how eager I am to be of service to him!’ + </p> + <p> + “Relieved, so far, I naturally asked what had happened. Penrose betrayed a + marked embarrassment in answering my question. + </p> + <p> + “‘I have innocently surprised a secret,’ he said, ‘on which I had no right + to intrude. All that I can honorably tell you, shall be told. Add one more + to your many kindnesses—don’t command me to speak, when it is my + duty toward a sorely-tried man to be silent, even to you.’ + </p> + <p> + “It is needless to say that I abstained from directly answering this + strange appeal. ‘Let me hear what you can tell,’ I replied, ‘and then we + shall see.’ + </p> + <p> + “Upon this, he spoke. I need hardly recall to your memory how careful we + were, in first planning the attempt to recover the Vange property, to + assure ourselves of the promise of success which the peculiar character of + the present owner held out to us. In reporting what Penrose said, I + communicate a discovery, which I venture to think will be as welcome to + you, as it was to me. + </p> + <p> + “He began by reminding me of what I had myself told him in speaking of + Romayne. ‘You mentioned having heard from Lord Loring of a great sorrow or + remorse from which he was suffering,’ Penrose said. ‘I know what he + suffers and why he suffers, and with what noble resignation he submits to + his affliction. We were sitting together at the table, looking over his + notes and memoranda, when he suddenly dropped the manuscript from which he + was reading to me. A ghastly paleness overspread his face. He started up, + and put both his hands to his ears as if he heard something dreadful, and + was trying to deafen himself to it. I ran to the door to call for help. He + stopped me; he spoke in faint, gasping tones, forbidding me to call any + one in to witness what he suffered. It was not the first time, he said; it + would soon be over. If I had not courage to remain with him I could go, + and return when he was himself again. I so pitied him that I found the + courage to remain. When it was over he took me by the hand, and thanked + me. I had stayed by him like a friend, he said, and like a friend he would + treat me. Sooner or later (those were his exact words) I must be taken + into his confidence—and it should be now. He told me his melancholy + story. I implore you, Father, don’t ask me to repeat it! Be content if I + tell you the effect of it on myself. The one hope, the one consolation for + him, is in our holy religion. With all my heart I devote myself to his + conversion—and, in my inmost soul, I feel the conviction that I + shall succeed!’ + </p> + <p> + “To this effect, and in this tone, Penrose spoke. I abstained from + pressing him to reveal Romayne’s confession. The confession is of no + consequence to us. You know how the moral force of Arthur’s earnestness + and enthusiasm fortifies his otherwise weak character. I, too, believe he + will succeed. + </p> + <p> + “To turn for a moment to another subject. You are already informed that + there is a woman in our way. I have my own idea of the right method of + dealing with this obstacle when it shows itself more plainly. For the + present, I need only assure you that neither this woman nor any woman + shall succeed in her designs on Romayne, if I can prevent it.” + </p> + <p> + Having completed his report in these terms, Father Benwell reverted to the + consideration of his proposed inquiries into the past history of Stella’s + life. + </p> + <p> + Reflection convinced him that it would be unwise to attempt, no matter how + guardedly, to obtain the necessary information from Lord Loring or his + wife. If he assumed, at his age, to take a strong interest in a Protestant + young lady, who had notoriously avoided him, they would certainly feel + surprise—and surprise might, in due course of development, turn to + suspicion. + </p> + <p> + There was but one other person under Lord Loring’s roof to whom he could + address himself—and that person was the housekeeper. As an old + servant, possessing Lady Loring’s confidence, she might prove a source of + information on the subject of Lady Loring’s fair friend; and, as a good + Catholic, she would feel flattered by the notice of the spiritual director + of the household. + </p> + <p> + “It may not be amiss,” thought Father Benwell, “if I try the housekeeper.” + <a name="linkCH0006" id="linkCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <h3> + THE ORDER OF THE DISHES. + </h3> + <p> + WHEN Miss Notman assumed the post of housekeeper in Lady Loring’s service, + she was accurately described as “a competent and respectable person”; and + was praised, with perfect truth, for her incorruptible devotion to the + interests of her employers. On its weaker side, her character was + represented by the wearing of a youthful wig, and the erroneous conviction + that she still possessed a fine figure. The ruling idea in her narrow + little mind was the idea of her own dignity. Any offense offered in this + direction oppressed her memory for days together, and found its way + outward in speech to any human being whose attention she could secure. + </p> + <p> + At five o’clock, on the day which followed his introduction to Romayne, + Father Benwell sat drinking his coffee in the housekeeper’s room—to + all appearance as much at his ease as if he had known Miss Notman from the + remote days of her childhood. A new contribution to the housekeeper’s + little library of devotional works lay on the table; and bore silent + witness to the means by which he had made those first advances which had + won him his present position. Miss Notman’s sense of dignity was doubly + flattered. She had a priest for her guest, and a new book with the + reverend gentleman’s autograph inscribed on the title-page. + </p> + <p> + “Is your coffee to your liking, Father?” + </p> + <p> + “A little more sugar, if you please.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Notman was proud of her hand, viewed as one of the meritorious + details of her figure. She took up the sugar-tongs with suavity and grace; + she dropped the sugar into the cup with a youthful pleasure in ministering + to the minor desires of her illustrious guest. “It is so good of you, + Father, to honor me in this way,” she said—with the appearance of + sixteen super-induced upon the reality of sixty. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell was an adept at moral disguises of all kinds. On this + occasion he wore the disguise of pastoral simplicity. “I am an idle old + man at this hour of the afternoon,” he said. “I hope I am not keeping you + from any household duties?” + </p> + <p> + “I generally enjoy my duties,” Miss Notman answered. “To-day, they have + not been so agreeable as usual; it is a relief to me to have done with + them. Even my humble position has its trials.” + </p> + <p> + Persons acquainted with Miss Notman’s character, hearing these last words, + would have at once changed the subject. When she spoke of “her humble + position,” she invariably referred to some offense offered to her dignity, + and she was invariably ready to state the grievance at full length. + Ignorant of this peculiarity, Father Benwell committed a fatal error. He + inquired, with courteous interest, what the housekeeper’s “trials” might + be. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, they are beneath your notice!” said Miss Notman modestly. “At + the same time, I should feel it an honor to have the benefit of your + opinion—I should so like to know that you do not altogether + disapprove of my conduct, under some provocation. You see, Father, the + whole responsibility of ordering the dinners falls on me. And, when there + is company, as there is this evening, the responsibility is particularly + trying to a timid person like myself.” + </p> + <p> + “A large dinner party, Miss Notman?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, no! Quite the reverse. Only one gentleman—Mr. Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell set down his cup of coffee, half way to his lips. He at + once drew the correct conclusion that the invitation to Romayne must have + been given and accepted after he had left the picture gallery. That the + object was to bring Romayne and Stella together, under circumstances which + would rapidly improve their acquaintance, was as plain to him as if he had + heard it confessed in so many words. If he had only remained in the + gallery, he might have become acquainted with the form of persuasion used + to induce a man so unsocial as Romayne to accept an invitation. “I have + myself to blame,” he thought bitterly, “for being left in the dark.” + </p> + <p> + “Anything wrong with the coffee?” Miss Notman asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + He rushed on his fate. He said, “Nothing whatever. Pray go on.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Notman went on. + </p> + <p> + “You see, Father, Lady Loring was unusually particular about the dinner on + this occasion. She said, ‘Lord Loring reminds me that Mr. Romayne is a + very little eater, and yet very difficult to please in what he does eat.’ + Of course I consulted my experience, and suggested exactly the sort of + dinner that was wanted under the circumstances. I wish to do her ladyship + the utmost justice. She made no objection to the dinner in itself. On the + contrary, she complimented me on what she was pleased to call my ready + invention. But when we came next to the order in which the dishes were to + be served—” Miss Notman paused in the middle of the sentence, and + shuddered over the private and poignant recollections which the order of + the dishes called up. + </p> + <p> + By this time Father Benwell had discovered his mistake. He took a mean + advantage of Miss Notman’s susceptibilities to slip his own private + inquiries into the interval of silence. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon my ignorance,” he said; “my own poor dinner is a matter of ten + minutes and one dish. I don’t understand a difference of opinion on a + dinner for three people only; Lord and Lady Loring, two; Mr. Romayne, + three—oh! perhaps I am mistaken? Perhaps Miss Eyrecourt makes a + fourth?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, Father!” + </p> + <p> + “A very charming person, Miss Notman. I only speak as a stranger. You, no + doubt, are much better acquainted with Miss Eyrecourt?” + </p> + <p> + “Much better, indeed—if I may presume to say so,” Miss Notman + replied. “She is my lady’s intimate friend; we have often talked of Miss + Eyrecourt during the many years of my residence in this house. On such + subjects, her ladyship treats me quite on the footing of a humble friend. + A complete contrast to the tone she took, Father, when we came to the + order of the dishes. We agreed, of course, about the soup and the fish; + but we had a little, a very little, divergence of opinion, as I may call + it, on the subject of the dishes to follow. Her ladyship said, ‘First the + sweetbreads, and then the cutlets.’ I ventured to suggest that the + sweetbreads, as white meat, had better not immediately follow the turbot, + as white fish. ‘The brown meat, my lady,’ I said, ‘as an agreeable variety + presented to the eye, and then the white meat, recalling pleasant + remembrances of the white fish.’ You see the point, Father?” + </p> + <p> + “I see, Miss Notman, that you are a consummate mistress of an art which is + quite beyond poor me. Was Miss Eyrecourt present at the little + discussion?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! Indeed, I should have objected to her presence; I should have + said she was a young lady out of her proper place.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I understand. Is Miss Eyrecourt an only child?” + </p> + <p> + “She had two sisters, Father Benwell. One of them is in a convent.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, indeed?” + </p> + <p> + “And the other is dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Sad for the father and mother, Miss Notman!” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, sad for the mother, no doubt. The father died long since.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye? aye? A sweet woman, the mother? At least, I think I have heard so.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Notman shook her head. “I should wish to guard myself against + speaking unjustly of any one,” she said; “but when you talk of ‘a sweet + woman,’ you imply (as it seems to me) the domestic virtues. Mrs. Eyrecourt + is essentially a frivolous person.” + </p> + <p> + A frivolous person is, in the vast majority of cases, a person easily + persuaded to talk, and not disposed to be reticent in keeping secrets. + Father Benwell began to see his way already to the necessary information. + “Is Mrs. Eyrecourt living in London?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear, no! At this time of year she lives entirely in other people’s + houses—goes from one country seat to another, and only thinks of + amusing herself. No domestic qualities, Father. <i>She</i> would know + nothing of the order of the dishes! Lady Loring, I should have told you, + gave way in the matter of the sweetbread. It was only at quite the latter + part of my ‘Menoo’ (as the French call it) that she showed a spirit of + opposition—well! well! I won’t dwell on that. I will only ask <i>you,</i> + Father, at what part of a dinner an oyster-omelet ought to be served?” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell seized his opportunity of discovering Mrs. Eyrecourt’s + present address. “My dear lady,” he said, “I know no more when the omelet + ought to be served than Mrs. Eyrecourt herself! It must be very pleasant, + to a lady of her way of thinking, to enjoy the beauties of Nature + inexpensively—as seen in other people’s houses, from the point of + view of a welcome guest. I wonder whether she is staying at any country + seat which I happen to have seen?” + </p> + <p> + “She may be in England, Scotland, or Ireland, for all I know,” Miss Notman + answered, with an unaffected ignorance which placed her good faith beyond + doubt. “Consult your own taste, Father. After eating jelly, cream, and + ice-pudding, could you even <i>look</i> at an oyster-omelet without + shuddering? Would you believe it? Her ladyship proposed to serve the + omelet with the cheese. Oysters, after sweets! I am not (as yet) a married + woman—” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell made a last desperate effort to pave the way for one more + question before he submitted to defeat. “That must be <i>your</i> fault, + my dear lady!” he interposed, with his persuasive smile. + </p> + <p> + Miss Notman simpered. “You confuse me, Father!” she said softly. + </p> + <p> + “I speak from inward conviction, Miss Notman. To a looker-on, like myself, + it is sad to see how many sweet women who might be angels in the + households of worthy men prefer to lead a single life. The Church, I know, + exalts the single life to the highest place. But even the Church allows + exceptions to its rule. Under this roof, for example, I think I see two + exceptions. One of them my unfeigned respect” (he bowed to Miss Notman) + “forbids me to indicate more particularly. The other seems, to my humble + view, to be the young lady of whom we have been speaking. Is it not + strange that Miss Eyrecourt has never been married?” + </p> + <p> + The trap had been elaborately set; Father Benwell had every reason to + anticipate that Miss Notman would walk into it. The disconcerting + housekeeper walked up to it—and then proved unable to advance a step + further. + </p> + <p> + “I once made the same remark myself to Lady Loring,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell’s pulse began to quicken its beat. “Yes?” he murmured, in + tones of the gentlest encouragement. + </p> + <p> + “And her ladyship,” Miss Notman proceeded, “did not encourage me to go on. + ‘There are reasons for not pursuing that subject,’ she said; ‘reasons into + which, I am sure, you will not expect me to enter.’ She spoke with a + flattering confidence in my prudence, which I felt gratefully. Such a + contrast to her tone when the omelet presented itself in the order of the + dishes! As I said just now I am not a married woman. But if I proposed to + my husband to give him an oyster-omelet after his puddings and his pies, I + should not be surprised if he said to me, ‘My dear, have you taken leave + of your senses?’ I reminded Lady Loring (most respectfully) that a <i>cheese</i>-omelette + might be in its proper place if it followed the sweets. ‘An <i>oyster</i>-omelet,’ + I suggested, ‘surely comes after the birds?’ I should be sorry to say that + her ladyship lost her temper—I will only mention that I kept mine. + Let me repeat what she said, and leave you, Father, to draw your own + conclusions. She said, ‘Which of us is mistress in this house, Miss + Notman? I order the oyster-omelet to come in with the cheese.’ There was + not only irritability, there was contempt—oh, yes! contempt in her + tone. Out of respect for myself, I made no reply. As a Christian, I can + forgive; as a wounded gentlewoman, I may not find it so easy to forget.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Notman laid herself back in her easy chair—she looked as if she + had suffered martyrdom, and only regretted having been obliged to mention + it. Father Benwell surprised the wounded gentlewoman by rising to his + feet. + </p> + <p> + “You are not going away already, Father?” + </p> + <p> + “Time flies fast in your society, dear Miss Notman. I have an engagement—and + I am late for it already.” + </p> + <p> + The housekeeper smiled sadly. “At least let me hear that you don’t + disapprove of my conduct under trying circumstances,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell took her hand. “A true Christian only feels offenses to + pardon them,” he remarked, in his priestly and paternal character. “You + have shown me, Miss Notman, that <i>you</i> are a true Christian. My + evening has indeed been well spent. God bless you!” + </p> + <p> + He pressed her hand; he shed on her the light of his fatherly smile; he + sighed, and took his leave. Miss Notman’s eyes followed him out with + devotional admiration. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell still preserved his serenity of temper when he was out of + the housekeeper’s sight. One important discovery he had made, in spite of + the difficulties placed in his way. A compromising circumstance had + unquestionably occurred in Stella’s past life; and, in all probability, a + man was in some way connected with it. “My evening has not been entirely + thrown away,” he thought, as he ascended the stairs which led from the + housekeeper’s room to the hall. <a name="linkCH0007" id="linkCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <h3> + THE INFLUENCE OF STELLA. + </h3> + <p> + ENTERING the hall, Father Benwell heard a knock at the house door. The + servants appeared to recognize the knock—the porter admitted Lord + Loring. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell advanced and made his bow. It was a perfect obeisance of + its kind—respect for Lord Loring, unobtrusively accompanied by + respect for himself. “Has your lordship been walking in the park?” he + inquired. + </p> + <p> + “I have been out on business,” Lord Loring answered; “and I should like to + tell you about it. If you can spare me a few minutes, come into the + library. Some time since,” he resumed, when the door was closed, “I think + I mentioned that my friends had been speaking to me on a subject of some + importance—the subject of opening my picture gallery occasionally to + the public.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember,” said Father Benwell. “Has your lordship decided what to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I have decided (as the phrase is) to ‘go with the times,’ and follow + the example of other owners of picture galleries. Don’t suppose I ever + doubted that it is my duty to extend, to the best of my ability, the + civilizing influences of Art. My only hesitation in the matter arose from + a dread of some accident happening, or some injury being done, to the + pictures. Even now, I can only persuade myself to try the experiment under + certain restrictions.” + </p> + <p> + “A wise decision, undoubtedly,” said Father Benwell. “In such a city as + this, you could hardly open your gallery to anybody who happens to pass + the house-door.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad you agree with me, Father. The gallery will be open for the + first time on Monday. Any respectably-dressed person, presenting a + visiting card at the offices of the librarians in Bond Street and Regent + Street, will receive a free ticket of admission; the number of tickets, it + is needless to say, being limited, and the gallery being only open to the + public two days in the week. You will be here, I suppose, on Monday?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. My work in the library, as your lordship can see, has only + begun.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very anxious about the success of this experiment,” said Lord + Loring. “Do look in at the gallery once or twice in the course of the day, + and tell me what your own impression is.” + </p> + <p> + Having expressed his readiness to assist “the experiment” in every + possible way, Father Benwell still lingered in the library. He was + secretly conscious of a hope that he might, at the eleventh hour, be + invited to join Romayne at the dinner-table. Lord Loring only looked at + the clock on the mantel-piece: it was nearly time to dress for dinner. The + priest had no alternative but to take the hint, and leave the house. + </p> + <p> + Five minutes after he had withdrawn, a messenger delivered a letter for + Lord Loring, in which Father Benwell’s interests were directly involved. + The letter was from Romayne; it contained his excuses for breaking his + engagement, literally at an hour’s notice. + </p> + <p> + “Only yesterday,” he wrote, “I had a return of what you, my dear friend, + call ‘the delusion of the voice.’ The nearer the hour of your dinner + approaches, the more keenly I fear that the same thing may happen in your + house. Pity me, and forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + Even good-natured Lord Loring felt some difficulty in pitying and + forgiving, when he read these lines. “This sort of caprice might be + excusable in a woman,” he thought. “A man ought really to be capable of + exercising some self-control. Poor Stella! And what will my wife say?” + </p> + <p> + He walked up and down the library, with Stella’s disappointment and Lady + Loring’s indignation prophetically present in his mind. There was, + however, no help for it—he must accept his responsibility, and be + the bearer of the bad news. + </p> + <p> + He was on the point of leaving the library, when a visitor appeared. The + visitor was no less a person than Romayne himself. “Have I arrived before + my letter?” he asked eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring showed him the letter. + </p> + <p> + “Throw it into the fire,” he said, “and let me try to excuse myself for + having written it. You remember the happier days when you used to call me + the creature of impulse? An impulse produced that letter. Another impulse + brings me here to disown it. I can only explain my strange conduct by + asking you to help me at the outset. Will you carry your memory back to + the day of the medical consultation on my case? I want you to correct me, + if I inadvertently misrepresent my advisers. Two of them were physicians. + The third, and last, was a surgeon, a personal friend of yours; and <i>he</i>, + as well as I recollect, told you how the consultation ended?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right, Romayne—so far.” + </p> + <p> + “The first of the two physicians,” Romayne proceeded, “declared my case to + be entirely attributable to nervous derangement, and to be curable by + purely medical means. I speak ignorantly; but, in plain English, that, I + believe, was the substance of what he said?” + </p> + <p> + “The substance of what he said,” Lord Loring replied, “and the substance + of his prescriptions—which, I think, you afterward tore up?” + </p> + <p> + “If you have no faith in a prescription,” said Romayne, “that is, in my + opinion, the best use to which you can put it. When it came to the turn of + the second physician, he differed with the first, as absolutely as one man + can differ with another. The third medical authority, your friend the + surgeon, took a middle course, and brought the consultation to an end by + combining the first physician’s view and the second physician’s view, and + mingling the two opposite forms of treatment in one harmonious result?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring remarked that this was not a very respectful way of describing + the conclusion of the medical proceedings. That it was the conclusion, + however, he could not honestly deny. + </p> + <p> + “As long as I am right,” said Romayne, “nothing else appears to be of much + importance. As I told you at the time, the second physician appeared to me + to be the only one of the three authorities who really understood my case. + Do you mind giving me, in few words, your own impression of what he said?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure that I shall not distress you?” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, you may help me to hope.” + </p> + <p> + “As I remember it,” said Lord Loring, “the doctor did not deny the + influence of the body over the mind. He was quite willing to admit that + the state of your nervous system might be one, among other predisposing + causes, which led you—I really hardly like to go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Which led me,” Romayne continued, finishing the sentence for his friend, + “to feel that I never shall forgive myself—accident or no accident—for + having taken that man’s life. Now go on.” + </p> + <p> + “The delusion that you still hear the voice,” Lord Loring proceeded, “is, + in the doctor’s opinion, the moral result of the morbid state of your mind + at the time when you really heard the voice on the scene of the duel. The + influence acts physically, of course, by means of certain nerves. But it + is essentially a moral influence; and its power over you is greatly + maintained by the self-accusing view of the circumstances which you + persist in taking. That, in substance, is my recollection of what the + doctor said.” + </p> + <p> + “And when he was asked what remedies he proposed to try,” Romayne + inquired, “do you remember his answer? ‘The mischief which moral + influences have caused, moral influences alone can remedy.’” + </p> + <p> + “I remember,” said Lord Loring. “And he mentioned, as examples of what he + meant, the occurrence of some new and absorbing interest in your life, or + the working of some complete change in your habits of thought—or + perhaps some influence exercised over you by a person previously unknown, + appearing under unforeseen circumstances, or in scenes quite new to you.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne’s eyes sparkled. + </p> + <p> + “Now you are coming to it!” he cried. “Now I feel sure that I recall + correctly the last words the doctor said: ‘If my view is the right one, I + should not be surprised to hear that the recovery which we all wish to see + had found its beginning in such apparently trifling circumstances as the + tone of some other person’s voice or the influence of some other person’s + look.’ That plain expression of his opinion only occurred to my memory + after I had written my foolish letter of excuse. I spare you the course of + other recollections that followed, to come at once to the result. For the + first time I have the hope, the faint hope, that the voice which haunts me + has been once already controlled by one of the influences of which the + doctor spoke—the influence of a look.” + </p> + <p> + If he had said this to Lady Loring, instead of to her husband, she would + have understood him at once. Lord Loring asked for a word more of + explanation. + </p> + <p> + “I told you yesterday,” Romayne answered, “that a dread of the return of + the voice had been present to me all the morning, and that I had come to + see the picture with an idea of trying if change would relieve me. While I + was in the gallery I was free from the dread, and free from the voice. + When I returned to the hotel it tortured me—and Mr. Penrose, I + grieve to say, saw what I suffered. You and I attributed the remission to + the change of scene. I now believe we were both wrong. Where was the + change? In seeing you and Lady Loring, I saw the two oldest friends I + have. In visiting your gallery, I only revived the familiar associations + of hundreds of other visits. To what influence was I really indebted for + my respite? Don’t try to dismiss the question by laughing at my morbid + fancies. Morbid fancies are realities to a man like me. Remember the + doctor’s words, Loring. Think of a new face, seen in your house! Think of + a look that searched my heart for the first time!” + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring glanced once more at the clock on the mantel-piece. The hands + pointed to the dinner hour. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Eyrecourt?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; Miss Eyrecourt.” + </p> + <p> + The library door was thrown open by a servant. Stella herself entered the + room. <a name="linkCH0008" id="linkCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <h3> + THE PRIEST OR THE WOMAN? + </h3> + <p> + LORD LORING hurried away to his dressing room. “I won’t be more than ten + minutes,” he said—and left Romayne and Stella together. + </p> + <p> + She was attired with her customary love of simplicity. White lace was the + only ornament on her dress of delicate silvery gray. Her magnificent hair + was left to plead its own merits, without adornment of any sort. Even the + brooch which fastened her lace pelerine was of plain gold only. Conscious + that she was showing her beauty to the greatest advantage in the eyes of a + man of taste, she betrayed a little of the embarrassment which Romayne had + already noticed at the moment when she gave him her hand. They were alone, + and it was the first time she had seen him in evening dress. + </p> + <p> + It may be that women have no positive appreciation of what is beautiful in + form and color—or it may be that they have no opinions of their own + when the laws of fashion have spoken. This at least is certain, that not + one of them in a thousand sees anything objectionable in the gloomy and + hideous evening costume of a gentleman in the nineteenth century. A + handsome man is, to their eyes, more seductive than ever in the + contemptible black coat and the stiff white cravat which he wears in + common with the servant who waits on him at table. After a stolen glance + at Romayne, Stella lost all confidence in herself—she began turning + over the photographs on the table. + </p> + <p> + The momentary silence which followed their first greeting became + intolerable to her. Rather than let it continue, she impulsively confessed + the uppermost idea in her mind when she entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I heard my name when I came in,” she said. “Were you and Lord + Loring speaking of me?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne owned without hesitation that they had been speaking of her. + </p> + <p> + She smiled and turned over another photograph. But when did sun-pictures + ever act as a restraint on a woman’s curiosity? The words passed her lips + in spite of her. “I suppose I mustn’t ask what you were saying?” + </p> + <p> + It was impossible to answer this plainly without entering into + explanations from which Romayne shrank. He hesitated. + </p> + <p> + She turned over another photograph. “I understand,” she said. “You were + talking of my faults.” She paused, and stole another look at him. “I will + try to correct my faults, if you will tell me what they are.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne felt that he had no alternative but to tell the truth—under + certain reserves. “Indeed you are wrong,” he said. “We were talking of the + influence of a tone or a look on a sensitive person.” + </p> + <p> + “The influence on Me?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No. The influence which You might exercise on another person.” + </p> + <p> + She knew perfectly well that he was speaking of himself. But she was + determined to feel the pleasure of making him own it. + </p> + <p> + “If I have any such influence as you describe,” she began, “I hope it is + for good?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly for good.” + </p> + <p> + “You speak positively, Mr. Romayne. Almost as positively—only that + can hardly be—as if you were speaking from experience.” + </p> + <p> + He might still have evaded a direct reply, if she had been content with + merely saying this. But she looked at him while she spoke. He answered the + look. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I own that you are right?” he said. “I was thinking of my own + experience yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + She returned to the photographs. “It sounds impossible,” she rejoined, + softly. There was a pause. “Was it anything I said?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No. It was only when you looked at me. But for that look, I don’t think I + should have been here to-day.” + </p> + <p> + She shut up the photographs on a sudden, and drew her chair a little away + from him. + </p> + <p> + “I hope,” she said, “you have not so poor an opinion of me as to think I + like to be flattered?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne answered with an earnestness that instantly satisfied her. + </p> + <p> + “I should think it an act of insolence to flatter you,” he said. “If you + knew the true reason why I hesitated to accept Lady Loring’s invitation—if + I could own to you the new hope for myself that has brought me here—you + would feel, as I feel, that I have been only speaking the truth. I daren’t + say yet that I owe you a debt of gratitude for such a little thing as a + look. I must wait till time puts certain strange fancies of mine to the + proof.” + </p> + <p> + “Fancies about me, Mr. Romayne?” + </p> + <p> + Before he could answer, the dinner bell rang. Lord and Lady Loring entered + the library together. + </p> + <p> + The dinner having pursued its appointed course (always excepting the case + of the omelet), the head servant who had waited at table was graciously + invited to rest, after his labors, in the housekeeper’s room. Having + additionally conciliated him by means of a glass of rare liqueur, Miss + Notman, still feeling her grievance as acutely as ever, ventured to + inquire, in the first place, if the gentlefolks upstairs had enjoyed their + dinner. So far the report was, on the whole, favorable. But the + conversation was described as occasionally flagging. The burden of the + talk had been mainly borne by my lord and my lady, Mr. Romayne and Miss + Eyrecourt contributing but little to the social enjoyment of the evening. + Receiving this information without much appearance of interest, the + housekeeper put another question, to which, judging by her manner, she + attached a certain importance. She wished to know if the oyster-omelet + (accompanying the cheese) had been received as a welcome dish, and treated + with a just recognition of its merits. The answer to this was decidedly in + the negative. Mr. Romayne and Miss Eyrecourt had declined to taste it. My + lord had tried it, and had left it on his plate. My lady alone had really + eaten her share of the misplaced dish. Having stated this apparently + trivial circumstance, the head servant was surprised by the effect which + it produced on the housekeeper. She leaned back in her chair and closed + her eyes, with an appearance of unutterable enjoyment. That night there + was one supremely happy woman in London. And her name was Miss Notman. + </p> + <p> + Ascending from the housekeeper’s room to the drawing-room, it is to be + further reported that music was tried, as a means of getting through the + time, in the absence of general conversation. Lady Loring sat down at the + piano, and played as admirably as usual. At the other end of the room + Romayne and Stella were together, listening to the music. Lord Loring, + walking backward and forward, with a restlessness which was far from being + characteristic of him in his after-dinner hours, was stopped when he + reached the neighborhood of the piano by a private signal from his wife. + </p> + <p> + “What are you walking about for?” Lady Loring asked in a whisper, without + interrupting her musical performance. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not quite easy, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Turn over the music. Indigestion?” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens, Adelaide, what a question!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is it, then?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring looked toward Stella and her companion. “They don’t seem to + get on together as well as I had hoped,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I should think not—when you are walking about and disturbing them! + Sit down there behind me.” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Am I not playing? Listen to me.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, I don’t understand modern German music.” + </p> + <p> + “Then read the evening paper.” + </p> + <p> + The evening paper had its attractions. Lord Loring took his wife’s advice. + </p> + <p> + Left entirely by themselves, at the other end of the room, Romayne and + Stella justified Lady Loring’s belief in the result of reducing her + husband to a state of repose. Stella ventured to speak first, in a + discreet undertone. + </p> + <p> + “Do you pass most of your evenings alone, Mr. Romayne?” + </p> + <p> + “Not quite alone. I have the company of my books.” + </p> + <p> + “Are your books the companions that you like best?” + </p> + <p> + “I have been true to those companions, Miss Eyrecourt, for many years. If + the doctors are to be believed, my books have not treated me very well in + return. They have broken down my health, and have made me, I am afraid, a + very unsocial man.” He seemed about to say more, and suddenly checked the + impulse. “Why am I talking of myself?” he resumed with a smile. “I never + do it at other times. Is this another result of your influence over me?” + </p> + <p> + He put the question with an assumed gayety. Stella made no effort, on her + side, to answer him in the same tone. + </p> + <p> + “I almost wish I really had some influence over you,” she said, gravely + and sadly. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I should try to induce you to shut up your books, and choose some living + companion who might restore you to your happier self.” + </p> + <p> + “It is already done,” said Romayne; “I have a new companion in Mr. + Penrose.” + </p> + <p> + “Penrose?” she repeated. “He is the friend—is he not—of the + priest here, whom they call Father Benwell?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like Father Benwell.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that a reason for disliking Mr. Penrose?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, boldly, “because he is Father Benwell’s friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, you are mistaken, Miss Eyrecourt. Mr. Penrose only entered + yesterday on his duties as my secretary, and I have already had reason to + think highly of him. Many men, after <i>that</i> experience of me,” he + added, speaking more to himself than to her, “might have asked me to find + another secretary.” + </p> + <p> + Stella heard those last words, and looked at him in astonishment. “Were + you angry with Mr. Penrose?” she asked innocently. “Is it possible that <i>you</i> + could speak harshly to any person in your employment?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne smiled. “It was not what I said,” he answered. “I am subject to + attacks—to sudden attacks of illness. I am sorry I alarmed Mr. + Penrose by letting him see me under those circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him; hesitated; and looked away again. “Would you be angry + with me if I confessed something?” she said timidly. + </p> + <p> + “It is impossible I can be angry with you!” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Romayne, I think I have seen what your secretary saw. I know how you + suffer, and how patiently you bear it.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “I saw you with your friend, when you came on board the steamboat at + Boulogne. Oh, no, you never noticed me! You never knew how I pitied you. + And afterward, when you moved away by yourself, and stood by the place in + which the engines work—you are sure you won’t think the worse of me, + if I tell it?” + </p> + <p> + “No! no!” + </p> + <p> + “Your face frightened me—I can’t describe it—I went to your + friend and took it on myself to say that you wanted him. It was an impulse—I + meant well.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure you meant well.” As he spoke, his face darkened a little, + betraying a momentary feeling of distrust. Had she put indiscreet + questions to his traveling companion; and had the Major, under the + persuasive influence of her beauty, been weak enough to answer them? “Did + you speak to my friend?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Only when I told him that he had better go to you. And I think I said + afterward I was afraid you were very ill. We were in the confusion of + arriving at Folkestone—and, even if I had thought it right to say + more, there was no opportunity.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne felt ashamed of the suspicion by which he had wronged her. “You + have a generous nature,” he said earnestly. “Among the few people whom I + know, how many would feel the interest in me that you felt?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say that, Mr. Romayne! You could have had no kinder friend than the + gentleman who took care of you on your journey. Is he with you now in + London?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to hear it. You ought to have some devoted friend always near + you.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke very earnestly. Romayne shrank, with a strange shyness, from + letting her see how her sympathy affected him. He answered lightly. “You + go almost as far as my good friend there reading the newspaper,” he said. + “Lord Loring doesn’t scruple to tell me that I ought to marry. I know he + speaks with a sincere interest in my welfare. He little thinks how he + distresses me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should he distress you?” + </p> + <p> + “He reminds me—live as long as I may—that I must live alone. + Can I ask a woman to share such a dreary life as mine? It would be + selfish, it would be cruel; I should deservedly pay the penalty of + allowing my wife to sacrifice herself. The time would come when she would + repent having married me.” + </p> + <p> + Stella rose. Her eyes rested on him with a look of gentle remonstrance. “I + think you hardly do women justice,” she said softly. “Perhaps some day a + woman may induce you to change your opinion.” She crossed the room to the + piano. “You must be tired of playing, Adelaide,” she said, putting her + hand caressingly on Lady Loring’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Will you sing, Stella?” + </p> + <p> + She sighed, and turned away. “Not to-night,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + Romayne took his leave rather hurriedly. He seemed to be out of spirits + and eager to get away. Lord Loring accompanied his guest to the door. “You + look sad and careworn,” he said. “Do you regret having left your books to + pass an evening with us?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne looked up absently, and answered, “I don’t know yet.” + </p> + <p> + Returning to report this extraordinary reply to his wife and Stella, Lord + Loring found the drawing-room empty. Eager for a little private + conversation, the two ladies had gone upstairs. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Lady Loring, as they sat together over the fire. “What did he + say?” + </p> + <p> + Stella only repeated what he had said before she rose and left him. “What + is there in Mr. Romayne’s life,” she asked, “which made him say that he + would be selfish and cruel if he expected a woman to marry him? It must be + something more than mere illness. If he had committed a crime he could not + have spoken more strongly. Do you know what it is?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring looked uneasy. “I promised my husband to keep it a secret from + everybody,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “It is nothing degrading, Adelaide—I am sure of that.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are right, my dear. I can understand that he has surprised and + disappointed you; but, if you knew his motives—” she stopped and + looked earnestly at Stella. “They say,” she went on, “the love that lasts + longest is the love of slowest growth. This feeling of yours for Romayne + is of sudden growth. Are you very sure that your whole heart is given to a + man of whom you know little?” + </p> + <p> + “I know that I love him,” said Stella simply. + </p> + <p> + “Even though he doesn’t seem as yet to love you?” Lady Loring asked. + </p> + <p> + “All the more <i>because</i> he doesn’t. I should be ashamed to make the + confession to any one but you. It is useless to say any more. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring allowed her to get as far as the door, and then suddenly + called her back. Stella returned unwillingly and wearily. “My head aches + and my heart aches,” she said. “Let me go away to my bed.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like you to go away, wronging Romayne perhaps in your thoughts,” + said Lady Loring. “And, more than that, for the sake of your own + happiness, you ought to judge for yourself if this devoted love of yours + may ever hope to win its reward. It is time, and more than time, that you + should decide whether it is good for you to see Romayne again. Have you + courage enough to do that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—if I am convinced that it ought to be done.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing would make me so happy,” Lady Loring resumed, “as to know that + you were one day, my dear, to be his wife. But I am not a prudent person—I + can never look, as you can, to consequences. You won’t betray me, Stella? + If I am doing wrong in telling a secret which has been trusted to me, it + is my fondness for you that misleads me. Sit down again. You shall know + what the misery of Romayne’s life really is.” + </p> + <p> + With those words, she told the terrible story of the duel, and of all that + had followed it. + </p> + <p> + “It is for you to say,” she concluded, “whether Romayne is right. Can any + woman hope to release him from the torment that he suffers, with nothing + to help her but love? Determine for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Stella answered instantly. + </p> + <p> + “I determine to be his wife!” + </p> + <p> + With the same pure enthusiasm, Penrose had declared that he too devoted + himself to the deliverance of Romayne. The loving woman was not more + resolved to give her whole life to him, than the fanatical man was + resolved to convert him. On the same common battle-ground the two were now + to meet in unconscious antagonism. Would the priest or the woman win the + day? <a name="linkCH0009" id="linkCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <h3> + THE PUBLIC AND THE PICTURES. + </h3> + <p> + ON the memorable Monday, when the picture gallery was opened to the public + for the first time, Lord Loring and Father Benwell met in the library. + </p> + <p> + “Judging by the number of carriages already at the door,” said Father + Benwell, “your lordship’s kindness is largely appreciated by the lovers of + Art.” + </p> + <p> + “All the tickets were disposed of in three hours,” Lord Loring answered. + “Everybody (the librarians tell me) is eager to see the pictures. Have you + looked in yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. I thought I would get on first with my work among the books.” + </p> + <p> + “I have just come from the gallery,” Lord Loring continued. “And here I + am, driven out of it again by the remarks of some of the visitors. You + know my beautiful copies of Raphael’s Cupid and Psyche designs? The + general impression, especially among the ladies, is that they are + disgusting and indecent. That was enough for me. If you happen to meet + Lady Loring and Stella, kindly tell them that I have gone to the club.” + </p> + <p> + “Do the ladies propose paying a visit to the gallery?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course—to see the people! I have recommended them to wait until + they are ready to go out for their drive. In their indoor costume they + might become the objects of general observation as the ladies of the + house. I shall be anxious to hear, Father, if you can discover the + civilizing influences of Art among my guests in the gallery. + Good-morning.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell rang the bell when Lord Loring had left him. + </p> + <p> + “Do the ladies drive out to-day at their usual hour?” he inquired, when + the servant appeared. The man answered in the affirmative. The carriage + was ordered at three o’clock. + </p> + <p> + At half-past two Father Benwell slipped quietly into the gallery. He + posted himself midway between the library door and the grand entrance; on + the watch, not for the civilizing influences of Art, but for the + appearance of Lady Loring and Stella. He was still of opinion that + Stella’s “frivolous” mother might be turned into a source of valuable + information on the subject of her daughter’s earlier life. The first step + toward attaining this object was to discover Mrs. Eyrecourt’s present + address. Stella would certainly know it—and Father Benwell felt a + just confidence in his capacity to make the young lady serviceable, in + this respect, to the pecuniary interests of the Church. + </p> + <p> + After an interval of a quarter of an hour, Lady Loring and Stella entered + the gallery by the library door. Father Benwell at once advanced to pay + his respects. + </p> + <p> + For some little time he discreetly refrained from making any attempt to + lead the conversation to the topic that he had in view. He was too well + acquainted with the insatiable interest of women in looking at other women + to force himself into notice. The ladies made their remarks on the + pretensions to beauty and to taste in dress among the throng of visitors—and + Father Benwell waited by them, and listened with the resignation of a + modest young man. Patience, being a virtue, is sometimes its own reward. + Two gentlemen, evidently interested in the pictures, approached the + priest. He drew back, with his ready politeness, to let them see the + picture before which he happened to be standing. + </p> + <p> + The movement disturbed Stella. She turned sharply—noticed one of the + gentlemen, the taller of the two—became deadly pale—and + instantly quitted the gallery. Lady Loring, looking where Stella had + looked, frowned angrily and followed Miss Eyrecourt into the library. Wise + Father Benwell let them go, and concentrated his attention on the person + who had been the object of this startling recognition. + </p> + <p> + Unquestionably a gentleman—with light hair and complexion—with + a bright benevolent face and keen intelligent blue eyes—apparently + still in the prime of life. Such was Father Benwell’s first impression of + the stranger. He had evidently seen Miss Eyrecourt at the moment when she + first noticed him; and he too showed signs of serious agitation. His face + flushed deeply, and his eyes expressed, not merely surprise, but distress. + He turned to his friend. “This place is hot,” he said; “let us get out of + it!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Winterfield!” the friend remonstrated, “we haven’t seen half the + pictures yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me if I leave you,” the other replied. “I am used to the free air + of the country. Let us meet again this evening. Come and dine with me. The + same address as usual—Derwent’s Hotel.” + </p> + <p> + With those words he hurried out, making his way, without ceremony, through + the crowd in the picture gallery. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell returned to the library. It was quite needless to trouble + himself further about Mrs. Eyrecourt or her address. “Thanks to Lord + Loring’s picture gallery,” he thought, “I have found the man!” + </p> + <p> + He took up his pen and made a little memorandum—“Winterfield. + Derwent’s Hotel.” <a name="linkCH0010" id="linkCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> + <h3> + FATHER BENWELL’S CORRESPONDENCE. + </h3> + <p class="center"> + I. + </p> + <p> + <i>To Mr. Bitrake. Private and Confidential.</i> + </p> + <p> + SIR—I understand that your connection with the law does not exclude + your occasional superintendence of confidential inquiries, which are not + of a nature to injure your professional position. The inclosed letter of + introduction will satisfy you that I am incapable of employing your + experience in a manner unbecoming to you, or to myself. + </p> + <p> + The inquiry that I propose to you relates to a gentleman named + Winterfield. He is now staying in London, at Derwent’s Hotel, and is + expected to remain there for a week from the present date. His place of + residence is on the North Devonshire coast, and is well known in that + locality by the name of Beaupark House. + </p> + <p> + The range of my proposed inquiry dates back over the last four or five + years—certainly not more. My object is to ascertain, as positively + as may be, whether, within this limit of time, events in Mr. Winterfield’s + life have connected him with a young lady named Miss Stella Eyrecourt. If + this proves to be the case it is essential that I should be made + acquainted with the whole of the circumstances. + </p> + <p> + I have now informed you of all that I want to know. Whatever the + information may be, it is most important that it shall be information + which I can implicitly trust. Please address to me, when you write, under + cover to the friend whose letter I inclose. + </p> + <p> + I beg your acceptance—as time is of importance—of a check for + preliminary expenses, and remain, sir, your faithful servant, + </p> + <p class="center"> + AMBROSE BENWELL. + </p> + <p class="center"> + II. + </p> + <p> + <i>To the Secretary, Society of Jesus, Rome.</i> + </p> + <p> + I inclose a receipt for the remittance which your last letter confides to + my care. Some of the money has been already used in prosecuting inquiries, + the result of which will, as I hope and believe, enable me to effectually + protect Romayne from the advances of the woman who is bent on marrying + him. + </p> + <p> + You tell me that our Reverend Fathers, lately sitting in council on the + Vange Abbey affair, are anxious to hear if any positive steps have yet + been taken toward the conversion of Romayne. I am happily able to gratify + their wishes, as you shall now see. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday, I called at Romayne’s hotel to pay one of those occasional + visits which help to keep up our acquaintance. He was out, and Penrose + (for whom I asked next) was with him. Most fortunately, as the event + proved, I had not seen Penrose, or heard from him, for some little time; + and I thought it desirable to judge for myself of the progress that he was + making in the confidence of his employer. I said I would wait. The hotel + servant knows me by sight. I was shown into Romayne’s waiting-room. + </p> + <p> + This room is so small as to be a mere cupboard. It is lighted by a glass + fanlight over the door which opens from the passage, and is supplied with + air (in the absence of a fireplace) by a ventilator in a second door, + which communicates with Romayne’s study. Looking about me, so far, I + crossed to the other end of the study, and discovered a dining-room and + two bedrooms beyond—the set of apartments being secluded, by means + of a door at the end of the passage, from the other parts of the hotel. I + trouble you with these details in order that you may understand the events + that followed. + </p> + <p> + I returned to the waiting-room, not forgetting of course to close the door + of communication. + </p> + <p> + Nearly an hour must have passed before I heard footsteps in the passage. + The study door was opened, and the voices of persons entering the room + reached me through the ventilator. I recognized Romayne, Penrose—and + Lord Loring. + </p> + <p> + The first words exchanged among them informed me that Romayne and his + secretary had overtaken Lord Loring in the street, as he was approaching + the hotel door. The three had entered the house together—at a time, + probably, when the servant who had admitted me was out of the way. However + it may have happened, there I was, forgotten in the waiting-room! + </p> + <p> + Could I intrude myself (on a private conversation perhaps) as an + unannounced and unwelcome visitor? And could I help it, if the talk found + its way to me through the ventilator, along with the air that I breathed? + If our Reverend Fathers think I was to blame, I bow to any reproof which + their strict sense of propriety may inflict on me. In the meantime, I beg + to repeat the interesting passages in the conversation, as nearly word for + word as I can remember them. + </p> + <p> + His lordship, as the principal personage in social rank, shall be reported + first. He said: “More than a week has passed, Romayne, and we have neither + seen you nor heard from you. Why have you neglected us?” + </p> + <p> + Here, judging by certain sounds that followed, Penrose got up discreetly, + and left the room. Lord Loring went on. + </p> + <p> + He said to Romayne: “Now we are alone, I may speak to you more freely. You + and Stella seemed to get on together admirably that evening when you dined + with us. Have you forgotten what you told me of her influence over you? Or + have you altered your opinion—and is that the reason why you keep + away from us?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne answered: “My opinion remains unchanged. All that I said to you of + Miss Eyrecourt, I believe as firmly as ever.” + </p> + <p> + His lordship remonstrated, naturally enough. “Then why remain away from + the good influence? Why—if it really <i>can</i> be controlled—risk + another return of that dreadful nervous delusion?” + </p> + <p> + “I have had another return.” + </p> + <p> + “Which, as you yourself believe, might have been prevented! Romayne, you + astonish me.” + </p> + <p> + There was a time of silence, before Romayne answered this. He was a little + mysterious when he did reply. “You know the old saying, my good friend—of + two evils, choose the least. I bear my sufferings as one of two evils, and + the least of the two.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring appeared to feel the necessity of touching a delicate subject + with a light hand. He said, in his pleasant way: “Stella isn’t the other + evil, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Most assuredly not.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what is it?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne answered, almost passionately: “My own weakness and selfishness! + Faults which I must resist, or become a mean and heartless man. For me, + the worst of the two evils is there. I respect and admire Miss Eyrecourt—I + believe her to be a woman in a thousand—don’t ask me to see her + again! Where is Penrose? Let us talk of something else.” + </p> + <p> + Whether this wild way of speaking offended Lord Loring, or only + discouraged him, I cannot say. I heard him take his leave in these words: + “You have disappointed me, Romayne. We will talk of something else the + next time we meet.” The study door was opened and closed. Romayne was left + by himself. + </p> + <p> + Solitude was apparently not to his taste just then. I heard him call to + Penrose. I heard Penrose ask: “Do you want me?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne answered: “God knows I want a friend—and I have no friend + near me but you! Major Hynd is away, and Lord Loring is offended with me.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose asked why. + </p> + <p> + Romayne, thereupon, entered on the necessary explanation. As a priest + writing to priests, I pass over details utterly uninteresting to us. The + substance of what he said amounted to this: Miss Eyrecourt had produced an + impression on him which was new to him in his experience of women. If he + saw more of her, it might end—I ask your pardon for repeating the + ridiculous expression—in his “falling in love with her.” In this + condition of mind or body, whichever it may be, he would probably be + incapable of the self-control which he had hitherto practiced. If she + consented to devote her life to him, he might accept the cruel sacrifice. + Rather than do this, he would keep away from her, for her dear sake—no + matter what he might suffer, or whom he might offend. + </p> + <p> + Imagine any human being, out of a lunatic asylum, talking in this way. + Shall I own to you, my reverend colleague, how this curious self-exposure + struck me? As I listened to Romayne, I felt grateful to the famous Council + which definitely forbade the priests of the Catholic Church to marry. <i>We</i> + might otherwise have been morally enervated by the weakness which degrades + Romayne—and priests might have become instruments in the hands of + women. + </p> + <p> + But you will be anxious to hear what Penrose did under the circumstances. + For the moment, I can tell you this, he startled me. + </p> + <p> + Instead of seizing the opportunity, and directing Romayne’s mind to the + consolations of religion, Penrose actually encouraged him to reconsider + his decision. All the weakness of my poor little Arthur’s character showed + itself in his next words. + </p> + <p> + He said to Romayne: “It may be wrong in me to speak to you as freely as I + wish to speak. But you have so generously admitted me to your confidence—you + have been so considerate and so kind toward me—that I feel an + interest in your happiness, which perhaps makes me over bold. Are you very + sure that some such entire change in your life as your marriage might not + end in delivering you from your burden? If such a thing could be, is it + wrong to suppose that your wife’s good influence over you might be the + means of making your marriage a happy one? I must not presume to offer an + opinion on such a subject. It is only my gratitude, my true attachment to + you that ventures to put the question. Are you conscious of having given + this matter—so serious a matter for you—sufficient thought?” + </p> + <p> + Make your mind easy, reverend sir! Romayne’s answer set everything right. + </p> + <p> + He said: “I have thought of it till I could think no longer. I still + believe that sweet woman might control the torment of the voice. But could + she deliver me from the remorse perpetually gnawing at my heart? I feel as + murderers feel. In taking another man’s life—a man who had not even + injured me!—I have committed the one unatonable and unpardonable + sin. Can any human creature’s influence make me forget that? No more of it—no + more. Come! Let us take refuge in our books.” + </p> + <p> + Those words touched Penrose in the right place. Now, as I understand his + scruples, he felt that he might honorably speak out. His zeal more than + balanced his weakness, as you will presently see. + </p> + <p> + He was loud, he was positive, when I heard him next. “No!” he burst out, + “your refuge is not in books, and not in the barren religious forms which + call themselves Protestant. Dear master, the peace of mind, which you + believe you have lost forever, you will find again in the divine wisdom + and compassion of the holy Catholic Church. There is the remedy for all + that you suffer! There is the new life that will yet make you a happy + man!” + </p> + <p> + I repeat what he said, so far, merely to satisfy you that we can trust his + enthusiasm, when it is once roused. Nothing will discourage, nothing will + defeat him now. He spoke with all the eloquence of conviction—using + the necessary arguments with a force and feeling which I have rarely heard + equaled. Romayne’s silence vouched for the effect on him. He is not the + man to listen patiently to reasoning which he thinks he can overthrow. + </p> + <p> + Having heard enough to satisfy me that Penrose had really begun the good + work, I quietly slipped out of the waiting-room and left the hotel. + </p> + <p> + To-day being Sunday, I shall not lose a post if I keep my letter open + until to-morrow. I have already sent a note to Penrose, asking him to call + on me at his earliest convenience. There may be more news for you before + post time. + </p> + <p> + Monday, 10 A.M.. + </p> + <p> + There <i>is</i> more news. Penrose has just left me. + </p> + <p> + His first proceeding, of course, was to tell me what I had already + discovered for myself. He is modest, as usual, about the prospect of + success which awaits him. But he has induced Romayne to suspend his + historical studies for a few days, and to devote his attention to the + books which we are accustomed to recommend for perusal in such cases as + his. This is unquestionably a great gain at starting. + </p> + <p> + But my news is not at an end yet. Romayne is actually playing our game—he + has resolved definitely to withdraw himself from the influence of Miss + Eyrecourt! In another hour he and Penrose will have left London. Their + destination is kept a profound secret. All letters addressed to Romayne + are to be sent to his bankers. + </p> + <p> + The motive for this sudden resolution is directly traceable to Lady + Loring. + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship called at the hotel yesterday evening, and had a private + interview with Romayne. Her object, no doubt, was to shake his resolution, + and to make him submit himself again to Miss Eyrecourt’s fascinations. + What means of persuasion she used to effect this purpose is of course + unknown to us. Penrose saw Romayne after her ladyship’s departure, and + describes him as violently agitated. I can quite understand it. His + resolution to take refuge in secret flight (it is really nothing less) + speaks for itself as to the impression produced on him, and the danger + from which, for the time at least, we have escaped. + </p> + <p> + Yes! I say “for the time at least.” Don’t let our reverend fathers suppose + that the money expended on my private inquiries has been money thrown + away. Where these miserable love affairs are concerned, women are daunted + by no adverse circumstances and warned by no defeat. Romayne has left + London, in dread of his own weakness—we must not forget that. The + day may yet come when nothing will interpose between us and failure but my + knowledge of events in Miss Eyrecourt’s life. + </p> + <p> + For the present, there is no more to be said. <a name="linkCH0011" + id="linkCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> + <h3> + STELLA ASSERTS HERSELF. + </h3> + <p> + Two days after Father Benwell had posted his letter to Rome, Lady Loring + entered her husband’s study, and asked eagerly if he had heard any news of + Romayne. + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring shook his head. “As I told you yesterday,” he said, “the + proprietor of the hotel can give me no information. I went myself this + morning to the bankers, and saw the head partner. He offered to forward + letters, but he could do no more. Until further notice, he was positively + enjoined not to disclose Romayne’s address to anybody. How does Stella + bear it?” + </p> + <p> + “In the worst possible way,” Lady Loring answered. “In silence.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word even to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word.” + </p> + <p> + At that reply, the servant interrupted them by announcing the arrival of a + visitor, and presenting his card. Lord Loring started, and handed it to + his wife. The card bore the name of “Major Hynd,” and this line was added + in pencil: “On business connected with Mr. Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + “Show him in directly!” cried Lady Loring. + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring remonstrated. “My dear! perhaps I had better see this + gentleman alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not—unless you wish to drive me into committing an act of + the most revolting meanness! If you send me away I shall listen at the + door.” + </p> + <p> + Major Hynd was shown in, and was duly presented to Lady Loring. After + making the customary apologies, he said: “I returned to London last night, + expressly to see Romayne on a matter of importance. Failing to discover + his present address at the hotel, I had the hope that your lordship might + be able to direct me to our friend.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to say I know no more than you do,” Lord Loring replied. + “Romayne’s present address is a secret confided to his bankers, and to no + one else. I will give you their names, if you wish to write to him.” + </p> + <p> + Major Hynd hesitated. “I am not quite sure that it would be discreet to + write to him, under the circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring could no longer keep silence. “Is it possible, Major Hynd, to + tell us what the circumstances are?” she asked. “I am almost as old a + friend of Romayne as my husband—and I am very anxious about him.” + </p> + <p> + The Major looked embarrassed. “I can hardly answer your ladyship,” he + said, “without reviving painful recollections—” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring’s impatience interrupted the Major’s apologies. “Do you mean + the duel?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring interposed. “I should tell you, Major Hynd, that Lady Loring + is as well informed as I am of what happened at Boulogne, and of the + deplorable result, so far as Romayne is concerned. If you still wish to + speak to me privately, I will ask you to accompany me into the next room.” + </p> + <p> + Major Hynd’s embarrassment vanished. “After what you tell me,” he said, “I + hope to be favored with Lady Loring’s advice. You both know that Romayne + fought the fatal duel with a son of the French General who had challenged + him. When we returned to England, we heard that the General and his family + had been driven away from Boulogne by pecuniary difficulties. Romayne, + against my advice, wrote to the surgeon who had been present at the duel, + desiring that the General’s place of retreat might be discovered, and + expressing his wish to assist the family anonymously, as their Unknown + Friend. The motive, of course, was, in his own words, ‘to make some little + atonement to the poor people whom he had wronged.’ I thought it a rash + proceeding at the time; and I am confirmed in my opinion by a letter from + the surgeon, received yesterday. Will you kindly read it to Lady Loring?” + </p> + <p> + He handed the letter to Lord Loring. Translated from the French, it ran as + follows: + </p> + <p> + “SIR—I am at last able to answer Mr. Romayne’s letter definitely, + with the courteous assistance of the French Consul in London, to whom I + applied when other means of investigation had produced no result. + </p> + <p> + “A week since the General died, circumstances connected with the burial + expenses informed the Consul that he had taken refuge from his creditors, + not in Paris as we supposed, but in London. The address is, Number 10, + Camp’s Hill, Islington. I should also add that the General, for obvious + reasons, lived in London under the assumed name of Marillac. It will be + necessary, therefore, to inquire for his widow by the name of Madame + Marillac. + </p> + <p> + “You will perhaps be surprised to find that I address these lines to you, + instead of to Mr. Romayne. The reason is soon told. + </p> + <p> + “I was acquainted with the late General—as you know—at a time + when I was not aware of the company that he kept, or of the deplorable + errors into which his love of gambling had betrayed him. Of his widow and + his children I know absolutely nothing. Whether they have resisted the + contaminating influence of the head of the household—or whether + poverty and bad example combined have hopelessly degraded them—I + cannot say. There is at least a doubt whether they are worthy of Mr. + Romayne’s benevolent intentions toward them. As an honest man, I cannot + feel this doubt, and reconcile it to my conscience to be the means, + however indirectly, of introducing them to Mr. Romayne. To your discretion + I leave it to act for the best, after this warning.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring returned the letter to Major Hynd. “I agree with you,” he + said. “It is more than doubtful whether you ought to communicate this + information to Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring was not quite of her husband’s opinion. “While there is a + doubt about these people,” she said, “it seems only just to find out what + sort of character they bear in the neighborhood. In your place, Major + Hynd, I should apply to the person in whose house they live, or to the + tradespeople whom they have employed.” + </p> + <p> + “I am obliged to leave London again to-day,” the Major replied; “but on my + return I will certainly follow your ladyship’s advice.” + </p> + <p> + “And you will let us know the result?” + </p> + <p> + “With the greatest pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + Major Hynd took his leave. “I think you will be responsible for wasting + the Major’s time,” said Lord Loring, when the visitor had retired. + </p> + <p> + “I think not,” said Lady Loring. + </p> + <p> + She rose to leave the room. “Are you going out?” her husband asked. + </p> + <p> + “No. I am going upstairs to Stella.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring found Miss Eyrecourt in her own room. The little portrait of + Romayne which she had drawn from recollection lay on the table before her. + She was examining it with the closest attention. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Stella, and what does the portrait tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “What I knew before, Adelaide. There is nothing false and nothing cruel in + that face.” + </p> + <p> + “And does the discovery satisfy you? For my part, I despise Romayne for + hiding himself from us. Can you excuse him?” + </p> + <p> + Stella locked up the portrait in her writing-case. “I can wait,” she said + quietly. + </p> + <p> + This assertion of patience seemed to irritate Lady Loring “What is the + matter with you this morning?” she asked. “You are more reserved than + ever.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I am only out of spirits, Adelaide. I can’t help thinking of that + meeting with Winterfield. I feel as if some misfortune was hanging over my + head.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak of that hateful man!” her ladyship exclaimed. “I have + something to tell you about Romayne. Are you completely absorbed in your + presentiments of evil? or do you think you can listen to me?” + </p> + <p> + Stella’s face answered for her. Lady Loring described the interview with + Major Hynd in the minutest detail—including, by way of illustration, + the Major’s manners and personal appearance. “He and Lord Loring,” she + added, “both think that Romayne will never hear the last of it if he + allows these foreigners to look to him for money. Until something more is + known about them, the letter is not to be forwarded.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had the letter,” cried Stella. + </p> + <p> + “Would you forward it to Romayne?” + </p> + <p> + “Instantly! Does it matter whether these poor French people are worthy of + his generosity? If it restores his tranquillity to help them, who cares + whether they deserve the help? They are not even to know who it is that + assists them—Romayne is to be their unknown friend. It is he, not + they, whom we have to think of—his peace of mind is everything; + their merit is nothing. I say it’s cruel to <i>him</i> to keep him in + ignorance of what has happened. Why didn’t you take the letter away from + Major Hynd?” + </p> + <p> + “Gently, Stella! The Major is going to make inquiries about the widow and + children when he returns to London.” + </p> + <p> + “When he returns!” Stella repeated indignantly. “Who knows what the poor + wretches may be suffering in the interval, and what Romayne may feel if he + ever hears of it? Tell me the address again—it was somewhere in + Islington, you said.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you want to know it?” Lady Loring asked. “You are not going to + write to Romayne yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to think, before I do anything. If you can’t trust my + discretion, Adelaide, you have only to say so!” + </p> + <p> + It was spoken sharply. Lady Loring’s reply betrayed a certain loss of + temper on her side. “Manage your own affairs, Stella—I have done + meddling with them.” Her unlucky visit to Romayne at the hotel had been a + subject of dispute between the two friends—and this referred to it. + “You shall have the address,” my lady added in her grandest manner. She + wrote it on a piece of paper, and left the room. + </p> + <p> + Easily irritated, Lady Loring had the merit of being easily appeased. That + meanest of all vices, the vice of sulkiness, had no existence in her + nature. In five minutes she regretted her little outburst of irritability. + For five minutes more she waited, on the chance that Stella might be the + first to seek a reconciliation. The interval passed, and nothing happened. + “Have I really offended her?” Lady Loring asked herself. The next moment + she was on her way back to Stella. The room was empty. She rang the bell + for the maid. + </p> + <p> + “Where is Miss Eyrecourt?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone out, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she leave no message?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lady. She went away in a great hurry.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring at once drew the conclusion that Stella had rashly taken the + affair of the General’s family into her own hands. Was it possible to say + how this most imprudent proceeding might end? After hesitating and + reflecting, and hesitating again, Lady Loring’s anxiety got beyond her + control. She not only decided on following Stella, but, in the excess of + her nervous apprehension, she took one of the men-servants with her, in + case of emergency! <a name="linkCH0012" id="linkCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> + <h3> + THE GENERAL’S FAMILY. + </h3> + <p> + NOT always remarkable for arriving at just conclusions, Lady Loring had + drawn the right inference this time. Stella had stopped the first cab that + passed her, and had directed the driver to Camp’s Hill, Islington. + </p> + <p> + The aspect of the miserable little street, closed at one end, and swarming + with dirty children quarreling over their play, daunted her for the + moment. Even the cabman, drawing up at the entrance to the street, + expressed his opinion that it was a queer sort of place for a young lady + to venture into alone. Stella thought of Romayne. Her firm persuasion that + she was helping him to perform an act of mercy, which was (to his mind) an + act of atonement as well, roused her courage. She boldly approached the + open door of No. 10, and knocked on it with her parasol. + </p> + <p> + The tangled gray hair and grimy face of a hideous old woman showed + themselves slowly at the end of the passage, rising from the + strong-smelling obscurity of the kitchen regions. “What do you want?” said + the half-seen witch of the London slums. “Does Madame Marillac live here?” + Stella asked. “Do you mean the foreigner?” “Yes.” “Second door.” With + those instructions the upper half of the witch sank and vanished. Stella + gathered her skirts together, and ascended a filthy flight of stairs for + the first time in her life. + </p> + <p> + Coarse voices, shameless language, gross laughter behind the closed doors + of the first floor hurried her on her way to the rooms on the higher + flight. Here there was a change for the better—here, at least, there + was silence. She knocked at the door on the landing of the second floor. A + gentle voice answered, in French; “Entrez!”—then quickly substituted + the English equivalent, “Come in!” Stella opened the door. + </p> + <p> + The wretchedly furnished room was scrupulously clean. Above the + truckle-bed, a cheap little image of the Virgin was fastened to the wall, + with some faded artificial flowers arranged above it in the form of a + wreath. Two women, in dresses of coarse black stuff, sat at a small round + table, working at the same piece of embroidery. The elder of the two rose + when the visitor entered the room. Her worn and weary face still showed + the remains of beauty in its finely proportioned parts—her dim eyes + rested on Stella with an expression of piteous entreaty. “Have you come + for the work, madam?” she asked, in English, spoken with a strong foreign + accent. “Pray forgive me; I have not finished it yet.” + </p> + <p> + The second of the two workwomen suddenly looked up. + </p> + <p> + She, too, was wan and frail; but her eyes were bright; her movements still + preserved the elasticity of youth. Her likeness to the elder woman + proclaimed their relationship, even before she spoke. “Ah! it’s my fault!” + she burst out passionately in French. “I was hungry and tired, and I slept + hours longer than I ought. My mother was too kind to wake me and set me to + work. I am a selfish wretch—and my mother is an angel!” She dashed + away the tears gathering in her eyes, and proudly, fiercely, resumed her + work. + </p> + <p> + Stella hastened to reassure them, the moment she could make herself heard. + “Indeed, I have nothing to do with the work,” she said, speaking in + French, so that they might the more readily understand her. “I came here, + Madame Marillac—if you will not be offended with me, for plainly + owning it—to offer you some little help.” + </p> + <p> + “Charity?” asked the daughter, looking up again sternly from her needle. + </p> + <p> + “Sympathy,” Stella answered gently. + </p> + <p> + The girl resumed her work. “I beg your pardon,” she said; “I shall learn + to submit to my lot in time.” + </p> + <p> + The quiet long-suffering mother placed a chair for Stella. “You have a + kind beautiful face, miss,” she said; “and I am sure you will make + allowances for my poor girl. I remember the time when I was as quick to + feel as she is. May I ask how you came to hear of us?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you will excuse me,” Stella replied. “I am not at liberty to + answer that question.” + </p> + <p> + The mother said nothing. The daughter asked sharply, “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + Stella addressed her answer to the mother. “I come from a person who + desires to be of service to you as an unknown friend,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The wan face of the widow suddenly brightened. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “has + my brother heard of the General’s death? and has he forgiven me my + marriage at last?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” Stella interposed; “I must not mislead you. The person whom I + represent is no relation of yours.” + </p> + <p> + Even in spite of this positive assertion, the poor woman held desperately + to the hope that had been roused in her. “The name by which you know me + may mislead you,” she suggested anxiously. “My late husband assumed the + name in his exile here. Perhaps, if I told you—” + </p> + <p> + The daughter stopped her there. “My dear mother, leave this to me.” The + widow sighed resignedly, and resumed her work. “Madame Marillac will do + very well as a name,” the girl continued, turning to Stella, “until we + know something more of each other. I suppose you are well acquainted with + the person whom you represent?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, or I should not be here.” + </p> + <p> + “You know the person’s family connections, in that case? and you can say + for certain whether they are French connections or not?” + </p> + <p> + “I can say for certain,” Stella answered, “that they are English + connections. I represent a friend who feels kindly toward Madame Marillac; + nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + “You see, mother, you were mistaken. Bear it as bravely, dear, as you have + borne other trials.” Saying this very tenderly, she addressed herself once + more to Stella, without attempting to conceal the accompanying change in + her manner to coldness and distrust. “One of us must speak plainly,” she + said. “Our few friends are nearly as poor as we are, and they are all + French. I tell you positively that we have no English friends. How has + this anonymous benefactor been informed of our poverty? You are a stranger + to us—<i>you</i> cannot have given the information?” + </p> + <p> + Stella’s eyes were now open to the awkward position in which she had + placed herself. She met the difficulty boldly, still upheld by the + conviction that she was serving a purpose cherished by Romayne. “You had + good reasons, no doubt, mademoiselle, when you advised your mother to + conceal her true name,” she rejoined. “Be just enough to believe that your + ‘anonymous benefactor’ has good reasons for concealment too.” + </p> + <p> + It was well said, and it encouraged Madame Marillac to take Stella’s part. + “My dear Blanche, you speak rather harshly to this good young lady,” she + said to her daughter. “You have only to look at her, and to see that she + means well.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche took up her needle again, with dogged submission. “If we <i>are</i> + to accept charity, mother, I should like to know the hand that gives it,” + she answered. “I will say no more.” + </p> + <p> + “When you are as old as I am, my dear,” rejoined Madame Marillac, “you + will not think quite so positively as you think now. I have learned some + hard lessons,” she proceeded, turning to Stella, “and I hope I am the + better for them. My life has not been a happy one—” + </p> + <p> + “Your life has been a martyrdom!” said the girl, breaking out again in + spite of herself. “Oh, my father! my father!” She pushed aside the work + and hid her face in her hands. + </p> + <p> + The gentle mother spoke severely for the first time. “Respect your + father’s memory!” she said. Blanche trembled and kept silence. “I have no + false pride,” Madame Marillac continued. “I own that we are miserably + poor; and I thank you, my dear young lady, for your kind intentions toward + us, without embarrassing you by any inquiries. We manage to live. While my + eyes last, our work helps to support us. My good eldest daughter has some + employment as a teacher of music, and contributes her little share to + assist our poor household. I don’t distrust you—I only say, let us + try a little longer if we cannot help ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + She had barely pronounced the last words, when a startling interruption + led to consequences which the persons present had not foreseen. A shrill, + wailing voice suddenly pierced through the flimsy partition which divided + the front room and the back room. “Bread!” cried the voice in French; “I’m + hungry. Bread! bread!” + </p> + <p> + The daughter started to her feet. “Think of his betraying us at this + moment!” she exclaimed indignantly. The mother rose in silence, and opened + a cupboard. Its position was opposite to the place in which Stella was + sitting. She saw two or three knives and forks, some cups and saucers and + plates, and a folded table-cloth. Nothing else appeared on the shelves; + not even the stray crust of bread for which the poor woman had been + looking. “Go, my dear, and quiet your brother,” she said—and closed + the cupboard door again as patiently as ever. + </p> + <p> + Stella opened her pocketbook when Blanche had left the room. “For God’s + sake, take something!” she cried. “I offer it with the sincerest respect—I + offer it as a loan.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Marillac gently signed to Stella to close the pocketbook again. + “That kind heart of yours must not be distressed about trifles,” she said. + “The baker will trust us until we get the money for our work—and my + daughter knows it. If you can tell me nothing else, my dear, will you tell + me your Christian name? It is painful to me to speak to you quite as a + stranger.” + </p> + <p> + Stella at once complied with the request. Madame Marillac smiled as she + repeated the name. + </p> + <p> + “There is almost another tie between us,” she said. “We have your name in + France—it speaks with a familiar sound to me in this strange place. + Dear Miss Stella, when my poor boy startled you by that cry for food, he + recalled to me the saddest of all my anxieties. When I think of him, I + should be tempted if my better sense did not restrain me—No! no! put + back the pocketbook. I am incapable of the shameless audacity of borrowing + a sum of money which I could never repay. Let me tell you what my trouble + is, and you will understand that I am in earnest. I had two sons, Miss + Stella. The elder—the most lovable, the most affectionate of my + children—was killed in a duel.” + </p> + <p> + The sudden disclosure drew a cry of sympathy from Stella, which she was + not mistress enough of herself to repress. Now for the first time she + understood the remorse that tortured Romayne, as she had not understood it + when Lady Loring had told her the terrible story of the duel. Attributing + the effect produced on her to the sensitive nature of a young woman, + Madame Marillac innocently added to Stella’s distress by making excuses. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to have frightened you, my dear,” she said. “In your happy + country such a dreadful death as my son’s is unknown. I am obliged to + mention it, or you might not understand what I have still to say. Perhaps + I had better not go on?” + </p> + <p> + Stella roused herself. “Yes! yes!” she answered, eagerly. “Pray go on!” + </p> + <p> + “My son in the next room,” the widow resumed, “is only fourteen years old. + It has pleased God sorely to afflict a harmless creature. He has not been + in his right mind since—since the miserable day when he followed the + duelists, and saw his brother’s death. Oh! you are turning pale! How + thoughtless, how cruel of me! I ought to have remembered that such horrors + as these have never overshadowed your happy life!” + </p> + <p> + Struggling to recover her self-control, Stella tried to reassure Madame + Marillac by a gesture. The voice which she had heard in the next room was—as + she now knew—the voice that haunted Romayne. Not the words that had + pleaded hunger and called for bread—but those other words, + “Assassin! assassin! where are you?”—rang in her ears. She entreated + Madame Marillac to break the unendurable interval of silence. The widow’s + calm voice had a soothing influence which she was eager to feel. “Go on!” + she repeated. “Pray go on!” + </p> + <p> + “I ought not to lay all the blame of my boy’s affliction on the duel,” + said Madame Marillac. “In childhood, his mind never grew with his bodily + growth. His brother’s death may have only hurried the result which was + sooner or later but too sure to come. You need feel no fear of him. He is + never violent—and he is the most beautiful of my children. Would you + like to see him?” + </p> + <p> + “No! I would rather hear you speak of him. Is he not conscious of his own + misfortune?” + </p> + <p> + “For weeks together, Stella—I am sure I may call you Stella?—he + is quite calm; you would see no difference outwardly between him and other + boys. Unhappily, it is just at those times that a spirit of impatience + seems to possess him. He watches his opportunity, and, however careful we + may be, he is cunning enough to escape our vigilance.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that he leaves you and his sisters?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is what I mean. For nearly two months past he has been away + from us. Yesterday only, his return relieved us from a state of suspense + which I cannot attempt to describe. We don’t know where he has been, or in + the company of what persons he has passed the time of his absense. No + persuasion will induce him to speak to us on the subject. This morning we + listened while he was talking to himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it part of the boy’s madness to repeat the words which still + tormented Romayne?” Stella asked if he ever spoke of the duel. + </p> + <p> + “Never! He seems to have lost all memory of it. We only heard, this + morning, one or two unconnected words—something about a woman, and + then more that appeared to allude to some person’s death. Last night I was + with him when he went to bed, and I found that he had something to conceal + from me. He let me fold all his clothes, as usual, except his waistcoat—and + that he snatched away from me, and put it under his pillow. We have no + hope of being able to examine the waistcoat without his knowledge. His + sleep is like the sleep of a dog; if you only approach him, he wakes + instantly. Forgive me for troubling you with these trifling details, only + interesting to ourselves. You will at least understand the constant + anxiety that we suffer.” + </p> + <p> + “In your unhappy position,” said Stella, “I should try to resign myself to + parting with him—I mean to placing him under medical care.” + </p> + <p> + The mother’s face saddened. “I have inquired about it,” she answered. “He + must pass a night in the workhouse before he can be received as a pauper + lunatic in a public asylum. Oh, my dear, I am afraid there is some pride + still left in me! He is my only son now; his father was a General in the + French army; I was brought up among people of good blood and breeding—I + can’t take my own boy to the workhouse!” + </p> + <p> + Stella understood her. “I feel for you with all my heart,” she said. + “Place him privately, dear Madame Marillac, under skillful and kind + control—and let me, do let me, open the pocketbook again.” + </p> + <p> + The widow steadily refused even to look at the pocketbook. “Perhaps,” + Stella persisted, “you don’t know of a private asylum that would satisfy + you?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, I do know of such a place! The good doctor who attended my + husband in his last illness told me of it. A friend of his receives a + certain number of poor people into his house, and charges no more than the + cost of maintaining them. An unattainable sum to <i>me!</i> There is the + temptation that I spoke of. The help of a few pounds I might accept, if I + fell ill, because I might afterward pay it back. But a larger sum—never!” + </p> + <p> + She rose, as if to end the interview. Stella tried every means of + persuasion that she could think of, and tried in vain. The friendly + dispute between them might have been prolonged, if they had not both been + silenced by another interruption from the next room. + </p> + <p> + This time, it was not only endurable, it was even welcome. The poor boy + was playing the air of a French vaudeville on a pipe or flageolet. “Now he + is happy!” said the mother. “He is a born musician; do come and see him!” + An idea struck Stella. She overcame the inveterate reluctance in her to + see the boy so fatally associated with the misery of Romayne’s life. As + Madame Marillac led the way to the door of communication between the + rooms, she quickly took from her pocketbook the bank-notes with which she + had provided herself, and folded them so that they could be easily + concealed in her hand. + </p> + <p> + She followed the widow into the little room. + </p> + <p> + The boy was sitting on his bed. He laid down his flageolet and bowed to + Stella. His long silky hair flowed to his shoulders. But one betrayal of a + deranged mind presented itself in his delicate face—his large soft + eyes had the glassy, vacant look which it is impossible to mistake. “Do + you like music, mademoiselle?” he asked, gently. Stella asked him to play + his little vaudeville air again. He proudly complied with the request. His + sister seemed to resent the presence of a stranger. “The work is at a + standstill,” she said—and passed into the front room. Her mother + followed her as far as the door, to give her some necessary directions. + Stella seized her opportunity. She put the bank-notes into the pocket of + the boy’s jacket, and whispered to him: “Give them to your mother when I + have gone away.” Under those circumstances, she felt sure that Madame + Marillac would yield to the temptation. She could resist much—but + she could not resist her son. + </p> + <p> + The boy nodded, to show that he understood her. The moment after he laid + down his flageolet with an expression of surprise. + </p> + <p> + “You are trembling!” he said. “Are you frightened?” + </p> + <p> + She <i>was</i> frightened. The mere sense of touching him had made her + shudder. Did she feel a vague presentiment of some evil to come from that + momentary association with him? + </p> + <p> + Madame Marillac, turning away again from her daughter, noticed Stella’s + agitation. “Surely, my poor boy doesn’t alarm you?” she said. Before + Stella could answer, some one outside knocked at the door. Lady Loring’s + servant appeared, charged with a carefully-worded message. “If you please, + miss, a friend is waiting for you below.” Any excuse for departure was + welcome to Stella at that moment. She promised to call at the house again + in a few days. Madame Marillac kissed her on the forehead as she took + leave. Her nerves were still shaken by that momentary contact with the + boy. Descending the stairs, she trembled so that she was obliged to hold + by the servant’s arm. She was not naturally timid. What did it mean? + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring’s carriage was waiting at the entrance of the street, with all + the children in the neighborhood assembled to admire it. She impulsively + forestalled the servant in opening the carriage door. “Come in!” she + cried. “Oh, Stella, you don’t know how you have frightened me! Good + heavens, you look frightened yourself! From what wretches have I rescued + you? Take my smelling bottle, and tell me all about it.” + </p> + <p> + The fresh air, and the reassuring presence of her old friend, revived + Stella. She was able to describe her interview with the General’s family, + and to answer the inevitable inquiries which the narrative called forth. + Lady Loring’s last question was the most important of the series: “What + are you going to do about Romayne?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to write to him the moment we get home.” + </p> + <p> + The answer seemed to alarm Lady Loring. “You won’t betray me?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t let Romayne discover that I have told you about the duel?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. You shall see my letter before I send it to be forwarded.” + </p> + <p> + Tranquilized so far, Lady Loring bethought herself next of Major Hynd. + “Can we tell him what you have done?” her ladyship asked. + </p> + <p> + “Of course we can tell him,” Stella replied. “I shall conceal nothing from + Lord Loring, and I shall beg your good husband to write to the Major. He + need only say that I have made the necessary inquiries, after being + informed of the circumstances by you, and that I have communicated the + favorable result to Mr. Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s easy enough to write the letter, my dear. But it’s not so easy to + say what Major Hynd may think of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it matter to me what Major Hynd thinks?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring looked at Stella with a malicious smile. “Are you equally + indifferent,” she said, “to what Romayne’s opinion of your conduct may + be?” + </p> + <p> + Stella’s color rose. “Try to be serious, Adelaide, when you speak to me of + Romayne,” she answered, gravely. “His good opinion of me is the breath of + my life.” + </p> + <p> + An hour later, the important letter to Romayne was written. Stella + scrupulously informed him of all that had happened—with two + necessary omissions. In the first place, nothing was said of the widow’s + reference to her son’s death, and of the effect produced by it on his + younger brother. The boy was simply described as being of weak intellect, + and as requiring to be kept under competent control. In the second place, + Romayne was left to infer that ordinary motives of benevolence were the + only motives, on his part, known to Miss Eyrecourt. + </p> + <p> + The letter ended in these lines: + </p> + <p> + “If I have taken an undue liberty in venturing, unasked, to appear as your + representative, I can only plead that I meant well. It seemed to me to be + hard on these poor people, and not just to you in your absence, to + interpose any needless delays in carrying out those kind intentions of + yours, which had no doubt been properly considered beforehand. In forming + your opinion of my conduct, pray remember that I have been careful not to + compromise you in any way. You are only known to Madame Marillac as a + compassionate person who offers to help her, and who wishes to give that + help anonymously. If, notwithstanding this, you disapprove of what I have + done, I must not conceal that it will grieve and humiliate me—I have + been so eager to be of use to you, when others appeared to hesitate. I + must find my consolation in remembering that I have become acquainted with + one of the sweetest and noblest of women, and that I have helped to + preserve her afflicted son from dangers in the future which I cannot + presume to estimate. You will complete what I have only begun. Be + forbearing and kind to me if I have innocently offended in this matter—and + I shall gratefully remember the day when I took it on myself to be Mr. + Romayne’s almoner.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring read these concluding sentences twice over. + </p> + <p> + “I think the end of your letter will have its effect on him,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “If it brings me a kind letter in reply,” Stella answered, “it will have + all the effect I hope for.” + </p> + <p> + “If it does anything,” Lady Loring rejoined, “it will do more than that.” + </p> + <p> + “What more can it do?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, it can bring Romayne back to you.” + </p> + <p> + Those hopeful words seemed rather to startle Stella than to encourage her. + </p> + <p> + “Bring him back to me?” she repeated “Oh, Adelaide, I wish I could think + as you do!” + </p> + <p> + “Send the letter to the post,” said Lady Loring, “and we shall see.” <a + name="linkCH0013" id="linkCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <h3> + FATHER BENWELL’S CORRESPONDENCE. + </h3> + <p class="center"> + I. + </p> + <p> + <i>Arthur Penrose to Father Benwell.</i> + </p> + <p> + REVEREND AND DEAR FATHER—When I last had the honor of seeing you, I + received your instructions to report, by letter, the result of my + conversations on religion with Mr. Romayne. + </p> + <p> + As events have turned out, it is needless to occupy your time by dwelling + at any length on this subject, in writing. Mr. Romayne has been strongly + impressed by the excellent books which I have introduced to his notice. He + raises certain objections, which I have done my best to meet; and he + promises to consider my arguments with his closest attention, in the time + to come. I am happier in the hope of restoring his mental tranquillity—in + other and worthier words, of effecting his conversion—than I can + tell you in any words of mine. I respect and admire, I may almost say I + love, Mr. Romayne. + </p> + <p> + The details which are wanting in this brief report of progress I shall + have the privilege of personally relating to you. Mr. Romayne no longer + desires to conceal himself from his friends. He received a letter this + morning which has changed all his plans, and has decided him on + immediately returning to London. I am not acquainted with the contents of + the letter, or with the name of the writer; but I am pleased, for Mr. + Romayne’s sake, to see that the reading of it has made him happy. + </p> + <p> + By to-morrow evening I hope to present my respects to you. + </p> + <p class="center"> + II. + </p> + <p> + <i>Mr. Bitrake to Father Benwell.</i> + </p> + <p> + SIR—The inquiries which I have instituted at your request have + proved successful in one respect. + </p> + <p> + I am in a position to tell you that events in Mr. Winterfield’s life have + unquestionably connected him with the young lady named Miss Stella + Eyrecourt. + </p> + <p> + The attendant circumstances, however, are not so easy to discover. Judging + by the careful report of the person whom I employ, there must have been + serious reasons, in this case, for keeping facts secret and witnesses out + of the way. I mention this, not to discourage you, but to prepare you for + delays that may occur on our way to discovery. + </p> + <p> + Be pleased to preserve your confidence in me, and to give me time—and + I answer for the result. <a name="link_4_0019" id="link_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK THE SECOND. <a name="linkCH0014" id="linkCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <h3> + THE SANDWICH DANCE. + </h3> + <p> + A FINE spring, after a winter of unusual severity, promised well for the + prospects of the London season. + </p> + <p> + Among the social entertainments of the time, general curiosity was + excited, in the little sphere which absurdly describes itself under the + big name of Society, by the announcement of a party to be given by Lady + Loring, bearing the quaint title of a Sandwich Dance. The invitations were + issued at an unusually early hour; and it was understood that nothing so + solid and so commonplace as the customary supper was to be offered to the + guests. In a word, Lady Loring’s ball was designed as a bold protest + against late hours and heavy midnight meals. The younger people were all + in favor of the proposed reform. Their elders declined to give an opinion + beforehand. + </p> + <p> + In the small inner circle of Lady Loring’s most intimate friends, it was + whispered that an innovation in the matter of refreshments was + contemplated, which would put the tolerant principles of the guests to a + severe test. Miss Notman, the housekeeper, politely threatening retirement + on a small annuity, since the memorable affair of the oyster-omelet, + decided on carrying out her design when she heard that there was to be no + supper. “My attachment to the family can bear a great deal,” she said. + “But when Lady Loring deliberately gives a ball, without a supper, I must + hide my head somewhere—and it had better be out of the house!” + Taking Miss Notman as representative of a class, the reception of the + coming experiment looked, to say the least of it, doubtful. + </p> + <p> + On the appointed evening, the guests made one agreeable discovery when + they entered the reception rooms. They were left perfectly free to amuse + themselves as they liked. + </p> + <p> + The drawing-rooms were given up to dancing; the picture gallery was + devoted to chamber music. Chess-players and card-players found remote and + quiet rooms especially prepared for them. People who cared for nothing but + talking were accommodated to perfection in a sphere of their own. And + lovers (in earnest or not in earnest) discovered, in a dimly-lighted + conservatory with many recesses, that ideal of discreet retirement which + combines solitude and society under one roof. + </p> + <p> + But the ordering of the refreshments failed, as had been foreseen, to + share in the approval conferred on the arrangement of the rooms. The first + impression was unfavorable. Lady Loring, however, knew enough of human + nature to leave results to two potent allies—experience and time. + </p> + <p> + Excepting the conservatory, the astonished guests could go nowhere without + discovering tables prettily decorated with flowers, and bearing hundreds + of little pure white china plates, loaded with nothing but sandwiches. All + varieties of opinion were consulted. People of ordinary tastes, who liked + to know what they were eating, could choose conventional beef or ham, + encased in thin slices of bread of a delicate flavor quite new to them. + Other persons, less easily pleased, were tempted by sandwiches of <i>pate + de fois gras</i> and by exquisite combinations of chicken and truffles, + reduced to a creamy pulp which clung to the bread like butter. Foreigners, + making experiments, and not averse to garlic, discovered the finest + sausages of Germany and Italy transformed into English sandwiches. + Anchovies and sardines appealed, in the same unexpected way, to men who + desired to create an artificial thirst—after having first + ascertained that the champagne was something to be fondly remembered and + regretted, at other parties, to the end of the season. The hospitable + profusion of the refreshments was all-pervading and inexhaustible. + Wherever the guests might be, or however they were amusing themselves, + there were the pretty little white plates perpetually tempting them. + People eat as they had never eat before, and even the inveterate English + prejudice against anything new was conquered at last. Universal opinion + declared the Sandwich Dance to be an admirable idea, perfectly carried + out. + </p> + <p> + Many of the guests paid their hostess the compliment of arriving at the + early hour mentioned in the invitations. One of them was Major Hynd. Lady + Loring took her first opportunity of speaking to him apart. + </p> + <p> + “I hear you were a little angry,” she said, “when you were told that Miss + Eyrecourt had taken your inquiries out of your hands.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought it rather a bold proceeding, Lady Loring,” the Major replied. + “But as the General’s widow turned out to be a lady, in the best sense of + the word, Miss Eyrecourt’s romantic adventure has justified itself. I + wouldn’t recommend her to run the same risk a second time.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you know what Romayne thinks of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. I have been too busy to call on him since I have been in town. + Pardon me, Lady Loring, who is that beautiful creature in the pale yellow + dress? Surely I have seen her somewhere before?” + </p> + <p> + “That beautiful creature, Major, is the bold young lady of whose conduct + you don’t approve.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Eyrecourt?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I retract everything I said!” cried the Major, quite shamelessly. “Such a + woman as that may do anything. She is looking this way. Pray introduce + me.” + </p> + <p> + The Major was introduced, and Lady Loring returned to her guests. + </p> + <p> + “I think we have met before, Major Hynd,” said Stella. + </p> + <p> + Her voice supplied the missing link in the Major’s memory of events. + Remembering how she had looked at Romayne on the deck of the steamboat, he + began dimly to understand Miss Eyrecourt’s otherwise incomprehensible + anxiety to be of use to the General’s family. “I remember perfectly,” he + answered. “It was on the passage from Boulogne to Folkestone—and my + friend was with me. You and he have no doubt met since that time?” He put + the question as a mere formality. The unexpressed thought in him was, + “Another of them in love with Romayne! and nothing, as usual, likely to + come of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you have forgiven me for going to Camp’s Hill in your place,” said + Stella. + </p> + <p> + “I ought to be grateful to you,” the Major rejoined. “No time has been + lost in relieving these poor people—and your powers of persuasion + have succeeded, where mine might have failed. Has Romayne been to see them + himself since his return to London?” + </p> + <p> + “No. He desires to remain unknown; and he is kindly content, for the + present, to be represented by me.” + </p> + <p> + “For the present.” Major Hynd repeated. + </p> + <p> + A faint flush passed over her delicate complexion. “I have succeeded,” she + resumed, “in inducing Madame Marillac to accept the help offered through + me to her son. The poor creature is safe, under kind superintendence, in a + private asylum. So far, I can do no more.” + </p> + <p> + “Will the mother accept nothing?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, either for herself or her daughter, so long as they can work. I + cannot tell you how patiently and beautifully she speaks of her hard lot. + But her health may give way—and it is possible, before long, that I + may leave London.” She paused; the flush deepened on her face. “The + failure of the mother’s health may happen in my absence,” she continued; + “and Mr. Romayne will ask you to look after the family, from time to time, + while I am away.” + </p> + <p> + “I will do it with pleasure, Miss Eyrecourt. Is Romayne likely to be here + to-night?” + </p> + <p> + She smiled brightly, and looked away. The Major’s curiosity was excited—he + looked in the same direction. There was Romayne, entering the room, to + answer for himself. + </p> + <p> + What was the attraction which drew the unsocial student to an evening + party? Major Hynd’s eyes were on the watch. When Romayne and Stella shook + hands, the attraction stood self-revealed to him, in Miss Eyrecourt. + Recalling the momentary confusion which she had betrayed, when she spoke + of possibly leaving London, and of Romayne’s plans for supplying her place + as his almoner, the Major, with military impatience of delays, jumped to a + conclusion. “I was wrong,” he thought; “my impenetrable friend is touched + in the right place at last. When the splendid creature in yellow leaves + London, the name on her luggage will be Mrs. Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + “You are looking quite another man, Romayne!” he said mischievously, + “since we met last.” + </p> + <p> + Stella gently moved away, leaving them to talk freely. Romayne took no + advantage of the circumstance to admit his old friend to his confidence. + Whatever relations might really exist between Miss Eyrecourt and himself + were evidently kept secret thus far. “My health has been a little better + lately,” was the only reply he made. + </p> + <p> + The Major dropped his voice to a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Have you not had any return—?” he began. + </p> + <p> + Romayne stopped him there. “I don’t want my infirmities made public,” he + whispered back irritably. “Look at the people all round us! When I tell + you I have been better lately, <i>you</i> ought to know what it means.” + </p> + <p> + “Any discoverable reason for the improvement?” persisted the Major, still + bent on getting evidence in support of his own private conclusions. + </p> + <p> + “None!” Romayne answered sharply. + </p> + <p> + But Major Hynd was not to be discouraged by sharp replies. “Miss Eyrecourt + and I have been recalling our first meeting on board the steamboat,” he + went on. “Do you remember how indifferent you were to that beautiful + person when I asked you if you knew her? I’m glad to see that you show + better taste to-night. I wish I knew her well enough to shake hands as you + did.” + </p> + <p> + “Hynd! When a young man talks nonsense, his youth is his excuse. At your + time of life, you have passed the excusable age—even in the + estimation of your friends.” + </p> + <p> + With those words Romayne turned away. The incorrigible Major instantly met + the reproof inflicted on him with a smart answer. “Remember,” he said, + “that I was the first of your friends to wish you happiness!” He, too, + turned away—in the direction of the champagne and the sandwiches. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Stella had discovered Penrose, lost in the brilliant assemblage + of guests, standing alone in a corner. It was enough for her that + Romayne’s secretary was also Romayne’s friend. Passing by titled and + celebrated personages, all anxious to speak to her, she joined the shy, + nervous, sad-looking little man, and did all she could to set him at his + ease. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid, Mr. Penrose, this is not a very attractive scene to you.” + Having said those kind words, she paused. Penrose was looking at her + confusedly, but with an expression of interest which was new to her + experience of him. “Has Romayne told him?” she wondered inwardly. + </p> + <p> + “It is a very beautiful scene, Miss Eyrecourt,” he said, in his low quiet + tones. + </p> + <p> + “Did you come here with Mr. Romayne?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It was by his advice that I accepted the invitation with which Lady + Loring has honored me. I am sadly out of place in such an assembly as this—but + I would make far greater sacrifices to please Mr. Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled kindly. Attachment so artlessly devoted to the man she loved, + pleased and touched her. In her anxiety to discover a subject which might + interest him, she overcame her antipathy to the spiritual director of the + household. “Is Father Benwell coming to us to-night?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “He will certainly be here, Miss Eyrecourt, if he can get back to London + in time.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he been long away?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly a week.” + </p> + <p> + Not knowing what else to say, she still paid Penrose the compliment of + feigning an interest in Father Benwell. + </p> + <p> + “Has he a long journey to make in returning to London?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—all the way from Devonshire.” + </p> + <p> + “From South Devonshire?” + </p> + <p> + “No. North Devonshire—Clovelly.” + </p> + <p> + The smile suddenly left her face. She put another question—without + quite concealing the effort that it cost her, or the anxiety with which + she waited for the reply. + </p> + <p> + “I know something of the neighborhood of Clovelly,” she said. “I wonder + whether Father Benwell is visiting any friends of mine there?” + </p> + <p> + “I am not able to say, Miss Eyrecourt. The reverend Father’s letters are + forwarded to the hotel—I know no more than that.” + </p> + <p> + With a gentle inclination of her head, she turned toward other guests—looked + back—and with a last little courteous attention offered to him, + said, “If you like music, Mr. Penrose, I advise you to go to the picture + gallery. They are going to play a Quartet by Mozart.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose thanked her, noticing that her voice and manner had become + strangely subdued. She made her way back to the room in which the hostess + received her guests. Lady Loring was, for the moment, alone, resting on a + sofa. Stella stooped over her, and spoke in cautiously lowered tones. + </p> + <p> + “If Father Benwell comes here to-night,” she said, “try to find out what + he has been doing at Clovelly.” + </p> + <p> + “Clovelly?” Lady Loring repeated. “Is that the village near Winterfield’s + house?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” <a name="linkCH0015" id="linkCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE. + </h3> + <p> + As Stella answered Lady Loring, she was smartly tapped on the shoulder by + an eager guest with a fan. + </p> + <p> + The guest was a very little woman, with twinkling eyes and a perpetual + smile. Nature, corrected by powder and paint, was liberally displayed in + her arms, her bosom, and the upper part of her back. Such clothes as she + wore, defective perhaps in quantity, were in quality absolutely perfect. + More adorable color, shape, and workmanship never appeared, even in a + milliner’s picture-book. Her light hair was dressed with a fringe and + ringlets, on the pattern which the portraits of the time of Charles the + Second have made familiar to us. There was nothing exactly young or + exactly old about her except her voice, which betrayed a faint hoarseness, + attributable possibly to exhaustion produced by untold years of incessant + talking. It might be added that she was as active as a squirrel and as + playful as a kitten. But the lady must be treated with a certain + forbearance of tone, for this good reason—she was Stella’s mother. + </p> + <p> + Stella turned quickly at the tap of the fan. “Mamma!” she exclaimed, “how + you startle me!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear child,” said Mrs. Eyrecourt, “you are constitutionally indolent, + and you want startling. Go into the next room directly. Mr. Romayne is + looking for you.” + </p> + <p> + Stella drew back a step, and eyed her mother in blank surprise. “Is it + possible that you know him?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Romayne doesn’t go into Society, or we should have met long since,” + Mrs. Eyrecourt replied. “He is a striking person—and I noticed him + when he shook hands with you. That was quite enough for me. I have just + introduced myself to him as your mother. He was a little stately and + stiff, but most charming when he knew who I was. I volunteered to find + you. He was quite astonished. I think he took me for your elder sister. + Not the least like each other—are we, Lady Loring? She takes after + her poor dear father. <i>He</i> was constitutionally indolent. My sweet + child, rouse yourself. You have drawn a prize in the great lottery at + last. If ever a man was in love, Mr. Romayne is that man. I am a + physiognomist, Lady Loring, and I see the passions in the face. Oh, + Stella, what a property! Vange Abbey. I once drove that way when I was + visiting in the neighborhood. Superb! And another fortune (twelve thousand + a year and a villa at Highgate) since the death of his aunt. And my + daughter may be mistress of this if she only plays her cards properly. + What a compensation after all that we suffered through that monster, + Winterfield!” + </p> + <p> + “Mamma! Pray don’t—!” + </p> + <p> + “Stella, I will <i>not</i> be interrupted, when I am speaking to you for + your own good. I don’t know a more provoking person, Lady Loring, than my + daughter—on certain occasions. And yet I love her. I would go + through fire and water for my beautiful child. Only last week I was at a + wedding, and I thought of Stella. The church was crammed to the doors! A + hundred at the wedding breakfast! The bride’s lace—there; no + language can describe it. Ten bridesmaids, in blue and silver. Reminded me + of the ten virgins. Only the proportion of foolish ones, this time, was + certainly more than five. However, they looked well. The Archbishop + proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom; so sweetly pathetic. Some + of us cried. I thought of my daughter. Oh, if I could live to see Stella + the central attraction, so to speak, of such a wedding as that. Only I + would have twelve bridesmaids at least, and beat the blue and silver with + green and gold. Trying to the complexion, you will say. But there are + artificial improvements. At least, I am told so. What a house this would + be—a broad hint, isn’t it, dear Lady Loring?—what a house for + a wedding, with the drawing-room to assemble in and the picture gallery + for the breakfast. I know the Archbishop. My darling, he shall marry you. + Why <i>don’t</i> you go into the next room? Ah, that constitutional + indolence. If you only had my energy, as I used to say to your poor + father. <i>Will</i> you go? Yes, dear Lady Loring, I should like a glass + of champagne, and another of those delicious chicken sandwiches. If you + don’t go, Stella, I shall forget every consideration of propriety, and, + big as you are, I shall push you out.” + </p> + <p> + Stella yielded to necessity. “Keep her quiet, if you can,” she whispered + to Lady Loring, in the moment of silence that followed. Even Mrs. + Eyrecourt was not able to talk while she was drinking champagne. + </p> + <p> + In the next room Stella found Romayne. He looked careworn and irritable, + but brightened directly when she approached him. + </p> + <p> + “My mother has been speaking to you,” she said. “I am afraid—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped her there. “She <i>is</i> your mother,” he interposed, kindly. + “Don’t think that I am ungrateful enough to forget that.” + </p> + <p> + She took his arm, and looked at him with all her heart in her eyes. “Come + into a quieter room,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + Romayne led her away. Neither of them noticed Penrose as they left the + room. + </p> + <p> + He had not moved since Stella had spoken to him. There he remained in his + corner, absorbed in thought—and not in happy thought, as his face + would have plainly betrayed to any one who had cared to look at him. His + eyes sadly followed the retiring figures of Stella and Romayne. The color + rose on his haggard cheeks. Like most men who are accustomed to live + alone, he had the habit, when he was strongly excited, of speaking to + himself. “No,” he said, as the unacknowledged lovers disappeared through + the door, “it is an insult to ask me to do it!” He turned the other way, + escaped Lady Loring’s notice in the reception-room, and left the house. + </p> + <p> + Romayne and Stella passed through the card-room and the chess-room, turned + into a corridor, and entered the conservatory. + </p> + <p> + For the first time the place was a solitude. The air of a newly-invented + dance, faintly audible through the open windows of the ballroom above, had + proved an irresistible temptation. Those who knew the dance were eager to + exhibit themselves. Those who had only heard of it were equally anxious to + look on and learn. Even toward the latter end of the nineteenth century + the youths and maidens of Society can still be in earnest—when the + object in view is a new dance. + </p> + <p> + What would Major Hynd have said if he had seen Romayne turn into one of + the recesses of the conservatory, in which there was a seat which just + held two? But the Major had forgotten his years and his family, and he too + was one of the spectators in the ballroom. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” said Stella, “whether you know how I feel those kind words of + yours when you spoke of my mother. Shall I tell you?” + </p> + <p> + She put her arm round his neck and kissed him. He was a man new to love, + in the nobler sense of the word. The exquisite softness in the touch of + her lips, the delicious fragrance of her breath, intoxicated him. Again + and again he returned the kiss. She drew back; she recovered her + self-possession with a suddenness and a certainty incomprehensible to a + man. From the depths of tenderness she passed to the shallows of + frivolity. In her own defense she was almost as superficial as her mother, + in less than a moment. + </p> + <p> + “What would Mr. Penrose say if he saw you?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you speak of Penrose? Have you seen him to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—looking sadly out of his element, poor man. I did my best to + set him at his ease—because I know <i>you</i> like him.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Stella!” + </p> + <p> + “No, not again! I am speaking seriously now. Mr. Penrose looked at me with + a strange kind of interest—I can’t describe it. Have you taken him + into our confidence?” + </p> + <p> + “He is so devoted—he has such a true interest in me,” said Romayne—“I + really felt ashamed to treat him like a stranger. On our journey to London + I did own that it was your charming letter which had decided me on + returning. I did say, ‘I must tell her myself how well she has understood + me, and how deeply I feel her kindness.’ Penrose took my hand, in his + gentle, considerate way. ‘I understand you, too,’ he said—and that + was all that passed between us.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more, since that time?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word of what we said to each other when we were alone last week in + the picture gallery?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word. I am self-tormentor enough to distrust myself, even now. God + knows I have concealed nothing from you; and yet—Am I not selfishly + thinking of my own happiness, Stella, when I ought to be thinking only of + you? You know, my angel, with what a life you must associate yourself if + you marry me. Are you really sure that you have love enough and courage + enough to be my wife?” + </p> + <p> + She rested her head caressingly on his shoulder, and looked up at him with + her charming smile. + </p> + <p> + “How many times must I say it,” she asked, “before you will believe me? + Once more—I have love enough and courage enough to be your wife; and + I knew it, Lewis, the first time I saw you! Will <i>that</i> confession + satisfy your scruples? And will you promise never again to doubt yourself + or me?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne promised, and sealed the promise—unresisted this time—with + a kiss. “When are we to be married?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + She lifted her head from his shoulder with a sigh. “If I am to answer you + honestly,” she replied, “I must speak of my mother, before I speak of + myself.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne submitted to the duties of his new position, as well as he + understood them. “Do you mean that you have told your mother of our + engagement?” he said. “In that case, is it my duty or yours—I am + very ignorant in these matters—to consult her wishes? My own idea + is, that I ought to ask her if she approves of me as her son-in-law, and + that you might then speak to her of the marriage.” + </p> + <p> + Stella thought of Romayne’s tastes, all in favor of modest retirement, and + of her mother’s tastes, all in favor of ostentation and display. She + frankly owned the result produced in her own mind. “I am afraid to consult + my mother about our marriage,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Romayne looked astonished. “Do you think Mrs. Eyrecourt will disapprove of + it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Stella was equally astonished on her side. “Disapprove of it?” she + repeated. “I know for certain that my mother will be delighted.” + </p> + <p> + “Then where is the difficulty?” + </p> + <p> + There was but one way of definitely answering that question. Stella boldly + described her mother’s idea of a wedding—including the Archbishop, + the twelve bridesmaids in green and gold, and the hundred guests at + breakfast in Lord Loring’s picture gallery. Romayne’s consternation + literally deprived him, for the moment, of the power of speech. To say + that he looked at Stella, as a prisoner in “the condemned cell” might have + looked at the sheriff, announcing the morning of his execution, would be + to do injustice to the prisoner. He receives <i>his</i> shock without + flinching; and, in proof of his composure, celebrates his wedding with the + gallows by a breakfast which he will not live to digest. + </p> + <p> + “If you think as your mother does,” Romayne began, as soon as he had + recovered his self-possession, “no opinion of mine shall stand in the way—” + He could get no further. His vivid imagination saw the Archbishop and the + bridesmaids, heard the hundred guests and their dreadful speeches: his + voice faltered, in spite of himself. + </p> + <p> + Stella eagerly relieved him. “My darling, I don’t think as my mother + does,” she interposed, tenderly. “I am sorry to say we have very few + sympathies in common. Marriages, as I think, ought to be celebrated as + privately as possible—the near and dear relations present, and no + one else. If there must be rejoicings and banquets, and hundreds of + invitations, let them come when the wedded pair are at home after the + honeymoon, beginning life in earnest. These are odd ideas for a woman to + have—but they <i>are</i> my ideas, for all that.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne’s face brightened. “How few women possess your fine sense and your + delicacy of feeling!” he exclaimed “Surely your mother must give way, when + she hears we are both of one mind about our marriage.” + </p> + <p> + Stella knew her mother too well to share the opinion thus expressed. Mrs. + Eyrecourt’s capacity for holding to her own little ideas, and for + persisting (where her social interests were concerned) in trying to + insinuate those ideas into the minds of other persons, was a capacity + which no resistance, short of absolute brutality, could overcome. She was + perfectly capable of worrying Romayne (as well as her daughter) to the + utmost limits of human endurance, in the firm conviction that she was + bound to convert all heretics, of their way of thinking, to the orthodox + faith in the matter of weddings. Putting this view of the case with all + possible delicacy, in speaking of her mother, Stella expressed herself + plainly enough, nevertheless, to enlighten Romayne. + </p> + <p> + He made another suggestion. “Can we marry privately,” he said, “and tell + Mrs. Eyrecourt of it afterward?” + </p> + <p> + This essentially masculine solution of the difficulty was at once + rejected. Stella was too good a daughter to suffer her mother to be + treated with even the appearance of disrespect. “Oh,” she said, “think how + mortified and distressed my mother would be! She <i>must</i> be present at + my marriage.” + </p> + <p> + An idea of a compromise occurred to Romayne. “What do you say,” he + proposed, “to arranging for the marriage privately—and then telling + Mrs. Eyrecourt only a day or two beforehand, when it would be too late to + send out invitations? If your mother would be disappointed—” + </p> + <p> + “She would be angry,” Stella interposed. + </p> + <p> + “Very well—lay all the blame on me. Besides, there might be two + other persons present, whom I am sure Mrs. Eyrecourt is always glad to + meet. You don’t object to Lord and Lady Loring?” + </p> + <p> + “Object? They are my dearest friends, as well as yours!” + </p> + <p> + “Any one else, Stella?” + </p> + <p> + “Any one, Lewis, whom <i>you</i> like. + </p> + <p> + “Then I say—no one else. My own love, when may it be? My lawyers can + get the settlements ready in a fortnight, or less. Will you say in a + fortnight?” + </p> + <p> + His arm was round her waist; his lips were touching her lovely neck. She + was not a woman to take refuge in the commonplace coquetries of the sex. + “Yes,” she said, softly, “if you wish it.” She rose and withdrew herself + from him. “For my sake, we must not be here together any longer, Lewis.” + As she spoke, the music in the ballroom ceased. Stella ran out of the + conservatory. + </p> + <p> + The first person she encountered, on returning to the reception-room, was + Father Benwell. <a name="linkCH0016" id="linkCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + THE END OF THE BALL. + </h3> + <p> + THE priest’s long journey did not appear to have fatigued him. He was as + cheerful and as polite as ever—and so paternally attentive to Stella + that it was quite impossible for her to pass him with a formal bow. + </p> + <p> + “I have come all the way from Devonshire,” he said. “The train has been + behind time as usual, and I am one of the late arrivals in consequence. I + miss some familiar faces at this delightful party. Mr. Romayne, for + instance. Perhaps he is not one of the guests?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he gone away?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I know of.” + </p> + <p> + The tone of her replies warned Father Benwell to let Romayne be. He tried + another name. + </p> + <p> + “And Arthur Penrose?” he inquired next. + </p> + <p> + “I think Mr. Penrose has left us.” + </p> + <p> + As she answered she looked toward Lady Loring. The hostess was the center + of a circle of ladies and gentlemen. Before she was at liberty, Father + Benwell might take his departure. Stella resolved to make the attempt for + herself which she had asked Lady Loring to make for her. It was better to + try, and to be defeated, than not to try at all. + </p> + <p> + “I asked Mr. Penrose what part of Devonshire you were visiting,” she + resumed, assuming her more gracious manner. “I know something myself of + the north coast, especially the neighborhood of Clovelly.” + </p> + <p> + Not the faintest change passed over the priest’s face; his fatherly smile + had never been in a better state of preservation. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it a charming place?” he said with enthusiasm. “Clovelly is the + most remarkable and most beautiful village in England. I have so enjoyed + my little holiday—excursions by sea and excursions by land—you + know I feel quite young again?” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his eyebrows playfully, and rubbed his plump hands one over the + other with such an intolerably innocent air of enjoyment that Stella + positively hated him. She felt her capacity for self-restraint failing + her. Under the influence of strong emotion her thoughts lost their + customary discipline. In attempting to fathom Father Benwell, she was + conscious of having undertaken a task which required more pliable moral + qualities than she possessed. To her own unutterable annoyance, she was at + a loss what to say next. + </p> + <p> + At that critical moment her mother appeared—eager for news of the + conquest of Romayne. + </p> + <p> + “My dear child, how pale you look!” said Mrs. Eyrecourt. “Come with me + directly—you must have a glass of wine.” + </p> + <p> + This dexterous device for entrapping Stella into a private conversation + failed. “Not now, mamma, thank you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell, on the point of discreetly withdrawing, stopped, and + looked at Mrs. Eyrecourt with an appearance of respectful interest. As + things were, it might not have been worth his while to take the trouble of + discovering her. But when she actually placed herself in his way, the + chance of turning Mrs. Eyrecourt to useful account was not a chance to be + neglected. “Your mother?” he said to Stella. “I should feel honored if you + will introduce me.” + </p> + <p> + Having (not very willingly) performed the ceremony of presentation, Stella + drew back a little. She had no desire to take any part in the conversation + that might follow—but she had her own reasons for waiting near + enough to hear it. + </p> + <p> + In the meanwhile, Mrs. Eyrecourt turned on her inexhaustible flow of + small-talk with her customary facility. No distinction of persons troubled + her; no convictions of any sort stood in her way. She was equally ready + (provided she met him in good society) to make herself agreeable to a + Puritan or a Papist. + </p> + <p> + “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Father Benwell. Surely I met you at + that delightful evening at the Duke’s? I mean when we welcomed the + Cardinal back from Rome. Dear old man—if one may speak so familiarly + of a Prince of the Church. How charmingly he bears his new honors. Such + patriarchal simplicity, as every one remarked. Have you seen him lately?” + </p> + <p> + The idea of the Order to which he belonged feeling any special interest in + a Cardinal (except when they made him of some use to them) privately + amused Father Benwell. “How wise the Church was,” he thought, “in + inventing a spiritual aristocracy. Even this fool of a woman is impressed + by it.” His spoken reply was true to his assumed character as one of the + inferior clergy. “Poor priests like me, madam, see but little of Princes + of the Church in the houses of Dukes.” Saying this with the most becoming + humility, he turned the talk in a more productive direction, before Mrs. + Eyrecourt could proceed with her recollections of “the evening at the + Duke’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Your charming daughter and I have been talking about Clovelly,” he + continued. “I have just been spending a little holiday in that delightful + place. It was a surprise to me, Mrs. Eyrecourt, to see so many really + beautiful country seats in the neighborhood. I was particularly struck—you + know it, of course?—by Beaupark House.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt’s little twinging eyes suddenly became still and steady. It + was only for a moment. But that trifling change boded ill for the purpose + which the priest had in view. Even the wits of a fool can be quickened by + contact with the world. For many years Mrs. Eyrecourt had held her place + in society, acting under an intensely selfish sense of her own interests, + fortified by those cunning instincts which grow best in a barren + intellect. Perfectly unworthy of being trusted with secrets which only + concerned other people, this frivolous creature could be the unassailable + guardian of secrets which concerned herself. The instant the priest + referred indirectly to Winterfield, by speaking of Beaupark House, her + instincts warned her, as if in words:—Be careful for Stella’s sake! + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Eyrecourt. “I know Beaupark House; but—may I + make a confession?” she added, with her sweetest smile. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell caught her tone, with his customary tact. “A confession at + a ball is a novelty, even in my experience,” he answered with <i>his</i> + sweetest smile. + </p> + <p> + “How good of you to encourage me!” proceeded Mrs. Eyrecourt. “No, thank + you, I don’t want to sit down. My confession won’t take long—and I + really must give that poor pale daughter of mine a glass of wine. A + student of human nature like you—they say all priests are students + of human nature; accustomed of course to be consulted in difficulties, and + to hear <i>real</i> confessions—must know that we poor women are + sadly subject to whims and caprices. We can’t resist them as men do; and + the dear good men generally make allowances for us. Well, do you know that + place of Mr. Winterfield’s is one of my caprices? Oh, dear, I speak + carelessly; I ought to have said the place represents one of my caprices. + In short. Father Benwell, Beaupark House is perfectly odious to me, and I + think Clovelly the most overrated place in the world. I haven’t the least + reason to give, but so it is. Excessively foolish of me. It’s like + hysterics, I can’t help it; I’m sure you will forgive me. There isn’t a + place on the habitable globe that I am not ready to feel interested in, + except detestable Devonshire. I am so sorry you went there. The next time + you have a holiday, take my advice. Try the Continent.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like it of all things,” said Father Benwell. “Only I don’t speak + French. Allow me to get Miss Eyrecourt a glass of wine.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with the most perfect temper and tranquillity. Having paid his + little attention to Stella, and having relieved her of the empty glass, he + took his leave, with a parting request thoroughly characteristic of the + man. + </p> + <p> + “Are you staying in town, Mrs. Eyrecourt?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course, at the height of the season!” + </p> + <p> + “May I have the honor of calling on you—and talking a little more + about the Continent?” + </p> + <p> + If he had said it in so many words he could hardly have informed Mrs. + Eyrecourt more plainly that he thoroughly understood her, and that he + meant to try again. Strong in the worldly training of half a lifetime, she + at once informed him of her address, with the complimentary phrases proper + to the occasion. “Five o’clock tea on Wednesdays, Father Benwell. Don’t + forget!” + </p> + <p> + The moment he was gone, she drew her daughter into a quiet corner. “Don’t + be frightened, Stella. That sly old person has some interest in trying to + find out about Winterfield. Do you know why?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I don’t, mamma. I hate him!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hush! hush! Hate him as much as you like; but always be civil to him. + Tell me—have you been in the conservatory with Romayne?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “All going on well?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “My sweet child! Dear, dear me, the wine has done you no good; you’re as + pale as ever. Is it that priest? Oh, pooh, pooh, leave Father Benwell to + me.” <a name="linkCH0017" id="linkCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + IN THE SMALL HOURS. + </h3> + <p> + WHEN Stella left the conservatory, the attraction of the ball for Romayne + was at an end. He went back to his rooms at the hotel. + </p> + <p> + Penrose was waiting to speak to him. Romayne noticed signs of suppressed + agitation in his secretary’s face. “Has anything happened?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of any importance,” Penrose answered, in sad subdued tones. “I + only wanted to ask you for leave of absence.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Is it for a long time?” + </p> + <p> + Penrose hesitated. “You have a new life opening before you,” he said. “If + your experience of that life is—as I hope and pray it may be—a + happy one, you will need me no longer; we may not meet again.” His voice + began to tremble; he could say no more. + </p> + <p> + “Not meet again?” Romayne repeated. “My dear Penrose, if <i>you</i> forget + how many happy days I owe to your companionship, <i>my</i> memory is to be + trusted. Do you really know what my new life is to be? Shall I tell you + what I have said to Stella to-night?” + </p> + <p> + Penrose lifted his hand with a gesture of entreaty. + </p> + <p> + “Not a word!” he said, eagerly. “Do me one more kindness—leave me to + be prepared (as I am prepared) for the change that is to come, without any + confidence on your part to enlighten me further. Don’t think me + ungrateful. I have reasons for saying what I have just said—I cannot + mention what they are—I can only tell you they are serious reasons. + You have spoken of my devotion to you. If you wish to reward me a + hundred-fold more than I deserve, bear in mind our conversations on + religion, and keep the books I asked you to read as gifts from a friend + who loves you with his whole heart. No new duties that you can undertake + are incompatible with the higher interests of your soul. Think of me + sometimes. When I leave you I go back to a lonely life. My poor heart is + full of your brotherly kindness at this last moment when I may be saying + good-by forever. And what is my one consolation? What helps me to bear my + hard lot? The Faith that I hold! Remember that, Romayne. If there comes a + time of sorrow in the future, remember that.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne was more than surprised, he was shocked. “Why must you leave me?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + “It is best for you and for <i>her,</i>” said Penrose, “that I should + withdraw myself from your new life.” + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand. Romayne refused to let him go. “Penrose!” he said, + “I can’t match your resignation. Give me something to look forward to. I + must and will see you again.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose smiled sadly. “You know that my career in life depends wholly on + my superiors,” he answered. “But if I am still in England—and if you + have sorrows in the future that I can share and alleviate—only let + me know it. There is nothing within the compass of my power which I will + not do for your sake. God bless and prosper you! Good-by!” + </p> + <p> + In spite of his fortitude, the tears rose in his eyes. He hurried out of + the room. + </p> + <p> + Romayne sat down at his writing-table, and hid his face in his hands. He + had entered the room with the bright image of Stella in his mind. The + image had faded from it now—the grief that was in him not even the + beloved woman could share. His thoughts were wholly with the brave and + patient Christian who had left him—the true man, whose spotless + integrity no evil influence could corrupt. By what inscrutable fatality do + some men find their way into spheres that are unworthy of them? Oh, + Penrose, if the priests of your Order were all like you, how easily I + should be converted! These were Romayne’s thoughts, in the stillness of + the first hours of the morning. The books of which his lost friend had + spoken were close by him on the table. He opened one of them, and turned + to a page marked by pencil lines. His sensitive nature was troubled to its + inmost depths. The confession of that Faith which had upheld Penrose was + before him in words. The impulse was strong in him to read those words, + and think over them again. + </p> + <p> + He trimmed his lamp, and bent his mind on his book. While he was still + reading, the ball at Lord Loring’s house came to its end. Stella and Lady + Loring were alone together, talking of him, before they retired to their + rooms. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me for owning it plainly,” said Lady Loring—“I think you + and your mother are a little too ready to suspect Father Benwell without + any discoverable cause. Thousands of people go to Clovelly, and Beaupark + House is one of the show-places in the neighborhood. Is there a little + Protestant prejudice in this new idea of yours?” + </p> + <p> + Stella made no reply; she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring went on. + </p> + <p> + “I am open to conviction, my dear. If you will only tell me what interest + Father Benwell can have in knowing about you and Winterfield—” + </p> + <p> + Stella suddenly looked up. “Let us speak of another person,” she said; “I + own I don’t like Father Benwell. As you know, Romayne has concealed + nothing from me. Ought I to have any concealments from <i>him?</i> Ought I + not to tell him about Winterfield?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring started. “You astonish me,” she said. “What right has Romayne + to know it?” + </p> + <p> + “What right have I to keep it a secret from him?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Stella! if you had been in any way to blame in that miserable + matter, I should be the last person in the world to advise you to keep it + a secret. But you are innocent of all blame. No man—not even the man + who is soon to be your husband—has a right to know what you have so + unjustly suffered. Think of the humiliation of even speaking of it to + Romayne!” + </p> + <p> + “I daren’t think of it,” cried Stella passionately. “But if it is my duty—” + </p> + <p> + “It is your duty to consider the consequences,” Lady Loring interposed. + “You don’t know how such things sometimes rankle in a man’s mind. He may + be perfectly willing to do you justice—and yet, there may be moments + when he would doubt if you had told him the whole truth. I speak with the + experience of a married woman. Don’t place yourself in <i>that</i> + position toward your husband, if you wish for a happy married life.” + </p> + <p> + Stella was not quite convinced yet. “Suppose Romayne finds it out?” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “He can’t possibly find it out. I detest Winterfield, but let us do him + justice. He is no fool. He has his position in the world to keep up—and + that is enough of itself to close his lips. And as for others, there are + only three people now in England who <i>could</i> betray you. I suppose + you can trust your mother, and Lord Loring, and me?” + </p> + <p> + It was needless to answer such a question as that. Before Stella could + speak again, Lord Loring’s voice was audible outside the door. “What! + talking still,” he exclaimed. “Not in bed yet?” + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” cried his wife. “Let us hear what my husband thinks,” she said + to Stella. + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring listened with the closest attention while the subject under + discussion was communicated to him. When the time came to give his + opinion, he sided unhesitatingly with his wife. + </p> + <p> + “If the fault was yours, even in the slightest degree,” he said to Stella, + “Romayne would have a right to be taken into your confidence. But, my dear + child, we, who know the truth, know you to be a pure and innocent woman. + You go to Romayne in every way worthy of him, and you know that he loves + you. If you did tell him that miserable story, he could only pity you. Do + you want to be pitied?” + </p> + <p> + Those last unanswerable words brought the debate to an end. From that + moment the subject was dropped. + </p> + <p> + There was still one other person among the guests at the ball who was + waking in the small hours of the morning. Father Benwell, wrapped + comfortably in his dressing gown, was too hard at work on his + correspondence to think of his bed. With one exception, all the letters + that he had written thus far were closed, directed and stamped for the + post. The letter that he kept open he was now engaged in reconsidering and + correcting. It was addressed as usual to the Secretary of the Order at + Rome; and, when it had undergone the final revision, it contained these + lines: + </p> + <p> + My last letter informed you of Romayne’s return to London and to Miss + Eyrecourt. Let me entreat our reverend brethren to preserve perfect + tranquillity of mind, in spite of this circumstance. The owner of Vange + Abbey is not married yet. If patience and perseverance on my part win + their fair reward, Miss Eyrecourt shall never be his wife. + </p> + <p> + But let me not conceal the truth. In the uncertain future that lies before + us, I have no one to depend on but myself. Penrose is no longer to be + trusted; and the exertions of the agent to whom I committed my inquiries + are exertions that have failed. + </p> + <p> + I will dispose of the case of Penrose first. + </p> + <p> + The zeal with which this young man has undertaken the work of conversion + intrusted to him has, I regret to say, not been fired by devotion to the + interests of the Church, but by a dog-like affection for Romayne. Without + waiting for my permission, Penrose has revealed himself in his true + character as a priest. And, more than this, he has not only refused to + observe the proceedings of Romayne and Miss Eyrecourt—he has + deliberately closed his ears to the confidence which Romayne wished to + repose in him, on the ground that I might have ordered him to repeat that + confidence to me. + </p> + <p> + To what use can we put this poor fellow’s ungovernable sense of honor and + gratitude? Under present circumstances, he is clearly of little use to us. + I have therefore given him time to think. That is to say, I have not + opposed his leaving London, to assist in the spiritual care of a country + district. It will be a question for the future, whether we may not turn + his enthusiasm to good account in a foreign mission. However, as it is + always possible that his influence may still be of use to us, I venture to + suggest keeping him within our reach until Romayne’s conversion has + actually taken place. Don’t suppose that the present separation between + them is final; I will answer for their meeting again. + </p> + <p> + I may now proceed to the failure of my agent, and to the course of action + that I have adopted in consequence. + </p> + <p> + The investigations appear to have definitely broken down at the seaside + village of Clovelly, in the neighborhood of Mr. Winterfield’s country + seat. Knowing that I could depend upon the information which associated + this gentleman with Miss Eyrecourt, under compromising circumstances of + some sort, I decided on seeing Mr. Winterfield, and judging for myself. + </p> + <p> + The agent’s report informed me that the person who had finally baffled his + inquiries was an aged Catholic priest, long resident at Clovelly. His name + is Newbliss, and he is much respected among the Catholic gentry in that + part of Devonshire. After due consideration, I obtained a letter of + introduction to my reverend colleague, and traveled to Clovelly—telling + my friends here that I was taking a little holiday, in the interests of my + health. + </p> + <p> + I found Father Newbliss a venerable and reticent son of the Church—with + one weak point, however, to work on, which was entirely beyond the reach + of the otherwise astute person charged with my inquiries. My reverend + friend is a scholar, and is inordinately proud of his learning. I am a + scholar too. In that capacity I first found my way to his sympathies, and + then gently encouraged his pride. The result will appear in certain + discoveries, which I number as follows: + </p> + <p> + 1. The events which connect Mr. Winterfield with Miss Eyrecourt happened + about two years since, and had their beginning at Beaupark House. + </p> + <p> + 2. At this period, Miss Eyrecourt and her mother were staying at Beaupark + House. The general impression in the neighborhood was that Mr. Winterfield + and Miss Eyrecourt were engaged to be married. + </p> + <p> + 3. Not long afterward, Miss Eyrecourt and her mother surprised the + neighborhood by suddenly leaving Beaupark House. Their destination was + supposed to be London. + </p> + <p> + 4. Mr. Winterfield himself next left his country seat for the Continent. + His exact destination was not mentioned to any one. The steward, soon + afterward, dismissed all the servants, and the house was left empty for + more than a year. + </p> + <p> + 5. At the end of that time Mr. Winterfield returned alone to Beaupark + House, and told nobody how, or where, he had passed the long interval of + his absence. + </p> + <p> + 6. Mr. Winterfield remains, to the present day, an unmarried man. + </p> + <p> + Having arrived at these preliminary discoveries, it was time to try what I + could make of Mr. Winterfield next. + </p> + <p> + Among the other good things which this gentleman has inherited is a + magnificent library collected by his father. That one learned man should + take another learned man to see the books was a perfectly natural + proceeding. My introduction to the master of the house followed my + introduction to the library almost as a matter of course. + </p> + <p> + I am about to surprise you, as I was myself surprised. In all my long + experience, Mr. Winterfield is, I think, the most fascinating person I + ever met with. Genial, unassuming manners, a prepossessing personal + appearance, a sweet temper, a quaint humor delightfully accompanied by + natural refinement—such are the characteristic qualities of the man + from whom I myself saw Miss Eyrecourt (accidentally meeting him in public) + recoil with dismay and disgust! It is absolutely impossible to look at + him, and to believe him to be capable of a cruel or dishonorable action. I + never was so puzzled in my life. + </p> + <p> + You may be inclined to think that I am misled by a false impression, + derived from the gratifying welcome that I received as a friend of Father + Newbliss. I will not appeal to my knowledge of human nature—I will + refer to the unanswerable evidence of Mr. Winterfield’s poorer neighbors. + Wherever I went, in the village or out of it, if I mentioned his name, I + produced a universal outburst of admiration and gratitude. “There never + was such a friend to poor people, and there never can be such another to + the end of the world.” Such was a fisherman’s description of him; and the + one cry of all the men and women near us answered, “That’s the truth!” + </p> + <p> + And yet there is something wrong—for this plain reason, that there + is something to be concealed in the past lives of Mr. Winterfield and Miss + Eyrecourt. + </p> + <p> + Under these perplexing circumstances, what use have I made of my + opportunities? I am going to surprise you again—I have mentioned + Romayne’s name to Mr. Winterfield; and I have ascertained that they are, + so far, perfect strangers to one another—and that is all. + </p> + <p> + The little incident of mentioning Romayne arose out of my examination of + the library. I discovered certain old volumes, which may one day be of use + to him, if he continues his contemplated work on the Origin of Religions. + Hearing me express myself to this effect, Mr. Winterfield replied with the + readiest kindness: + </p> + <p> + “I can’t compare myself to my excellent father,” he said; “but I have at + least inherited his respect for the writers of books. My library is a + treasure which I hold in trust for the interests of literature. Pray say + so, from me, to your friend Mr. Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + And what does this amount to?—you will ask. My reverend friend, it + offers me an opportunity, in the future, of bringing Romayne and + Winterfield together. Do you see the complications which may ensue? If I + can put no other difficulty in Miss Eyrecourt’s way, I think there is + fruitful promise of a scandal of some kind arising out of the introduction + to each other of those two men. You will agree with me that a scandal may + prove a valuable obstacle in the way of a marriage. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Winterfield has kindly invited me to call on him when he is next in + London. I may then have opportunities of putting questions which I could + not venture to ask on a short acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, I have obtained another introduction since my return to + town. I have been presented to Miss Eyrecourt’s mother, and I am invited + to drink tea with her on Wednesday. My next letter may tell you—what + Penrose ought to have discovered—whether Romayne has been already + entrapped into a marriage engagement or not. + </p> + <p> + Farewell for the present. Remind the Reverend Fathers, with my respects, + that I possess one of the valuable qualities of an Englishman—I + never know when I am beaten. <a name="link_4_0024" id="link_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK THE THIRD. <a name="linkCH0018" id="linkCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <h3> + THE HONEYMOON. + </h3> + <p> + MORE than six weeks had passed. The wedded lovers were still enjoying + their honeymoon at Vange Abbey. + </p> + <p> + Some offense had been given, not only to Mrs. Eyrecourt, but to friends of + her way of thinking, by the strictly private manner in which the marriage + had been celebrated. The event took everybody by surprise when the + customary advertisement appeared in the newspapers. Foreseeing the + unfavorable impression that might be produced in some quarters, Stella had + pleaded for a timely retreat to the seclusion of Romayne’s country house. + The will of the bride being, as usual, the bridegroom’s law, to Vange they + retired accordingly. + </p> + <p> + On one lovely moonlight night, early in July, Mrs. Romayne left her + husband on the Belvidere, described in Major Hynd’s narrative, to give the + housekeeper certain instructions relating to the affairs of the household. + Half an hour later, as she was about to ascend again to the top of the + house, one of the servants informed her that “the master had just left the + Belvidere, and had gone into his study.” + </p> + <p> + Crossing the inner hall, on her way to the study, Stella noticed an + unopened letter, addressed to Romayne, lying on a table in a corner. He + had probably laid it aside and forgotten it. She entered his room with the + letter in her hand. + </p> + <p> + The only light was a reading lamp, with the shade so lowered that the + corners of the study were left in obscurity. In one of these corners + Romayne was dimly visible, sitting with his head sunk on his breast. He + never moved when Stella opened the door. At first she thought he might be + asleep. + </p> + <p> + “Do I disturb you, Lewis?” she asked softly. + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + There was a change in the tone of his voice, which his wife’s quick ear + detected. “I am afraid you are not well,” she said anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “I am a little tired after our long ride to-day. Do you want to go back to + the Belvidere?” + </p> + <p> + “Not without you. Shall I leave you to rest here?” + </p> + <p> + He seemed not to hear the question. There he sat, with his head hanging + down, the shadowy counterfeit of an old man. In her anxiety, Stella + approached him, and put her hand caressingly on his head. It was burning + hot. “O!” she cried, “you <i>are</i> ill, and you are trying to hide it + from me.” + </p> + <p> + He put his arm round her waist and made her sit on his knee. “Nothing is + the matter with me,” he said, with an uneasy laugh. “What have you got in + your hand? A letter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Addressed to you and not opened yet.” He took it out of her hand, + and threw it carelessly on a sofa near him. “Never mind that now! Let us + talk.” He paused, and kissed her, before he went on. “My darling, I think + you must be getting tired of Vange?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! I can be happy anywhere with you—and especially at Vange. + You don’t how this noble old house interests me, and how I admire the + glorious country all round it.” + </p> + <p> + He was not convinced. “Vange is very dull,” he said, obstinately; “and + your friends will be wanting to see you. Have you heard from your mother + lately?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I am surprised she has not written.” + </p> + <p> + “She has not forgiven us for getting married so quietly,” he went on. “We + had better go back to London and make our peace with her. Don’t you want + to see the house my aunt left me at Highgate?” + </p> + <p> + Stella sighed. The society of the man she loved was society enough for + her. Was he getting tired of his wife already? “I will go with you + wherever you like.” She said those words in tones of sad submission, and + gently got up from his knee. + </p> + <p> + He rose also, and took from the sofa the letter which he had thrown on it. + “Let us see what our friends say,” he resumed. “The address is in Loring’s + handwriting.” + </p> + <p> + As he approached the table on which the lamp was burning, she noticed that + he moved with a languor that was new in her experience of him. He sat down + and opened the letter. She watched him with an anxiety which had now + become intensified to suspicion. The shade of the lamp still prevented her + from seeing his face plainly. “Just what I told you,” he said; “the + Lorings want to know when they are to see us in London; and your mother + says she ‘feels like that character in Shakespeare who was cut by his own + daughters.’ Read it.” + </p> + <p> + He handed her the letter. In taking it, she contrived to touch the lamp + shade, as if by accident, and tilted it so that the full flow of the light + fell on him. He started back—but not before she had seen the ghastly + pallor on his face. She had not only heard it from Lady Loring, she knew + from his own unreserved confession to her what that startling change + really meant. In an instant she was on her knees at his feet. “Oh, my + darling,” she cried, “it was cruel to keep <i>that</i> secret from your + wife! You have heard it again!” + </p> + <p> + She was too irresistibly beautiful, at that moment, to be reproved. He + gently raised her from the floor—and owned the truth. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said; “I heard it after you left me on the Belvidere—just + as I heard it on another moonlight night, when Major Hynd was here with + me. Our return to this house is perhaps the cause. I don’t complain; I + have had a long release.” + </p> + <p> + She threw her arms round his neck. “We will leave Vange to-morrow,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + It was firmly spoken. But her heart sank as the words passed her lips. + Vange Abbey had been the scene of the most unalloyed happiness in her + life. What destiny was waiting for her when she returned to London? <a + name="linkCH0019" id="linkCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + EVENTS AT TEN ACRES. + </h3> + <p> + THERE was no obstacle to the speedy departure of Romayne and his wife from + Vange Abbey. The villa at Highgate—called Ten Acres Lodge, in + allusion to the measurement of the grounds surrounding the house—had + been kept in perfect order by the servants of the late Lady Berrick, now + in the employment of her nephew. + </p> + <p> + On the morning after their arrival at the villa, Stella sent a note to her + mother. The same afternoon, Mrs. Eyrecourt arrived at Ten Acres—on + her way to a garden-party. Finding the house, to her great relief, a + modern building, supplied with all the newest comforts and luxuries, she + at once began to plan a grand party, in celebration of the return of the + bride and bridegroom. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t wish to praise myself,” Mrs. Eyrecourt said; “but if ever there + was a forgiving woman, I am that person. We will say no more, Stella, + about your truly contemptible wedding—five people altogether, + including ourselves and the Lorings. A grand ball will set you right with + society, and that is the one thing needful. Tea and coffee, my dear + Romayne, in your study; Coote’s quadrille band; the supper from Gunter’s, + the grounds illuminated with colored lamps; Tyrolese singers among the + trees, relieved by military music—and, if there <i>are</i> any + African or other savages now in London, there is room enough in these + charming grounds for encampments, dances, squaws, scalps, and all the rest + of it, to end in a blaze of fireworks.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden fit of coughing seized her, and stopped the further enumeration + of attractions at the contemplated ball. Stella had observed that her + mother looked unusually worn and haggard, through the disguises of paint + and powder. This was not an uncommon result of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s devotion + to the demands of society; but the cough was something new, as a symptom + of exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid, mamma, you have been overexerting yourself,” said Stella. + “You go to too many parties.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the sort, my dear; I am as strong as a horse. The other night, + I was waiting for the carriage in a draught (one of the most perfect + private concerts of the season, ending with a delightfully naughty little + French play)—and I caught a slight cold. A glass of water is all I + want. Thank you. Romayne, you are looking shockingly serious and severe; + our ball will cheer you. If you would only make a bonfire of all those + horrid books, you don’t know how it would improve your spirits. Dearest + Stella, I will come and lunch here to-morrow—you are within such a + nice easy drive from town—and I’ll bring my visiting-book, and + settle about the invitations and the day. Oh, dear me, how late it is. I + have nearly an hour’s drive before I get to my garden party. Good-by, my + turtle doves good-by.” + </p> + <p> + She was stopped, on the way to her carriage, by another fit of coughing. + But she still persisted in making light of it. “I’m as strong as a horse,” + she repeated, as soon as she could speak—and skipped into the + carriage like a young girl. + </p> + <p> + “Your mother is killing herself,” said Romayne. + </p> + <p> + “If I could persuade her to stay with us a little while,” Stella + suggested, “the rest and quiet might do wonders for her. Would you object + to it, Lewis?” + </p> + <p> + “My darling, I object to nothing—except giving a ball and burning my + books. If your mother will yield on these two points, my house is entirely + at her disposal.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke playfully—he looked his best, since he had separated + himself from the painful associations that were now connected with Vange + Abbey. Had “the torment of the Voice” been left far away in Yorkshire? + Stella shrank from approaching the subject in her husband’s presence, + knowing that it must remind him of the fatal duel. To her surprise, + Romayne himself referred to the General’s family. + </p> + <p> + “I have written to Hynd,” he began. “Do you mind his dining with us + to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not!” + </p> + <p> + “I want to hear if he has anything to tell me—about those French + ladies. He undertook to see them, in your absence, and to ascertain—” + He was unable to overcome his reluctance to pronounce the next words. + Stella was quick to understand what he meant. She finished the sentence + for him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “I wanted to hear how the boy is getting on, and if there + is any hope of curing him. Is it—” he trembled as he put the + question—“Is it hereditary madness?” + </p> + <p> + Feeling the serious importance of concealing the truth, Stella only + replied that she had hesitated to ask if there was a taint of madness in + the family. “I suppose,” she added, “you would not like to see the boy, + and judge of his chances of recovery for yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “You suppose?” he burst out, with sudden anger. “You might be sure. The + bare idea of seeing him turns me cold. Oh, when shall I forget! when shall + I forget! Who spoke of him first?” he said, with renewed irritability, + after a moment of silence. “You or I?” + </p> + <p> + “It was my fault, love—he is so harmless and so gentle, and he has + such a sweet face—I thought it might soothe you to see him. Forgive + me; we will never speak of him again. Have you any notes for me to copy? + You know, Lewis, I am your secretary now.” + </p> + <p> + So she led Romayne away to his study and his books. When Major Hynd + arrived, she contrived to be the first to see him. “Say as little as + possible about the General’s widow and her son,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + The Major understood her. “Don’t be uneasy, Mrs. Romayne,” he answered. “I + know your husband well enough to know what you mean. Besides, the news I + bring is good news.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne came in before he could speak more particularly. When the servants + had left the room, after dinner, the Major made his report. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to agreeably surprise you,” he began. “All responsibility + toward the General’s family is taken off our hands. The ladies are on + their way back to France.” + </p> + <p> + Stella was instantly reminded of one of the melancholy incidents + associated with her visit to Camp’s Hill. “Madame Marillac spoke of a + brother of hers who disapproved of the marriage,” she said. “Has he + forgiven her?” + </p> + <p> + “That is exactly what he has done, Mrs. Romayne. Naturally enough, he felt + the disgrace of his sister’s marriage to such a man as the General. Only + the other day he heard for the first time that she was a widow—and + he at once traveled to England. I bade them good-by yesterday—most + happily reunited—on their journey home again. Ah, I thought you + would be glad, Mrs. Romayne, to hear that the poor widow’s troubles are + over. Her brother is rich enough to place them all in easy circumstances—he + is as good a fellow as ever lived.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen him?” Stella asked, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “I have been with him to the asylum.” + </p> + <p> + “Does the boy go back to France?” + </p> + <p> + “No. We took the place by surprise, and saw for ourselves how well + conducted it was. The boy has taken a strong liking to the proprietor—a + bright, cheerful old man, who is teaching him some of our English games, + and has given him a pony to ride on. He burst out crying, poor creature, + at the idea of going away—and his mother burst out crying at the + idea of leaving him. It was a melancholy scene You know what a good mother + is—no sacrifice is too great for her. The boy stays at the asylum, + on the chance that his healthier and happier life there may help to cure + him. By-the-way, Romayne, his uncle desires me to thank you—” + </p> + <p> + “Hynd! you didn’t tell the uncle my name?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t alarm yourself. He is a gentleman, and when I told him I was + pledged to secrecy, he made but one inquiry—he asked if you were a + rich man. I told him you had eighteen thousand a year.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he set that matter right between us with perfect taste. He said: ‘I + cannot presume to offer repayment to a person so wealthy. We gratefully + accept our obligation to our kind unknown friend. For the future, however, + my nephew’s expenses must be paid from my purse.’ Of course I could only + agree to that. From time to time the mother is to hear, and I am to hear, + how the boy goes on. Or, if you like, Romayne—now that the General’s + family has left England—I don’t see why the proprietor might not + make his report directly to yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” Romayne rejoined, positively. “Let things remain as they are.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I can send you any letters that I may receive from the asylum. + Will you give us some music, Mrs. Romayne? Not to-night? Then let us go to + the billiard-room; and as I am the worst of bad players, I will ask you to + help me to beat your accomplished husband.” + </p> + <p> + On the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Eyrecourt’s maid arrived at Ten + Acres with a note from her mistress. + </p> + <p> + “Dearest Stella—Matilda must bring you my excuses for to-day. I + don’t in the least understand it, but I seem to have turned lazy. It is + most ridiculous—I really cannot get out of bed. Perhaps I did do + just a little too much yesterday. The opera after the garden party, and a + ball after the opera, and this tiresome cough all night after the ball. + Quite a series, isn’t it? Make my apologies to our dear dismal Romayne—and + if you drive out this afternoon, come and have a chat with me. Your + affectionate mother, Emily Eyrecourt. P. S.—You know what a fidget + Matilda is. If she talks about me, don’t believe a word she says to you.” + </p> + <p> + Stella turned to the maid with a sinking heart. + </p> + <p> + “Is my mother very ill?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “So ill, ma’am, that I begged and prayed her to let me send for a doctor. + You know what my mistress is. If you would please to use your influence—” + </p> + <p> + “I will order the carriage instantly, and take you back with me.” + </p> + <p> + Before she dressed to go out, Stella showed the letter to her husband. He + spoke with perfect kindness and sympathy, but he did not conceal that he + shared his wife’s apprehensions. “Go at once,” were his last words to her; + “and, if I can be of any use, send for me.” + </p> + <p> + It was late in the evening before Stella returned. She brought sad news. + </p> + <p> + The physician consulted told her plainly that the neglected cough, and the + constant fatigue, had together made the case a serious one. He declined to + say that there was any absolute danger as yet, or any necessity for her + remaining with her mother at night. The experience of the next twenty-four + hours, at most, would enable him to speak positively. In the meantime, the + patient insisted that Stella should return to her husband. Even under the + influence of opiates, Mrs. Eyrecourt was still drowsily equal to herself. + “You are a fidget, my dear, and Matilda is a fidget—I can’t have two + of you at my bedside. Good-night.” Stella stooped over her and kissed her. + She whispered: “Three weeks notice, remember, for the party!” + </p> + <p> + By the next evening the malady had assumed so formidable an aspect that + the doctor had his doubts of the patient’s chance of recovery. With her + husband’s full approval, Stella remained night and day at her mother’s + bedside. + </p> + <p> + Thus, in a little more than a month from the day of his marriage, Romayne + was, for the time, a lonely man again. + </p> + <p> + The illness of Mrs. Eyrecourt was unexpectedly prolonged. There were + intervals during which her vigorous constitution rallied and resisted the + progress of the disease. On these occasions, Stella was able to return to + her husband for a few hours—subject always to a message which + recalled her to her mother when the chances of life or death appeared to + be equally balanced. Romayne’s one resource was in his books and his pen. + For the first time since his union with Stella he opened the portfolios in + which Penrose had collected the first introductory chapters of his + historical work. Almost at every page the familiar handwriting of his + secretary and friend met his view. It was a new trial to his resolution to + be working alone; never had he felt the absence of Penrose as he felt it + now. He missed the familiar face, the quiet pleasant voice, and, more than + both, the ever-welcome sympathy with his work. Stella had done all that a + wife could do to fill the vacant place; and her husband’s fondness had + accepted the effort as adding another charm to the lovely creature who had + opened a new life to him. But where is the woman who can intimately + associate herself with the hard brain-work of a man devoted to an + absorbing intellectual pursuit? She can love him, admire him, serve him, + believe in him beyond all other men—but (in spite of exceptions + which only prove the rule) she is out of her place when she enters the + study while the pen is in his hand. More than once, when he was at work, + Romayne closed the page bitterly; the sad thought came to him, “Oh, if I + only had Penrose here!” Even other friends were not available as a + resource in the solitary evening hours. Lord Loring was absorbed in social + and political engagements. And Major Hynd—true to the principle of + getting away as often as possible from his disagreeable wife and his ugly + children—had once more left London. + </p> + <p> + One day, while Mrs. Eyrecourt still lay between life and death, Romayne + found his historical labors suspended by the want of a certain volume + which it was absolutely necessary to consult. He had mislaid the + references written for him by Penrose, and he was at a loss to remember + whether the book was in the British Museum, in the Bodleian Library, or in + the Bibliotheque at Paris. In this emergency a letter to his former + secretary would furnish him with the information that he required. But he + was ignorant of Penrose’s present address. The Lorings might possibly know + it—so to the Lorings he resolved to apply. <a name="linkCH0020" + id="linkCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + FATHER BENWELL AND THE BOOK. + </h3> + <p> + ROMAYNE’S first errand in London was to see his wife, and to make + inquiries at Mrs. Eyrecourt’s house. The report was more favorable than + usual. Stella whispered, as she kissed him, “I shall soon come back to + you, I hope!” + </p> + <p> + Leaving the horses to rest for a while, he proceeded to Lord Loring’s + residence on foot. As he crossed a street in the neighborhood, he was + nearly run over by a cab, carrying a gentleman and his luggage. The + gentleman was Mr. Winterfield, on his way to Derwent’s Hotel. + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring very kindly searched her card-basket, as the readiest means of + assisting Romayne. Penrose had left his card, on his departure from + London, but no address was written on it. Lord Loring, unable himself to + give the required information, suggested the right person to consult. + </p> + <p> + “Father Benwell will be here later in the day,” he said. “If you will + write to Penrose at once, he will add the address. Are you sure, before + the letter goes, that the book you want is not in my library?” + </p> + <p> + “I think not,” Romayne answered; “but I will write down the title, and + leave it here with my letter.” + </p> + <p> + The same evening he received a polite note from Father Benwell, informing + him that the letter was forwarded, and that the book he wanted was not in + Lord Loring’s library. “If there should be any delay or difficulty in + obtaining this rare volume,” the priest added, “I only wait the expression + of your wishes, to borrow it from the library of a friend of mine, + residing in the country.” + </p> + <p> + By return of post the answer, affectionately and gratefully written, + arrived from Penrose. He regretted that he was not able to assist Romayne + personally. But it was out of his power (in plain words, he had been + expressly forbidden by Father Benwell) to leave the service on which he + was then engaged. In reference to the book that was wanted, it was quite + likely that a search in the catalogues of the British Museum might + discover it. He had only met with it himself in the National Library at + Paris. + </p> + <p> + This information led Romayne to London again, immediately. For the first + time he called at Father Benwell’s lodgings. The priest was at home, + expecting the visit. His welcome was the perfection of unassuming + politeness. He asked for the last news of “poor Mrs. Eyrecourt’s health,” + with the sympathy of a true friend. + </p> + <p> + “I had the honor of drinking tea with Mrs. Eyrecourt, some little time + since,” he said. “Her flow of conversation was never more delightful—it + seemed impossible to associate the idea of illness with so bright a + creature. And how well she kept the secret of your contemplated marriage! + May I offer my humble congratulations and good wishes?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne thought it needless to say that Mrs. Eyrecourt had not been + trusted with the secret until the wedding day was close at hand. “My wife + and I agreed in wishing to be married as quietly as possible,” he + answered, after making the customary acknowledgments. + </p> + <p> + “And Mrs. Romayne?” pursued Father Benwell. “This is a sad trial for her. + She is in attendance on her mother, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “In constant attendance; I am quite alone now. To change the subject, may + I ask you to look at the reply which I have received from Penrose? It is + my excuse for troubling you with this visit.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell read the letter with the closest attention. In spite of his + habitual self-control, his vigilant eyes brightened as he handed it back. + </p> + <p> + Thus far, the priest’s well-planned scheme, (like Mr. Bitrake’s clever + inquiries) had failed. He had not even entrapped Mrs. Eyrecourt into + revealing the marriage engagement. Her unconquerable small-talk had foiled + him at every point. Even when he had deliberately kept his seat after the + other guests at the tea-table had taken their departure, she rose with the + most imperturbable coolness, and left him. “I have a dinner and two + parties to-night, and this is just the time when I take my little + restorative nap. Forgive me—and do come again!” When he sent the + fatal announcement of the marriage to Rome, he had been obliged to confess + that he was indebted for the discovery to the newspaper. He had accepted + the humiliation; he had accepted the defeat—but he was not beaten + yet. “I counted on Romayne’s weakness; and Miss Eyrecourt counted on + Romayne’s weakness; and Miss Eyrecourt has won. So let it be. My turn will + come.” In that manner he had reconciled himself to his position. And now—he + knew it when he handed back the letter to Romayne—his turn <i>had</i> + come! + </p> + <p> + “You can hardly go to Paris to consult the book,” he said, “in the present + state of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s health?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you will send somebody to search the catalogue at the British + Museum?” + </p> + <p> + “I should have done that already, Father Benwell, but for the very kind + allusion in your note to your friend in the country. Even if the book is + in the Museum Library, I shall be obliged to go to the Reading Room to get + my information. It would be far more convenient to me to have the volume + at home to consult, if you think your friend will trust me with it.” + </p> + <p> + “I am certain he will trust you with it. My friend is Mr. Winterfield, of + Beaupark House, North Devon. Perhaps you may have heard of him?” + </p> + <p> + “No; the name is quite new to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then come and see the man himself. He is now in London—and I am + entirely at your service.” + </p> + <p> + In half an hour more, Romayne was presented to a well-bred, amiable + gentleman in the prime of life, smoking, and reading the newspaper. The + bowl of his long pipe rested on the floor, on one side of him, and a + handsome red and white spaniel reposed on the other. Before his visitors + had been two minutes in the room, he understood the motive which had + brought them to consult him, and sent for a telegraphic form. + </p> + <p> + “My steward will find the book and forward it to your address by passenger + train this afternoon,” he said. “I will tell him to put my printed + catalogue of the library into the parcel, in case I have any other books + which may be of use to you.” + </p> + <p> + With those words, he dispatched the telegram to the office. Romayne + attempted to make his acknowledgments. Mr. Winterfield would hear no + acknowledgments. + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir,” he said, with a smile that brightened his whole face, “you + are engaged in writing a great historical work; and I am an obscure + country gentleman, who is lucky enough to associate himself with the + production of a new book. How do you know that I am not looking forward to + a complimentary line in the preface? I am the obliged person, not you. + Pray consider me as a handy little boy who runs on errands for the Muse of + History. Do you smoke?” + </p> + <p> + Not even tobacco would soothe Romayne’s wasted and irritable nerves. + Father Benwell—“all things to all men”—cheerfully accepted a + cigar from the box on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Father Benwell possesses all the social virtues,” Mr. Winterfield ran on. + “He shall have his coffee, and the largest sugar-basin that the hotel can + produce. I can quite understand that your literary labors have tried your + nerves,” he said to Romayne, when he had ordered the coffee. “The mere + title of your work overwhelms an idle man like me. ‘The Origin of + Religions’—what an immense subject! How far must we look back to + find out the first worshipers of the human family?—Where are the + hieroglyphics, Mr. Romayne, that will give you the earliest information? + In the unknown center of Africa, or among the ruined cities of Yucatan? My + own idea, as an ignorant man, is that the first of all forms of worship + must have been the worship of the sun. Don’t be shocked, Father Benwell—I + confess I have a certain sympathy with sun-worship. In the East + especially, the rising of the sun is surely the grandest of all objects—the + visible symbol of a beneficent Deity, who gives life, warmth and light to + the world of his creation.” + </p> + <p> + “Very grand, no doubt,” remarked Father Benwell, sweetening his coffee. + “But not to be compared with the noble sight at Rome, when the Pope + blesses the Christian world from the balcony of St. Peter’s.” + </p> + <p> + “So much for professional feeling!” said Mr. Winterfield. “But, surely, + something depends on what sort of man the Pope is. If we had lived in the + time of Alexander the Sixth, would you have called <i>him</i> a part of + that noble sight?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly—at a proper distance,” Father Benwell briskly replied. + “Ah, you heretics only know the worst side of that most unhappy pontiff! + Mr. Winterfield, we have every reason to believe that he felt (privately) + the truest remorse.” + </p> + <p> + “I should require very good evidence to persuade me of it.” + </p> + <p> + This touched Romayne on a sad side of his own personal experience. + “Perhaps,” he said, “you don’t believe in remorse?” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” Mr. Winterfield rejoined, “I only distinguish between false + remorse and true remorse. We will say no more of Alexander the Sixth, + Father Benwell. If we want an illustration, I will supply it, and give no + offense. True remorse depends, to my mind, on a man’s accurate knowledge + of his own motives—far from a common knowledge, in my experience. + Say, for instance, that I have committed some serious offense—” + </p> + <p> + Romayne could not resist interrupting him. “Say you have killed one of + your fellow-creatures,” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. If I know that I really meant to kill him, for some vile + purpose of my own; and if (which by no means always follows) I am really + capable of feeling the enormity of my own crime—that is, as I think, + true remorse. Murderer as I am, I have, in that case, some moral worth + still left in me. But if I did <i>not</i> mean to kill the man—if + his death was my misfortune as well as his—and if (as frequently + happens) I am nevertheless troubled by remorse, the true cause lies in my + own inability fairly to realize my own motives—before I look to + results. I am the ignorant victim of false remorse; and if I will only ask + myself boldly what has blinded me to the true state of the case, I shall + find the mischief due to that misdirected appreciation of my own + importance which is nothing but egotism in disguise.” + </p> + <p> + “I entirely agree with you,” said Father Benwell; “I have had occasion to + say the same thing in the confessional.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Winterfield looked at his dog, and changed the subject. “Do you like + dogs, Mr. Romayne?” he asked. “I see my spaniel’s eyes saying that he + likes you, and his tail begging you to take some notice of him.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne caressed the dog rather absently. + </p> + <p> + His new friend had unconsciously presented to him a new view of the darker + aspect of his own life. Winterfield’s refined, pleasant manners, his + generous readiness in placing the treasures of his library at a stranger’s + disposal, had already appealed irresistibly to Romayne’s sensitive nature. + The favorable impression was now greatly strengthened by the briefly bold + treatment which he had just heard of a subject in which he was seriously + interested. “I must see more of this man,” was his thought, as he patted + the companionable spaniel. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell’s trained observation followed the vivid changes of + expression on Romayne’s face, and marked the eager look in his eyes as he + lifted his head from the dog to the dog’s master. The priest saw his + opportunity and took it. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remain long at Ten Acres Lodge?” he said to Romayne. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know as yet. We have no other plans at present.” + </p> + <p> + “You inherit the place, I think, from your late aunt, Lady Berrick?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The tone of the reply was not encouraging; Romayne felt no interest in + talking of Ten Acres Lodge. Father Benwell persisted. + </p> + <p> + “I was told by Mrs. Eyrecourt,” he went on “that Lady Berrick had some + fine pictures. Are they still at the Lodge?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. I couldn’t live in a house without pictures.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell looked at Winterfield. “Another taste in common between you + and Mr. Romayne,” he said, “besides your liking for dogs.” + </p> + <p> + This at once produced the desired result. Romayne eagerly invited + Winterfield to see his pictures. “There are not many of them,” he said. + “But they are really worth looking at. When will you come?” + </p> + <p> + “The sooner the better,” Winterfield answered, cordially. “Will to-morrow + do—by the noonday light?” + </p> + <p> + “Whenever you please. Your time is mine.” + </p> + <p> + Among his other accomplishments, Father Benwell was a chess-player. If his + thoughts at that moment had been expressed in language, they would have + said, “Check to the queen.” <a name="linkCH0021" id="linkCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + THE END OF THE HONEYMOON. + </h3> + <p> + ON the next morning, Winterfield arrived alone at Romayne’s house. + </p> + <p> + Having been included, as a matter of course, in the invitation to see the + pictures, Father Benwell had made an excuse, and had asked leave to defer + the proposed visit. From his point of view, he had nothing further to gain + by being present at a second meeting between the two men—in the + absence of Stella. He had it on Romayne’s own authority that she was in + constant attendance on her mother, and that her husband was alone. “Either + Mrs. Eyrecourt will get better, or she will die,” Father Benwell reasoned. + “I shall make constant inquiries after her health, and, in either case, I + shall know when Mrs. Romayne returns to Ten Acres Lodge. After that + domestic event, the next time Mr. Winterfield visits Mr. Romayne, I shall + go and see the pictures.” + </p> + <p> + It is one of the defects of a super-subtle intellect to trust too + implicitly to calculation, and to leave nothing to chance. Once or twice + already Father Benwell had been (in the popular phrase) a little too + clever—and chance had thrown him out. As events happened, chance was + destined to throw him out once more. + </p> + <p> + Of the most modest pretensions, in regard to numbers and size, the + pictures collected by the late Lady Berrick were masterly works of modern + art. With few exceptions, they had been produced by the matchless English + landscape painters of half a century since. There was no formal gallery + here. The pictures were so few that they could be hung in excellent lights + in the different living-rooms of the villa. Turner, Constable, Collins, + Danby, Callcott, Linnell—the master of Beaupark House passed from + one to the other with the enjoyment of a man who thoroughly appreciated + the truest and finest landscape art that the world has yet seen. + </p> + <p> + “You had better not have asked me here,” he said to Romayne, in his + quaintly good-humored way. “I can’t part with those pictures when I say + good-by to-day. You will find me calling here again and again, till you + are perfectly sick of me. Look at this sea piece. Who thinks of the + brushes and palette of <i>that</i> painter? There, truth to Nature and + poetical feeling go hand in hand together. It is absolutely lovely—I + could kiss that picture.” + </p> + <p> + They were in Romayne’s study when this odd outburst of enthusiasm escaped + Winterfield. He happened to look toward the writing-table next. Some pages + of manuscript, blotted and interlined with corrections, at once attracted + his attention. + </p> + <p> + “Is that the forthcoming history?” he asked. “You are not one of the + authors who perform the process of correction mentally—you revise + and improve with the pen in your hand.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne looked at him in surprise. “I suspect, Mr. Winterfield, you have + used your pen for other purposes than writing letters.” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed; you pay me an undeserved compliment. When you come to see me + in Devonshire, I can show you some manuscripts, and corrected proofs, left + by our great writers, collected by my father. My knowledge of the secrets + of the craft has been gained by examining those literary treasures. If the + public only knew that every writer worthy of the name is the severest + critic of his own book before it ever gets into the hands of the + reviewers, how surprised they would be! The man who has worked in the full + fervor of composition yesterday is the same man who sits in severe and + merciless judgment to-day on what he has himself produced. What a + fascination there must be in the Art which exacts and receives such double + labor as this?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne thought—not unkindly—of his wife. Stella had once + asked him how long a time he was usually occupied in writing one page. The + reply had filled her with pity and wonder. “Why do you take all that + trouble?” she had gently remonstrated. “It would be just the same to the + people, darling, if you did it in half the time.” + </p> + <p> + By way of changing the topic, Romayne led his visitor into another room. + “I have a picture here,” he said, “which belongs to a newer school of + painting. You have been talking of hard work in one Art; there it is in + another.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Winterfield, “there it is—the misdirected hard work, + which has been guided by no critical faculty, and which doesn’t know where + to stop. I try to admire it; and I end in pitying the poor artist. Look at + that leafless felled tree in the middle distance. Every little twig, on + the smallest branch, is conscientiously painted—and the result is + like a colored photograph. You don’t look at a landscape as a series of + separate parts; you don’t discover every twig on a tree; you see the whole + in Nature, and you want to see the whole in a picture. That canvas + presents a triumph of patience and pains, produced exactly as a piece of + embroidery is produced, all in little separate bits, worked with the same + mechanically complete care. I turn away from it to your shrubbery there, + with an ungrateful sense of relief.” + </p> + <p> + He walked to the window as he spoke. It looked out on the grounds in front + of the house. At the same moment the noise of rolling wheels became + audible on the drive. An open carriage appeared at the turn in the road. + Winterfield called Romayne to the window. “A visitor,” he began—and + suddenly drew back, without saying a word more. + </p> + <p> + Romayne looked out, and recognized his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me for one moment,” he said, “it is Mrs. Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + On that morning an improvement in the fluctuating state of Mrs. + Eyrecourt’s health had given Stella another of those opportunities of + passing an hour or two with her husband, which she so highly prized. + Romayne withdrew, to meet her at the door—too hurriedly to notice + Winterfield standing, in the corner to which he had retreated, like a man + petrified. + </p> + <p> + Stella had got out of the carriage when her husband reached the porch. She + ascended the few steps that led to the hall as slowly and painfully as if + she had been an infirm old woman. The delicately tinted color in her face + had faded to an ashy white. She had seen Winterfield at the window. + </p> + <p> + For the moment, Romayne looked at her in speechless consternation. He led + her into the nearest room that opened out of the hall, and took her in his + arms. “My love, this nursing of your mother has completely broken you + down!” he said, with the tenderest pity for her. “If you won’t think of + yourself, you must think of me. For my sake remain here, and take the rest + that you need. I will be a tyrant, Stella, for the first time; I won’t let + you go back.” + </p> + <p> + She roused herself, and tried to smile—and hid the sad result from + him in a kiss. “I do feel the anxiety and fatigue,” she said. “But my + mother is really improving; and, if it only continues, the blessed sense + of relief will make me strong again.” She paused, and roused all her + courage, in anticipation of the next words—so trivial and so + terrible—that must, sooner or later, be pronounced. “You have a + visitor?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see him at the window? A really delightful man—I know you + will like him. Under any other circumstances, I should have introduced + him. You are not well enough to see strangers today.” + </p> + <p> + She was too determined to prevent Winterfield from ever entering the house + again to shrink from the meeting. “I am not so ill as you think, Lewis,” + she said, bravely. “When you go to your new friend, I will go with you. I + am a little tired—that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne looked at her anxiously. “Let me get you a glass of wine,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + She consented—she really felt the need of it. As he turned away to + ring the bell, she put the question which had been in her mind from the + moment when she had seen Winterfield. + </p> + <p> + “How did you become acquainted with this gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “Through Father Benwell.” + </p> + <p> + She was not surprised by the answer—her suspicion of the priest had + remained in her mind from the night of Lady Loring’s ball. The future of + her married life depended on her capacity to check the growing intimacy + between the two men. In that conviction she found the courage to face + Winterfield. + </p> + <p> + How should she meet him? The impulse of the moment pointed to the shortest + way out of the dreadful position in which she was placed—it was to + treat him like a stranger. She drank her glass of wine, and took Romayne’s + arm. “We mustn’t keep your friend waiting any longer,” she resumed. + “Come!” + </p> + <p> + As they crossed the hall, she looked suspiciously toward the house door. + Had he taken the opportunity of leaving the villa? At any other time she + would have remembered that the plainest laws of good breeding compelled + him to wait for Romayne’s return. His own knowledge of the world would + tell him that an act of gross rudeness, committed by a well-bred man, + would inevitably excite suspicion of some unworthy motive—and might, + perhaps, connect that motive with her unexpected appearance at the house. + Romayne opened the door, and they entered the room together. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Winterfield, let me introduce you to Mrs. Romayne.” They bowed to + each other; they spoke the conventional words proper to the occasion—but + the effort that it cost them showed itself. Romayne perceived an unusual + formality in his wife’s manner, and a strange disappearance of + Winterfield’s easy grace of address. Was he one of the few men, in these + days, who are shy in the presence of women? And was the change in Stella + attributable, perhaps, to the state of her health? The explanation might, + in either case, be the right one. He tried to set them at their ease. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Winterfield is so pleased with the pictures, that he means to come + and see them again,” he said to his wife. “And one of his favorites + happens to be your favorite, too.” + </p> + <p> + She tried to look at Winterfield, but her eyes sank. She could turn toward + him, and that was all. “Is it the sea-piece in the study?” she said to him + faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, with formal politeness; “it seems to me to be one of + the painter’s finest works.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne looked at him in unconcealed wonder. To what flat commonplace + Winterfield’s lively enthusiasm had sunk in Stella’s presence! She + perceived that some unfavorable impression had been produced on her + husband, and interposed with a timely suggestion. Her motive was not only + to divert Romayne’s attention from Winterfield, but to give him a reason + for leaving the room. + </p> + <p> + “The little water-color drawing in my bedroom is by the same artist,” she + said. “Mr. Winterfield might like to see it. If you will ring the bell, + Lewis, I will send my maid for it.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne had never allowed the servants to touch his works of art, since + the day when a zealous housemaid had tried to wash one of his plaster + casts. He made the reply which his wife had anticipated. + </p> + <p> + “No! no!” he said. “I will fetch the drawing myself.” He turned gayly to + Winterfield. “Prepare yourself for another work that you would like to + kiss.” He smiled, and left the room. + </p> + <p> + The instant the door was closed, Stella approached Winterfield. Her + beautiful face became distorted by a mingled expression of rage and + contempt. She spoke to him in a fierce peremptory whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Have you any consideration for me left?” His look at her, as she put that + question, revealed the most complete contrast between his face and hers. + Compassionate sorrow was in his eyes, tender forbearance and respect spoke + in his tones, as he answered her. + </p> + <p> + “I have more than consideration for you, Stella—” + </p> + <p> + She angrily interrupted him. “How dare you call me by my Christian name?” + </p> + <p> + He remonstrated, with a gentleness that might have touched the heart of + any woman. “Do you still refuse to believe that I never deceived you? Has + time not softened your heart to me yet?” + </p> + <p> + She was more contemptuous toward him than ever. “Spare me your + protestations,” she said; “I heard enough of them two years since. Will + you do what I ask of you?” + </p> + <p> + “You know that I will.” + </p> + <p> + “Put an end to your acquaintance with my husband. Put an end to it,” she + repeated vehemently, “from this day, at once and forever! Can I trust you + to do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I would have entered this house if I had known he was your + husband?” He made that reply with a sudden change in him—with a + rising color and in firm tones of indignation. In a moment more, his voice + softened again, and his kind blue eyes rested on her sadly and devotedly. + “You may trust me to do more than you ask,” he resumed. “You have made a + mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “What mistake?” + </p> + <p> + “When Mr. Romayne introduced us, you met me like a stranger—and you + left me no choice but to do as you did.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you to be a stranger.” + </p> + <p> + Her sharpest replies made no change in his manner. He spoke as kindly and + as patiently as ever. + </p> + <p> + “You forget that you and your mother were my guests at Beaupark, two years + ago—” + </p> + <p> + Stella understood what he meant—and more. In an instant she + remembered that Father Benwell had been at Beaupark House. Had he heard of + the visit? She clasped her hands in speechless terror. + </p> + <p> + Winterfield gently reassured her. “You must not be frightened,” he said. + “It is in the last degree unlikely that Mr. Romayne will ever find out + that you were at my house. If he does—and if you deny it—I + will do for you what I would do for no other human creature; I will deny + it too. You are safe from discovery. Be happy—and forget me.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time she showed signs of relenting—she turned her head + away, and sighed. Although her mind was full of the serious necessity of + warning him against Father Benwell, she had not even command enough over + her own voice to ask how he had become acquainted with the priest. His + manly devotion, the perfect and pathetic sincerity of his respect, pleaded + with her, in spite of herself. For a moment she paused to recover her + composure. In that moment Romayne returned to them with the drawing in his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “There!” he said. “It’s nothing, this time, but some children gathering + flowers on the outskirts of a wood. What do you think of it?” + </p> + <p> + “What I thought of the larger work,” Winterfield answered. “I could look + at it by the hour together.” He consulted his watch. “But time is a hard + master, and tells me that my visit must come to an end. Thank you, most + sincerely.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed to Stella. Romayne thought his guest might have taken the English + freedom of shaking hands. “When will you come and look at the pictures + again?” he asked. “Will you dine with us, and see how they bear the + lamplight?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to say I must beg you to excuse me. My plans are altered since + we met yesterday. I am obliged to leave London.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne was unwilling to part with him on these terms. “You will let me + know when you are next in town?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” + </p> + <p> + With that short answer he hurried away. + </p> + <p> + Romayne waited a little in the hall before he went back to his wife. + Stella’s reception of Winterfield, though not positively ungracious, was, + nevertheless, the reverse of encouraging. What extraordinary caprice had + made her insensible to the social attractions of a man so unaffectedly + agreeable? It was not wonderful that Winterfield’s cordiality should have + been chilled by the cold welcome that he had received from the mistress of + the house. At the same time, some allowance was to be made for the + influence of Stella’s domestic anxieties, and some sympathy was claimed by + the state of her health. Although her husband shrank from distressing her + by any immediate reference to her reception of his friend, he could not + disguise from himself that she had disappointed him. When he went back to + the room, Stella was lying on the sofa with her face turned toward the + wall. She was in tears, and she was afraid to let him see it. “I won’t + disturb you,” he said, and withdrew to his study. The precious volume + which Winterfield had so kindly placed at his disposal was on the table, + waiting for him. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell had lost little by not being present at the introduction of + Winterfield to Stella. He had witnessed a plainer betrayal of emotion when + they met unexpectedly in Lord Loring’s picture gallery. But if he had seen + Romayne reading in his study, and Stella crying secretly on the sofa, he + might have written to Rome by that day’s post, and might have announced + that he had sown the first seeds of disunion between husband and wife. <a + name="linkCH0022" id="linkCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + FATHER BENWELL’S CORRESPONDENCE. + </h3> + <p> + <i>To the Secretary, S. J., Rome.</i> + </p> + <p> + In my last few hasty lines I was only able to inform you of the unexpected + arrival of Mrs. Romayne while Winterfield was visiting her husband. If you + remember, I warned you not to attach any undue importance to my absence on + that occasion. My present report will satisfy my reverend brethren that + the interests committed to me are as safe as ever in my hands. + </p> + <p> + I have paid three visits, at certain intervals. The first to Winterfield + (briefly mentioned in my last letter); the second to Romayne; the third to + the invalid lady, Mrs. Eyrecourt. In every case I have been rewarded by + important results. + </p> + <p> + We will revert to Winterfield first. I found him at his hotel, enveloped + in clouds of tobacco smoke. Having led him, with some difficulty, into + talking of his visit to Ten Acres Lodge, I asked how he liked Romayne’s + pictures. + </p> + <p> + “I envy him his pictures.” That was the only answer. + </p> + <p> + “And how do you like Mrs. Romayne?” I inquired next. + </p> + <p> + He laid down his pipe, and looked at me attentively. My face (I flatter + myself) defied discovery. He inhaled another mouthful of tobacco, and + began to play with his dog. “If I must answer your question,” he burst out + suddenly, “I didn’t get a very gracious reception from Mrs. Romayne.” + There he abruptly stopped. He is a thoroughly transparent man; you see + straight into his mind, through his eyes. I perceived that he was only + telling me a part (perhaps a very small part) of the truth. + </p> + <p> + “Can you account for such a reception as you describe?” I asked. He + answered shortly, “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I can account for it,” I went on. “Did Mr. Romayne tell his wife + that I was the means of introducing you to him?” + </p> + <p> + He fixed another searching look on me. “Mr. Romayne might have said so + when he left me to receive his wife at the door.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case, Mr. Winterfield, the explanation is as plain as the sun at + noonday. Mrs. Romayne is a strong Protestant, and I am a Catholic priest.” + </p> + <p> + He accepted this method of accounting for his reception with an alacrity + that would not have imposed on a child. You see I had relieved him from + all further necessity of accounting for the conduct of Mrs. Romayne! + </p> + <p> + “A lady’s religious prejudices,” I proceeded in the friendliest way, “are + never taken seriously by a sensible man. You have placed Mr. Romayne under + obligations to your kindness—he is eager to improve his acquaintance + with you. You will go again to Ten Acres Lodge?” + </p> + <p> + He gave me another short answer. “I think not.” + </p> + <p> + I said I was sorry to hear it. “However,” I added, “you can always see him + here, when you are in London.” He puffed out a big volume of smoke, and + made no remark. I declined to be put down by silence and smoke. “Or + perhaps,” I persisted, “you will honor me by meeting him at a simple + little dinner at my lodgings?” Being a gentleman, he was of course obliged + to answer this. He said, “You are very kind; I would rather not. Shall we + talk of something else, Father Benwell?” + </p> + <p> + We talked of something else. He was just as amiable as ever—but he + was not in good spirits. “I think I shall run over to Paris before the end + of the month,” he said. “To make a long stay?” I asked. “Oh, no! Call in a + week or ten days—and you will find me here again.” + </p> + <p> + When I got up to go, he returned of his own accord to the forbidden + subject. He said, “I must beg you to do me two favors. The first is, not + to let Mr. Romayne know that I am still in London. The second is, not to + ask me for any explanations.” + </p> + <p> + The result of our interview may be stated in very few words. It has + advanced me one step nearer to discovery. Winterfield’s voice, look, and + manner satisfied me of this—the true motive for his sudden change of + feeling toward Romayne is jealousy of the man who has married Miss + Eyrecourt. Those compromising circumstances which baffled the inquiries of + my agent are associated, in plain English, with a love affair. Remember + all that I have told you of Romayne’s peculiar disposition—and + imagine, if you can, what the consequences of such a disclosure will be + when we are in a position to enlighten the master of Vange Abbey! + </p> + <p> + As to the present relations between the husband and wife, I have only to + tell you next what passed, when I visited Romayne a day or two later. I + did well to keep Penrose at our disposal. We shall want him again. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + On arriving at Ten Acres Lodge, I found Romayne in his study. His + manuscript lay before him—but he was not at work. He looked worn and + haggard. To this day I don’t know from what precise nervous malady he + suffers; I could only guess that it had been troubling him again since he + and I last met. + </p> + <p> + My first conventional civilities were dedicated, of course, to his wife. + She is still in attendance on her mother. Mrs. Eyrecourt is now considered + to be out of danger. But the good lady (who is ready enough to recommend + doctors to other people) persists in thinking that she is too robust a + person to require medical help herself. The physician in attendance trusts + entirely to her daughter to persuade her to persevere with the necessary + course of medicine. Don’t suppose that I trouble you by mentioning these + trumpery circumstances without a reason. We shall have occasion to return + to Mrs. Eyrecourt and her doctor. + </p> + <p> + Before I had been five minutes in his company, Romayne asked me if I had + seen Winterfield since his visit to Ten Acres Lodge. + </p> + <p> + I said I had seen him, and waited, anticipating the next question. Romayne + fulfilled my expectations. He inquired if Winterfield had left London. + </p> + <p> + There are certain cases (as I am told by medical authorities) in which the + dangerous system of bleeding a patient still has its advantages. There are + other cases in which the dangerous system of telling the truth becomes + equally judicious. I said to Romayne, “If I answer you honestly, will you + consider it as strictly confidential? Mr. Winterfield, I regret to say, + has no intention of improving his acquaintance with you. He asked me to + conceal from you that he is still in London.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne’s face plainly betrayed that he was annoyed and irritated. + “Nothing that you say to me, Father Benwell, shall pass the walls of this + room,” he replied. “Did Winterfield give any reason for not continuing his + acquaintance with me?” + </p> + <p> + I told the truth once more, with courteous expressions of regret. “Mr. + Winterfield spoke of an ungracious reception on the part of Mrs. Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + He started to his feet, and walked irritably up and down the room. “It is + beyond endurance!” he said to himself. + </p> + <p> + The truth had served its purpose by this time. I affected not to have + heard him. “Did you speak to me?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + He used a milder form of expression. “It is most unfortunate,” he said. “I + must immediately send back the valuable book which Mr. Winterfield has + lent to me. And that is not the worst of it. There are other volumes in + his library which I have the greatest interest in consulting—and it + is impossible for me to borrow them now. At this time, too, when I have + lost Penrose, I had hoped to find in Winterfield another friend who + sympathized with my pursuits. There is something so cheering and + attractive in his manner—and he has just the boldness and novelty of + view in his opinions that appeal to a man like me. It was a pleasant + future to look forward to; and it must be sacrificed—and to what? To + a woman’s caprice.” + </p> + <p> + From our point of view this was a frame of mind to be encouraged. I tried + the experiment of modestly taking the blame on myself. I suggested that I + might be (quite innocently) answerable for Romayne’s disappointment. + </p> + <p> + He looked at me thoroughly puzzled. I repeated what I had said to + Winterfield. “Did you mention to Mrs. Romayne that I was the means of + introducing you—?” + </p> + <p> + He was too impatient to let me finish the sentence. “I did mention it to + Mrs. Romayne,” he said. “And what of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me for reminding you that Mrs. Romayne has Protestant prejudices,” + I rejoined. “Mr. Winterfield would, I fear, not be very welcome to her as + the friend of a Catholic priest.” + </p> + <p> + He was almost angry with me for suggesting the very explanation which had + proved so acceptable to Winterfield. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” he cried. “My wife is far too well-bred a woman to let her + prejudices express themselves in <i>that</i> way. Winterfield’s personal + appearance must have inspired her with some unreasonable antipathy, or—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, and turned away thoughtfully to the window. Some vague + suspicion had probably entered his mind, which he had only become aware of + at that moment, and which he was not quite able to realize as yet. I did + my best to encourage the new train of thought. + </p> + <p> + “What other reason <i>can</i> there be?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + He turned on me sharply. “I don’t know. Do you?” + </p> + <p> + I ventured on a courteous remonstrance. “My dear sir! if you can’t find + another reason, how can I? It must have been a sudden antipathy, as you + say. Such things do happen between strangers. I suppose I am right in + assuming that Mrs. Romayne and Mr. Winterfield are strangers?” + </p> + <p> + His eyes flashed with a sudden sinister brightness—the new idea had + caught light in his mind. “They <i>met</i> as strangers,” he said. + </p> + <p> + There he stopped again, and returned to the window. I felt that I might + lose the place I had gained in his confidence if I pressed the subject any + further. Besides, I had my reasons for saying a word about Penrose next. + As it happened, I had received a letter from him, relating to his present + employment, and sending kindest regards to his dear friend and master in + the postscript. + </p> + <p> + I gave the message. Romayne looked round, with an instant change in his + face. The mere sound of Penrose’s name seemed to act as a relief to the + gloom and suspicion that had oppressed him the moment before. “You don’t + know how I miss the dear gentle little fellow,” he said, sadly. + </p> + <p> + “Why not write to him?” I suggested. “He would be so glad to hear from you + again.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know where to write.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I not send you his address when I forwarded your letter to him?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let me atone for my forgetfulness at once.” + </p> + <p> + I wrote down the address, and took my leave. + </p> + <p> + As I approached the door I noticed on a side table the Catholic volumes + which Penrose left with Romayne. One of them was open, with a pencil lying + beside it. I thought that a good sign—but I said nothing. + </p> + <p> + Romayne pressed my hand at parting. “You have been very kind and friendly, + Father Benwell,” he said. “I shall be glad to see you again.” + </p> + <p> + Don’t mention it in quarters where it might do me harm. Do you know, I + really pitied him. He has sacrificed everything to his marriage—and + his marriage has disappointed him. He was even reduced to be friendly with + Me. + </p> + <p> + Of course when the right time comes I shall give Penrose leave of absence. + Do you foresee, as I do, the speedy return of “the dear gentle little + fellow” to his old employment; the resumed work of conversion advancing + more rapidly than ever; and the jealousy of the Protestant wife + aggravating the false position in which she is already placed by her + equivocal reception of Winterfield? You may answer this by reminding me of + the darker side of the prospect. An heir may be born; and the heir’s + mother, backed by general opinion, may insist—if there is any + hesitation in the matter—on asserting the boy’s natural right to + succeed his father. + </p> + <p> + Patience, my reverend colleague! There is no threatening of any such + calamity yet. And, even if it happens, don’t forget that Romayne has + inherited a second fortune. The Vange estate has an estimated value. If + the act of restitution represented that value in ready money, do you think + the Church would discourage a good convert by refusing his check? You know + better than that—and so do I. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The next day I called to inquire how Mrs. Eyrecourt was getting on. The + report was favorable. Three days later I called again. The report was + still more encouraging. I was also informed that Mrs. Romayne had returned + to Ten Acres Lodge. + </p> + <p> + Much of my success in life has been achieved by never being in a hurry. I + was not in a hurry now. Time sometimes brings opportunities—and + opportunities are worth waiting for. + </p> + <p> + Let me make this clear by an example. + </p> + <p> + A man of headlong disposition, in my place, would have probably spoken of + Miss Eyrecourt’s marriage to Romayne at his first meeting with + Winterfield, and would have excited their distrust, and put them + respectively on their guard, without obtaining any useful result. I can, + at any time, make the disclosure to Romayne which informs him that his + wife had been Winterfield’s guest in Devonshire, when she affected to meet + her former host on the footing of a stranger. In the meanwhile, I give + Penrose ample opportunity for innocently widening the breach between + husband and wife. + </p> + <p> + You see, I hope, that if I maintain a passive position, it is not from + indolence or discouragement. Now we may get on. + </p> + <p> + After an interval of a few days more I decided on making further inquiries + at Mrs. Eyrecourt’s house. This time, when I left my card, I sent a + message, asking if the lady could receive me. Shall I own my weakness? She + possesses all the information that I want, and she has twice baffled my + inquiries. Under these humiliating circumstances, it is part of the + priestly pugnacity of my disposition to inquire again. + </p> + <p> + I was invited to go upstairs. + </p> + <p> + The front and back drawing-rooms of the house were thrown into one. Mrs. + Eyrecourt was being gently moved backward and forward in a chair on + wheels, propelled by her maid; two gentlemen being present, visitors like + myself. In spite of rouge and loosely folded lace and flowing draperies, + she presented a deplorable spectacle. The bodily part of her looked like a + dead woman, painted and revived—while the moral part, in the + strongest contrast, was just as lively as ever. + </p> + <p> + “So glad to see you again, Father Benwell, and so much obliged by your + kind inquiries. I am quite well, though the doctor won’t admit it. Isn’t + it funny to see me being wheeled about, like a child in a perambulator? + Returning to first principles, I call it. You see it’s a law of my nature + that I must go about. The doctor won’t let me go about outside the house, + so I go about inside the house. Matilda is the nurse, and I am the baby + who will learn to walk some of these days. Are you tired, Matilda? No? + Then give me another turn, there’s a good creature. Movement, perpetual + movement, is a law of Nature. Oh, dear no, doctor; I didn’t make that + discovery for myself. Some eminent scientific person mentioned it in a + lecture. The ugliest man I ever saw. Now back again, Matilda. Let me + introduce you to my friends, Father Benwell. Introducing is out of + fashion, I know. But I am one of the few women who can resist the tyranny + of fashion. I like introducing people. Sir John Drone—Father + Benwell. Father Benwell—Doctor Wybrow. Ah, yes, you know the doctor + by reputation? Shall I give you his character? Personally charming; + professionally detestable. Pardon my impudence, doctor, it is one of the + consequences of the overflowing state of my health. Another turn, Matilda—and + a little faster this time. Oh, how I wish I was traveling by railway!” + </p> + <p> + There, her breath failed her. She reclined in her chair, and fanned + herself silently—for a while. + </p> + <p> + I was now able to turn my attention to the two visitors. Sir John Drone, + it was easy to see, would be no obstacle to confidential conversation with + Mrs. Eyrecourt. An excellent country gentleman, with the bald head, the + ruddy complexion, and the inexhaustible capacity for silence, so familiar + to us in English society—there you have the true description of Sir + John. But the famous physician was quite another sort of man. I had only + to look at him, and to feel myself condemned to small talk while <i>he</i> + was in the room. + </p> + <p> + You have always heard of it in my correspondence, whenever I have been in + the wrong. I was in the wrong again now—I had forgotten the law of + chances. Capricious Fortune, after a long interval, was about to declare + herself again in my favor, by means of the very woman who had twice + already got the better of me. What a recompense for my kind inquiries + after Mrs. Eyrecourt! She recovered breath enough to begin talking again. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, how dull you are!” she said to us. “Why don’t you amuse a poor + prisoner confined to the house? Rest a little, Matilda, or you will be + falling ill next. Doctor! is this your last professional visit?” + </p> + <p> + “Promise to take care of yourself, Mrs. Eyrecourt, and I will confess that + the professional visits are over. I come here to-day only as a friend.” + </p> + <p> + “You best of men! Do me another favor. Enliven our dullness. Tell us some + interesting story about a patient. These great doctors, Sir John, pass + their lives in a perfect atmosphere of romance. Dr. Wybrow’s + consulting-room is like your confessional, Father Benwell. The most + fascinating sins and sorrows are poured into his ears. What is the last + romance in real life, doctor, that has asked you to treat it medically? We + don’t want names and places—we are good children; we only want a + story.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Wybrow looked at me with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “It is impossible to persuade ladies,” he said, “that we, too, are + father-confessors in our way. The first duty of a doctor, Mrs. Eyrecourt—” + </p> + <p> + “Is to cure people, of course,” she interposed in her smartest manner. + </p> + <p> + The doctor answered seriously. “No, indeed. That is only the second duty. + Our first duty is invariably to respect the confidence of our patients. + However,” he resumed in his easier tone, “I happen to have seen a patient + to-day, under circumstances which the rules of professional honor do not + forbid me to mention. I don’t know, Mrs. Eyrecourt, whether you will quite + like to be introduced to the scene of the story. The scene is in a + madhouse.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt burst out with a coquettish little scream, and shook her + fan at the doctor. “No horrors!” she cried. “The bare idea of a madhouse + distracts me with terror. Oh, fie, fie! I won’t listen to you—I + won’t look at you—I positively refuse to be frightened out of my + wits. Matilda! wheel me away to the furthest end of the room. My vivid + imagination, Father Benwell, is my rock ahead in life. I declare I can <i>smell</i> + the odious madhouse. Go straight to the window, Matilda; I want to bury my + nose among the flowers.” + </p> + <p> + Sir John, upon this, spoke for the first time. His language consisted + entirely of beginnings of sentences, mutely completed by a smile. “Upon my + word, you know. Eh, Doctor Wybrow? A man of your experience. Horrors in + madhouses. A lady in delicate health. No, really. Upon my honor, now, I + cannot. Something funny, oh yes. But such a subject, oh no.” + </p> + <p> + He rose to leave us. Dr. Wybrow gently stopped him. “I had a motive, Sir + John,” he said, “but I won’t trouble you with needless explanations. There + is a person, unknown to me, whom I want to discover. You are a great deal + in society when you are in London. May I ask if you have ever met with a + gentleman named Winterfield?” + </p> + <p> + I have always considered the power of self-control as one of the strongest + points in my character. For the future I shall be more humble. When I + heard that name, my surprise so completely mastered me that I sat + self-betrayed to Dr. Wybrow as the man who could answer his question. + </p> + <p> + In the meanwhile, Sir John took his time to consider, and discovered that + he had never heard of a person named Winterfield. Having acknowledged his + ignorance, in his own eloquent language, he drifted away to the window-box + in the next room, and gravely contemplated Mrs. Eyrecourt, with her nose + buried in flowers. + </p> + <p> + The doctor turned to me. “Am I wrong, Father Benwell, in supposing that I + had better have addressed myself to <i>you?”</i> + </p> + <p> + I admitted that I knew a gentleman named Winterfield. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Wybrow got up directly. “Have you a few minutes to spare?” he asked. + It is needless to say that I was at the doctor’s disposal. “My house is + close by, and my carriage is at the door,” he resumed. “When you feel + inclined to say good-by to our friend Mrs. Eyrecourt, I have something to + say to you which I think you ought to know.” + </p> + <p> + We took our departure at once. Mrs. Eyrecourt (leaving some of the color + of her nose among the flowers) patted me encouragingly with her fan, and + told the doctor that he was forgiven, on the understanding that he would + “never do it again.” In five minutes more we were in Dr. Wybrow’s study. + </p> + <p> + My watch tells me that I cannot hope to finish this letter by post time. + Accept what I have written thus far—and be assured that the + conclusion of my report shall follow a day later. + </p> + <p class="center"> + II. + </p> + <p> + The doctor began cautiously. “Winterfield is not a very common name,” he + said. “But it may not be amiss, Father Benwell, to discover, if we can, + whether <i>your</i> Winterfield is the man of whom I am in search. Do you + only know him by name? or are you a friend of his?” + </p> + <p> + I answered, of course, that I was a friend. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Wybrow went on. “Will you pardon me if I venture on an indiscreet + question? When you are acquainted with the circumstances, I am sure you + will understand and excuse me. Are you aware of any—what shall I + call it?—any romantic incident in Mr. Winterfield’s past life?” + </p> + <p> + This time—feeling myself, in all probability, on the brink of + discovery—I was careful to preserve my composure. I said, quietly: + “Some such incident as you describe has occurred in Mr. Winterfield’s past + life.” There I stopped discreetly, and looked as if I knew all about it. + </p> + <p> + The doctor showed no curiosity to hear more. “My object,” he went on, “was + merely to be reasonably sure that I was speaking to the right person, in + speaking to you. I may now tell you that I have no personal interest in + trying to discover Mr. Winterfield; I only act as the representative of an + old friend of mine. He is the proprietor of a private asylum at Sandsworth—a + man whose integrity is beyond dispute, or he would not be my friend. You + understand my motive in saying this?” + </p> + <p> + Proprietors of private asylums are, in these days, the objects of very + general distrust in England. I understood the doctor’s motive perfectly. + </p> + <p> + He proceeded. “Yesterday evening, my friend called upon me, and said that + he had a remarkable case in his house, which he believed would interest + me. The person to whom he alluded was a French boy, whose mental powers + had been imperfectly developed from his childhood. The mischief had been + aggravated, when he was about thirteen years old, by a serious fright. + When he was placed in my asylum, he was not idiotic, and not dangerously + mad—it was a case (not to use technical language) of deficient + intelligence, tending sometimes toward acts of unreasoning mischief and + petty theft, but never approaching to acts of downright violence. My + friend was especially interested in the lad—won his confidence and + affection by acts of kindness—and so improved his bodily health as + to justify some hope of also improving the state of his mind, when a + misfortune occurred which has altered the whole prospect. The poor + creature has fallen ill of a fever, and the fever has developed to typhus. + So far, there has been little to interest you—I am coming to a + remarkable event at last. At the stage of the fever when delirium usually + occurs in patients of sound mind, this crazy French boy has become + perfectly sane and reasonable!” + </p> + <p> + I looked at him, when he made this amazing assertion, with a momentary + doubt of his being in earnest. Doctor Wybrow understood me. + </p> + <p> + “Just what I thought, too, when I first heard it!” he said. “My friend was + neither offended nor surprised. After inviting me to go to his house, and + judge for myself, he referred me to a similar case, publicly cited in the + ‘Cornhill Magazine,’ for the month of April, 1879, in an article entitled + ‘Bodily Illness as a Mental Stimulant.’ The article is published + anonymously; but the character of the periodical in which it appears is a + sufficient guarantee of the trustworthiness of the statement. I was so far + influenced by the testimony thus cited, that I drove to Sandsworth and + examined the case myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Did the examination satisfy you?” + </p> + <p> + “Thoroughly. When I saw him last night, the poor boy was as sane as I am. + There is, however, a complication in this instance, which is not mentioned + in the case related in print. The boy appears to have entirely forgotten + every event in his past life, reckoning from the time when the bodily + illness brought with it the strange mental recovery which I have mentioned + to you.” + </p> + <p> + This was a disappointment. I had begun to hope for some coming result, + obtained by the lad’s confession. + </p> + <p> + “Is it quite correct to call him sane, when his memory is gone?” I + ventured to ask. + </p> + <p> + “In this case there is no necessity to enter into the question,” the + doctor answered. “The boy’s lapse of memory refers, as I told you, to his + past life—that is to say, his life when his intellect was deranged. + During the extraordinary interval of sanity that has now declared itself, + he is putting his mental powers to their first free use; and none of them + fail him, so far as I can see. His new memory (if I may call it so) + preserves the knowledge of what has happened since his illness. You may + imagine how this problem in brain disease interests me; and you will not + wonder that I am going back to Sandsworth tomorrow afternoon, when I have + done with my professional visits. But you may be reasonably surprised at + my troubling <i>you</i> with details which are mainly interesting to a + medical man.” + </p> + <p> + Was he about to ask me to go with him to the asylum? I replied very + briefly, merely saying that the details were interesting to every student + of human nature. If he could have felt my pulse at that moment, I am + afraid he might have thought I was in a fair way of catching the fever + too. + </p> + <p> + “Prepare yourself,” he resumed, “for another surprising circumstance. Mr. + Winterfield is, by some incomprehensible accident, associated with one of + the mischievous tricks played by the French boy, before he was placed + under my friend’s care. There, at any rate, is the only explanation by + which we can account for the discovery of an envelope (with inclosures) + found sewn up in the lining of the lad’s waistcoat, and directed to Mr. + Winterfield—without any place of address.” + </p> + <p> + I leave you to imagine the effect which those words produced on me. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said the doctor, “you will understand why I put such strange + questions to you. My friend and I are both hard-working men. We go very + little into society, as the phrase is; and neither he nor I had ever heard + the name of Winterfield. As a certain proportion of my patients happen to + be people with a large experience of society, I undertook to make + inquiries, so that the packet might be delivered, if possible, to the + right person. You heard how Mrs. Eyrecourt (surely a likely lady to assist + me?) received my unlucky reference to the madhouse; and you saw how I + puzzled Sir John. I consider myself most fortunate, Father Benwell, in + having had the honor of meeting you. Will you accompany me to the asylum + to-morrow? And can you add to the favor by bringing Mr. Winterfield with + you?” + </p> + <p> + This last request it was out of my power—really out of my power—to + grant. Winterfield had left London that morning on his visit to Paris. His + address there was, thus far, not known to me. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you must represent your friend,” the doctor said. “Time is every + way of importance in this case. Will you kindly call here at five + to-morrow afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + I was punctual to my appointment. We drove together to the asylum. + </p> + <p> + There is no need for me to trouble you with a narrative of what I saw—favored + by Doctor Wybrow’s introduction—at the French boy’s bedside. It was + simply a repetition of what I had already heard. There he lay, at the + height of the fever, asking, in the intervals of relief, intelligent + questions relating to the medicines administered to him; and perfectly + understanding the answers. He was only irritable when we asked him to take + his memory back to the time before his illness; and then he answered in + French, “I haven’t got a memory.” + </p> + <p> + But I have something else to tell you, which is deserving of your best + attention. The envelope and its inclosures (addressed to “Bernard + Winterfield, Esqre.”) are in my possession. The Christian name + sufficiently identifies the inscription with the Winterfield whom I know. + </p> + <p> + The circumstances under which the discovery was made were related to me by + the proprietor of the asylum. + </p> + <p> + When the boy was brought to the house, two French ladies (his mother and + sister) accompanied him and mentioned what had been their own domestic + experience of the case. They described the wandering propensities which + took the lad away from home, and the odd concealment of his waistcoat, on + the last occasion when he had returned from one of his vagrant outbreaks. + </p> + <p> + On his first night at the asylum, he became excited by finding himself in + a strange place. It was necessary to give him a composing draught. On + going to bed, he was purposely not prevented from hiding his waistcoat + under the pillow, as usual. + </p> + <p> + When the sedative had produced its effect, the attendant easily possessed + himself of the hidden garment. It was the plain duty of the master of the + house to make sure that nothing likely to be turned to evil uses was + concealed by a patient. The seal which had secured the envelope was found, + on examination, to have been broken. + </p> + <p> + “I would not have broken the seal myself,” our host added. “But, as things + were, I thought it my duty to look at the inclosures. They refer to + private affairs of Mr. Winterfield, in which he is deeply interested, and + they ought to have been long since placed in his possession. I need hardly + say that I consider myself bound to preserve the strictest silence as to + what I have read. An envelope, containing some blank sheets of paper, was + put back in the boy’s waistcoat, so that he might feel it in its place + under the lining, when he woke. The original envelope and inclosures (with + a statement of circumstances signed by my assistant and myself) have been + secured under another cover, sealed with my own seal. I have done my best + to discover Mr. Bernard Winterfield. He appears not to live in London. At + least I failed to find his name in the Directory. I wrote next, mentioning + what had happened, to the English gentleman to whom I send reports of the + lad’s health. He couldn’t help me. A second letter to the French ladies + only produced the same result. I own I should be glad to get rid of my + responsibility on honorable terms.” + </p> + <p> + All this was said in the boy’s presence. He lay listening to it as if it + had been a story told of some one else. I could not resist the useless + desire to question him. Not speaking French myself (although I can read + the language), I asked Doctor Wybrow and his friend to interpret for me. + </p> + <p> + My questions led to nothing. The French boy knew no more about the stolen + envelope than I did. + </p> + <p> + There was no discoverable motive, mind, for suspecting him of imposing on + us. When I said, “Perhaps you stole it?” he answered quite composedly, + “Very likely; they tell me I have been mad; I don’t remember it myself; + but mad people do strange things.” I tried him again. “Or, perhaps, you + took it away out of mischief?” “Yes.” “And you broke the seal, and looked + at the papers?” “I dare say.” “And then you kept them hidden, thinking + they might be of some use to you? Or perhaps feeling ashamed of what you + had done, and meaning to restore them if you got the opportunity?” “You + know best, sir.” The same result followed when we tried to find out where + he had been, and what people had taken care of him, during his last + vagrant escape from home. It was a new revelation to him that he had been + anywhere. With evident interest, he applied to us to tell him where he had + wandered to, and what people he had seen! + </p> + <p> + So our last attempts at enlightenment ended. We came to the final question + of how to place the papers, with the least possible loss of time, in Mr. + Winterfield’s hands. + </p> + <p> + His absence in Paris having been mentioned, I stated plainly my own + position toward him at the present time. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Winterfield has made an appointment with me to call at his hotel, on + his return to London,” I said. “I shall probably be the first friend who + sees him. If you will trust me with your sealed packet, in consideration + of these circumstances, I will give you a formal receipt for it in Doctor + Wybrow’s presence—and I will add any written pledge that you may + require on my part, acting as Mr. Winterfield’s representative and friend. + Perhaps you would like a reference as well?” + </p> + <p> + He made a courteous reply. “A friend of Dr. Wybrow’s,” he said, “requires + no other reference.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me,” I persisted. “I had the honor of meeting Doctor Wybrow, for + the first time, yesterday. Permit me to refer you to Lord Loring, who has + long known me as his spiritual director and friend.” + </p> + <p> + This account of myself settled the matter. I drew out the necessary + securities—and I have all the papers lying before me on my desk at + this moment. + </p> + <p> + You remember how seals were broken, and impressed again, at the Roman + post-office, in the revolutionary days when we were both young men? Thanks + to the knowledge then obtained, the extraordinary events which once + associated Mr. Winterfield and Miss Eyrecourt are at last plainly revealed + to me. Copies of the papers are in my possession, and the originals are + sealed again, with the crest of the proprietor of the asylum, as if + nothing had happened. I make no attempt to excuse myself. You know our + motto:—THE END JUSTIFIES THE MEANS. + </p> + <p> + I don’t propose to make any premature use of the information which I have + obtained. The first and foremost necessity, as I have already reminded + you, is to give Penrose the undisturbed opportunity of completing the + conversion of Romayne. During this interval, my copies of the papers are + at the disposal of my reverend brethren at headquarters. + </p> + <hr /> + <p class="center"> + THE STOLEN PAPERS.—(COPIES.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Number One.—From Emma Winterfield to Bernard Winterfield.</i> + </p> + <p> + 4 Maidwell Buildings, Belhaven. + </p> + <p> + How shall I address you? Dear Bernard, or Sir? It doesn’t matter. I am + going to do one of the few good actions of my life: and familiarities or + formalities matter nothing to a woman who lies on her deathbed. + </p> + <p> + Yes—I have met with another accident. Shortly after the date of our + separation, you heard, I think, of the fall in the circus that fractured + my skull? On that occasion, a surgical operation, and a bit of silver + plate in place of the bone, put me right again. This time it has been the + kick of a horse, in the stables. Some internal injury is the consequence. + I may die to-morrow, or live till next week. Anyway—the doctor has + confessed it—my time has come. + </p> + <p> + Mind one thing. The drink—that vile habit which lost me your love + and banished me from your house—the drink is not to blame for this + last misfortune. Only the day before it happened I had taken the pledge, + under persuasion of the good rector here, the Reverend Mr. Fennick. It is + he who has brought me to make this confession, and who takes it down in + writing at my bedside. Do you remember how I once hated the very name of a + parson—and when you proposed, in joke, to marry me before the + registrar, how I took it in downright earnest, and kept you to your word? + We poor horse-riders and acrobats only knew clergymen as the worst enemies + we had—always using their influence to keep the people out of our + show, and the bread out of our mouths. If I had met with Mr. Fennick in my + younger days, what a different woman I might have been! + </p> + <p> + Well, regrets of that kind are useless now. I am truly sorry, Bernard, for + the evil that I have done to you; and I ask your pardon with a contrite + heart. + </p> + <p> + You will at least allow it in my favor that your drunken wife knew she was + unworthy of you. I refused to accept the allowance that you offered to me. + I respected your name. For seven years from the time of our separation I + returned to my profession under an assumed name and never troubled you. + The one thing I could not do was to forget you. If you were infatuated by + my unlucky beauty, I loved devotedly on my side. The well-born gentleman + who had sacrificed everything for my sake, was something more than mortal + in my estimation; he was—no! I won’t shock the good man who writes + this by saying what he was. Besides, what do you care for my thoughts of + you now? + </p> + <p> + If you had only been content to remain as I left you—or if I had not + found out that you were in love with Miss Eyrecourt, and were likely to + marry her, in the belief that death had released you from me—I + should have lived and died, doing you no other injury than the first great + injury of consenting to be your wife. + </p> + <p> + But I made the discovery—it doesn’t matter how. Our circus was in + Devonshire at the time. My jealous rage maddened me, and I had a wicked + admirer in a man who was old enough to be my father. I let him suppose + that the way to my favor lay through helping my revenge on the woman who + was about to take my place. He found the money to have you watched at home + and abroad; he put the false announcement of my death in the daily + newspapers, to complete your delusion; he baffled the inquiries made + through your lawyers to obtain positive proof of my death. And last, and + (in those wicked days) best service of all he took me to Brussels and + posted me at the door of the English church, so that your lawful wife + (with her marriage certificate in her hand) was the first person who met + you and the mock Mrs. Winterfield on your way from the altar to the + wedding breakfast. + </p> + <p> + I own it, to my shame. I triumphed in the mischief I had done. + </p> + <p> + But I had deserved to suffer; and I did suffer, when I heard that Miss + Eyrecourt’s mother and her two friends took her away from you—with + her own entire approval—at the church door, and restored her to + society, without a stain on her reputation. How the Brussels marriage was + kept a secret, I could not find out. And when I threatened them with + exposure, I got a lawyer’s letter, and was advised in my own interests to + hold my tongue. The rector has since told me that your marriage to Miss + Eyrecourt could be lawfully declared null and void, and that the + circumstances would excuse <i>you</i>, before any judge in England. I can + now well understand that people, with rank and money to help them, can + avoid exposure to which the poor, in their places, must submit. + </p> + <p> + One more duty (the last) still remains to be done. + </p> + <p> + I declare solemnly, on my deathbed, that you acted in perfect good faith + when you married Miss Eyrecourt. You have not only been a man cruelly + injured by me, but vilely insulted and misjudged by the two Eyrecourts, + and by the lord and lady who encouraged them to set you down as a villain + guilty of heartless and shameless deceit. + </p> + <p> + It is my conviction that these people might have done more than + misinterpret your honorable submission to the circumstances in which you + were placed. They might have prosecuted you for bigamy—if they could + have got me to appear against you. I am comforted when I remember that I + did make some small amends. I kept out of their way and yours, from that + day to this. + </p> + <p> + I am told that I owe it to you to leave proof of my death behind me. + </p> + <p> + When the doctor writes my certificate, he will mention the mark by which I + may be identified, if this reaches you (as I hope and believe it will) + between the time of my death and my burial. The rector, who will close and + seal these lines, as soon as the breath is out of my body, will add what + he can to identify me; and the landlady of this house is ready to answer + any questions that may be put to her. This time you may be really assured + that you are free. When I am buried, and they show you my nameless grave + in the churchyard, I know your kind heart—I die, Bernard, in the + firm belief that you will forgive me. + </p> + <p> + There was one thing more that I had to ask of you, relating to a poor lost + creature who is in the room with us at this moment. But, oh, I am so + weary! Mr. Fennick will tell you what it is. Say to yourself sometimes—perhaps + when you have married some lady who is worthy of you—There was good + as well as bad in poor Emma. Farewell. + </p> + <p> + <i>Number Two—From The Rev. Charles Fennick to Bernard Winterfield.</i> + </p> + <p> + The Rectory, Belhaven. + </p> + <p> + Sir—It is my sad duty to inform you that Mrs. Emma Winterfield died + this morning, a little before five o’clock. I will add no comment of mine + to the touching language in which she has addressed you. God has, I most + sincerely believe, accepted the poor sinner’s repentance. Her contrite + spirit is at peace, among the forgiven ones in the world beyond the grave. + </p> + <p> + In consideration of her wish that you should see her in death, the coffin + will be kept open until the last moment. The medical man in attendance has + kindly given me a copy of his certificate, which I inclose. You will see + that the remains are identified by the description of a small silver plate + on the right parietal bone of the skull. + </p> + <p> + I need hardly add that all the information I can give you is willingly at + your service. + </p> + <p> + She mentions, poor soul, something which she had to ask of you. I prefer + the request which, in her exhausted state, she was unable to address to + you in her own words. + </p> + <p> + While the performances of the circus were taking place in the next county + to ours, a wandering lad, evidently of deficient intelligence, was + discovered, trying to creep under the tent to see what was going on. He + could give no intelligible account of himself. The late Mrs. Winterfield + (who was born and brought up, as I understand, in France) discovered that + the boy was French, and felt interested in the unfortunate creature, from + former happy association with kind friends of his nation. She took care of + him from that time to the day of her death—and he appeared to be + gratefully attached to her. + </p> + <p> + I say “appeared,” because an inveterate reserve marks one of the + peculiarities of the mental affliction from which he suffers. Even his + benefactress never could persuade him to take her into his confidence. In + other respects, her influence (so far as I can learn) had been + successfully exerted in restraining certain mischievous propensities in + him, which occasionally showed themselves. The effect of her death has + been to intensify that reserve to which I have already alluded. He is + sullen and irritable—and the good landlady at the lodgings does not + disguise that she shrinks from taking care of him, even for a few days. + Until I hear from you, he will remain under the charge of my housekeeper + at the rectory. + </p> + <p> + You have, no doubt, anticipated the request which the poor sufferer wished + to address to you but a few hours before her death. She hoped that you + might be willing to place this friendless and helpless creature under + competent protection. Failing your assistance, I shall have no + alternative, however I may regret it, but to send him to the workhouse of + this town, on his way, probably, to the public asylum. + </p> + <p> + Believe me, sir, your faithful servant, + </p> + <p class="center"> + CHARLES FENNICK. + </p> + <p> + P.S.—I fear my letter and its inclosures may be delayed in reaching + you. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday evening, I had returned to my house, before it occurred to me + that Mrs. Winterfield had not mentioned your address. My only excuse for + this forgetfulness is, that I was very much distressed while I was writing + by her bedside. I at once went back to the lodgings, but she had fallen + asleep, and I dared not disturb her. This morning, when I returned to the + house, she was dead. There is an allusion to Devonshire in her letter, + which suggests that your residence may be in that county; and I think she + once spoke of you as a person of rank and fortune. Having failed to find + your name in a London Directory, I am now about to search our free library + here for a county history of Devon, on the chance that it may assist me. + Let me add, for your own satisfaction, that no eyes but mine will see + these papers. For security’s sake, I shall seal them at once, and write + your name on the envelope. + </p> + <p> + <i>Added by Father Benwell.</i> + </p> + <p> + How the boy contrived to possess himself of the sealed packet we shall + probably never discover. Anyhow, we know that he must have escaped from + the rectory, with the papers in his possession, and that he did certainly + get back to his mother and sister in London. + </p> + <p> + With such complete information as I now have at my disposal, the prospect + is as clear again as we can desire. The separation of Romayne from his + wife, and the alteration of his will in favor of the Church, seem to be + now merely questions of time. <a name="link_4_0030" id="link_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK THE FOURTH. <a name="linkCH0023" id="linkCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <h3> + THE BREACH IS WIDENED. + </h3> + <p> + A FORTNIGHT after Father Benwell’s discovery, Stella followed her husband + one morning into his study. “Have you heard from Mr. Penrose?” she + inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He will be here to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “To make a long visit?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so. The longer the better.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with a mingled expression of surprise and reproach. “Why + do you say that?” she asked. “Why do you want him so much—when you + have got Me?” + </p> + <p> + Thus far, he had been sitting at his desk, resting his head on his hand, + with his downcast eyes fixed on an open book. When she put her last + question to him he suddenly looked up. Through the large window at his + side the morning light fell on his face. The haggard look of suffering, + which Stella remembered on the day when they met on the deck of the + steamboat, was again visible—not softened and chastened now by the + touching resignation of the bygone time, but intensified by the dogged and + despairing endurance of a man weary of himself and his life. Her heart + ached for him. She said, softly: “I don’t mean to reproach you.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you jealous of Penrose?” he asked, with a bitter smile. + </p> + <p> + She desperately told him the truth. “I am afraid of Penrose,” she + answered. + </p> + <p> + He eyed her with a strange expression of suspicious surprise. “Why are you + afraid of Penrose?” + </p> + <p> + It was no time to run the risk of irritating him. The torment of the Voice + had returned in the past night. The old gnawing remorse of the fatal day + of the duel had betrayed itself in the wild words that had escaped him, + when he sank into a broken slumber as the morning dawned. Feeling the + truest pity for him, she was still resolute to assert herself against the + coming interference of Penrose. She tried her ground by a dangerous means—the + means of an indirect reply. + </p> + <p> + “I think you might have told me,” she said, “that Mr. Penrose was a + Catholic priest.” + </p> + <p> + He looked down again at his book. “How did you know Penrose was a Catholic + priest?” + </p> + <p> + “I had only to look at the direction on your letters to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, and what is there to frighten you in his being a priest? You told + me at the Loring’s ball that you took an interest in Penrose because I + liked him.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know then, Lewis, that he had concealed his profession from us. + I can’t help distrusting a man who does that.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed—not very kindly. “You might as well say you distrust a + man who conceals that he is an author, by writing an anonymous book. What + Penrose did, he did under orders from his superior—and, moreover, he + frankly owned to me that he was a priest. If you blame anybody, you had + better blame me for respecting his confidence.” + </p> + <p> + She drew back from him, hurt by the tone in which he spoke to her. “I + remember the time, Lewis,” she said, “when you would have been more + indulgent toward my errors—even if I am wrong.” + </p> + <p> + That simple appeal touched his better nature. “I don’t mean to be hard on + you, Stella,” he answered. “It is a little irritating to hear you say that + you distrust the most devoted and most affectionate friend that man ever + had. Why can’t I love my wife, and love my friend, too? You don’t know, + when I am trying to get on with my book, how I miss the help and sympathy + of Penrose. The very sound of his voice used to encourage me. Come, + Stella, give me a kiss—and let us, as the children say, make it up!” + </p> + <p> + He rose from his writing-table. She met him more than half way, and + pressed all her love—and perhaps a little of her fear—on his + lips. He returned the kiss as warmly as it was given; and then, unhappily + for both of them, he went back to the subject. + </p> + <p> + “My own love,” he said, “try to like my friend for my sake; and be + tolerant of other forms of Christianity besides the form which happens to + be yours.” + </p> + <p> + Her smiling lips closed; she turned from him. With the sensitive + selfishness of a woman’s love, she looked on Penrose as a robber who had + stolen the sympathies which should have been wholly hers. As she moved + away, her quick observation noticed the open book on the desk, with notes + and lines in pencil on the margin of the page. What had Romayne been + reading which interested him in <i>that</i> way? If he had remained + silent, she would have addressed the inquiry to him openly. But he was + hurt on his side by the sudden manner of her withdrawal from him. He spoke—and + his tone was colder than ever. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t attempt to combat your prejudices,” he said. “But one thing I + must seriously ask of you. When my friend Penrose comes here to-morrow, + don’t treat him as you treated Mr. Winterfield.” + </p> + <p> + There was a momentary paleness in her face which looked like fear, but it + passed away again. She confronted him firmly with steady eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you refer again to that?” she asked. “Is—” (she hesitated + and recovered herself)—“Is Mr. Winterfield another devoted friend of + yours?” + </p> + <p> + He walked to the door, as if he could hardly trust his temper if he + answered her—stopped—and, thinking better of it, turned toward + her again. + </p> + <p> + “We won’t quarrel, Stella,” he rejoined; “I will only say I am sorry you + don’t appreciate my forbearance. Your reception of Mr. Winterfield has + lost me the friendship of a man whom I sincerely liked, and who might have + assisted my literary labors. You were ill at the time, and anxious about + Mrs. Eyrecourt. I respected your devotion to your mother. I remembered + your telling me, when you first went away to nurse her, that your + conscience accused you of having sometimes thoughtlessly neglected your + mother in her days of health and good spirits, and I admired the motive of + atonement which took you to her bedside. For those reasons I shrank from + saying a word that might wound you. But, because I was silent, it is not + the less true that you surprised and disappointed me. Don’t do it again! + Whatever you may privately think of Catholic priests, I once more + seriously request you not to let Penrose see it.” + </p> + <p> + He left the room. + </p> + <p> + She stood, looking after him as he closed the door, like a woman + thunderstruck. Never yet had he looked at her as he looked when he spoke + his last warning words. With a heavy sigh she roused herself. The vague + dread with which his tone rather than his words had inspired her, + strangely associated itself with the momentary curiosity which she had + felt on noticing the annotated book that lay on his desk. + </p> + <p> + She snatched up the volume and looked at the open page. It contained the + closing paragraphs of an eloquent attack on Protestantism, from the Roman + Catholic point of view. With trembling hands she turned back to the + title-page. It presented this written inscription: “To Lewis Romayne from + his attached friend and servant, Arthur Penrose.” + </p> + <p> + “God help me!” she said to herself; “the priest has got between us + already!” <a name="linkCH0024" id="linkCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + A CHRISTIAN JESUIT. + </h3> + <p> + ON the next day Penrose arrived on his visit to Romayne. + </p> + <p> + The affectionate meeting between the two men tested Stella’s self-control + as it had never been tried yet. She submitted to the ordeal with the + courage of a woman whose happiness depended on her outward graciousness of + manner toward her husband’s friend. Her reception of Penrose, viewed as an + act of refined courtesy, was beyond reproach. When she found her + opportunity of leaving the room, Romayne gratefully opened the door for + her. “Thank you!” he whispered, with a look which was intended to reward + her. + </p> + <p> + She only bowed to him, and took refuge in her own room. + </p> + <p> + Even in trifles, a woman’s nature is degraded by the falsities of language + and manner which the artificial condition of modern society exacts from + her. When she yields herself to more serious deceptions, intended to + protect her dearest domestic interests, the mischief is increased in + proportion. Deceit, which is the natural weapon of defense used by the + weak creature against the strong, then ceases to be confined within the + limits assigned by the sense of self-respect and by the restraints of + education. A woman in this position will descend, self-blinded, to acts of + meanness which would be revolting to her if they were related of another + person. + </p> + <p> + Stella had already begun the process of self-degradation by writing + secretly to Winterfield. It was only to warn him of the danger of trusting + Father Benwell—but it was a letter, claiming him as her accomplice + in an act of deception. That morning she had received Penrose with the + outward cordialities of welcome which are offered to an old and dear + friend. And now, in the safe solitude of her room, she had fallen to a + lower depth still. She was deliberately considering the safest means of + acquainting herself with the confidential conversation which Romayne and + Penrose would certainly hold when she left them together. “He will try to + set my husband against me; and I have a right to know what means he uses, + in my own defense.” With that thought she reconciled herself to an action + which she would have despised if she had heard of it as the action of + another woman. + </p> + <p> + It was a beautiful autumn day, brightened by clear sunshine, enlivened by + crisp air. Stella put on her hat and went out for a stroll in the grounds. + </p> + <p> + While she was within view from the windows of the servants’ offices she + walked away from the house. Turning the corner of a shrubbery, she entered + a winding path, on the other side, which led back to the lawn under + Romayne’s study window. Garden chairs were placed here and there. She took + one of them, and seated herself—after a last moment of honorable + hesitation—where she could hear the men’s voices through the open + window above her. + </p> + <p> + Penrose was speaking at the time. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Father Benwell has granted me a holiday,” he said; “but I don’t come + here to be an idle man. You must allow me to employ my term of leave in + the pleasantest of all ways. I mean to be your secretary again.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne sighed. “Ah, if you knew how I have missed you!” + </p> + <p> + (Stella waited, in breathless expectation, for what Penrose would say to + this. Would he speak of <i>her?</i> No. There was a natural tact and + delicacy in him which waited for the husband to introduce the subject.) + </p> + <p> + Penrose only said, “How is the great work getting on?” + </p> + <p> + The answer was sternly spoken in one word—“Badly!” + </p> + <p> + “I am surprised to hear that, Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Were you as innocently hopeful as I was? Did you expect my + experience of married life to help me in writing my book?” + </p> + <p> + Penrose replied after a pause, speaking a little sadly. “I expected your + married life to encourage you in all your highest aspirations,” he said. + </p> + <p> + (Stella turned pale with suppressed anger. He had spoken with perfect + sincerity. The unhappy woman believed that he lied, for the express + purpose of rousing irritation against her, in her husband’s irritable + mind. She listened anxiously for Romayne’s answer.) + </p> + <p> + He made no answer. Penrose changed the subject. “You are not looking very + well,” he gently resumed. “I am afraid your health has interfered with + your work. Have you had any return—?” + </p> + <p> + It was still one of the characteristics of Romayne’s nervous irritability + that he disliked to hear the terrible delusion of the Voice referred to in + words. “Yes,” he interposed bitterly, “I have heard it again and again. My + right hand is as red as ever, Penrose, with the blood of a + fellow-creature. Another destruction of my illusions when I married!” + </p> + <p> + “Romayne! I don’t like to hear you speak of your marriage in that way.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well. Let us go back to my book. Perhaps I shall get on better + with it now you are here to help me. My ambition to make a name in the + world has never taken so strong a hold on me (I don’t know why, unless + other disappointments have had something to do with it) as at this time, + when I find I can’t give my mind to my work. We will make a last effort + together, my friend! If it fails, we will put my manuscripts into the + fire, and I will try some other career. Politics are open to me. Through + politics, I might make my mark in diplomacy. There is something in + directing the destinies of nations wonderfully attractive to me in my + present state of feeling. I hate the idea of being indebted for my + position in the world, like the veriest fool living, to the accidents of + birth and fortune. Are <i>you</i> content with the obscure life that you + lead? Did you not envy that priest (he is no older than I am) who was sent + the other day as the Pope’s ambassador to Portugal?” + </p> + <p> + Penrose spoke out at last without hesitation. “You are in a thoroughly + unwholesome state of mind,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Romayne laughed recklessly. “When was I ever in a healthy state of mind?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + Penrose passed the interruption over without notice. “If I am to do you + any good,” he resumed, “I must know what is really the matter with you. + The very last question that I ought to put, and that I wish to put, is the + question which you force me to ask.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “When you speak of your married life,” said Penrose, “your tone is the + tone of a disappointed man. Have you any serious reason to complain of + Mrs. Romayne?” + </p> + <p> + (Stella rose to her feet, in her eagerness to hear what her husband’s + answer would be.) + </p> + <p> + “Serious reason?” Romayne repeated. “How can such an idea have entered + your head? I only complain of irritating trifles now and then. Even the + best of women is not perfect. It’s hard to expect it from any of them.” + </p> + <p> + (The interpretation of this reply depended entirely on the tone in which + it was spoken. What was the animating spirit in this case? Irony or + Indulgence? Stella was ignorant of the indirect methods of irritation, by + means of which Father Benwell had encouraged Romayne’s doubts of his + wife’s motive for the reception of Winterfield. Her husband’s tone, + expressing this state of mind, was new to her. She sat down again, divided + between hope and fear, waiting to hear more. The next words, spoken by + Penrose, astounded her. The priest, the Jesuit, the wily spiritual + intruder between man and wife, actually took the wife’s side!) + </p> + <p> + “Romayne,” he proceeded quietly, “I want you to be happy.” + </p> + <p> + “How am I to be happy?” + </p> + <p> + “I will try and tell you. I believe your wife to be a good woman. I + believe she loves you. There is something in her face that speaks for her—even + to an inexperienced person like myself. Don’t be impatient with her! Put + away from you that besetting temptation to speak in irony—it is so + easy to take that tone, and sometimes so cruel. I am only a looker-on, I + know. Domestic happiness can never be the happiness of <i>my</i> life. But + I have observed my fellow-creatures of all degrees—and this, I tell + you, is the result. The largest number of happy men are the husbands and + fathers. Yes; I admit that they have terrible anxieties—but they are + fortified by unfailing compensations and encouragements. Only the other + day I met with a man who had suffered the loss of fortune and, worse + still, the loss of health. He endured those afflictions so calmly that he + surprised me. ‘What is the secret of your philosophy?’ I asked. He + answered, ‘I can bear anything while I have my wife and my children.’ + Think of that, and judge for yourself how much happiness you may have left + yet ungathered in your married life.” + </p> + <p> + (Those words touched Stella’s higher nature, as the dew touches the + thirsty ground. Surely they were nobly spoken! How would her husband + receive them?) + </p> + <p> + “I must think with your mind, Penrose, before I can do what you ask of me. + Is there any method of transformation by which I can change natures with + you?” That was all he said—and he said it despondingly. + </p> + <p> + Penrose understood, and felt for him. + </p> + <p> + “If there is anything in my nature, worthy to be set as an example to + you,” he replied, “you know to what blessed influence I owe + self-discipline and serenity of mind. Remember what I said when I left you + in London, to go back to my friendless life. I told you that I found, in + the Faith I held, the one sufficient consolation which helped me to bear + my lot. And—if there came a time of sorrow in the future—I + entreated you to remember what I had said. Have you remembered it?” + </p> + <p> + “Look at the book here on my desk—look at the other books, within + easy reach, on that table—are you satisfied?” + </p> + <p> + “More than satisfied. Tell me—do you feel nearer to an understanding + of the Faith to which I have tried to convert you?” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. “Say that I do feel nearer,” Romayne resumed—“say + that some of my objections are removed—are you really as eager as + ever to make a Catholic of me, now that I am a married man?” + </p> + <p> + “I am even more eager,” Penrose answered. “I have always believed that + your one sure way to happiness lay through your conversion. Now, when I + know, from what I have seen and heard in this room, that you are not + reconciled, as you should be, to your new life, I am doubly confined in my + belief. As God is my witness, I speak sincerely. Hesitate no longer! Be + converted, and be happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you not forgotten something, Penrose?” + </p> + <p> + “What have I forgotten?” + </p> + <p> + “A serious consideration, perhaps. I have a Protestant wife.” + </p> + <p> + “I have borne that in mind, Romayne, throughout our conversation.” + </p> + <p> + “And you still say—what you have just said?” + </p> + <p> + “With my whole heart, I say it! Be converted, and be happy. Be happy, and + you will be a good husband. I speak in your wife ‘s interest as well as in + yours. People who are happy in each other’s society, will yield a little + on either side, even on questions of religious belief. And perhaps there + may follow a more profitable result still. So far as I have observed, a + good husband’s example is gladly followed by his wife. Don’t think that I + am trying to persuade you against your will! I am only telling you, in my + own justification, from what motives of love for yourself, and of true + interest in your welfare, I speak. You implied just now that you had still + some objections left. If I can remove them—well and good. If I fail—if + you cannot act on purely conscientious conviction—I not only advise, + I entreat you, to remain as you are. I shall be the first to acknowledge + that you have done right.” + </p> + <p> + (This moderation of tone would appeal irresistibly, as Stella well knew, + to her husband’s ready appreciation of those good qualities in others + which he did not himself possess. Once more her suspicion wronged Penrose. + Had he his own interested motives for pleading her cause? At the bare + thought of it, she left her chair and, standing under the window, boldly + interrupted the conversation by calling to Romayne.) + </p> + <p> + “Lewis!” she cried, “why do you stay indoors on this beautiful day? I am + sure Mr. Penrose would like a walk in the grounds.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose appeared alone at the window. “You are quite right, Mrs. Romayne,” + he said; “we will join you directly.” + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes he turned the corner of the house, and met Stella on the + lawn. Romayne was not with him. “Is my husband not coming with us?” she + asked. “He will follow us,” Penrose answered. “I believe he has some + letters to write.” + </p> + <p> + Stella looked at him, suspecting some underhand exercise of influence on + her husband. + </p> + <p> + If she had been able to estimate the noble qualities in the nature of + Penrose, she might have done him the justice to arrive at a truer + conclusion. It was he who had asked leave (when Stella had interrupted + them) to take the opportunity of speaking alone with Mrs. Romayne. He had + said to his friend, “If I am wrong in my anticipation of the effect of + your change of religion on your wife, let me find it out from herself. My + one object is to act justly toward you and toward her. I should never + forgive myself if I made mischief between you, no matter how innocent of + any evil intention I might be.” Romayne had understood him. It was + Stella’s misfortune ignorantly to misinterpret everything that Penrose + said or did, for the all-sufficient reason that he was a Catholic priest. + She had drawn the conclusion that her husband had deliberately left her + alone with Penrose, to be persuaded or deluded into giving her sanction to + aid the influence of the priest. “They shall find they are mistaken,” she + thought to herself. + </p> + <p> + “Have I interrupted an interesting conversation?” she inquired abruptly. + “When I asked you to come out, were you talking to my husband about his + historical work?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Mrs. Romayne; we were not speaking at that time of the book.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask an odd question, Mr. Penrose?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” + </p> + <p> + “Are you a very zealous Catholic?” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me. I am a priest. Surely my profession speaks for me?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you are not trying to convert my husband?” + </p> + <p> + Penrose stopped and looked at her attentively. + </p> + <p> + “Are you strongly opposed to your husband’s conversion?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “As strongly,” she answered, “as a woman can be.” + </p> + <p> + “By religious conviction, Mrs. Romayne?” + </p> + <p> + “No. By experience.” + </p> + <p> + Penrose started. “Is it indiscreet,” he said gently, “to inquire what your + experience may have been?” + </p> + <p> + “I will tell you what my experience has been,” Stella replied. “I am + ignorant of theological subtleties, and questions of doctrine are quite + beyond me. But this I do know. A well-meaning and zealous Catholic + shortened my father’s life, and separated me from an only sister whom I + dearly loved. I see I shock you—and I daresay you think I am + exaggerating?” + </p> + <p> + “I hear what you say, Mrs. Romayne, with very great pain—I don’t + presume to form any opinion thus far.” + </p> + <p> + “My sad story can be told in a few words,” Stella proceeded. “When my + elder sister was still a young girl, an aunt of ours (my mother’s sister) + came to stay with us. She had married abroad, and she was, as I have said, + a zealous Catholic. Unknown to the rest of us, she held conversations on + religion with my sister—worked on the enthusiasm which was part of + the girl’s nature—and accomplished her conversion. Other influences, + of which I know nothing, were afterward brought to bear on my sister. She + declared her intention of entering a convent. As she was under age, my + father had only to interpose his authority to prevent this. She was his + favorite child. He had no heart to restrain her by force—he could + only try all that the kindest and best of fathers could do to persuade her + to remain at home. Even after the years that have passed, I cannot trust + myself to speak of it composedly. She persisted; she was as hard as stone. + My aunt, when she was entreated to interfere, called her heartless + obstinacy ‘a vocation.’ My poor father’s loving resistance was worn out; + he slowly drew nearer and nearer to death, from the day when she left us. + Let me do her justice, if I can. She has not only never regretted entering + the convent—she is so happily absorbed in her religious duties that + she has not the slightest wish to see her mother or me. My mother’s + patience was soon worn out. The last time I went to the convent, I went by + myself. I shall never go there again. She could not conceal her sense of + relief when I took my leave of her. I need say no more. Arguments are + thrown away on me, Mr. Penrose, after what I have seen and felt. I have no + right to expect that the consideration of my happiness will influence you—but + I may perhaps ask you, as a gentleman, to tell me the truth. Do you come + here with the purpose of converting my husband?” + </p> + <p> + Penrose owned the truth, without an instant’s hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot take your view of your sister’s pious devotion of herself to a + religious life,” he said. “But I can, and will, answer you truly. From the + time when I first knew him, my dearest object has been to convert your + husband to the Catholic Faith.” + </p> + <p> + Stella drew back from him, as if he had stung her, and clasped her hands + in silent despair. + </p> + <p> + “But I am bound as a Christian,” he went on, “to do to others as I would + they should do to me.” + </p> + <p> + She turned on him suddenly, her beautiful face radiant with hope, her hand + trembling as it caught him by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Speak plainly!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + He obeyed her to the letter. + </p> + <p> + “The happiness of my friend’s wife, Mrs. Romayne, is sacred to me for his + sake. Be the good angel of your husband’s life. I abandon the purpose of + converting him.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted her hand from his arm and raised it respectfully to his lips. + Then, when he had bound himself by a promise that was sacred to him, the + terrible influence of the priesthood shook even that brave and lofty soul. + He said to himself, as he left her, “God forgive me if I have done wrong!” + <a name="linkCH0025" id="linkCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + WINTERFIELD RETURNS. + </h3> + <p> + TWICE Father Benwell called at Derwent’s Hotel, and twice he was informed + that no news had been received there of Mr. Winterfield. At the third + attempt, his constancy was rewarded. Mr. Winterfield had written, and was + expected to arrive at the hotel by five o’clock. + </p> + <p> + It was then half-past four. Father Benwell decided to await the return of + his friend. + </p> + <p> + He was as anxious to deliver the papers which the proprietor of the asylum + had confided to him, as if he had never broken a seal or used a + counterfeit to hide the betrayal of a trust. The re-sealed packet was safe + in the pocket of his long black frockcoat. His own future proceedings + depended, in some degree, on the course which Winterfield might take, when + he had read the confession of the unhappy woman who had once been his + wife. + </p> + <p> + Would he show the letter to Stella, at a private interview, as an + unanswerable proof that she had cruelly wronged him? And would it in this + case be desirable—if the thing could be done—so to handle + circumstances as that Romayne might be present, unseen, and might discover + the truth for himself? In the other event—that is to say, if + Winterfield abstained from communicating the confession to Stella—the + responsibility of making the necessary disclosure must remain with the + priest. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell walked softly up and down the room, looking about him with + quietly-observant eye. A side table in a corner was covered with letters, + waiting Winterfield’s return. Always ready for information of any sort, he + even looked at the addresses on the letters. + </p> + <p> + The handwritings presented the customary variety of character. All but + three of the envelopes showed the London district postmarks. Two of the + other letters (addressed to Winterfield at his club) bore foreign + postmarks; and one, as the altered direction showed, had been forward from + Beaupark House to the hotel. + </p> + <p> + This last letter especially attracted the priest’s attention. + </p> + <p> + The address was apparently in a woman’s handwriting. And it was worthy of + remark that she appeared to be the only person among Winterfield’s + correspondents who was not acquainted with the address of his hotel or of + his club. Who could the person be? The subtly inquiring intellect of + Father Benwell amused itself by speculating even on such a trifling + problem as this. He little thought that he had a personal interest in the + letter. The envelope contained Stella’s warning to Winterfield to distrust + no less a person than Father Benwell himself! + </p> + <p> + It was nearly half-past five before quick footsteps were audible outside. + Winterfield entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “This is friendly indeed!” he said. “I expected to return to the worst of + all solitudes—solitude in a hotel. You will stay and dine with me? + That’s right. You must have thought I was going to settle in Paris. Do you + know what has kept me so long? The most delightful theater in the world—the + Opera Comique. I am so fond of the bygone school of music, Father Benwell—the + flowing graceful delicious melodies of the composers who followed Mozart. + One can only enjoy that music in Paris. Would you believe that I waited a + week to hear Nicolo’s delightful Joconde for the second time. I was almost + the only young man in the stalls. All round me were the old men who + remembered the first performances of the opera, beating time with their + wrinkled hands to the tunes which were associated with the happiest days + of their lives. What’s that I hear? My dog! I was obliged to leave him + here, and he knows I have come back!” + </p> + <p> + He flew to the door and called down the stairs to have the dog set free. + The spaniel rushed into the room and leaped into his master’s outstretched + arms. Winterfield returned his caresses, and kisses him as tenderly as a + woman might have kissed her pet. + </p> + <p> + “Dear old fellow! it’s a shame to have left you—I won’t do it again. + Father Benwell, have you many friends who would be as glad to see you as + <i>this</i> friend? I haven’t one. And there are fools who talk of a dog + as an inferior being to ourselves! <i>This</i> creature’s faithful love is + mine, do what I may. I might be disgraced in the estimation of every human + creature I know, and he would be as true to me as ever. And look at his + physical qualities. What an ugly thing, for instance—I won’t say + your ear—I will say, my ear is; crumpled and wrinkled and naked. + Look at the beautiful silky covering of <i>his</i> ear! What are our + senses of smelling and hearing compared to his? We are proud of our + reason. Could we find our way back, if they shut us up in a basket, and + took us to a strange place away from home? If we both want to run + downstairs in a hurry, which of us is securest against breaking his neck—I + on my poor two legs, or he on his four? Who is the happy mortal who goes + to bed without unbuttoning, and gets up again without buttoning? Here he + is, on my lap, knowing I am talking about him, and too fond of me to say + to himself, ‘What a fool my master is!’” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell listened to this rhapsody—so characteristic of the + childish simplicity of the man—with an inward sense of impatience, + which never once showed itself on the smiling surface of his face. + </p> + <p> + He had decided not to mention the papers in his pocket until some + circumstance occurred which might appear to remind him naturally that he + had such things about him. If he showed any anxiety to produce the + envelope, he might expose himself to the suspicion of having some + knowledge of the contents. When would Winterfield notice the side table, + and open his letters? + </p> + <p> + The tick-tick of the clock on the mantel-piece steadily registered the + progress of time, and Winterfield’s fantastic attentions were still + lavished on his dog. + </p> + <p> + Even Father Benwell’s patience was sorely tried when the good country + gentleman proceeded to mention not only the spaniel’s name, but the + occasion which had suggested it. “We call him Traveler, and I will tell + you why. When he was only a puppy he strayed into the garden at Beaupark, + so weary and footsore that we concluded he had come to us from a great + distance. We advertised him, but he was never claimed—and here he + is! If you don’t object, we will give Traveler a treat to-day. He shall + have dinner with us.” + </p> + <p> + Perfectly understanding those last words, the dog jumped off his master’s + lap, and actually forwarded the views of Father Benwell in less than a + minute more. Scampering round and round the room, as an appropriate + expression of happiness, he came into collision with the side table and + directed Winterfield’s attention to the letters by scattering them on the + floor. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell rose politely, to assist in picking up the prostrate + correspondence. But Traveler was beforehand with him. Warning the priest, + with a low growl, not to interfere with another person’s business, the dog + picked up the letters in his mouth, and carried them by installments to + his master’s feet. Even then, the exasperating Winterfield went no further + than patting Traveler. Father Benwell’s endurance reached its limits. + “Pray don’t stand on ceremony with me,” he said. “I will look at the + newspaper while you read your letters.” + </p> + <p> + Winterfield carelessly gathered the letters together, tossed them on the + dining table at his side, and took the uppermost one of the little heap. + </p> + <p> + Fate was certainly against the priest on that evening. The first letter + that Winterfield opened led him off to another subject of conversation + before he had read it to the end. Father Benwell’s hand, already in his + coat pocket, appeared again—empty. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s a proposal to me to go into Parliament,” said the Squire. “What do + you think of representative institutions, Father Benwell? To my mind, + representative institutions are on their last legs. Honorable Members vote + away more of our money every year. They have no alternative between + suspending liberty of speech, or sitting helpless while half a dozen + impudent idiots stop the progress of legislation from motives of the + meanest kind. And they are not even sensitive enough to the national honor + to pass a social law among themselves which makes it as disgraceful in a + gentleman to buy a seat by bribery as to cheat at cards. I declare I think + the card-sharper the least degraded person of the two. <i>He</i> doesn’t + encourage his inferiors to be false to a public trust. In short, my dear + sir, everything wears out in this world—and why should the House of + Commons be an exception to the rule?” + </p> + <p> + He picked up the next letter from the heap. As he looked at the address, + his face changed. The smile left his lips, the gayety died out of his + eyes. Traveler, entreating for more notice with impatient forepaws applied + to his master’s knees, saw the alteration, and dropped into a respectfully + recumbent position. Father Benwell glanced sidelong off the columns of the + newspaper, and waited for events with all the discretion, and none of the + good faith, of the dog. + </p> + <p> + “Forwarded from Beaupark,” Winterfield said to himself. He opened the + letter—read it carefully to the end—thought over it—and + read it again. + </p> + <p> + “Father Benwell!” he said suddenly. + </p> + <p> + The priest put down the newspaper. For a few moments more nothing was + audible but the steady tick-tick of the clock. + </p> + <p> + “We have not been very long acquainted,” Winterfield resumed. “But our + association has been a pleasant one, and I think I owe to you the duty of + a friend. I don’t belong to your Church; but I hope you will believe me + when I say that ignorant prejudice against the Catholic priesthood is not + one of <i>my</i> prejudices.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell bowed, in silence. + </p> + <p> + “You are mentioned,” Winterfield proceeded, “in the letter which I have + just read.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you at liberty to tell me the name of your correspondent?” Father + Benwell asked. + </p> + <p> + “I am not at liberty to do that. But I think it due to you, and to myself, + to tell you what the substance of the letter is. The writer warns me to be + careful in my intercourse with you. Your object (I am told) is to make + yourself acquainted with events in my past life, and you have some motive + which my correspondent has thus far failed to discover. I speak plainly, + but I beg you to understand that I also speak impartially. I condemn no + man unheard—least of all, a man whom I have had the honor of + receiving under my own roof.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with a certain simple dignity. With equal dignity, Father Benwell + answered. It is needless to say that he now knew Winterfield’s + correspondent to be Romayne’s wife. + </p> + <p> + “Let me sincerely thank you, Mr. Winterfield, for a candor which does + honor to us both,” he said. “You will hardly expect me—if I may use + such an expression—to condescend to justify myself against an + accusation which is an anonymous accusation so far as I am concerned. I + prefer to meet that letter by a plain proof; and I leave you to judge + whether I am still worthy of the friendship to which you have so kindly + alluded.” + </p> + <p> + With this preface he briefly related the circumstances under which he had + become possessed of the packet, and then handed it to Winterfield—with + the seal uppermost. + </p> + <p> + “Decide for yourself,” he concluded, “whether a man bent on prying into + your private affairs, with that letter entirely at his mercy, would have + been true to the trust reposed in him.” + </p> + <p> + He rose and took his hat, ready to leave the room, if his honor was + profaned by the slightest expression of distrust. Winterfield’s genial and + unsuspicious nature instantly accepted the offered proof as conclusive. + “Before I break the seal,” he said, “let me do you justice. Sit down + again, Father Benwell, and forgive me if my sense of duty has hurried me + into hurting your feelings. No man ought to know better than I do how + often people misjudge and wrong each other.” + </p> + <p> + They shook hands cordially. No moral relief is more eagerly sought than + relief from the pressure of a serious explanation. By common consent, they + now spoke as lightly as if nothing had happened. Father Benwell set the + example. + </p> + <p> + “You actually believe in a priest!” he said gayly. “We shall make a good + Catholic of you yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be too sure of that,” Winterfield replied, with a touch of his + quaint humor. “I respect the men who have given to humanity the + inestimable blessing of quinine—to say nothing of preserving + learning and civilization—but I respect still more my own liberty as + a free Christian.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps a free thinker, Mr. Winterfield?” + </p> + <p> + “Anything you like to call it, Father Benwell, so long as it <i>is</i> + free.” + </p> + <p> + They both laughed. Father Benwell went back to his newspaper. Winterfield + broke the seal of the envelope and took out the inclosures. + </p> + <p> + The confession was the first of the papers at which he happened to look. + At the opening lines he turned pale. He read more, and his eyes filled + with tears. In low broken tones he said to the priest, “You have + innocently brought me most distressing news. I entreat your pardon if I + ask to be left alone.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell said a few well-chosen words of sympathy, and immediately + withdrew. The dog licked his master’s hand, hanging listlessly over the + arm of the chair. + </p> + <p> + Later in the evening, a note from Winterfield was left by messenger at the + priest’s lodgings. The writer announced, with renewed expressions of + regret, that he would be again absent from London on the next day, but + that he hoped to return to the hotel and receive his guest on the evening + of the day after. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell rightly conjectured that Winterfield’s destination was the + town in which his wife had died. + </p> + <p> + His object in taking the journey was not, as the priest supposed, to + address inquiries to the rector and the landlady, who had been present at + the fatal illness and the death—but to justify his wife’s last + expression of belief in the mercy and compassion of the man whom she had + injured. On that “nameless grave,” so sadly and so humbly referred to in + the confession, he had resolved to place a simple stone cross, giving to + her memory the name which she had shrunk from profaning in her lifetime. + When he had written the brief inscription which recorded the death of + “Emma, wife of Bernard Winterfield,” and when he had knelt for a while by + the low turf mound, his errand had come to its end. He thanked the good + rector; he left gifts with the landlady and her children, by which he was + gratefully remembered for many a year afterward; and then, with a heart + relieved, he went back to London. + </p> + <p> + Other men might have made their sad little pilgrimage alone. Winterfield + took his dog with him. “I must have something to love,” he said to the + rector, “at such a time as this.” <a name="linkCH0026" id="linkCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + FATHER BENWELL’S CORRESPONDENCE. + </h3> + <p> + <i>To the Secretary, S. J., Rome.</i> + </p> + <p> + WHEN I wrote last, I hardly thought I should trouble you again so soon. + The necessity has, however, arisen. I must ask for instructions, from our + Most Reverend General, on the subject of Arthur Penrose. + </p> + <p> + I believe that I informed you that I decided to defer my next visit to Ten + Acres Lodge for two or three days, in order that Winterfield (if he + intended to do so) might have time to communicate with Mrs. Romayne, after + his return from the country. Naturally enough, perhaps, considering the + delicacy of the subject, he has not taken me into his confidence. I can + only guess that he has maintained the same reserve with Mrs. Romayne. + </p> + <p> + My visit to the Lodge was duly paid this afternoon. + </p> + <p> + I asked first, of course, for the lady of the house, and hearing she was + in the grounds, joined her there. She looked ill and anxious, and she + received me with rigid politeness. Fortunately, Mrs. Eyrecourt (now + convalescent) was staying at Ten Acres, and was then taking the air in her + chair on wheels. The good lady’s nimble and discursive tongue offered me + an opportunity of referring, in the most innocent manner possible, to + Winterfield’s favorable opinion of Romayne’s pictures. I need hardly say + that I looked at Romayne’s wife when I mentioned the name. She turned pale—probably + fearing that I had some knowledge of her letter warning Winterfield not to + trust me. If she had already been informed that he was not to be blamed, + but to be pitied, in the matter of the marriage at Brussels, she would + have turned red. Such, at least, is my experience, drawn from + recollections of other days. * + </p> + <p> + The ladies having served my purpose, I ventured into the house, to pay my + respects to Romayne. + </p> + <p> + He was in the study, and his excellent friend and secretary was with him. + After the first greetings Penrose left us. His manner told me plainly that + there was something wrong. I asked no questions—waiting on the + chance that Romayne might enlighten me. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you are in better spirits, now that you have your old companion + with you,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad to have Penrose with me,” he answered. And then he frowned + and looked out of the window at the two ladies in the grounds. + </p> + <p> + It occurred to me that Mrs. Eyrecourt might be occupying the customary + false position of a mother-in-law. I was mistaken. He was not thinking of + his wife’s mother—he was thinking of his wife. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you know that Penrose had an idea of converting me?” he said, + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + I was perfectly candid with him—I said I knew it, and approved of + it. “May I hope that Arthur has succeeded in convincing you?” I ventured + to add. + </p> + <p> + “He might have succeeded, Father Benwell, if he had chosen to go on.” + </p> + <p> + This reply, as you may easily imagine, took me by surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Are you really so obdurate that Arthur despairs of your conversion?” I + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the sort! I have thought and thought of it—and I can + tell you I was more than ready to meet him half way.” + </p> + <p> + “Then where is the obstacle?” I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + He pointed through the window to his wife. “There is the obstacle,” he + said, in a tone of ironical resignation. + </p> + <p> + Knowing Arthur’s character as I knew it, I at last understood what had + happened. For a moment I felt really angry. Under these circumstances, the + wise course was to say nothing, until I could be sure of speaking with + exemplary moderation. It doesn’t do for a man in my position to show + anger. + </p> + <p> + Romayne went on. + </p> + <p> + “We talked of my wife, Father Benwell, the last time you were here. You + only knew, then, that her reception of Mr. Winterfield had determined him + never to enter my house again. By way of adding to your information on the + subject of ‘petticoat government,’ I may now tell you that Mrs. Romayne + has forbidden Penrose to proceed with the attempt to convert me. By common + consent, the subject is never mentioned between us.” The bitter irony of + his tone, thus far, suddenly disappeared. He spoke eagerly and anxiously. + “I hope you are not angry with Arthur?” he said. + </p> + <p> + By this time my little fit of ill-temper was at an end. I answered—and + it was really in a certain sense true—“I know Arthur too well to be + angry with him.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne seemed to be relieved. “I only troubled you with this last + domestic incident,” he resumed, “to bespeak your indulgence for Penrose. I + am getting learned in the hierarchy of the Church, Father Benwell! You are + the superior of my dear little friend, and you exercise authority over + him. Oh, he is the kindest and best of men! It is not his fault. He + submits to Mrs. Romayne—against his own better conviction—in + the honest belief that he consults the interests of our married life.” + </p> + <p> + I don’t think I misinterpret the state of Romayne’s mind, and mislead you, + when I express my belief that this second indiscreet interference of his + wife between his friend and himself will produce the very result which she + dreads. Mark my words, written after the closest observation of him—this + new irritation of Romayne’s sensitive self-respect will hasten his + conversion. + </p> + <p> + You will understand that the one alternative before me, after what has + happened, is to fill the place from which Penrose has withdrawn. I + abstained from breathing a word of this to Romayne. It is he, if I can + manage it, who must invite me to complete the work of conversion—and, + besides, nothing can be done until the visit of Penrose has come to an + end. Romayne’s secret sense of irritation may be safely left to develop + itself, with time to help it. + </p> + <p> + I changed the conversation to the subject of his literary labors. + </p> + <p> + The present state of his mind is not favorable to work of that exacting + kind. Even with the help of Penrose to encourage him, he does not get on + to his satisfaction—and yet, as I could plainly perceive, the + ambition to make a name in the world exercises a stronger influence over + him than ever. All in our favor, my reverend friend—all in our + favor! + </p> + <p> + I took the liberty of asking to see Penrose alone for a moment; and, this + request granted, Romayne and I parted cordially. I can make most people + like me, when I choose to try. The master of Vange Abbey is no exception + to the rule. Did I tell you, by-the-by, that the property has a little + declined of late in value? It is now not worth more than six thousand a + year. <i>We</i> will improve it when it returns to the Church. + </p> + <p> + My interview with Penrose was over in two minutes. Dispensing with + formality, I took his arm, and led him into the front garden. + </p> + <p> + “I have heard all about it,” I said; “and I must not deny that you have + disappointed me. But I know your disposition, and I make allowances. You + have qualities, dear Arthur, which perhaps put you a little out of place + among us. I shall be obliged to report what you have done—but you + may trust me to put it favorably. Shake hands, my son, and, while we are + still together, let us be as good friends as ever.” + </p> + <p> + You may think that I spoke in this way with a view to my indulgent + language being repeated to Romayne, and so improving the position which I + have already gained in his estimation. Do you know, I really believe I + meant it at the time! The poor fellow gratefully kissed my hand when I + offered it to him—he was not able to speak. I wonder whether I am + weak about Arthur? Say a kind word for him, when his conduct comes under + notice—but pray don’t mention this little frailty of mine; and don’t + suppose I have any sympathy with his weak-minded submission to Mrs. + Romayne’s prejudices. If I ever felt the smallest consideration for <i>her</i> + (and I cannot call to mind any amiable emotion of that sort), her letter + to Winterfield would have effectually extinguished it. There is something + quite revolting to me in a deceitful woman. + </p> + <p> + In closing this letter, I may quiet the minds of our reverend brethren, if + I assure them that my former objection to associating myself directly with + the conversion of Romayne no longer exists. + </p> + <p> + Yes! even at my age, and with my habits, I am now resigned to hearing, and + confuting, the trivial arguments of a man who is young enough to be my + son. I shall write a carefully-guarded letter to Romayne, on the departure + of Penrose; and I shall send him a book to read, from the influence of + which I expect gratifying results. It is not a controversial work (Arthur + has been beforehand with me there)—it is Wiseman’s “Recollections of + the Popes.” I look to that essentially readable book to excite Romayne’s + imagination, by vivid descriptions of the splendors of the Church, and the + vast influence and power of the higher priesthood. Does this sudden + enthusiasm of mine surprise you? And are you altogether at a loss to know + what it means? + </p> + <p> + It means, my friend, that I see our position toward Romayne in a new + light. Forgive me, if I say no more for the present. I prefer to be + silent, until my audacity is justified by events. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * Father Benwell’s experience had, in this case, not misled + him. If Stella had remained unmarried, Winterfield might have + justified himself. But he was honorably unwilling to disturb her + relations with her husband, by satisfying her that he had never + been unworthy of the affection which had once united them. + +<a name="linkCH0027" id="linkCH0027"><!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</pre> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + BERNARD WINTERFIELD’S CORRESPONDENCE. + </h3> + <p class="center"> + I. + </p> + <p> + <i>From Mrs. Romayne to Mr. Winterfield.</i> + </p> + <p> + HAS my letter failed to reach you? I directed it (as I direct this) to + Beaupark, not knowing your London address. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday, Father Benwell called at Ten Acres Lodge. He first saw my + mother and myself and he contrived to mention your name. It was done with + his usual adroitness, and I might perhaps have passed it over if he had + not looked at me. I hope and pray it may be only my fancy—but I + thought I saw, in his eyes, that he was conscious of having me in his + power, and that he might betray me to my husband at any moment. + </p> + <p> + I have no sort of claim on you. And, Heaven knows, I have little reason to + trust you. But I thought you meant fairly by me when we spoke together at + this house. In that belief, I entreat you to tell me if Father Benwell has + intruded himself into your confidence—or even if you have hinted + anything to him which gives him a hold over me. + </p> + <p class="center"> + II. + </p> + <p> + <i>From Mr. Winterfield to Mrs. Romayne.</i> + </p> + <p> + Both your letters have reached me. + </p> + <p> + I have good reason for believing that you are entirely mistaken in your + estimate of Father Benwell’s character. But I know, by sad experience, how + you hold to your opinions when they are once formed; and I am eager to + relieve you of all anxiety, so far as I am concerned. I have not said one + word—I have not even let slip the slightest hint—which could + inform Father Benwell of that past event in our lives to which your letter + alludes. Your secret is a sacred secret to me; and it has been, and shall + be, sacredly kept. + </p> + <p> + There is a sentence in your letter which has given me great pain. You + reiterate the cruel language of the bygone time. You say, “Heaven knows I + have little reason to trust you.” + </p> + <p> + I have reasons, on my side, for not justifying myself—except under + certain conditions. I mean under conditions which might place me in a + position to serve and advise you as a friend or brother. In that case, I + undertake to prove, even to you, that it was a cruel injustice ever to + have doubted me, and that there is no man living whom you can more + implicitly trust than myself. + </p> + <p> + My address, when I am in London, is at the head of this page. + </p> + <p class="center"> + III. + </p> + <p> + <i>From Dr. Wybrow to Mr. Winterfield.</i> + </p> + <p> + Dear Sir—I have received your letter, mentioning that you wish to + accompany me, at my next visit to the asylum, to see the French boy, so + strangely associated with the papers delivered to you by Father Benwell. + </p> + <p> + Your proposal reaches me too late. The poor creature’s troubled life has + come to an end. He never rallied from the exhausting effect of the fever. + To the last he was attended by his mother. + </p> + <p> + I write with true sympathy for that excellent lady—but I cannot + conceal from you or from myself that this death is not to be regretted. In + a case of the same extraordinary kind, recorded in print, the patient + recovered from the fever, and his insanity returned with his returning + health. + </p> + <p> + Faithfully yours,<br /> <span style="margin-left: 6em;"><span class="smcap">JOSEPH + WYBROW</span></span>. <a name="linkCH0028" id="linkCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <h3> + THE SADDEST OF ALL WORDS. + </h3> + <p> + ON the tenth morning, dating from the dispatch of Father Benwell’s last + letter to Rome, Penrose was writing in the study at Ten Acres Lodge, while + Romayne sat at the other end of the room, looking listlessly at a blank + sheet of paper, with the pen lying idle beside it. On a sudden he rose, + and, snatching up paper and pen, threw them irritably into the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t trouble yourself to write any longer,” he said to Penrose. “My + dream is over. Throw my manuscripts into the waste paper basket, and never + speak to me of literary work again.” + </p> + <p> + “Every man devoted to literature has these fits of despondency,” Penrose + answered. “Don’t think of your work. Send for your horse, and trust to + fresh air and exercise to relieve your mind.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne barely listened. He turned round at the fireplace and studied the + reflection of his face in the glass. + </p> + <p> + “I look worse and worse,” he said thoughtfully to himself. + </p> + <p> + It was true. His flesh had fallen away; his face had withered and + whitened; he stooped like an old man. The change for the worse had been + steadily proceeding from the time when he left Vange Abbey. + </p> + <p> + “It’s useless to conceal it from me!” he burst out, turning toward + Penrose. “I believe I am in some way answerable—though you all deny + it—for the French boy’s death. Why not? His voice is still in my + ears, and the stain of his brother’s blood is on me. I am under a spell! + Do you believe in the witches—the merciless old women who made wax + images of the people who injured them, and stuck pins in their mock + likenesses, to register the slow wasting away of their victims day after + day? People disbelieve it in these times, but it has never been + disproved.” He stopped, looked at Penrose, and suddenly changed his tone. + “Arthur! what is the matter with you? Have you had a bad night? Has + anything happened?” + </p> + <p> + For the first time in Romayne’s experience of him, Penrose answered + evasively. + </p> + <p> + “Is there nothing to make me anxious,” he said, “when I hear you talk as + you are talking now? The poor French boy died of a fever. Must I remind + you again that he owed the happiest days of his life to you and your good + wife?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne still looked at him without attending to what he said. + </p> + <p> + “Surely you don’t think I am deceiving you?” Penrose remonstrated. + </p> + <p> + “No; I was thinking of something else. I was wondering whether I really + know you as well as I thought I did. Am I mistaken in supposing that you + are not an ambitious man?” + </p> + <p> + “My only ambition is to lead a worthy life, and to be as useful to my + fellow-creatures as I can. Does that satisfy you?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne hesitated. “It seems strange—” he began. + </p> + <p> + “What seems strange?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t say it seems strange that you should be a priest,” Romayne + explained. “I am only surprised that a man of your simple way of thinking + should have attached himself to the Order of the Jesuits.” + </p> + <p> + “I can quite understand that,” said Penrose. “But you should remember that + circumstances often influence a man in his choice of a vocation. It has + been so with me. I am a member of a Roman Catholic family. A Jesuit + College was near our place of abode, and a near relative of mine—since + dead—was one of the resident priests.” He paused, and added in a + lower tone: “When I was little more than a lad I suffered a + disappointment, which altered my character for life. I took refuge in the + College, and I have found patience and peace of mind since that time. Oh, + my friend, you might have been a more contented man—” He stopped + again. His interest in the husband had all but deceived him into + forgetting his promise to the wife. + </p> + <p> + Romayne held out his hand. “I hope I have not thoughtlessly hurt you?” he + said. + </p> + <p> + Penrose took the offered hand, and pressed it fervently. He tried to speak—and + suddenly shuddered, like a man in pain. “I am not very well this morning,” + he stammered; “a turn in the garden will do me good.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne’s doubts were confirmed by the manner in which Penrose left him. + Something had unquestionably happened, which his friend shrank from + communicating to him. He sat down again at his desk and tried to read. The + time passed—and he was still left alone. When the door was at last + opened it was only Stella who entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Penrose?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The estrangement between them had been steadily widening of late. Romayne + had expressed his resentment at his wife’s interference between Penrose + and himself by that air of contemptuous endurance which is the hardest + penalty that a man can inflict on the woman who loves him. Stella had + submitted with a proud and silent resignation—the most unfortunate + form of protest that she could have adopted toward a man of Romayne’s + temper. When she now appeared, however, in her husband’s study, there was + a change in her expression which he instantly noticed. She looked at him + with eyes softened by sorrow. Before she could answer his first question, + he hurriedly added another. “Is Penrose really ill?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Lewis. He is distressed.” + </p> + <p> + “About what?” + </p> + <p> + “About you, and about himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he going to leave us?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But he will come back again?” + </p> + <p> + Stella took a chair by her husband’s side. “I am truly sorry for you, + Lewis,” she said. “It is even a sad parting for Me. If you will let me say + it, I have a sincere regard for dear Mr. Penrose.” + </p> + <p> + Under other circumstances, this confession of feeling for the man who had + sacrificed his dearest aspiration to the one consideration of her + happiness, might have provoked a sharp reply. But by this time Romayne had + really become alarmed. “You speak as if Arthur was going to leave + England,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “He leaves England this afternoon,” she answered, “for Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “Why does he tell this to you, and not to me?” Romayne asked. + </p> + <p> + “He cannot trust himself to speak of it to you. He begged me to prepare + you—” + </p> + <p> + Her courage failed her. She paused. Romayne beat his hand impatiently on + the desk before him. “Speak out!” he cried. “If Rome is not the end of the + journey—what is?” + </p> + <p> + Stella hesitated no longer. + </p> + <p> + “He goes to Rome,” she said “to receive his instructions, and to become + personally acquainted with the missionaries who are associated with him. + They will leave Leghorn in the next vessel which sets sail for a port in + Central America. And the dangerous duty intrusted to them is to + re-establish one of the Jesuit Missions destroyed by the savages years + since. They will find their church a ruin, and not a vestige left of the + house once inhabited by the murdered priests. It is not concealed from + them that they may be martyred, too. They are soldiers of the Cross; and + they go—willingly go—to save the souls of the Indians, at the + peril of their lives.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne rose, and advanced to the door. There, he turned, and spoke to + Stella. “Where is Arthur?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Stella gently detained him. + </p> + <p> + “There was one word more he entreated me to say—pray wait and hear + it,” she pleaded. “His one grief is at leaving You. Apart from that, he + devotes himself gladly to the dreadful service which claims him. He has + long looked forward to it, and has long prepared himself for it. Those, + Lewis, are his own words.” + </p> + <p> + There was a knock at the door. The servant appeared, to announce that the + carriage was waiting. + </p> + <p> + Penrose entered the room as the man left it. + </p> + <p> + “Have you spoken for me?” he said to Stella. She could only answer him by + a gesture. He turned to Romayne with a faint smile. + </p> + <p> + “The saddest of all words must be spoken,” he said. “Farewell!” + </p> + <p> + Pale and trembling, Romayne took his hand. “Is this Father Benwell’s + doing?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No!” Penrose answered firmly. “In Father Benwell’s position it might have + been his doing, but for his goodness to me. For the first time since I + have known him he has shrunk from a responsibility. For my sake he has + left it to Rome. And Rome has spoken. Oh, my more than friend—my + brother in love—!” + </p> + <p> + His voice failed him. With a resolution which was nothing less than heroic + in a man of his affectionate nature, he recovered his composure. + </p> + <p> + “Let us make it as little miserable as it <i>can</i> be,” he said. “At + every opportunity we will write to each other. And, who knows—I may + yet come back to you? God has preserved his servants in dangers as great + as any that I shall encounter. May that merciful God bless and protect + you! Oh, Romayne, what happy days we have had together!” His last powers + of resistance were worn out. Tears of noble sorrow dimmed the friendly + eyes which had never once looked unkindly on the brother of his love. He + kissed Romayne. “Help me out!” he said, turning blindly toward the hall, + in which the servant was waiting. That last act of mercy was not left to a + servant. With sisterly tenderness, Stella took his hand and led him away. + “I shall remember you gratefully as long as I live,” she said to him when + the carriage door was closed. He waved his hand at the window, and she saw + him no more. + </p> + <p> + She returned to the study. + </p> + <p> + The relief of tears had not come to Romayne. He had dropped into a chair + when Penrose left him. In stony silence he sat there, his head down, his + eyes dry and staring. The miserable days of their estrangement were + forgotten by his wife in the moment when she looked at him. She knelt by + his side and lifted his head a little and laid it on her bosom. Her heart + was full—she let the caress plead for her silently. He felt it; his + cold fingers pressed her hand thankfully; but he said nothing. After a + long interval, the first outward expression of sorrow that fell from his + lips showed that he was still thinking of Penrose. + </p> + <p> + “Every blessing falls away from me,” he said. “I have lost my best + friend.” + </p> + <p> + Years afterward Stella remembered those words, and the tone in which he + had spoken them. <a name="linkCH0029" id="linkCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <h3> + THE IMPULSIVE SEX. + </h3> + <p> + AFTER a lapse of a few days, Father Benwell was again a visitor at Ten + Acres Lodge—by Romayne’s invitation. The priest occupied the very + chair, by the study fireside, in which Penrose had been accustomed to sit. + </p> + <p> + “It is really kind of you to come to me,” said Romayne, “so soon after + receiving my acknowledgment of your letter. I can’t tell you how I was + touched by the manner in which you wrote of Penrose. To my shame I confess + it, I had no idea that you were so warmly attached to him.” + </p> + <p> + “I hardly knew it myself, Mr. Romayne, until our dear Arthur was taken + away from us.” + </p> + <p> + “If you used your influence, Father Benwell, is there no hope that you + might yet persuade him—?” + </p> + <p> + “To withdraw from the Mission? Oh, Mr. Romayne, don’t you know Arthur’s + character better than that? Even his gentle temper has its resolute side. + The zeal of the first martyrs to Christianity is the zeal that burns in + that noble nature. The Mission has been the dream of his life—it is + endeared to him by the very dangers which we dread. Persuade Arthur to + desert the dear and devoted colleagues who have opened their arms to him? + I might as soon persuade that statue in the garden to desert its pedestal, + and join us in this room. Shall we change the sad subject? Have you + received the book which I sent you with my letter?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne took up the book from his desk. Before he could speak of it some + one called out briskly, on the other side of the door: “May I come in?”—and + came in, without waiting to be asked. Mrs. Eyrecourt, painted and robed + for the morning—wafting perfumes as she moved—appeared in the + study. She looked at the priest, and lifted her many-ringed hands with a + gesture of coquettish terror. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear me! I had no idea you were here, Father Benwell. I ask ten + thousand pardons. Dear and admirable Romayne, you don’t look as if you + were pleased to see me. Good gracious! I am not interrupting a confession, + am I?” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell (with his paternal smile in perfect order) resigned his + chair to Mrs. Eyrecourt. The traces of her illness still showed themselves + in an intermittent trembling of her head and her hands. She had entered + the room, strongly suspecting that the process of conversion might be + proceeding in the absence of Penrose, and determined to interrupt it. + Guided by his subtle intelligence, Father Benwell penetrated her motive as + soon as she opened the door. Mrs. Eyrecourt bowed graciously, and took the + offered chair. Father Benwell sweetened his paternal smile and offered to + get a footstool. + </p> + <p> + “How glad I am,” he said, “to see you in your customary good spirits! But + wasn’t it just a little malicious to talk of interrupting a confession? As + if Mr. Romayne was one of Us! Queen Elizabeth herself could hardly have + said a sharper thing to a poor Catholic priest.” + </p> + <p> + “You clever creature!” said Mrs. Eyrecourt. “How easily you see through a + simple woman like me! There—I give you my hand to kiss and I will + never try to deceive you again. Do you know, Father Benwell, a most + extraordinary wish has suddenly come to me. Please don’t be offended. I + wish you were a Jew.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask why?” Father Benwell inquired, with an apostolic suavity worthy + of the best days of Rome. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt explained herself with the modest self-distrust of a maiden + of fifteen. “I am really so ignorant, I hardly know how to put it. But + learned persons have told me that it is the peculiarity of the Jews—may + I say, the amiable peculiarity?—never to make converts. It would be + so nice if you would take a leaf out of their book, when we have the + happiness of receiving you here. My lively imagination pictures you in a + double character. Father Benwell everywhere else; and—say, the + patriarch Abraham at Ten Acres Lodge.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell lifted his persuasive hands in courteous protest. “My dear + lady! pray make your mind easy. Not one word on the subject of religion + has passed between Mr. Romayne and myself—” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Eyrecourt interposed, “I am afraid I fail to + follow you. My silent son-in-law looks as if he longed to smother me, and + my attention is naturally distracted. You were about to say—?” + </p> + <p> + “I was about to say, dear Mrs. Eyrecourt, that you are alarming yourself + without any reason. Not one word, on any controversial subject, has passed—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt cocked her head, with the artless vivacity of a bird. “Ah, + but it might, though!” she suggested, slyly. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell once more remonstrated in dumb show, and Romayne lost his + temper. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Eyrecourt!” he cried, sternly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt screamed, and lifted her hands to her ears. “I am not deaf, + dear Romayne, and I am not to be put down by any ill-timed exhibition of, + what I may call, domestic ferocity. Father Benwell sets you an example of + Christian moderation. Do, please, follow it.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne refused to follow it. + </p> + <p> + “Talk on any other topic that you like, Mrs. Eyrecourt. I request you—don’t + oblige me to use a harder word—I request you to spare Father Benwell + and myself any further expression of your opinion on controversial + subjects.” + </p> + <p> + A son-in-law may make a request, and a mother-in-law may decline to + comply. Mrs. Eyrecourt declined to comply. + </p> + <p> + “No, Romayne, it won’t do. I may lament your unhappy temper, for my + daughter’s sake—but I know what I am about, and you can’t provoke + me. Our reverend friend and I understand each other. He will make + allowances for a sensitive woman, who has had sad experience of + conversions in her own household. My eldest daughter, Father Benwell—a + poor foolish creature—was converted into a nunnery. The last time I + saw her (she used to be sweetly pretty; my dear husband quite adored her)—the + last time I saw her she had a red nose, and, what is even more revolting + at her age, a double chin. She received me with her lips pursed up, and + her eyes on the ground, and she was insolent enough to say that she would + pray for me. I am not a furious old man with a long white beard, and I + don’t curse my daughter and rush out into a thunderstorm afterward—but + <i>I</i> know what King Lear felt, and <i>I</i> have struggled with + hysterics just as he did. With your wonderful insight into human nature, I + am sure you will sympathize with and forgive me. Mr. Penrose, as my + daughter tells me, behaved in the most gentleman-like manner. I make the + same appeal to your kind forbearance. The bare prospect of our dear friend + here becoming a Catholic—” + </p> + <p> + Romayne’s temper gave way once more. + </p> + <p> + “If anything can make me a Catholic,” he said, “your interference will do + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Out of sheer perversity, dear Romayne?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, Mrs. Eyrecourt. If I became a Catholic, I might escape from + the society of ladies, in the refuge of a monastery.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt hit him back again with the readiest dexterity. + </p> + <p> + “Remain a Protestant, my dear, and go to your club. There is a refuge for + you from the ladies—a monastery, with nice little dinners, and all + the newspapers and periodicals.” Having launched this shaft, she got up, + and recovered her easy courtesy of look and manner. “I am so much obliged + to you, Father Benwell. I have not offended you, I hope and trust?” + </p> + <p> + “You have done me a service, dear Mrs. Eyrecourt. But for your salutory + caution, I <i>might</i> have drifted into controversial subjects. I shall + be on my guard now.” + </p> + <p> + “How very good of you! We shall meet again, I hope, under more agreeable + circumstances. After that polite allusion to a monastery, I understand + that my visit to my son-in-law may as well come to an end. Please don’t + forget five o’clock tea at my house.” + </p> + <p> + As she approached the door, it was opened from the outer side. Her + daughter met her half-way. “Why are you here, mamma?” Stella asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why, indeed, my love! You had better leave the room with me. Our amiable + Romayne’s present idea is to relieve himself of our society by retiring to + a monastery. Don’t you see Father Benwell?” + </p> + <p> + Stella coldly returned the priest’s bow—and looked at Romayne. She + felt a vague forewarning of what had happened. Mrs. Eyrecourt proceeded to + enlighten her, as an appropriate expression of gratitude. “We are indeed + indebted to Father Benwell, my dear. He has been most considerate and kind—” + </p> + <p> + Romayne interrupted her without ceremony. “Favor me,” he said, addressing + his wife, “by inducing Mrs. Eyrecourt to continue her narrative in some + other room.” + </p> + <p> + Stella was hardly conscious of what her mother or her husband had said. + She felt that the priest’s eyes were on her. Under any other + circumstances, Father Benwell’s good breeding and knowledge of the world + would have impelled him to take his departure. As things were, he knew + perfectly well that the more seriously Romayne was annoyed, in his + presence, the better his own private interests would be served. + Accordingly, he stood apart, silently observant of Stella. In spite of + Winterfield’s reassuring reply to her letter, Stella instinctively + suspected and dreaded the Jesuit. Under the spell of those watchful eyes + she trembled inwardly; her customary tact deserted her; she made an + indirect apology to the man whom she hated and feared. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever my mother may have said to you, Father Benwell, has been without + my knowledge.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne attempted to speak, but Father Benwell was too quick for him. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Mrs. Romayne, nothing has been said which needs any disclaimer on + your part.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think not!” Mrs. Eyrecourt added. “Really, Stella, I don’t + understand you. Why may I not say to Father Benwell what you said to Mr. + Penrose? You trusted Mr. Penrose as your friend. I can tell you this—I + am quite sure you may trust Father Benwell.” + </p> + <p> + Once more Romayne attempted to speak. And, once more, Father Benwell was + beforehand with him. + </p> + <p> + “May I hope,” said the priest, with a finely ironical smile, “that Mrs. + Romayne agrees with her excellent mother?” + </p> + <p> + With all her fear of him, the exasperating influence of his tone and his + look was more than Stella could endure. Before she could restrain them, + the rash words flew out of her lips. + </p> + <p> + “I am not sufficiently well acquainted with you, Father Benwell, to + express an opinion.” + </p> + <p> + With that answer, she took her mother’s arm and left the room. + </p> + <p> + The moment they were alone, Romayne turned to the priest, trembling with + anger. Father Benwell, smiling indulgently at the lady’s little outbreak, + took him by the hand, with peace-making intentions, “Now don’t—pray + don’t excite yourself!” + </p> + <p> + Romayne was not to be pacified in that way. His anger was trebly + intensified by the long-continued strain on his nerves of the effort to + control himself. + </p> + <p> + “I must, and will, speak out at last!” he said. “Father Benwell, the + ladies of my household have inexcusably presumed on the consideration + which is due to women. No words can say how ashamed I am of what has + happened. I can only appeal to your admirable moderation and patience to + accept my apologies, and the most sincere expression of my regret.” + </p> + <p> + “No more, Mr. Romayne! As a favor to Me, I beg and entreat you will say no + more. Sit down and compose yourself.” + </p> + <p> + But Romayne was impenetrable to the influence of friendly and forgiving + demonstrations. “I can never expect you to enter my house again!” he + exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir, I will come and see you again, with the greatest pleasure, + on any day that you may appoint—the earlier day the better. Come! + come! let us laugh. I don’t say it disrespectfully, but poor dear Mrs. + Eyrecourt has been more amusing than ever. I expect to see our excellent + Archbishop to-morrow, and I must really tell him how the good lady felt + insulted when her Catholic daughter offered to pray for her. There is + hardly anything more humorous, even in Moliere. And the double chin, and + the red nose—all the fault of those dreadful Papists. Oh, dear me, + you still take it seriously. How I wish you had my sense of humor! When + shall I come again, and tell you how the Archbishop likes the story of the + nun’s mother?” + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand with irresistible cordiality. Romayne took it + gratefully—still bent, however, on making atonement. + </p> + <p> + “Let me first do myself the honor of calling on You,” he said. “I am in no + state to open my mind—as I might have wished to open it to you—after + what has happened. In a day or two more—” + </p> + <p> + “Say the day after to-morrow,” Father Benwell hospitably suggested. “Do me + a great favor. Come and eat your bit of mutton at my lodgings. Six + o’clock, if you like—and some remarkably good claret, a present from + one of the Faithful. You will? That’s hearty! And do promise me to think + no more of our little domestic comedy. Relieve your mind. Look at + Wiseman’s ‘Recollections of the Popes.’ Good-by—God bless you!” + </p> + <p> + The servant who opened the house door for Father Benwell was agreeably + surprised by the Papist’s cheerfulness. “He isn’t half a bad fellow,” the + man announced among his colleagues. “Give me half-a-crown, and went out + humming a tune.” <a name="linkCH0030" id="linkCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <h3> + FATHER BENWELL’S CORRESPONDENCE + </h3> + <p> + <i>To the Secretary, S. J., Rome.</i> + </p> + <p class="center"> + I. + </p> + <p> + I BEG to acknowledge the receipt of your letter. You mention that our + Reverend Fathers are discouraged at not having heard from me for more than + six weeks, since I reported the little dinner given to Romayne at my + lodgings. + </p> + <p> + I am sorry for this, and more than sorry to hear that my venerated + brethren are beginning to despair of Romayne’s conversion. Grant me a + delay of another week—and, if the prospects of the conversion have + not sensibly improved in that time, I will confess myself defeated. + Meanwhile, I bow to superior wisdom, without venturing to add a word in my + own defense. + </p> + <p class="center"> + II. + </p> + <p> + The week’s grace granted to me has elapsed. I write with humility. At the + same time I have something to say for myself. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday, Mr. Lewis Romayne, of Vange Abbey, was received into the + community of the Holy Catholic Church. I inclose an accurate newspaper + report of the ceremonies which attended the conversion. + </p> + <p> + Be pleased to inform me, by telegraph, whether our Reverend Fathers wish + me to go on, or not. <a name="link_4_0039" id="link_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK THE FIFTH. <a name="linkCH0031" id="linkCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </h2> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <h3> + MRS. EYRECO URT’S DISCOVERY. + </h3> + <p> + THE leaves had fallen in the grounds at Ten Acres Lodge, and stormy winds + told drearily that winter had come. + </p> + <p> + An unchanging dullness pervaded the house. Romayne was constantly absent + in London, attending to his new religious duties under the guidance of + Father Benwell. The litter of books and manuscripts in the study was seen + no more. Hideously rigid order reigned in the unused room. Some of + Romayne’s papers had been burned; others were imprisoned in drawers and + cupboards—the history of the Origin of Religions had taken its + melancholy place among the suspended literary enterprises of the time. + Mrs. Eyrecourt (after a superficially cordial reconciliation with her + son-in-law) visited her daughter every now and then, as an act of maternal + sacrifice. She yawned perpetually; she read innumerable novels; she + corresponded with her friends. In the long dull evenings, the once-lively + lady sometimes openly regretted that she had not been born a man—with + the three masculine resources of smoking, drinking, and swearing placed at + her disposal. It was a dreary existence, and happier influences seemed but + little likely to change it. Grateful as she was to her mother, no + persuasion would induce Stella to leave Ten Acres and amuse herself in + London. Mrs. Eyrecourt said, with melancholy and metaphorical truth, + “There is no elasticity left in my child.” + </p> + <p> + On a dim gray morning, mother and daughter sat by the fireside, with + another long day before them. + </p> + <p> + “Where is that contemptible husband of yours?” Mrs. Eyrecourt asked, + looking up from her book. + </p> + <p> + “Lewis is staying in town,” Stella answered listlessly. + </p> + <p> + “In company with Judas Iscariot?” + </p> + <p> + Stella was too dull to immediately understand the allusion. “Do you mean + Father Benwell?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t mention his name, my dear. I have re-christened him on purpose to + avoid it. Even his name humiliates me. How completely the fawning old + wretch took me in—with all my knowledge of the world, too! He was so + nice and sympathetic—such a comforting contrast, on that occasion, + to you and your husband—I declare I forgot every reason I had for + not trusting him. Ah, we women are poor creatures—we may own it + among ourselves. If a man only has nice manners and a pleasant voice, how + many of us can resist him? Even Romayne imposed upon me—assisted by + his property, which in some degree excuses my folly. There is nothing to + be done now, Stella, but to humor him. Do as that detestable priest does, + and trust to your beauty (there isn’t as much of it left as I could wish) + to turn the scale in your favor. Have you any idea when the new convert + will come back? I heard him ordering a fish dinner for himself, yesterday—because + it was Friday. Did you join him at dessert-time, profanely supported by + meat? What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “What he has said more than once already, mama. His peace of mind is + returning, thanks to Father Benwell. He was perfectly gentle and indulgent—but + he looked as if he lived in a different world from mine. He told me he + proposed to pass a week in, what he called, Retreat. I didn’t ask him what + it meant. Whatever it is, I suppose he is there now.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, don’t you remember your sister began in the same way? <i>She</i> + retreated. We shall have Romayne with a red nose and a double chin, + offering to pray for us next! Do you recollect that French maid of mine—the + woman I sent away, because she would spit, when she was out of temper, + like a cat? I begin to think I treated the poor creature harshly. When I + hear of Romayne and his Retreat, I almost feel inclined to spit, myself. + There! let us go on with your reading. Take the first volume—I have + done with it.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, mama?” + </p> + <p> + “A very remarkable work, Stella, in the present state of light literature + in England—a novel that actually tells a story. It’s quite + incredible, I know. Try the book. It has another extraordinary merit—it + isn’t written by a woman.” + </p> + <p> + Stella obediently received the first volume, turned over the leaves, and + wearily dropped the wonderful novel on her lap. “I can’t attend to it,” + she said. “My mind is too full of my own thoughts.” + </p> + <p> + “About Romayne?” said her mother. + </p> + <p> + “No. When I think of my husband now, I almost wish I had his confidence in + Priests and Retreats. The conviction grows on me, mama, that my worst + troubles are still to come. When I was younger, I don’t remember being + tormented by presentiments of any kind. Did I ever talk of presentiments + to you, in the bygone days?” + </p> + <p> + “If you had done anything of the sort, my love (excuse me, if I speak + plainly), I should have said, ‘Stella, your liver is out of order’; and I + should have opened the family medicine-chest. I will only say now send for + the carriage; let us go to a morning concert, dine at a restaurant, and + finish the evening at the play.” + </p> + <p> + This characteristic proposal was entirely thrown away on Stella. She was + absorbed in pursuing her own train of thought. “I almost wish I had told + Lewis,” she said to herself absently. + </p> + <p> + “Told him of what, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Of what happened to me with Winterfield.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt’s faded eyes opened wide in astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really mean it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I do, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you actually simple enough, Stella, to think that a man of Romayne’s + temper would have made you his wife if you had told him of the Brussels + marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not! Would Romayne—would any man—believe that you really + did part from Winterfield at the church door? Considering that you are a + married woman, your innocence, my sweet child, is a perfect phenomenon! + It’s well there were wiser people than you to keep your secret.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak too positively, mama. Lewis may find it out yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that one of your presentiments?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “How is he to find it out, if you please?” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid, through Father Benwell. Yes! yes! I know you only think him + a fawning old hypocrite—you don’t fear him as I do. Nothing will + persuade me that zeal for his religion is the motive under which that man + acts in devoting himself to Romayne. He has some abominable object in + view, and his eyes tell me that I am concerned in it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + “What is there to laugh at?” Stella asked. + </p> + <p> + “I declare, my dear, there is something absolutely provoking in your utter + want of knowledge of the world! When you are puzzled to account for + anything remarkable in a clergyman’s conduct (I don’t care, my poor child, + to what denomination he belongs) you can’t be wrong in attributing his + motive to—Money. If Romayne had turned Baptist or Methodist, the + reverend gentleman in charge of his spiritual welfare would not have + forgotten—as you have forgotten, you little goose—that his + convert was a rich man. His mind would have dwelt on the chapel, or the + mission, or the infant school, in want of funds; and—with no more + abominable object in view than I have, at this moment, in poking the fire—he + would have ended in producing his modest subscription list and would have + betrayed himself (just as our odious Benwell will betray himself) by the + two amiable little words, Please contribute. Is there any other + presentiment, my dear, on which you would like to have your mother’s + candid opinion?” + </p> + <p> + Stella resignedly took up the book again. + </p> + <p> + “I daresay you are right,” she said. “Let us read our novel.” + </p> + <p> + Before she had reached the end of the first page, her mind was far away + again from the unfortunate story. She was thinking of that “other + presentiment,” which had formed the subject of her mother’s last satirical + inquiry. The vague fear that had shaken her when she had accidentally + touched the French boy, on her visit to Camp’s Hill, still from time to + time troubled her memory. Even the event of his death had failed to + dissipate the delusion, which associated him with some undefined evil + influence that might yet assert itself. A superstitious forewarning of + this sort was a weakness new to her in her experience of herself. She was + heartily ashamed of it—and yet it kept its hold. Once more the book + dropped on her lap. She laid it aside, and walked wearily to the window to + look at the weather. + </p> + <p> + Almost at the same moment Mrs. Eyrecourt’s maid disturbed her mistress + over the second volume of the novel by entering the room with a letter. + </p> + <p> + “For me?” Stella asked, looking round from the window. + </p> + <p> + “No, ma’am—for Mrs. Eyrecourt.” + </p> + <p> + The letter had been brought to the house by one of Lady Loring’s servants. + In delivering it he had apparently given private instructions to the maid. + She laid her finger significantly on her lips when she gave the letter to + her mistress. + </p> + <p> + In these terms Lady Loring wrote: + </p> + <p> + “If Stella happens to be with you, when you receive my note, don’t say + anything which will let her know that I am your correspondent. She has + always, poor dear, had an inveterate distrust of Father Benwell; and, + between ourselves, I am not sure that she is quite so foolish as I once + thought. The Father has unexpectedly left us—with a well-framed + excuse which satisfied Lord Loring. It fails to satisfy Me. Not from any + wonderful exercise of penetration on my part, but in consequence of + something I have just heard in course of conversation with a Catholic + friend. Father Benwell, my dear, turns out to be a Jesuit; and, what is + more, a person of such high authority in the Order, that his concealment + of his rank, while he was with us, must have been a matter of necessity. + He must have had some very serious motive for occupying a position so + entirely beneath him as his position in our house. I have not the shadow + of a reason for associating this startling discovery with dear Stella’s + painful misgivings—and yet there is something in my mind which makes + me want to hear what Stella’s mother thinks. Come and have a talk about it + as soon as you possibly can.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt put the letter in her pocket smiling quietly to herself. + </p> + <p> + Applying to Lady Loring’s letter the infallible system of solution which + she had revealed to her daughter, Mrs. Eyrecourt solved the mystery of the + priest’s conduct without a moment’s hesitation. Lord Loring’s check, in + Father Benwell’s pocket, representing such a liberal subscription that my + lord was reluctant to mention it to my lady—there was the reading of + the riddle, as plain as the sun at noonday! Would it be desirable to + enlighten Lady Loring as she had already enlightened Stella? Mrs. + Eyrecourt decided in the negative. As Roman Catholics, and as old friends + of Romayne, the Lorings naturally rejoiced in his conversion. But as old + friends also of Romayne’s wife, they were bound not to express their + sentiments too openly. Feeling that any discussion of the priest’s motives + would probably lead to the delicate subject of the conversion, Mrs. + Eyrecourt prudently determined to let the matter drop. As a consequence of + this decision, Stella was left without the slightest warning of the + catastrophe which was now close at hand. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt joined her daughter at the window. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, is it clearing up? Shall we take a drive before luncheon?” + </p> + <p> + “If you like, mama.” + </p> + <p> + She turned to her mother as she answered. + </p> + <p> + The light of the clearing sky, at once soft and penetrating, fell full on + her. Mrs. Eyrecourt, looking at her as usual, suddenly became serious: she + studied her daughter’s face with an eager and attentive scrutiny. + </p> + <p> + “Do you see any extraordinary change in me?” Stella asked, with a faint + smile. + </p> + <p> + Instead of answering, Mrs. Eyrecourt put her arm round Stella with a + loving gentleness, entirely at variance with any ordinary expression of + her character. The worldly mother’s eyes rested with a lingering + tenderness on the daughter’s face. “Stella!” she said softly—and + stopped, at a loss for words for the first time in her life. + </p> + <p> + After a while, she began again. “Yes; I see a change in you,” she + whispered—“an interesting change which tells me something. Can you + guess what it is?” + </p> + <p> + Stella’s color rose brightly, and faded again. + </p> + <p> + She laid her head in silence on her mother’s bosom. Worldly, frivolous, + self-interested, Mrs. Eyrecourt’s nature was the nature of a woman—and + the one great trial and triumph of a woman’s life, appealing to her as a + trial and a triumph soon to come to her own child, touched fibers under + the hardened surface of her heart which were still unprofaned. “My poor + darling,” she said, “have you told the good news to your husband?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t care, now, for anything that I can tell him.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, Stella! You may win him back to you by a word—and do you + hesitate to say the word? <i>I</i> shall tell him!” + </p> + <p> + Stella suddenly drew herself away from her mother’s caressing arm. “If you + do,” she cried, “no words can say how inconsiderate and how cruel I shall + think you. Promise—on your word of honor—promise you will + leave it to me!” + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell him, yourself—if I leave it to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—at my own time. Promise!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, hush! don’t excite yourself, my love; I promise. Give me a kiss. I + declare I am agitated myself!” she exclaimed, falling back into her + customary manner. “Such a shock to my vanity, Stella—the prospect of + becoming a grandmother! I really must ring for Matilda, and take a few + drops of red lavender. Be advised by me, my poor dear, and we will turn + the priest out of the house yet. When Romayne comes back from his + ridiculous Retreat—after his fasting and flagellation, and Heaven + knows what besides—<i>then</i> bring him to his senses; then is the + time to tell him. Will you think of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I will think of it.” + </p> + <p> + “And one word more, before Matilda comes in. Remember the vast importance + of having a male heir to Vange Abbey. On these occasions you may practice + with perfect impunity on the ignorance of the men. Tell him you’re sure + it’s going to be a boy!” <a name="linkCH0032" id="linkCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + THE SEED IS SOWN. + </h3> + <p> + SITUATED in a distant quarter of the vast western suburb of London, the + house called The Retreat stood in the midst of a well-kept garden, + protected on all sides by a high brick wall. Excepting the grand gilt + cross on the roof of the chapel, nothing revealed externally the + devotional purpose to which the Roman Catholic priesthood (assisted by the + liberality of “the Faithful”) had dedicated the building. + </p> + <p> + But the convert privileged to pass the gates left Protestant England + outside, and found himself, as it were, in a new country. Inside The + Retreat, the paternal care of the Church took possession of him; + surrounded him with monastic simplicity in his neat little bedroom; and + dazzled him with devotional splendor when his religious duties called him + into the chapel. The perfect taste—so seldom found in the modern + arrangement and decoration of convents and churches in southern countries—showed + itself here, pressed into the service of religion, in every part of the + house. The severest discipline had no sordid and hideous side to it in The + Retreat. The inmates fasted on spotless tablecloths, and handled knives + and forks (the humble servants of half-filled stomachs) without a speck on + their decent brightness. Penitents who kissed the steps of the altar (to + use the expressive Oriental phrase), “eat no dirt.” Friends, liberal + friends, permitted to visit the inmates on stated days, saw copies of + famous Holy Families in the reception-room which were really works of Art; + and trod on a carpet of studiously modest pretensions, exhibiting pious + emblems beyond reproach in color and design. The Retreat had its own + artesian well; not a person in the house drank impurity in his water. A + faint perfume of incense was perceptible in the corridors. The soothing + and mysterious silence of the place was intensified rather than disturbed + by soft footsteps, and gentle opening and closing of doors. Animal life + was not even represented by a cat in the kitchen. And yet, pervaded by + some inscrutable influence, the house was not dull. Heretics, with lively + imaginations, might have not inappropriately likened it to an enchanted + castle. In one word, the Catholic system here showed to perfection its + masterly knowledge of the weakness of human nature, and its inexhaustible + dexterity in adapting the means to the end. + </p> + <p> + On the morning when Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter held their memorable + interview by the fireside at Ten Acres, Father Benwell entered one of the + private rooms at The Retreat, devoted to the use of the priesthood. The + demure attendant, waiting humbly for instructions, was sent to request the + presence of one of the inmates of the house, named Mortleman. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell’s customary serenity was a little ruffled, on this + occasion, by an appearance of anxiety. More than once he looked + impatiently toward the door, and he never even noticed the last new + devotional publications laid invitingly on the table. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mortleman made his appearance—a young man and a promising + convert. The wild brightness of his eyes revealed that incipient form of + brain disease which begins in fanaticism, and ends not infrequently in + religious madness. His manner of greeting the priest was absolutely + servile. He cringed before the illustrious Jesuit. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell took no notice of these demonstrations of humility. “Be + seated, my son,” he said. Mr. Mortleman looked as if he would have + preferred going down on his knees, but he yielded, and took a chair. + </p> + <p> + “I think you have been Mr. Romayne’s companion for a few days, in the + hours of recreation?” the priest began. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Father.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he appear to be at all weary of his residence in this house?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, far from it! He feels the benign influence of The Retreat; we have + had some delightful hours together.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you anything to report?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mortleman crossed his hands on his breast and bowed profoundly. “I + have to report of myself, Father, that I have committed the sin of + presumption. I presumed that Mr. Romayne was, like myself, not married.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I spoken to you on that subject?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Father.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you have committed no sin. You have only made an excusable mistake. + How were you led into error?” + </p> + <p> + “In this way, Father. Mr. Romayne had been speaking to me of a book which + you had been so good as to send to him. He had been especially interested + by the memoir therein contained of the illustrious Englishman, Cardinal + Acton. The degrees by which his Eminence rose to the rank of a Prince of + the Church seemed, as I thought, to have aroused in my friend a new sense + of vocation. He asked me if I myself aspired to belong to the holy + priesthood. I answered that this was indeed my aspiration, if I might hope + to be found worthy. He appeared to be deeply affected. I ventured to ask + if he too had the same prospect before him. He grieved me indescribably. + He sighed and said, ‘I have no such hope; I am married.’ Tell me Father, I + entreat you, have I done wrong?” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell considered for a moment. “Did Mr. Romayne say anything + more?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, Father.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you attempt to return to the subject?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought it best to be silent.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell held out his hand. “My young friend, you have not only done + no wrong—you have shown the most commendable discretion. I will + detain you no longer from your duties. Go to Mr. Romayne, and say that I + wish to speak with him.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mortleman dropped on one knee, and begged for a blessing. Father + Benwell lifted the traditional two fingers, and gave the blessing. The + conditions of human happiness are easily fulfilled if we rightly + understand them. Mr. Mortleman retired perfectly happy. + </p> + <p> + Left by himself again, Father Benwell paced the room rapidly from end to + end. The disturbing influence visible in his face had now changed from + anxiety to excitement. “I’ll try it to-day!” he said to himself—and + stopped, and looked round him doubtfully. “No, not here,” he decided; “it + may get talked about too soon. It will be safer in every way at my + lodgings.” He recovered his composure, and returned to his chair. + </p> + <p> + Romayne opened the door. + </p> + <p> + The double influence of the conversion, and of the life in The Retreat, + had already changed him. His customary keenness and excitability of look + had subsided, and had left nothing in their place but an expression of + suave and meditative repose. All his troubles were now in the hands of his + priest. There was a passive regularity in his bodily movements and a + beatific serenity in his smile. + </p> + <p> + “My dear friend,” said Father Benwell, cordially shaking hands, “you were + good enough to be guided by my advice in entering this house. Be guided by + me again, when I say that you have been here long enough. You can return, + after an interval, if you wish it. But I have something to say to you + first—and I beg to offer the hospitality of my lodgings.” + </p> + <p> + The time had been when Romayne would have asked for some explanation of + this abrupt notice of removal. Now, he passively accepted the advice of + his spiritual director. Father Benwell made the necessary communication to + the authorities, and Romayne took leave of his friends in The Retreat. The + great Jesuit and the great landowner left the place, with becoming + humility, in a cab. + </p> + <p> + “I hope I have not disappointed you?” said Father Benwell. + </p> + <p> + “I am only anxious,” Romayne answered, “to hear what you have to say.” <a + name="linkCH0033" id="linkCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + THE HARVEST IS REAPED. + </h3> + <p> + ON their way through the streets, Father Benwell talked as persistently of + the news of the day as if he had nothing else in his thoughts. To keep his + companion’s mind in a state of suspense was, in certain emergencies, to + exert a useful preparatory influence over a man of Romayne’s character. + Even when they reached his lodgings, the priest still hesitated to + approach the object that he had in view. He made considerate inquiries, in + the character of a hospitable man. + </p> + <p> + “They breakfast early at The Retreat,” he said. “What may I offer you?” + </p> + <p> + “I want nothing, thank you,” Romayne answered, with an effort to control + his habitual impatience of needless delay. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me—we have a long interview before us, I fear. Our bodily + necessities, Romayne (excuse me if I take the friendly liberty of + suppressing the formal ‘Mr.’)—our bodily necessities are not to be + trifled with. A bottle of my famous claret, and a few biscuits, will not + hurt either of us.” He rang the bell, and gave the necessary directions + “Another damp day!” he went on cheerfully. “I hope you don’t pay the + rheumatic penalties of a winter residence in England? Ah, this glorious + country would be too perfect if it possessed the delicious climate of + Rome!” + </p> + <p> + The wine and biscuits were brought in. Father Benwell filled the glasses + and bowed cordially to his guest. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of this sort at The Retreat!” he said gayly. “Excellent water, I + am told—which is a luxury in its way, especially in London. Well, my + dear Romayne, I must begin by making my apologies. You no doubt thought me + a little abrupt in running away with you from your retirement at a + moment’s notice?” + </p> + <p> + “I believed that you had good reasons, Father—and that was enough + for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you—you do me justice—it was in your best interests + that I acted. There are men of phlegmatic temperament, over whom the wise + monotony of discipline at The Retreat exercises a wholesome influence—I + mean an influence which may be prolonged with advantage. You are not one + of those persons. Protracted seclusion and monotony of life are morally + and mentally unprofitable to a man of your ardent disposition. I abstained + from mentioning these reasons, at the time, out of a feeling of regard for + our excellent resident director, who believes unreservedly in the + institution over which he presides. Very good! The Retreat has done all + that it could usefully do in your case. We must think next of how to + employ that mental activity which, rightly developed, is one of the most + valuable qualities that you possess. Let me ask, first, if you have in + some degree recovered your tranquillity?” + </p> + <p> + “I feel like a different man, Father Benwell.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s right! And your nervous sufferings—I don’t ask what they + are; I only want to know if you experience a sense of relief?” + </p> + <p> + “A most welcome sense of relief,” Romayne answered, with a revival of the + enthusiasm of other days. “The complete change in all my thoughts and + convictions which I owe to you—” + </p> + <p> + “And to dear Penrose,” Father Benwell interposed, with the prompt sense of + justice which no man could more becomingly assume. “We must not forget + Arthur.” + </p> + <p> + “Forget him?” Romayne repeated. “Not a day passes without my thinking of + him. It is one of the happy results of the change in me that my mind does + not dwell bitterly on the loss of him now. I think of Penrose with + admiration, as of one whose glorious life, with all its dangers, I should + like to share!” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with a rising color and brightening eyes. Already, the absorbent + capacity of the Roman Church had drawn to itself that sympathetic side of + his character which was also one of its strongest sides. Already, his love + for Penrose—hitherto inspired by the virtues of the man—had + narrowed its range to sympathy with the trials and privileges of the + priest. Truly and deeply, indeed, had the physician consulted, in bygone + days, reasoned on Romayne’s case! That “occurrence of some new and + absorbing influence in his life,” of which the doctor had spoken—that + “working of some complete change in his habits of thought”—had found + its way to him at last, after the wife’s simple devotion had failed, + through the subtler ministrations of the priest. + </p> + <p> + Some men, having Father Benwell’s object in view, would have taken instant + advantage of the opening offered to them by Romayne’s unguarded + enthusiasm. The illustrious Jesuit held fast by the wise maxim which + forbade him to do anything in a hurry. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “your life must not be the life of our dear friend. The + service on which the Church employs Penrose is not the fit service for + you. You have other claims on us.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne looked at his spiritual adviser with a momentary change of + expression—a relapse into the ironical bitterness of the past time. + </p> + <p> + “Have you forgotten that I am, and can be, only a layman?” he asked. “What + claims can I have, except the common claim of all faithful members of the + Church on the good offices of the priesthood?” He paused for a moment, and + continued with the abruptness of a man struck by a new idea. “Yes! I have + perhaps one small aim of my own—the claim of being allowed to do my + duty.” + </p> + <p> + “In what respect, dear Romayne?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely you can guess? I am a rich man; I have money lying idle, which it + is my duty (and my privilege) to devote to the charities and necessities + of the Church. And, while I am speaking of this, I must own that I am a + little surprised at your having said nothing to me on the subject. You + have never yet pointed out to me the manner in which I might devote my + money to the best and noblest uses. Was it forgetfulness on your part?” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell shook his head. “No,” he replied; “I can’t honestly say + that.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you had a reason for your silence?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “May I not know it?” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell got up and walked to the fireplace. Now there are various + methods of getting up and walking to a fireplace, and they find their way + to outward expression through the customary means of look and manner. We + may feel cold, and may only want to warm ourselves. Or we may feel + restless, and may need an excuse for changing our position. Or we may feel + modestly confused, and may be anxious to hide it. Father Benwell, from + head to foot, expressed modest confusion, and polite anxiety to hide it. + </p> + <p> + “My good friend,” he said, “I am afraid of hurting your feelings.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne was a sincere convert, but there were instincts still left in him + which resented this expression of regard, even when it proceeded from a + man whom he respected and admired. “You will hurt my feelings,” he + answered, a little sharply, “if you are not plain with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I <i>will</i> be plain with you,” Father Benwell rejoined. “The + Church—speaking through me, as her unworthy interpreter—feels + a certain delicacy in approaching You on the subject of money.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell left the fireplace without immediately answering. He opened + a drawer and took out of it a flat mahogany box. His gracious familiarity + became transformed, by some mysterious process of congelation, into a + dignified formality of manner. The priest took the place of the man. + </p> + <p> + “The Church, Mr. Romayne, hesitates to receive, as benevolent + contributions, money derived from property of its own, arbitrarily taken + from it, and placed in a layman’s hands. No!” he cried, interrupting + Romayne, who instantly understood the allusion to Vange Abbey—“no! I + must beg you to hear me out. I state the case plainly, at your own + request. At the same time, I am bound to admit that the lapse of centuries + has, in the eye of the law, sanctioned the deliberate act of robbery + perpetrated by Henry the Eighth. You have lawfully inherited Vange Abbey + from your ancestors. The Church is not unreasonable enough to assert a + merely moral right against the law of the country. It may feel the act of + spoliation—but it submits.” He unlocked the flat mahogany box, and + gently dropped his dignity: the man took the place of the priest. “As the + master of Vange,” he said, “you may be interested in looking at a little + historical curiosity which we have preserved. The title-deeds, dear + Romayne, by which the monks held your present property, in <i>their</i> + time. Take another glass of wine.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne looked at the title-deeds, and laid them aside unread. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell had roused his pride, his sense of justice, his wild and + lavish instincts of generosity. He, who had always despised money—except + when it assumed its only estimable character, as a means for the + attainment of merciful and noble ends—<i>he</i> was in possession of + property to which he had no moral right: without even the poor excuse of + associations which attached him to the place. + </p> + <p> + “I hope I have not offended you?” said Father Benwell. + </p> + <p> + “You have made me ashamed of myself,” Romayne answered, warmly. “On the + day when I became a Catholic, I ought to have remembered Vange. Better + late than never. I refuse to take shelter under the law—I respect + the moral right of the Church. I will at once restore the property which I + have usurped.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell took both Romayne’s hands in his, and pressed them + fervently. + </p> + <p> + “I am proud of you!” he said. “We shall all be proud of you, when I write + word to Rome of what has passed between us. But—no, Romayne!—this + must not be. I admire you, feel with you; and I refuse. On behalf of the + Church, I say it—I refuse the gift.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a little, Father Benwell! You don’t know the state of my affairs. I + don’t deserve the admiration which you feel for me. The loss of the Vange + property will be no pecuniary loss, in my case. I have inherited a fortune + from my aunt. My income from that source is far larger than my income from + the Yorkshire property.” + </p> + <p> + “Romayne, it must not be!” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, it must be. I have more money than I can spend—without + Vange. And I have painful associations with the house which disincline me + ever to enter it again.” + </p> + <p> + Even this confession failed to move Father Benwell. He obstinately crossed + his arms, obstinately tapped his foot on the floor. “No!” he said. “Plead + as generously as you may, my answer is, No.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne only became more resolute on his side. “The property is absolutely + my own,” he persisted. “I am without a near relation in the world. I have + no children. My wife is already provided for at my death, out of the + fortune left me by my aunt. It is downright obstinacy—forgive me for + saying so—to persist in your refusal.” + </p> + <p> + “It is downright duty, Romayne. If I gave way to you, I should be the + means of exposing the priesthood to the vilest misinterpretation. I should + be deservedly reprimanded, and your proposal of restitution—if you + expressed it in writing—would, without a moment’s hesitation, be + torn up. If you have any regard for me, drop the subject.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne refused to yield, even to this unanswerable appeal. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said, “there is one document you can’t tear up. You can’t + interfere with my making another will. I shall leave the Vange property to + the Church, and I shall appoint you one of the trustees. You can’t object + to that.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell smiled sadly. + </p> + <p> + “The law spares me the ungracious necessity of objecting, in this case,” + he answered. “My friend, you forget the Statutes of Mortmain. They + positively forbid you to carry out the intention which you have just + expressed.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne dismissed this appeal to the law irritably, by waving his hand. + “The Statutes of Mortmain,” he rejoined, “can’t prevent my bequeathing my + property to an individual. I shall leave Vange Abbey to You. Now, Father + Benwell! have I got the better of you at last?” + </p> + <p> + With Christian humility the Jesuit accepted the defeat, for which he had + paved the way from the outset of the interview. At the same time, he + shuffled all personal responsibility off his own shoulders. He had gained + the victory for the Church—without (to do him justice) thinking of + himself. + </p> + <p> + “Your generosity has conquered me,” he said. “But I must be allowed to + clear myself of even the suspicion of an interested motive. On the day + when your will is executed, I shall write to the General of our Order at + Rome, leaving my inheritance to him. This proceeding will be followed by a + deed, in due form, conveying the property to the Church. You have no + objection to my taking that course? No? My dear Romayne, words are useless + at such a time as this. My acts shall speak for me. I am too agitated to + say more. Let us talk of something else—let us have some wine.” + </p> + <p> + He filled the glasses; he offered more biscuits.—he was really, and + even perceptibly, agitated by the victory that he had won. But one last + necessity now confronted him—the necessity of placing a serious + obstacle in the way of any future change of purpose on the part of + Romayne. As to the choice of that obstacle, Father Benwell’s mind had been + made up for some time past. + </p> + <p> + “What <i>was</i> it I had to say to you?” he resumed “Surely, I was + speaking on the subject of your future life?” + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind, Father Benwell. The subject has little interest for + me. My future life is shaped out—domestic retirement, ennobled by + religious duties.” + </p> + <p> + Still pacing the room, Father Benwell stopped at that reply, and put his + hand kindly on Romayne’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “We don’t allow a good Catholic to drift into domestic retirement, who is + worthy of better things,” he said. “The Church, Romayne wishes to make use + of you. I never flattered any one in my life, but I may say before your + face what I have said behind your back. A man of your strict sense of + honor—of your intellect—of your high aspirations—of your + personal charm and influence—is not a man whom we can allow to run + to waste. Open your mind, my friend, fairly to me, and I will open my mind + fairly to you. Let me set the example. I say it with authority; an + enviable future is before you.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne’s pale cheeks flushed with excitement. “What future?” he asked, + eagerly. “Am I free to choose? Must I remind you that a man with a wife + cannot think only of himself?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you were <i>not</i> a man with a wife.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Romayne, I am trying to break my way through that inveterate reserve + which is one of the failings in your character. Unless you can prevail on + yourself to tell me those secret thoughts, those unexpressed regrets, + which you can confide to no other man, this conversation must come to an + end. Is there no yearning, in your inmost soul, for anything beyond the + position which you now occupy?” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. The flush on Romayne’s face faded away. He was silent. + </p> + <p> + “You are not in the confessional,” Father Benwell reminded him, with + melancholy submission to circumstances. “You are under no obligation to + answer me.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne roused himself. He spoke in low, reluctant tones. “I am afraid to + answer you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + That apparently discouraging reply armed Father Benwell with the absolute + confidence of success which he had thus far failed to feel. He wound his + way deeper and deeper into Romayne’s mind, with the delicate ingenuity of + penetration, of which the practice of years had made him master. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I have failed to make myself clearly understood,” he said. “I + will try to put it more plainly. You are no half-hearted man, Romayne. + What you believe, you believe fervently. Impressions are not dimly and + slowly produced on <i>your</i> mind. As the necessary result, your + conversion being once accomplished, your whole soul is given to the Faith + that is in you. Do I read your character rightly?” + </p> + <p> + “So far as I know it—yes.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell went on. + </p> + <p> + “Bear in mind what I have just said,” he resumed; “and you will understand + why I feel it my duty to press the question which you have not answered + yet. You have found in the Catholic Faith the peace of mind which you have + failed to obtain by other means. If I had been dealing with an ordinary + man, I should have expected from the change no happier result than this. + But I ask You, has that blessed influence taken no deeper and nobler hold + on your heart? Can you truly say to me, ‘I am content with what I have + gained; I wish for no more’?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot truly say it,” Romayne answered. + </p> + <p> + The time had now come for speaking plainly. Father Benwell no longer + advanced to his end under cover of a cloud of words. + </p> + <p> + “A little while since,” he said, “you spoke of Penrose as of a man whose + lot in life you longed to share. The career which has associated him with + an Indian mission is, as I told you, only adapted to a man of his special + character and special gifts. But the career which has carried him into the + sacred ranks of the priesthood is open to every man who feels the sense of + divine vocation, which has made Penrose one of Us.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Father Benwell! Not open to every man.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, Yes!” + </p> + <p> + “It is not open to Me!” + </p> + <p> + “I say it is open to You. And more—I enjoin, I command, you to + dismiss from your mind all merely human obstacles and discouragements. + They are beneath the notice of a man who feels himself called to the + priesthood. Give me your hand, Romayne! Does your conscience tell you that + you are that man?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne started to his feet, shaken to the soul by the solemnity of the + appeal. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t dismiss the obstacles that surround me!” he cried, passionately. + “To a man in my position, your advice is absolutely useless. The ties that + bind me are beyond the limit of a priest’s sympathies.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing is beyond the limit of a priest’s sympathies.” + </p> + <p> + “Father Benwell, I am married!” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell folded his arms over his breast—looked with immovable + resolution straight in Romayne’s face—and struck the blow which he + had been meditating for months past. + </p> + <p> + “Rouse your courage,” he said sternly. “You are no more married than I + am.” <a name="linkCH0034" id="linkCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + ON THE ROAD TO ROME. + </h3> + <p> + THERE was not a sound in the room. Romayne stood, looking at the priest + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear what I said?” Father Benwell asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you understand that I really mean what I said?” + </p> + <p> + He made no reply—he waited, like a man expecting to hear more. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell was alive to the vast importance, at such a moment, of not + shrinking from the responsibility which he had assumed. “I see how I + distress you,” he said; “but, for your sake, I am bound to speak out. + Romayne! the woman whom you have married is the wife of another man. Don’t + ask me how I know it—I do know it. You shall have positive proof, as + soon as you have recovered. Come! rest a little in the easy-chair.” + </p> + <p> + He took Romayne’s arm, and led him to the chair, and made him drink some + wine. They waited a while. Romayne lifted his head, with a heavy sigh. + </p> + <p> + “The woman whom I have married is the wife of another man.” He slowly + repeated the words to himself—and then looked at Father Benwell. + </p> + <p> + “Who is the man?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I introduced you to him, when I was as ignorant of the circumstances as + you are,” the priest answered. “The man is Mr. Bernard Winterfield.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne half raised himself from the chair. A momentary anger glittered in + his eyes, and faded out again, extinguished by the nobler emotions of + grief and shame. He remembered Winterfield’s introduction to Stella. + </p> + <p> + “Her husband!” he said, speaking again to himself. “And she let me + introduce him to her. And she received him like a stranger.” He paused, + and thought of it. “The proofs, if you please, sir,” he resumed, with + sudden humility. “I don’t want to hear any particulars. It will be enough + for me if I know beyond all doubt that I have been deceived and + disgraced.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell unlocked his desk and placed two papers before Romayne. He + did his duty with a grave indifference to all minor considerations. The + time had not yet come for expressions of sympathy and regret. + </p> + <p> + “The first paper,” he said, “is a certified copy of the register of the + marriage of Miss Eyrecourt to Mr. Winterfield, celebrated (as you will + see) by the English chaplain at Brussels, and witnessed by three persons. + Look at the names.” + </p> + <p> + The bride’s mother was the first witness. The two names that followed were + the names of Lord and Lady Loring. “<i>They</i>, too, in the conspiracy to + deceive me!” Romayne said, as he laid the paper back on the table. + </p> + <p> + “I obtained that piece of written evidence,” Father Benwell proceeded, “by + the help of a reverend colleague of mine, residing at Brussels. I will + give you his name and address, if you wish to make further inquiries.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite needless. What is this other paper?” + </p> + <p> + “This other paper is an extract from the short-hand writer’s notes + (suppressed in the reports of the public journals) of proceedings in an + English court of law, obtained at my request by my lawyer in London.” + </p> + <p> + “What have I to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + He put the question in a tone of passive endurance—resigned to the + severest moral martyrdom that could be inflicted on him. + </p> + <p> + “I will answer you in two words,” said Father Benwell. “In justice to Miss + Eyrecourt, I am bound to produce her excuse for marrying you.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne looked at him in stern amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse!” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—excuse. The proceedings to which I have alluded declare Miss + Eyrecourt’s marriage to Mr. Winterfield to be null and void—by the + English law—in consequence of his having been married at the time to + another woman. Try to follow me. I will put it as briefly as possible. In + justice to yourself, and to your future career, you must understand this + revolting case thoroughly, from beginning to end.” + </p> + <p> + With those prefatory words, he told the story of Winterfield’s first + marriage; altering nothing; concealing nothing; doing the fullest justice + to Winterfield’s innocence of all evil motive, from first to last. When + the plain truth served his purpose, as it most assuredly did in this case, + the man has never yet been found who could match Father Benwell at + stripping himself of every vestige of reserve, and exhibiting his naked + heart to the moral admiration of mankind. + </p> + <p> + “You were mortified, and I was surprised,” he went on, “when Mr. + Winterfield dropped his acquaintance with you. We now know that he acted + like an honorable man.” + </p> + <p> + He waited to see what effect he had produced. Romayne was in no state of + mind to do justice to Winterfield or to any one. His pride was mortally + wounded; his high sense of honor and delicacy writhed under the outrage + inflicted on it. + </p> + <p> + “And mind this,” Father Benwell persisted, “poor human nature has its + right to all that can be justly conceded in the way of excuse and + allowance. Miss Eyrecourt would naturally be advised by her friends, would + naturally be eager, on her own part, to keep hidden from you what happened + at Brussels. A sensitive woman, placed in a position so horribly false and + degrading, must not be too severely judged, even when she does wrong. I am + bound to say this—and more. Speaking from my own knowledge of all + the parties, I have no doubt that Miss Eyrecourt and Mr. Winterfield did + really part at the church door.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne answered by a look—so disdainfully expressive of the most + immovable unbelief that it absolutely justified the fatal advice by which + Stella’s worldly-wise friends had encouraged her to conceal the truth. + Father Benwell prudently closed his lips. He had put the case with perfect + fairness—his bitterest enemy could not have denied that. + </p> + <p> + Romayne took up the second paper, looked at it, and threw it back again on + the table with an expression of disgust. + </p> + <p> + “You told me just now,” he said, “that I was married to the wife of + another man. And there is the judge’s decision, releasing Miss Eyrecourt + from her marriage to Mr. Winterfield. May I ask you to explain yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Let me first remind you that you owe religious allegiance to + the principles which the Church has asserted, for centuries past, with all + the authority of its divine institution. You admit that?” + </p> + <p> + “I admit it.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, listen! In <i>our</i> church, Romayne, marriage is even more than a + religious institution—it is a sacrament. We acknowledge no human + laws which profane that sacrament. Take two examples of what I say. When + the great Napoleon was at the height of his power, Pius the Seventh + refused to acknowledge the validity of the Emperor’s second marriage to + Maria Louisa—while Josephine was living, divorced by the French + Senate. Again, in the face of the Royal Marriage Act, the Church + sanctioned the marriage of Mrs. Fitzherbert to George the Fourth, and + still declares, in justice to her memory, that she was the king’s lawful + wife. In one word, marriage, to <i>be</i> marriage at all, must be the + object of a purely religious celebration—and, this condition + complied with, marriage is only to be dissolved by death. You remember + what I told you of Mr. Winterfield?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. His first marriage took place before the registrar.” + </p> + <p> + “In plain English, Romayne, Mr. Winterfield and the woman-rider in the + circus pronounced a formula of words before a layman in an office. That is + not only no marriage, it is a blasphemous profanation of a holy rite. Acts + of Parliament which sanction such proceedings are acts of infidelity. The + Church declares it, in defense of religion.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand you,” said Romayne. “Mr. Winterfield’s marriage at Brussels—” + </p> + <p> + “Which the English law,” Father Benwell interposed, “declares to be + annulled by the marriage before the registrar, stands good, nevertheless, + by the higher law of the Church. Mr. Winterfield is Miss Eyrecourt’s + husband, as long as they both live. An ordained priest performed the + ceremony in a consecrated building—and Protestant marriages, so + celebrated, are marriages acknowledged by the Catholic Church. Under those + circumstances, the ceremony which afterward united you to Miss Eyrecourt—though + neither you nor the clergyman were to blame—was a mere mockery. Need + I to say any more? Shall I leave you for a while by yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “No! I don’t know what I may think, I don’t know what I may do, if you + leave me by myself.” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell took a chair by Romayne’s side. “It has been my hard duty + to grieve and humiliate you,” he said. “Do you bear me no ill will?” He + held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + Romayne took it—as an act of justice, if not as an act of gratitude. + </p> + <p> + “Can I be of any use in advising you?” Father Benwell asked. + </p> + <p> + “Who can advise a man in my position?” Romayne bitterly rejoined. + </p> + <p> + “I can at least suggest that you should take time to think over your + position.” + </p> + <p> + “Time? take time? You talk as if my situation was endurable.” + </p> + <p> + “Everything is endurable, Romayne!” + </p> + <p> + “It may be so to you, Father Benwell. Did you part with your humanity when + you put on the black robe of the priest?” + </p> + <p> + “I parted, my son, with those weaknesses of <i>our</i> humanity on which + women practice. You talk of your position. I will put it before you at its + worst.” + </p> + <p> + “For what purpose?” + </p> + <p> + “To show you exactly what you have now to decide. Judged by the law of + England, Mrs. Romayne is your wife. Judged by the principles held sacred + among the religious community to which you belong, she is not Mrs. Romayne—she + is Mrs. Winterfield, living with you in adultery. If you regret your + conversion—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t regret it, Father Benwell.” + </p> + <p> + “If you renounce the holy aspirations which you have yourself acknowledged + to me, return to your domestic life. But don’t ask us, while you are + living with that lady, to respect you as a member of our communion.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne was silent. The more violent emotions aroused in him had, with + time, subsided into calm. Tenderness, mercy, past affection, found their + opportunity, and pleaded with him. The priest’s bold language had missed + the object at which it aimed. It had revived in Romayne’s memory the image + of Stella in the days when he had first seen her. How gently her influence + had wrought on him for good! how tenderly, how truly, she had loved him. + “Give me some more wine!” he cried. “I feel faint and giddy. Don’t despise + me, Father Benwell—I was once so fond of her!” + </p> + <p> + The priest poured out the wine. “I feel for you,” he said. “Indeed, + indeed, I feel for you.” + </p> + <p> + It was not all a lie—there were grains of truth in that outburst of + sympathy. Father Benwell was not wholly merciless. His far-seeing + intellect, his daring duplicity, carried him straight on to his end in + view. But, that end once gained—and, let it be remembered, not + gained, in this case, wholly for himself—there were compassionate + impulses left in him which sometimes forced their way to the surface. A + man of high intelligence—however he may misuse it, however unworthy + he may be of it—has a gift from Heaven. When you want to see + unredeemed wickedness, look for it in a fool. + </p> + <p> + “Let me mention one circumstance,” Father Benwell proceeded, “which may + help to relieve you for the moment. In your present state of mind, you + cannot return to The Retreat.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + “I have had a room prepared for you in this house. Here, free from any + disturbing influence, you can shape the future course of your life. If you + wish to communicate with your residence at Highgate—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak of it!” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell sighed. “Ah, I understand!” he said, sadly. “The house + associated with Mr. Winterfield’s visit—” + </p> + <p> + Romayne again interrupted him—this time by gesture only. The hand + that had made the sign clinched itself when it rested afterward on the + table. His eyes looked downward, under frowning brows. At the name of + Winterfield, remembrances that poisoned every better influence in him rose + venomously in his mind. Once more he loathed the deceit that had been + practiced on him. Once more the detestable doubt of that asserted parting + at the church door renewed its stealthy torment, and reasoned with him as + if in words: She has deceived you in one thing; why not in another? + </p> + <p> + “Can I see my lawyer here?” he asked, suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Romayne, you can see any one whom you like to invite.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not trouble you by staying very long, Father Benwell.” + </p> + <p> + “Do nothing in a hurry, my son. Pray do nothing in a hurry!” + </p> + <p> + Romayne paid no attention to this entreaty. Shrinking from the momentous + decision that awaited him, his mind instinctively took refuge in the + prospect of change of scene. “I shall leave England,” he said, + impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Not alone!” Father Benwell remonstrated. + </p> + <p> + “Who will be my companion?” + </p> + <p> + “I will,” the priest answered. + </p> + <p> + Romayne’s weary eyes brightened faintly. In his desolate position, Father + Benwell was the one friend on whom he could rely. Penrose was far away; + the Lorings had helped to keep him deceived; Major Hynd had openly pitied + and despised him as a victim to priestcraft. + </p> + <p> + “Can you go with me at any time?” he asked. “Have you no duties that keep + you in England?” + </p> + <p> + “My duties, Romayne, are already confided to other hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you have foreseen this?” + </p> + <p> + “I have thought it possible. Your journey may be long, or it may be short—you + shall not go away alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I can think of nothing yet; my mind is a blank,” Romayne confessed sadly. + “I don’t know where I shall go.” + </p> + <p> + “I know where you ought to go—and where you <i>will</i> go,” said + Father Benwell, emphatically. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “To Rome.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne understood the true meaning of that brief reply. A vague sense of + dismay began to rise in his mind. While he was still tortured by doubt, it + seemed as if Father Benwell had, by some inscrutable process of prevision, + planned out his future beforehand. Had the priest foreseen events? + </p> + <p> + No—he had only foreseen possibilities, on the day when it first + occurred to him that Romayne’s marriage was assailable, before the court + of Romayne’s conscience, from the Roman Catholic point of view. By this + means, the misfortune of Romayne’s marriage having preceded his conversion + might be averted; and the one certain obstacle in the way of any change of + purpose on his part—the obstacle of the priesthood—might still + be set up, by the voluntary separation of the husband from the wife. Thus + far the Jesuit had modestly described himself to his reverend colleagues, + as regarding his position toward Romayne in a new light. His next letter + might boldly explain to them what he had really meant. The triumph was + won. Not a word more passed between his guest and himself that morning. + </p> + <p> + Before post-time, on the same day, Father Benwell wrote his last report to + the Secretary of the Society of Jesus, in these lines: + </p> + <p> + “Romayne is free from the domestic ties that bound him. He leaves it to me + to restore Vange Abbey to the Church; and he acknowledges a vocation for + the priesthood. Expect us at Rome in a fortnight’s time.” + </p> + <p class="center"> + AFTER THE STORY. + </p> + <p class="center"> + EXTRACTS FROM BERNARD WINTERFIELD’S DIARY. + </p> + <p class="center"> + I. + </p> + <p class="center"> + WINTERFIELD DEFENDS HIMSELF. + </p> + <p> + Beaupark House, June 17th, 18—. + </p> + <p> + You and I, Cousin Beeminster, seldom meet. But I occasionally hear of you, + from friends acquainted with both of us. + </p> + <p> + I have heard of you last at Sir Philip’s rent-day dinner a week since. My + name happened to be mentioned by one of the gentlemen present, a guest + like yourself. You took up the subject of your own free will, and spoke of + me in these terms: + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to say it of the existing head of the family—but Bernard + is really unfit for the position which he holds. He has, to say the least + of it, compromised himself and his relatives on more than one occasion. He + began as a young man by marrying a circus-rider. He got into some other + scrape, after that, which he has contrived to keep a secret from us. We + only know how disgraceful it must have been by the results—he was a + voluntary exile from England for more than a year. And now, to complete + the list, he has mixed himself up in that miserable and revolting business + of Lewis Romayne and his wife.” + </p> + <p> + If any other person had spoken of me in this manner, I should have set him + down as a mischievous idiot—to be kicked perhaps, but not to be + noticed in any other way. + </p> + <p> + With you, the case is different. If I die without male offspring, the + Beaupark estate goes to you, as next heir. + </p> + <p> + I don’t choose to let a man in this position slander me, and those dear to + me, without promptly contradicting him. The name I bear is precious to me, + in memory of my father. Your unanswered allusion to my relations with + “Lewis Romayne and his wife,” coming from a member of the family, will be + received as truth. Rather than let this be, I reveal to you, without + reserve, some of the saddest passages of my life. I have nothing to be + ashamed of—and, if I have hitherto kept certain events in the dark, + it has been for the sake of others, not for my own sake. I know better + now. A woman’s reputation—if she is a good woman—is not easily + compromised by telling the truth. The person of whom I am thinking, when I + write this, knows what I am going to do—and approves of it. + </p> + <p> + You will receive, with these lines, the most perfectly candid statement + that I can furnish, being extracts cut out of my own private Diary. They + are accompanied (where plain necessity seems to call for it) by the + written evidence of other persons. + </p> + <p> + There has never been much sympathy between us. But you have been brought + up like a gentleman—and, when you have read my narrative, I expect + that you will do justice to me, and to others—even though you think + we acted indiscreetly under trying and critical circumstances. + </p> + <p class="center"> + B. W. + </p> + <p class="center"> + II. + </p> + <p class="center"> + WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS. + </p> + <p> + First Extract. + </p> + <p> + April 11th, 1869.—Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter have left Beaupark + to-day for London. Have I really made any impression on the heart of the + beautiful Stella? In my miserable position—ignorant whether I am + free or not—I have shrunk from formally acknowledging that I love + her. + </p> + <p> + 12th.—I am becoming superstitious! In the Obituary of to-day’s <i>Times</i> + the death is recorded of that unhappy woman whom I was mad enough to + marry. After hearing nothing of her for seven years—I am free! + Surely this is a good omen? Shall I follow the Eyrecourts to London, and + declare myself? I have not confidence enough in my own power of attraction + to run the risk. Better to write first, in strictest confidence, to Mrs. + Eyrecourt. + </p> + <p> + 14th.—An enchanting answer from my angel’s mother, written in great + haste. They are on the point of leaving for Paris. Stella is restless and + dissatisfied; she wants change of scene; and Mrs. Eyrecourt adds, in so + many words—“It is you who have upset her; why did you not speak + while we were at Beaupark?” I am to hear again from Paris. Good old Father + Newbliss said all along that she was fond of me, and wondered, like Mrs. + Eyrecourt, why I failed to declare myself. How could I tell them of the + hideous fetters which bound me in those days? + </p> + <p> + 18th, Paris.—She has accepted me! Words are useless to express my + happiness. + </p> + <p> + 19th.—A letter from my lawyer, full of professional subtleties and + delays. I have no patience to enumerate them. We move to Belgium + to-morrow. Not on our way back to England—Stella is so little + desirous of leaving the Continent that we are likely to be married abroad. + But she is weary of the perpetual gayety and glitter of Paris, and wants + to see the old Belgian cities. Her mother leaves Paris with regret. The + liveliest woman of her age that I ever met with. + </p> + <p> + Brussels, May 7.—My blessing on the old Belgian cities. Mrs. + Eyrecourt is so eager to get away from them that she backs me in hurrying + the marriage, and even consents, sorely against the grain, to let the + wedding be celebrated at Brussels in a private and unpretending way. She + has only stipulated that Lord and Lady Loring (old friends) shall be + present. They are to arrive tomorrow, and two days afterward we are to be + married. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + (An inclosure is inserted in this place. It consists of the death-bed + confession of Mr. Winterfield’s wife, and of the explanatory letter + written by the rector of Belhaven. The circumstances related in these + documents, already known to the reader, are left to speak for themselves, + and the Extracts from the Diary are then continued.) + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Bingen, on the Rhine, May 19.—Letters from Devonshire at last, which + relieve my wretchedness in some small degree. The frightful misfortune at + Brussels will at least be kept secret, so far as I am concerned. Beaupark + House is shut up, and the servants are dismissed, “in consequence of my + residence abroad.” To Father Newbliss I have privately written. Not daring + to tell him the truth, I leave him to infer that my marriage engagement + has been broken off, he writes back a kind and comforting letter. Time + will, I suppose, help me to bear my sad lot. Perhaps a day may come when + Stella and her friends will know how cruelly they have wronged me. + </p> + <p> + London, November 18, 1860.—The old wound has been opened again. I + met her accidentally in a picture gallery. She turned deadly pale, and + left the place. Oh, Stella! Stella! + </p> + <p> + London, August 12, 1861.—Another meeting with her. And another shock + to endure, which I might not have suffered if I had been a reader of the + marriage announcements in the newspapers. Like other men, I am in the + habit of leaving the marriage announcements to the women. + </p> + <p> + I went to visit an agreeable new acquaintance, Mr. Romayne. His wife drove + up to the house while I was looking out of window. I recognized Stella! + After two years, she has made use of the freedom which the law has given + to her. I must not complain of that, or of her treating me like a + stranger, when her husband innocently introduced us. But when are were + afterward left together for a few minutes—no! I cannot write down + the merciless words she said to me. Why am I fool enough to be as fond of + her as ever? + </p> + <p> + Beaupark, November 16.—Stella’s married life is not likely to be a + happy one. To-day’s newspaper announces the conversion of her husband to + the Roman Catholic Faith. I can honestly say I am sorry for her, knowing + how she has suffered, among her own relatives, by these conversions. But I + so hate him, that this proof of his weakness is a downright consolation to + me. + </p> + <p> + Beaupark, January 27, 1862.—A letter from Stella, so startling and + deplorable that I cannot remain away from her after reading it. Her + husband has deliberately deserted her. He has gone to Rome, to serve his + term of probation for the priesthood. I travel to London by to-day’s + train. + </p> + <p> + London, January 27.—Short as it is, I looked at Stella’s letter + again and again on the journey. The tone of the closing sentences is still + studiously cold. After informing me that she is staying with her mother in + London, she concludes her letter in these terms: + </p> + <p> + “Be under no fear that the burden of my troubles will be laid on your + shoulders. Since the fatal day when we met at Ten Acres, you have shown + forbearance and compassion toward me. I don’t stop to inquire if you are + sincere—it rests with you to prove that. But I have some questions + to ask, which no person but you can answer. For the rest, my friendless + position will perhaps plead with you not to misunderstand me. May I write + again?” + </p> + <p> + Inveterate distrust in every sentence! If any other woman had treated me + in this way, I should have put her letter into the fire, and should not + have stirred from my comfortable house. + </p> + <p> + January 29.—A day missed out of my Diary. The events of yesterday + unnerved me for the time. + </p> + <p> + Arriving at Derwent’s Hotel on the evening of the 27th, I sent a line to + Stella by messenger, to ask when she could receive me. + </p> + <p> + It is strange how the merest trifles seem to touch women! Her note in + reply contains the first expression of friendly feeling toward me which + has escaped her since we parted at Brussels. And this expression proceeds + from her ungovernable surprise and gratitude at my taking the trouble to + travel from Devonshire to London on her account! + </p> + <p> + For the rest, she proposed to call on me at the hotel the next morning. + She and her mother, it appeared, differed in opinion on the subject of Mr. + Romayne’s behavior to her; and she wished to see me, in the first + instance, unrestrained by Mrs. Eyrecourt’s interference. + </p> + <p> + There was little sleep for me that night. I passed most of the time in + smoking and walking up and down the room. My one relief was afforded by + Traveler—he begged so hard to go to London with me, I could not + resist him. The dog always sleeps in my room. His surprise at my + extraordinary restlessness (ending in downright anxiety and alarm) was + expressed in his eyes, and in his little whinings and cries, quite as + intelligibly as if he had put his meaning into words. Who first called a + dog a dumb creature? It must have been a man, I think—and a + thoroughly unlovable man, too, from a dog’s point of view. + </p> + <p> + Soon after ten, on the morning of the 28th, she entered my sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + In her personal appearance, I saw a change for the worse: produced, I + suppose, by the troubles that have tried her sorely, poor thing. There was + a sad loss of delicacy in her features, and of purity in her complexion. + Even her dress—I should certainly not have noticed it in any other + woman—seemed to be loose and slovenly. In the agitation of the + moment, I forgot the long estrangement between us; I half lifted my hand + to take hers, and checked myself. Was I mistaken in supposing that she + yielded to the same impulse, and resisted it as I did? She concealed her + embarrassment, if she felt any, by patting the dog. + </p> + <p> + “I am ashamed that you should have taken the journey to London in this + wintry weather—” she began. + </p> + <p> + It was impossible, in her situation, to let her assume this commonplace + tone with me. “I sincerely feel for you,” I said, “and sincerely wish to + help you, if I can.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at me for the first time. Did she believe me? or did she still + doubt? Before I could decide, she took a letter from her pocket, opened + it, and handed it to me. + </p> + <p> + “Women often exaggerate their troubles,” she said. “It is perhaps an + unfair trial of your patience—but I should like you to satisfy + yourself that I have not made the worst of my situation. That letter will + place it before you in Mr. Romayne’s own words. Read it, except where the + page is turned down.” + </p> + <p> + It was her husband’s letter of farewell. + </p> + <p> + The language was scrupulously delicate and considerate. But to my mind it + entirely failed to disguise the fanatical cruelty of the man’s resolution, + addressed to his wife. In substance, it came to this:— + </p> + <p> + “He had discovered the marriage at Brussels, which she had deliberately + concealed from him when he took her for his wife. She had afterward + persisted in that concealment, under circumstances which made it + impossible that he could ever trust her again.” (This no doubt referred to + her ill-advised reception of me, as a total stranger, at Ten Acres Lodge.) + “In the miserable break-up of his domestic life, the Church to which he + now belonged offered him not only her divine consolation, but the honor, + above all earthly distinctions, of serving the cause of religion in the + sacred ranks of the priesthood. Before his departure for Rome he bade her + a last farewell in this world, and forgave her the injuries that she had + inflicted on him. For her sake he asked leave to say some few words more. + In the first place, he desired to do her every justice, in a worldly + sense. Ten Acres Lodge was offered to her as a free gift for her lifetime, + with a sufficient income for all her wants. In the second place, he was + anxious that she should not misinterpret his motives. Whatever his opinion + of her conduct might be, he did not rely on it as affording his only + justification for leaving her. Setting personal feeling aside, he felt + religious scruples (connected with his marriage) which left him no other + alternative than the separation on which he had resolved. He would briefly + explain those scruples, and mention his authority for entertaining them, + before he closed his letter.” + </p> + <p> + There the page was turned down, and the explanation was concealed from me. + </p> + <p> + A faint color stole over her face as I handed the letter back to her. + </p> + <p> + “It is needless for you to read the end,” she said. “You know, under his + own hand, that he has left me; and (if such a thing pleads with you in his + favor) you also know that he is liberal in providing for his deserted + wife.” + </p> + <p> + I attempted to speak. She saw in my face how I despised him, and stopped + me. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever you may think of his conduct,” she continued, “I beg that you + will not speak of it to me. May I ask your opinion (now you have read his + letter) on another matter, in which my own conduct is concerned? In former + days—” + </p> + <p> + She paused, poor soul, in evident confusion and distress. + </p> + <p> + “Why speak of those days?” I ventured to say. + </p> + <p> + “I must speak of them. In former days, I think you were told that my + father’s will provided for my mother and for me. You know that we have + enough to live on?” + </p> + <p> + I had heard of it, at the time of our betrothal—when the marriage + settlement was in preparation. The mother and daughter had each a little + income of a few hundreds a year. The exact amount had escaped my memory. + </p> + <p> + After answering her to this effect, I waited to hear more. + </p> + <p> + She suddenly became silent; the most painful embarrassment showed itself + in her face and manner. “Never mind the rest,” she said, mastering her + confusion after an interval. “I have had some hard trials to bear; I + forget things—” she made an effort to finish the sentence, and gave + it up, and called to the dog to come to her. The tears were in her eyes, + and that was the way she took to hide them from me. + </p> + <p> + In general, I am not quick at reading the minds of others—but I + thought I understood Stella. Now that we were face to face, the impulse to + trust me had, for the moment, got the better of her caution and her pride; + she was half ashamed of it, half inclined to follow it. I hesitated no + longer. The time for which I had waited—the time to prove, without + any indelicacy on my side, that I had never been unworthy of her—had + surely come at last. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember my reply to your letter about Father Benwell?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—every word of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I promised, if you ever had need of me, to prove that I had never been + unworthy of your confidence. In your present situation, I can honorably + keep my promise. Shall I wait till you are calmer? or shall I go on at + once?” + </p> + <p> + “At once!” + </p> + <p> + “When your mother and your friends took you from me,” I resumed, “if you + had shown any hesitation—” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered. The image of my unhappy wife, vindictively confronting us + on the church steps, seemed to be recalled to her memory. “Don’t go back + to it!” she cried. “Spare me, I entreat you.” + </p> + <p> + I opened the writing-case in which I keep the papers sent to me by the + Rector of Belhaven, and placed them on the table by which she was sitting. + The more plainly and briefly I spoke now, the better I thought it might be + for both of us. + </p> + <p> + “Since we parted at Brussels,” I said, “my wife has died. Here is a copy + of the medical certificate of her death.” + </p> + <p> + Stella refused to look at it. “I don’t understand such things,” she + answered faintly. “What is this?” + </p> + <p> + She took up my wife’s death-bed confession. + </p> + <p> + “Read it,” I said. + </p> + <p> + She looked frightened. “What will it tell me?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “It will tell you, Stella, that false appearances once led you into + wronging an innocent man.” + </p> + <p> + Having said this, I walked away to a window behind her, at the further end + of the room, so that she might not see me while she read. + </p> + <p> + After a time—how much longer it seemed to be than it really was!—I + heard her move. As I turned from the window, she ran to me, and fell on + her knees at my feet. I tried to raise her; I entreated her to believe + that she was forgiven. She seized my hands, and held them over her face—they + were wet with her tears. “I am ashamed to look at you,” she said. “Oh, + Bernard, what a wretch I have been!” + </p> + <p> + I never was so distressed in my life. I don’t know what I should have + said, what I should have done, if my dear old dog had not helped me out of + it. He, too, ran up to me, with the loving jealousy of his race, and tried + to lick my hands, still fast in Stella’s hold. His paws were on her + shoulder; he attempted to push himself between us. I think I successfully + assumed a tranquillity which I was far from really feeling. “Come, come!” + I said, “you mustn’t make Traveler jealous.” She let me raise her. Ah, if + she could have kissed <i>me</i>—but that was not to be done; she + kissed the dog’s head, and then she spoke to me. I shall not set down what + she said in these pages. While I live, there is no fear of my forgetting + those words. + </p> + <p> + I led her back to her chair. The letter addressed to me by the Rector of + Belhaven still lay on the table, unread. It was of some importance to + Stella’s complete enlightenment, as containing evidence that the + confession was genuine. But I hesitated, for her sake, to speak of it just + yet. + </p> + <p> + “Now you know that you have a friend to help and advise you—” I + began. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she interposed; “more than a friend; say a brother.” + </p> + <p> + I said it. “You had something to ask of me,” I resumed, “and you never put + the question.” + </p> + <p> + She understood me. + </p> + <p> + “I meant to tell you,” she said, “that I had written a letter of refusal + to Mr. Romayne’s lawyers. I have left Ten Acres, never to return; and I + refuse to accept a farthing of Mr. Romayne’s money. My mother—though + she knows that we have enough to live on—tells me I have acted with + inexcusable pride and folly. I wanted to ask if you blame me, Bernard, as + she does?” + </p> + <p> + I daresay I was inexcusably proud and foolish too. It was the second time + she had called me by my Christian name since the happy bygone time, never + to come again. Under whatever influence I acted, I respected and admired + her for that refusal, and I owned it in so many words. This little + encouragement seemed to relieve her. She was so much calmer that I + ventured to speak of the Rector’s letter. + </p> + <p> + She wouldn’t hear of it. “Oh, Bernard, have I not learned to trust you + yet? Put away those papers. There is only one thing I want to know. Who + gave them to you? The Rector?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “How did they reach you, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Through Father Benwell.” + </p> + <p> + She started at that name like a woman electrified. + </p> + <p> + “I knew it!” she cried. “It <i>is</i> the priest who has wrecked my + married life—and he got his information from those letters, before + he put them into your hands.” She waited a while, and recovered herself. + “That was the first of the questions I wanted to put to you,” she said. “I + am answered. I ask no more.” + </p> + <p> + She was surely wrong about Father Benwell? I tried to show her why. + </p> + <p> + I told her that my reverend friend had put the letters into my hand, with + the seal which protected them unbroken. She laughed disdainfully. Did I + know him so little as to doubt for a moment that he could break a seal and + replace it again? This view was entirely new to me; I was startled, but + not convinced. I never desert my friends—even when they are friends + of no very long standing—and I still tried to defend Father Benwell. + The only result was to make her alter her intention of asking me no more + questions. I innocently roused in her a new curiosity. She was eager to + know how I had first become acquainted with the priest, and how he had + contrived to possess himself of papers which were intended for my reading + only. + </p> + <p> + There was but one way of answering her. + </p> + <p> + It was far from easy to a man like myself, unaccustomed to state + circumstances in their proper order—but I had no other choice than + to reply, by telling the long story of the theft and discovery of the + Rector’s papers. So far as Father Benwell was concerned, the narrative + only confirmed her suspicions. For the rest, the circumstances which most + interested her were the circumstances associated with the French boy. + </p> + <p> + “Anything connected with that poor creature,” she said, “has a dreadful + interest for me now.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you know him?” I asked, with some surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I knew him and his mother—you shall hear how, at another time. I + suppose I felt a presentiment that the boy would have some evil influence + over me. At any rate, when I accidentally touched him, I trembled as if I + had touched a serpent. You will think me superstitious—but, after + what you have said, it is certainly true that he has been the indirect + cause of the misfortune that has fallen on me. How came he to steal the + papers? Did you ask the Rector, when you went to Belhaven?” + </p> + <p> + “I asked the Rector nothing. But he thought it his duty to tell me all + that he knew of the theft.” + </p> + <p> + She drew her chair nearer to me. “Let me hear every word of it!” she + pleaded eagerly. + </p> + <p> + I felt some reluctance to comply with the request. + </p> + <p> + “Is it not fit for me to hear?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + This forced me to be plain with her. “If I repeat what the Rector told + me,” I said, “I must speak of my wife.” + </p> + <p> + She took my hand. “You have pitied and forgiven her,” she answered. “Speak + of her, Bernard—and don’t, for God’s sake, think that my heart is + harder than yours.” + </p> + <p> + I kissed the hand that she had given to me—even her “brother” might + do that! + </p> + <p> + “It began,” I said, “in the grateful attachment which the boy felt for my + wife. He refused to leave her bedside on the day when she dictated her + confession to the Rector. As he was entirely ignorant of the English + language, there seemed to be no objection to letting him have his own way. + He became inquisitive as the writing went on. His questions annoyed the + Rector—and as the easiest way of satisfying his curiosity, my wife + told him that she was making her will. He knew just enough, from what he + had heard at various times, to associate making a will with gifts of money—and + the pretended explanation silenced and satisfied him.” + </p> + <p> + “Did the Rector understand it?” Stella asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Like many other Englishmen in his position, although he was not + ready at speaking French, he could read the language, and could fairly + well understand it, when it was spoken. After my wife’s death, he kindly + placed the boy, for a few days, under the care of his housekeeper. Her + early life had been passed in the island of Martinique, and she was able + to communicate with the friendless foreigner in his own language. When he + disappeared, she was the only person who could throw any light on his + motive for stealing the papers. On the day when he entered the house, she + caught him peeping through the keyhole of the study door. He must have + seen where the confession was placed, and the color of the old-fashioned + blue paper, on which it was written, would help him to identify it. The + next morning, during the Rector’s absence, he brought the manuscript to + the housekeeper, and asked her to translate it into French, so that he + might know how much money was left to him in ‘the will.’ She severely + reproved him, made him replace the paper in the desk from which he had + taken it, and threatened to tell the Rector if his misconduct was + repeated. He promised amendment, and the good-natured woman believed him. + On that evening the papers were sealed, and locked up. In the morning the + lock was found broken, and the papers and the boy were both missing + together.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he showed the confession to any other person?” Stella asked. + “I happen to know that he concealed it from his mother.” + </p> + <p> + “After the housekeeper’s reproof,” I replied, “he would be cunning enough, + in my opinion, not to run the risk of showing it to strangers. It is far + more likely that he thought he might learn English enough to read it + himself.” + </p> + <p> + There the subject dropped. We were silent for a while. She was thinking, + and I was looking at her. On a sudden, she raised her head. Her eyes + rested on me gravely. + </p> + <p> + “It is very strange!” she said + </p> + <p> + “What is strange?” + </p> + <p> + “I have been thinking of the Lorings. They encouraged me to doubt you. + They advised me to be silent about what happened at Brussels. And they too + are concerned in my husband’s desertion of me. He first met Father Benwell + at their house.” Her head drooped again; her next words were murmured to + herself. “I am still a young woman,” she said. “Oh, God, what is my future + to be?” + </p> + <p> + This morbid way of thinking distressed me. I reminded her that she had + dear and devoted friends. + </p> + <p> + “Not one,” she answered, “but you.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you not seen Lady Loring?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “She and her husband have written most kindly, inviting me to make their + house my home. I have no right to blame them—they meant well. But + after what has happened, I can’t go back to them.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to hear it,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Are you thinking of the Lorings?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t even know the Lorings. I can think of nobody but you.” + </p> + <p> + I was still looking at her—and I am afraid my eyes said more than my + words. If she had doubted it before, she must have now known that I was as + fond of her as ever. She looked distressed rather than confused. I made an + awkward attempt to set myself right. + </p> + <p> + “Surely your brother may speak plainly,” I pleaded. + </p> + <p> + She agreed to this. But nevertheless she rose to go—with a friendly + word, intended (as I hoped) to show me that I had got my pardon for that + time. “Will you come and see us to-morrow?” she said. “Can you forgive my + mother as generously as you have forgiven me? I will take care, Bernard, + that she does you justice at last.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand to take leave. How could I reply? If I had been a + resolute man, I might have remembered that it would be best for me not to + see too much of her. But I am a poor weak creature—I accepted her + invitation for the next day. + </p> + <p> + January 30.—I have just returned from my visit. + </p> + <p> + My thoughts are in a state of indescribable conflict and confusion—and + her mother is the cause of it. I wish I had not gone to the house. Am I a + bad man, I wonder? and have I only found it out now? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt was alone in the drawing-room when I went in. Judging by + the easy manner in which she got up to receive me, the misfortune that has + befallen her daughter seemed to have produced no sobering change in this + frivolous woman. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Winterfield,” she began, “I have behaved infamously. I won’t say + that appearances were against you at Brussels—I will only say I + ought not to have trusted to appearances. You are the injured person; + please forgive me. Shall we go on with the subject? or shall we shake + hands, and say no more about it?” + </p> + <p> + I shook hands, of course. Mrs. Eyrecourt perceived that I was looking for + Stella. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down,” she said; “and be good enough to put up with no more + attractive society than mine. Unless I set things straight, my good + friend, you and my daughter—oh, with the best intentions!—will + drift into a false position. You won’t see Stella to-day. Quite impossible—and + I will tell you why. I am the worldly old mother; I don’t mind what I say. + My innocent daughter would die before she would confess what I am going to + tell you. Can I offer you anything? Have you had lunch?” + </p> + <p> + I begged her to continue. She perplexed—I am not sure that she did + not even alarm me. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she proceeded. “You may be surprised to hear it—but I + don’t mean to allow things to go on in this way. My contemptible + son-in-law shall return to his wife.” + </p> + <p> + This startled me, and I suppose I showed it. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a little,” said Mrs. Eyrecourt. “There is nothing to be alarmed + about. Romayne is a weak fool; and Father Benwell’s greedy hands are (of + course) in both his pockets. But he has, unless I am entirely mistaken, + some small sense of shame, and some little human feeling still left. After + the manner in which he has behaved, these are the merest possibilities, + you will say. Very likely. I have boldly appealed to those possibilities + nevertheless. He has already gone away to Rome; and I need hardly add—Father + Benwell would take good care of that—he has left us no address. It + doesn’t in the least matter. One of the advantages of being so much in + society as I am is that I have nice acquaintances everywhere, always ready + to oblige me, provided I don’t borrow money of them. I have written to + Romayne, under cover to one of my friends living in Rome. Wherever he may + be, there my letter will find him.” + </p> + <p> + So far, I listened quietly enough, naturally supposing that Mrs. Eyrecourt + trusted to her own arguments and persuasions. I confess it even to myself, + with shame. It was a relief to me to feel that the chances (with such a + fanatic as Romayne) were a hundred to one against her. + </p> + <p> + This unworthy way of thinking was instantly checked by Mrs. Eyrecourt’s + next words. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t suppose that I am foolish enough to attempt to reason with him,” + she went on. “My letter begins and ends on the first page. His wife has a + claim on him, which no newly-married man can resist. Let me do him + justice. He knew nothing of it before he went away. My letter—my + daughter has no suspicion that I have written it—tells him plainly + what the claim is.” + </p> + <p> + She paused. Her eyes softened, her voice sank low—she became quite + unlike the Mrs. Eyrecourt whom I knew. + </p> + <p> + “In a few months more, Winterfield,” she said, “my poor Stella will be a + mother. My letter calls Romayne back to his wife—<i>and his child.”</i> + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt paused, evidently expecting me to offer an opinion of some + sort. For the moment I was really unable to speak. Stella’s mother never + had a very high opinion of my abilities. She now appeared to consider me + the stupidest person in the circle of her acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a little deaf, Winterfield?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not that I know of.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you understand me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why can’t you say something? I want a man’s opinion of our + prospects. Good gracious, how you fidget! Put yourself in Romayne’s place, + and tell me this. If <i>you</i> had left Stella—” + </p> + <p> + “I should never have left her, Mrs. Eyrecourt.” + </p> + <p> + “Be quiet. You don’t know what you would have done. I insist on your + supposing yourself to be a weak, superstitious, conceited, fanatical fool. + You understand? Now, tell me, then. Could you keep away from your wife, + when you were called back to her in the name of your firstborn child? + Could you resist that?” + </p> + <p> + “Most assuredly not!” + </p> + <p> + I contrived to reply with an appearance of tranquillity. It was not very + easy to speak with composure. Envious, selfish, contemptible—no + language is too strong to describe the turn my thoughts now took. I never + hated any human being as I hated Romayne at that moment. “Damn him, he + will come back!” There was my inmost feeling expressed in words. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, Mrs. Eyrecourt was satisfied. She dashed at the next + subject as fluent and as confident as ever. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Winterfield, it is surely plain to your mind that you must not see + Stella again—except when I am present to tie the tongue of scandal. + My daughter’s conduct must not allow her husband—if you only knew + how I detest that man!—must not, I say, allow her husband the + slightest excuse for keeping away from her. If we give that odious old + Jesuit the chance, he will make a priest of Romayne before we know where + we are. The audacity of these Papists is really beyond belief. You + remember how they made Bishops and Archbishops here, in flat defiance of + our laws? Father Benwell follows that example, and sets our other laws at + defiance—I mean our marriage laws. I am so indignant I can’t express + myself as clearly as usual. Did Stella tell you that he actually shook + Romayne’s belief in his own marriage? Ah, I understand—she kept that + to herself, poor dear, and with good reason, too.” + </p> + <p> + I thought of the turned-down page in the letter. Mrs. Eyrecourt readily + revealed what her daughter’s delicacy had forbidden me to read—including + the monstrous assumption which connected my marriage before the registrar + with her son-in-law’s scruples. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she proceeded, “these Catholics are all alike. My daughter—I + don’t mean my sweet Stella; I mean the unnatural creature in the nunnery—sets + herself above her own mother. Did I ever tell you she was impudent enough + to say she would pray for me? Father Benwell and the Papal Aggression over + again! Now tell me, Winterfield, don’t you think, taking the circumstances + into consideration—that you will act like a thoroughly sensible man + if you go back to Devonshire while we are in our present situation? What + with foot-warmers in the carriage, and newspapers and magazines to amuse + you, it isn’t such a very long journey. And then Beaupark—dear + Beaupark—is such a remarkably comfortable house in the winter; and + you, you enviable creature, are such a popular man in the neighborhood. + Oh, go back! go back!” + </p> + <p> + I got up and took my hat. She patted me on the shoulder. I could have + throttled her at that moment. And yet she was right. + </p> + <p> + “You will make my excuses to Stella?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “You dear, good fellow, I will do more than make your excuses; I will sing + your praises—as the poet says.” In her ungovernable exultation at + having got rid of me, she burst into extravagant language. “I feel like a + mother to you,” she went on, as we shook hands at parting. “I declare I + could almost let you kiss me.” + </p> + <p> + There was not a single kissable place about Mrs. Eyrecourt, unpainted, + undyed, or unpowdered. I resisted temptation and opened the door. There + was still one last request that I could not help making. + </p> + <p> + “Will you let me know,” I said, “when you hear from Rome?” + </p> + <p> + “With the greatest pleasure,” Mrs. Eyrecourt answered, briskly. “Good-by, + you best of friends—good-by.” + </p> + <p> + I write these lines while the servant is packing my portmanteau. Traveler + knows what that means. My dog is glad, at any rate, to get away from + London. I think I shall hire a yacht, and try what a voyage round the + world will do for me. I wish to God I had never seen Stella! + </p> + <p> + Second Extract. + </p> + <p> + Beaupark, February 10.—News at last from Mrs. Eyrecourt. + </p> + <p> + Romayne has not even read the letter that she addressed to him—it + has actually been returned to her by Father Benwell. Mrs. Eyrecourt + writes, naturally enough, in a state of fury. Her one consolation, under + this insulting treatment, is that her daughter knows nothing of the + circumstances. She warns me (quite needlessly) to keep the secret—and + sends me a copy of Father Benwell’s letter: + </p> + <p> + “Dear Madam—Mr. Romayne can read nothing that diverts his attention + from his preparation for the priesthood, or that recalls past associations + with errors which he has renounced forever. When a letter reaches him, it + is his wise custom to look at the signature first. He has handed your + letter to me, <i>unread</i>—with a request that I will return it to + you. In his presence, I instantly sealed it up. Neither he nor I know, or + wish to know, on what subject you have addressed him. We respectfully + advise you not to write again.” + </p> + <p> + This is really too bad; but it has one advantage, so far as I am + concerned. It sets my own unworthy doubts and jealousies before me in a + baser light than ever. How honestly I defended Father Benwell! and how + completely he has deceived me! I wonder whether I shall live long enough + to see the Jesuit caught in one of his own traps? + </p> + <p> + 11th.—I was disappointed at not hearing from Stella, yesterday. This + morning has made amends; it has brought me a letter from her. + </p> + <p> + She is not well; and her mother’s conduct sadly perplexes her. At one + time, Mrs. Eyrecourt’s sense of injury urges her to indulge in violent + measures—she is eager to place her deserted daughter under the + protection of the law; to insist on a restitution of conjugal rights or on + a judicial separation. At another time she sinks into a state of abject + depression; declares that it is impossible for her, in Stella’s deplorable + situation, to face society; and recommends immediate retirement to some + place on the Continent in which they can live cheaply. This latter + suggestion Stella is not only ready, but eager, to adopt. She proves it by + asking for my advice, in a postscript; no doubt remembering the happy days + when I courted her in Paris, and the many foreign friends of mine who + called at our hotel. + </p> + <p> + The postscript gave me the excuse that I wanted. I knew perfectly well + that it would be better for me not to see her—and I went to London, + for the sole purpose of seeing her, by the first train. + </p> + <p> + London, February 12.—I found mother and daughter together in the + drawing-room. It was one of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s days of depression. Her + little twinkling eyes tried to cast on me a look of tragic reproach; she + shook her dyed head and said, “Oh. Winterfield, I didn’t think you would + have done this!—Stella, fetch me my smelling bottle.” + </p> + <p> + But Stella refused to take the hint. She almost brought the tears into my + eyes, she received me so kindly. If her mother had not been in the room—but + her mother <i>was</i> in the room; I had no other choice than to enter on + my business, as if I had been the family lawyer. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt began by reproving Stella for asking my advice, and then + assured me that she had no intention of leaving London. “How am I to get + rid of my house?” she asked, irritably enough. I knew that “her house” (as + she called it) was the furnished upper part of a house belonging to + another person, and that she could leave it at a short notice. But I said + nothing. I addressed myself to Stella. + </p> + <p> + “I have been thinking of two or three places which you might like,” I went + on. “The nearest place belongs to an old French gentleman and his wife. + They have no children, and they don’t let lodgings; but I believe they + would be glad to receive friends of mine, if their spare rooms are not + already occupied. They live at St. Germain—close to Paris.” + </p> + <p> + I looked at Mrs. Eyrecourt as I said those last words—I was as sly + as Father Benwell himself. Paris justified my confidence: the temptation + was too much for her. She not only gave way, but actually mentioned the + amount of rent which she could afford to pay. Stella whispered her thanks + to me as I went out. “My name is not mentioned, but my misfortune is + alluded to in the newspapers,” she said. “Well-meaning friends are calling + and condoling with me already. I shall die, if you don’t help me to get + away among strangers!” + </p> + <p> + I start for Paris by the mail train, to-night. + </p> + <p> + Paris, February 13.—It is evening. I have just returned from St. + Germain. Everything is settled—with more slyness on my part. I begin + to think I am a born Jesuit; there must have been some detestable sympathy + between Father Benwell and me. + </p> + <p> + My good friends, Monsieur and Madame Villeray, will be only too glad to + receive English ladies, known to me for many years. The spacious and + handsome first floor of their house (inherited from once wealthy ancestors + by Madame Villeray) can be got ready to receive Mrs. Eyrecourt and her + daughter in a week’s time. Our one difficulty related to the question of + money. Monsieur Villeray, living on a Government pension, was modestly + unwilling to ask terms; and I was too absolutely ignorant of the subject + to be of the slightest assistance to him. It ended in our appealing to a + house-agent at St. Germain. His estimate appeared to me to be quite + reasonable. But it exceeded the pecuniary limit mentioned by Mrs. + Eyrecourt. I had known the Villerays long enough to be in no danger of + offending them by proposing a secret arrangement which permitted me to pay + the difference. So that difficulty was got over in due course of time. + </p> + <p> + We went into the large garden at the back of the house, and there I + committed another act of duplicity. + </p> + <p> + In a nice sheltered corner I discovered one of those essentially French + buildings called a “pavilion,” a delightful little toy house of three + rooms. Another private arrangement made me the tenant of this place. + Madame Villeray smiled. “I bet you,” she said to me in her very best + English, “one of these ladies is in her fascinating first youth.” The good + lady little knows what a hopeless love affair mine is. I must see Stella + sometimes—I ask, and hope for, no more. Never have I felt how lonely + my life is, as I feel it now. + </p> + <p> + Third Extract. + </p> + <p> + London, March 1.—Stella and her mother have set forth on their + journey to St. Germain this morning, without allowing me, as I had hoped + and planned, to be their escort. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt set up the old objection of the claims of propriety. If + that were the only obstacle in my way, I should have set it aside by + following them to France. Where is the impropriety of my seeing Stella, as + her friend and brother—especially when I don’t live in the same + house with her, and when she has her mother, on one side, and Madame + Villeray, on the other, to take care of her? + </p> + <p> + No! the influence that keeps me away from St. Germain is the influence of + Stella herself. + </p> + <p> + “I will write to you often,” she said; “but I beg you, for my sake, not to + accompany us to France.” Her look and tone reduced me to obedience. Stupid + as I am I think (after what passed between me and her mother) I can guess + what she meant. + </p> + <p> + “Am I never to see you again?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I am hard and ungrateful?” she answered. “Do you doubt that + I shall be glad, more than glad, to see you, when—?” + </p> + <p> + She turned away from me and said no more. + </p> + <p> + It was time to take leave. We were under her mother’s superintendence; we + shook hands and that was all. + </p> + <p> + Matilda (Mrs. Eyrecourt’s maid) followed me downstairs to open the door. I + suppose I looked, as I felt, wretchedly enough. The good creature tried to + cheer me. “Don’t be anxious about them,” she said; “I am used to + traveling, sir—and I’ll take care of them.” She is a woman to be + thoroughly depended on, a faithful and attached servant. I made her a + little present at parting, and I asked her if she would write to me from + time to time. + </p> + <p> + Some people might consider this to be rather an undignified proceeding on + my part. I can only say it came naturally to me. I am not a dignified man; + and, when a person means kindly toward me, I don’t ask myself whether that + person is higher or lower, richer or poorer, than I am. We are, to my + mind, on the same level when the same sympathy unites us. Matilda was + sufficiently acquainted with all that had passed to foresee, as I did, + that there would be certain reservations in Stella’s letters to me. “You + shall have the whole truth from Me, sir, don’t doubt it,” she whispered. I + believed her. When my heart is sore, give me a woman for my friend. + Whether she is lady or lady’s-maid, she is equally precious to me. + </p> + <p> + Cowes, March 2.—I am in treaty with an agent for the hire of a + yacht. + </p> + <p> + I must do something, and go somewhere. Returning to Beaupark is out of the + question. People with tranquil minds can find pleasure in the society of + their country neighbors. I am a miserable creature, with a mind in a state + of incessant disturbance. Excellent fathers of families talking politics + to me; exemplary mothers of families offering me matrimonial opportunities + with their daughters—that is what society means, if I go back to + Devonshire. No. I will go for a cruise in the Mediterranean; and I will + take one friend with me whose company I never weary of—my dog. + </p> + <p> + The vessel is discovered—a fine schooner of three hundred tons, just + returned from a cruise to Madeira. The sailing-master and crew only ask + for a few days on shore. In that time the surveyor will have examined the + vessel, and the stores will be on board. + </p> + <p> + March 3.—I have written to Stella, with a list of addresses at which + letters will reach me; and I have sent another list to my faithful ally + the maid. When we leave Gibraltar, our course will be to Naples—thence + to Civita Vecchia, Leghorn, Genoa, Marseilles. From any of those places, I + am within easy traveling distance of St. Germain. + </p> + <p> + March 7. At Sea.—It is half-past six in the evening. We have just + passed the Eddystone Lighthouse, with the wind abeam. The log registers + ten knots an hour. + </p> + <p> + Fourth Extract. + </p> + <p> + <i>Naples, May</i> 10.—The fair promise at the beginning of my + voyage has not been fulfilled. Owing to contrary winds, storms, and delays + at Cadiz in repairing damages, we have only arrived at Naples this + evening. Under trying circumstances of all sorts, the yacht has behaved + admirably. A stouter and finer sea-boat never was built. + </p> + <p> + We are too late to find the post-office open. I shall send ashore for + letters the first thing tomorrow morning. My next movements will depend + entirely on the news I get from St. Germain. If I remain for any length of + time in these regions, I shall give my crew the holiday they have well + earned at Civita Vecchia. I am never weary of Rome—but I always did, + and always shall, dislike Naples. + </p> + <p> + May 11—. My plans are completely changed. I am annoyed and angry; + the further I get away from France, the better I shall be pleased. + </p> + <p> + I have heard from Stella, and heard from the maid. Both letters inform me + that the child is born, and that it is a boy. Do they expect me to feel + any interest in the boy? He is my worst enemy before he is out of his + long-clothes. + </p> + <p> + Stella writes kindly enough. Not a line in her letter, however, invites + me, or holds out the prospect of inviting me, to St. Germain. She refers + to her mother very briefly, merely informing me that Mrs. Eyrecourt is + well, and is already enjoying the gayeties of Paris. Three-fourths of the + letter are occupied with the baby. When I wrote to her I signed myself + “yours affectionately.” Stella signs “yours sincerely.” It is a trifle, I + daresay—but I feel it, for all that. + </p> + <p> + Matilda is faithful to her engagement; Matilda’s letter tells me the + truth. + </p> + <p> + “Since the birth of the baby,” she writes, “Mrs. Romayne has never once + mentioned your name; she can talk of nothing, and think of nothing, but + her child. I make every allowance, I hope, for a lady in her melancholy + situation. But I do think it is not very grateful to have quite forgotten + Mr. Winterfield, who has done so much for her, and who only asks to pass a + few hours of his day innocently in her society. Perhaps, being a single + woman, I write ignorantly about mothers and babies. But I have my + feelings; and (though I never liked Mr. Romayne) I feel for <i>you,</i> + sir—if you will forgive the familiarity. In my opinion this new + craze about the baby will wear out. He is already a cause of difference of + opinion. My good mistress, who possesses knowledge of the world, and a + kind heart as well, advises that Mr. Romayne should be informed of the + birth of a son and heir. Mrs. Eyrecourt says, most truly, that the hateful + old priest will get possession of Mr. Romayne’s property, to the prejudice + of the child, unless steps are taken to shame him into doing justice to + his own son. But Mrs. Romayne is as proud as Lucifer; she will not hear of + making the first advances, as she calls it. ‘The man who has deserted me,’ + she says, ‘has no heart to be touched either by wife or child.’ My + mistress does not agree with her. There have been hard words already, and + the nice old French gentleman and his wife try to make peace. You will + smile when I tell you that they offer sugar-plums as a sort of composing + gift. My mistress accepts the gift, and has been to the theater at Paris, + with Monsieur and Madame Villeray more than once already. To conclude, + sir, if I might venture to advise you, I should recommend trying the + effect on Mrs. R. of absence and silence.” + </p> + <p> + A most sensibly written letter. I shall certainly take Matilda’s advice. + My name is never mentioned by Stella—and not a day has passed + without my thinking of her! + </p> + <p> + Well, I suppose a man can harden his heart if he likes. Let me harden <i>my</i> + heart, and forget her. + </p> + <p> + The crew shall have three days ashore at Naples, and then we sail for + Alexandria. In that port the yacht will wait my return. I have not yet + visited the cataracts of the Nile; I have not yet seen the magnificent + mouse-colored women of Nubia. A tent in the desert, and a dusky daughter + of Nature to keep house for me—there is a new life for a man who is + weary of the vapid civilization of Europe! I shall begin by letting my + beard grow. + </p> + <p> + Fifth Extract. + </p> + <p> + Civita Vecchia, February 28, 1863.—Back again on the coast of Italy—after + an absence, at sea and ashore, of nine months! + </p> + <p> + What have my travels done for me? They have made me browner and thinner; + they have given me a more patient mind, and a taste for mild tobacco. Have + they helped me to forget Stella? Not the least in the world—I am + more eager than ever to see her again. When I look back at my diary I am + really ashamed of my own fretfulness and impatience. What miserable vanity + on my part to expect her to think of me, when she was absorbed in the + first cares and joys of maternity; especially sacred to her, poor soul, as + the one consolation of her melancholy life! I withdraw all that I wrote + about her—and from the bottom of my heart I forgive the baby. + </p> + <p> + Rome, March 1.—I have found my letters waiting for me at the office + of my banker. + </p> + <p> + The latest news from St. Germain is all that I could wish. In + acknowledging the receipt of my last letter from Cairo (I broke my rash + vow of silence when we got into port, after leaving Naples) Stella sends + me the long desired invitation. “Pray take care to return to us, dear + Bernard, before the first anniversary of my boy’s birthday, on the + twenty-seventh of March.” After those words she need feel no apprehension + of my being late at my appointment. Traveler—the dog has well + merited his name by this time—will have to bid good-by to the yacht + (which he loves), and journey homeward by the railway (which he hates). No + more risk of storms and delays for me. Good-by to the sea for one while. + </p> + <p> + I have sent the news of my safe return from the East, by telegraph. But I + must not be in too great a hurry to leave Rome, or I shall commit a + serious error—I shall disappoint Stella’s mother. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Eyrecourt writes to me earnestly, requesting, if I return by way of + Italy, that I will get her some information about Romayne. She is eager to + know whether they have made him a priest yet. I am also to discover, if I + can, what are his prospects—whether he is as miserable as he + deserves to be—whether he has been disappointed in his expectations, + and is likely to be brought back to his senses in that way—and, + above all, whether Father Benwell is still at Rome with him. My idea is + that Mrs. Eyrecourt has not given up her design of making Romayne + acquainted with the birth of his son. + </p> + <p> + The right person to apply to for information is evidently my banker. He + has been a resident in Rome for twenty years—but he is too busy a + man to be approached, by an idler like myself, in business hours. I have + asked him to dine with me to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + March 2.—My guest has just left me. I am afraid Mrs. Eyrecourt will + be sadly disappointed when she hears what I have to tell her. + </p> + <p> + The moment I mentioned Romayne’s name, the banker looked at me with an + expression of surprise. “The man most talked about in Rome,” he said; “I + wonder you have not heard of him already.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he a priest?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly! And, what is more, the ordinary preparations for the + priesthood were expressly shortened by high authority on his account. The + Pope takes the greatest interest in him; and as for the people, the + Italians have already nicknamed him ‘the young cardinal.’ Don’t suppose, + as some of our countrymen do, that he is indebted to his wealth for the + high position which he has already attained. His wealth is only one of the + minor influences in his favor. The truth is, he unites in himself two + opposite qualities, both of the greatest value to the Church, which are + very rarely found combined in the same man. He has already made a popular + reputation here, as a most eloquent and convincing preacher—” + </p> + <p> + “A preacher!” I exclaimed. “And a popular reputation! How do the Italians + understand him?” + </p> + <p> + The banker looked puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t they understand a man who addresses them in their own + language?” he said. “Romayne could speak Italian when he came here—and + since that time he has learned by constant practice to think in Italian. + While our Roman season lasts, he preaches alternately in Italian and in + English. But I was speaking of the two opposite accomplishments which this + remarkable man possesses. Out of the pulpit, he is capable of applying his + mind successfully to the political necessities of the Church. As I am + told, his intellect has had severe practical training, by means of + historical studies, in the past years of his life. Anyhow, in one of the + diplomatic difficulties here between the Church and the State, he wrote a + memorial on the subject, which the Cardinal-Secretary declared to be a + model of ability in applying the experience of the past to the need of the + present time. If he doesn’t wear himself out, his Italian nickname may + prove prophetically true. We may live to see the new convert, Cardinal + Romayne.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you acquainted with him yourself?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “No Englishman is acquainted with him,” the banker answered. “There is a + report of some romantic event in his life which has led to his leaving + England, and which makes him recoil from intercourse with his own nation. + Whether this is true or false, it is certain that the English in Rome find + him unapproachable. I have even heard that he refuses to receive letters + from England. If you wish to see him, you must do what I have done—you + must go to church and look at him in the pulpit. He preaches in English—I + think for the last time this season—on Thursday evening next. Shall + I call here and take you to the church?” + </p> + <p> + If I had followed my inclinations, I should have refused. I feel no sort + of interest in Romayne—I might even say I feel a downright antipathy + toward him. But I have no wish to appear insensible to the banker’s + kindness, and my reception at St. Germain depends greatly on the attention + I show to Mrs. Eyrecourt’s request. So it was arranged that I should hear + the great preacher—with a mental reservation on my part, which + contemplated my departure from the church before the end of his sermon. + </p> + <p> + But, before I see him, I feel assured of one thing—especially after + what the banker has told me. Stella’s view of his character is the right + one. The man who has deserted her has no heart to be touched by wife or + child. They are separated forever. + </p> + <p> + March 3.—I have just seen the landlord of the hotel; he can help me + to answer one of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s questions. A nephew of his holds some + employment at the Jesuit headquarters here, adjoining their famous church + <i>Il Gesu</i>. I have requested the young man to ascertain if Father + Benwell is still in Rome—without mentioning me. It would be no small + trial to my self-control if we met in the street. + </p> + <p> + March 4.—Good news this time for Mrs. Eyrecourt, as far as it goes. + Father Benwell has long since left Rome, and has returned to his regular + duties in England. If he exercises any further influence over Romayne, it + must be done by letter. + </p> + <p> + March 5.—I have returned from Romayne’s sermon. This double renegade—has + he not deserted his religion and his wife?—has failed to convince my + reason. But he has so completely upset my nerves that I ordered a bottle + of champagne (to the great amusement of my friend the banker) the moment + we got back to the hotel. + </p> + <p> + We drove through the scantily lighted streets of Rome to a small church in + the neighborhood of the Piazza Navona. To a more imaginative man than + myself, the scene when we entered the building would have been too + impressive to be described in words—though it might perhaps have + been painted. The one light in the place glimmered mysteriously from a + great wax candle, burning in front of a drapery of black cloth, and + illuminating dimly a sculptured representation, in white marble, of the + crucified Christ, wrought to the size of life. In front of this ghastly + emblem a platform projected, also covered with black cloth. We could + penetrate no further than to the space just inside the door of the church. + Everywhere else the building was filled with standing, sitting and + kneeling figures, shadowy and mysterious, fading away in far corners into + impenetrable gloom. The only sounds were the low, wailing notes of the + organ, accompanied at intervals by the muffled thump of fanatic worshipers + penitentially beating their breasts. On a sudden the organ ceased; the + self-inflicted blows of the penitents were heard no more. In the + breathless silence that followed, a man robed in black mounted the black + platform, and faced the congregation. His hair had become prematurely + gray; his face was of the ghastly paleness of the great crucifix at his + side. The light of the candle, falling on him as he slowly turned his + head, cast shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, and glittered in his + gleaming eyes. In tones low and trembling at first, he stated the subject + of his address. A week since, two noteworthy persons had died in Rome on + the same day. One of them was a woman of exemplary piety, whose funeral + obsequies had been celebrated in that church. The other was a criminal + charged with homicide under provocation, who had died in prison, refusing + the services of the priest—impenitent to the last. The sermon + followed the spirit of the absolved woman to its eternal reward in heaven, + and described the meeting with dear ones who had gone before, in terms so + devout and so touching that the women near us, and even some of the men, + burst into tears. Far different was the effect produced when the preacher, + filled with the same overpowering sincerity of belief which had inspired + his description of the joys of heaven, traced the downward progress of the + lost man, from his impenitent death-bed to his doom in hell. The dreadful + superstition of everlasting torment became doubly dreadful in the priest’s + fervent words. He described the retributive voices of the mother and the + brother of the murdered man ringing incessantly in the ears of the + homicide. “I, who speak to you, hear the voices,” he cried. “Assassin! + assassin! where are you? I see him—I see the assassin hurled into + his place in the sleepless ranks of the damned—I see him, dripping + with the flames that burn forever, writhing under the torments that are + without respite and without end.” The climax of this terrible effort of + imagination was reached when he fell on his knees and prayed with sobs and + cries of entreaty—prayed, pointing to the crucifix at his side—that + he and all who heard him might die the death of penitent sinners, absolved + in the divinely atoning name of Christ. The hysterical shrieks of women + rang through the church. I could endure it no longer. I hurried into the + street, and breathed again freely, when I looked up at the cloudless + beauty of the night sky, bright with the peaceful radiance of the stars. + </p> + <p> + And this man was Romayne! I had last met with him among his delightful + works of art; an enthusiast in literature; the hospitable master of a + house filled with comforts and luxuries to its remotest corner. And now I + had seen what Rome had made of him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said my companion, “the Ancient Church not only finds out the men + who can best serve it, but develops qualities in those men of which they + have been themselves unconscious. The advance which Roman Catholic + Christianity has been, and is still, making has its intelligible reason. + Thanks to the great Reformation, the papal scandals of past centuries have + been atoned for by the exemplary lives of servants of the Church, in high + places and low places alike. If a new Luther arose among us, where would + he now find abuses sufficiently wicked and widely spread to shock the + sense of decency in Christendom? He would find them nowhere—and he + would probably return to the respectable shelter of the Roman sheepfold.” + </p> + <p> + I listened, without making any remark. To tell the truth, I was thinking + of Stella. + </p> + <p> + March 6.—I have been to Civita Vecchia, to give a little farewell + entertainment to the officers and crew before they take the yacht back to + England. + </p> + <p> + In a few words I said at parting, I mentioned that it was my purpose to + make an offer for the purchase of the vessel, and that my guests should + hear from me again on the subject. This announcement was received with + enthusiasm. I really like my crew—and I don’t think it is vain in me + to believe that they return the feeling, from the sailing-master to the + cabin-boy. My future life, after all that has passed, is likely to be a + roving life, unless—No! I may think sometimes of that happier + prospect, but I had better not put my thoughts into words. I have a fine + vessel; I have plenty of money; and I like the sea. There are three good + reasons for buying the yacht. + </p> + <p> + Returning to Rome in the evening, I found waiting for me a letter from + Stella. + </p> + <p> + She writes (immediately on the receipt of my telegram) to make a similar + request to the request addressed to me by her mother. Now that I am at + Rome, she too wants to hear news of a Jesuit priest. He is absent on a + foreign mission, and his name is Penrose. “You shall hear what obligations + I owe to his kindness,” she writes, “when we meet. In the meantime, I will + only say that he is the exact opposite of Father Benwell, and that I + should be the most ungrateful of women if I did not feel the truest + interest in his welfare.” + </p> + <p> + This is strange, and, to my mind, not satisfactory. Who is Penrose? and + what has he done to deserve such strong expressions of gratitude? If + anybody had told me that Stella could make a friend of a Jesuit, I am + afraid I should have returned a rude answer. Well, I must wait for further + enlightenment, and apply to the landlord’s nephew once more. + </p> + <p> + March 7.—There is small prospect, I fear, of my being able to + appreciate the merits of Mr. Penrose by personal experience. He is + thousands of miles away from Europe, and he is in a situation of peril, + which makes the chance of his safe return doubtful in the last degree. + </p> + <p> + The Mission to which he is attached was originally destined to find its + field of work in Central America. Rumors of more fighting to come, in that + revolutionary part of the world, reached Rome before the missionaries had + sailed from the port of Leghorn. Under these discouraging circumstances, + the priestly authorities changed the destination of the Mission to the + territory of Arizona, bordering on New Mexico, and recently purchased by + the United States. Here, in the valley of Santa Cruz, the Jesuits had + first attempted the conversion of the Indian tribes two hundred years + since, and had failed. Their mission-house and chapel are now a heap of + ruins, and the ferocious Apache Indians keep the fertile valley a solitude + by the mere terror of their name. To this ill-omened place Penrose and his + companions have made their daring pilgrimage; and they are now risking + their lives in the attempt to open the hearts of these bloodthirsty + savages to the influence of Christianity. Nothing has been yet heard of + them. At the best, no trustworthy news is expected for months to come. + </p> + <p> + What will Stella say to this? Anyhow, I begin to understand her interest + in Penrose now. He is one of a company of heroes. I am already anxious to + hear more of him. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow will be a memorable day in my calendar. To-morrow I leave Rome + for St. Germain. + </p> + <p> + If any further information is to be gained for Mrs. Eyrecourt and her + daughter, I have made the necessary arrangements for receiving it. The + banker has promised to write to me, if there is a change in Romayne’s life + and prospects. And my landlord will take care that I hear of it, in the + event of news reaching Rome from the Mission at Arizona. + </p> + <p> + Sixth Extract. + </p> + <p> + St. Germain, March 14.—I arrived yesterday. Between the fatigue of + the journey and the pleasurable agitation caused by seeing Stella again, I + was unfit to make the customary entry in my diary when I retired for the + night. + </p> + <p> + She is more irresistibly beautiful than ever. Her figure (a little too + slender as I remember it) has filled out. Her lovely face has lost its + haggard, careworn look; her complexion has recovered its delicacy; I see + again in her eyes the pure serenity of expression which first fascinated + me, years since. It may be due to the consoling influence of the child—assisted, + perhaps, by the lapse of time and the peaceful life which she now leads—but + this at least is certain, such a change for the better I never could have + imagined as the change I find in Stella after a year’s absence. + </p> + <p> + As for the baby, he is a bright, good-humored little fellow; and he has + one great merit in my estimation—he bears no resemblance to his + father. I saw his mother’s features when I first took him on my knee, and + looked at his face, lifted to mine in grave surprise. The baby and I are + certain to get on well together. + </p> + <p> + Even Mrs. Eyrecourt seems to have improved in the French air, and under + the French diet. She has a better surface to lay the paint on; her nimble + tongue runs faster than ever; and she has so completely recovered her good + spirits, that Monsieur and Madame Villeray declare she must have French + blood in her veins. They were all so unaffectedly glad to see me (Matilda + included), that it was really like returning to one’s home. As for + Traveler, I must interfere (in the interests of his figure and his health) + to prevent everybody in the house from feeding him with every eatable + thing, from plain bread to <i>pate de foie gras.</i> + </p> + <p> + My experience of to-day will, as Stella tells me, be my general experience + of the family life at St. Germain. + </p> + <p> + We begin the morning with the customary cup of coffee. At eleven o’clock I + am summoned from my “pavilion” of three rooms to one of those delicious + and artfully varied breakfasts which are only to be found in France and in + Scotland. An interval of about three hours follows, during which the child + takes his airing and his siesta, and his elders occupy themselves as they + please. At three o’clock we all go out—with a pony chaise which + carries the weaker members of the household—for a ramble in the + forest. At six o’clock we assemble at the dinner-table. At coffee time, + some of the neighbors drop in for a game at cards. At ten, we all wish + each other good-night. + </p> + <p> + Such is the domestic programme, varied by excursions in the country and by + occasional visits to Paris. I am naturally a man of quiet stay-at-home + habits. It is only when my mind is disturbed that I get restless and feel + longings for change. Surely the quiet routine at St. Germain ought to be + welcome to me now? I have been looking forward to this life through a long + year of travel. What more can I wish for? + </p> + <p> + Nothing more, of course. + </p> + <p> + And yet—and yet—Stella has innocently made it harder than ever + to play the part of her “brother.” The recovery of her beauty is a subject + for congratulation to her mother and her friends. How does it affect Me? + </p> + <p> + I had better not think of my hard fate. Can I help thinking of it? Can I + dismiss from memory the unmerited misfortunes which have taken from me, in + the prime of her charms, the woman whom I love? At least I can try. + </p> + <p> + The good old moral must be <i>my</i> moral: “Be content with such things + as ye have.” + </p> + <p> + March 15.—It is eight in the morning—and I hardly know how to + employ myself. Having finished my coffee, I have just looked again at my + diary. + </p> + <p> + It strikes me that I am falling into a bad habit of writing too much about + myself. The custom of keeping a journal certainly has this drawback—it + encourages egotism. Well, the remedy is easy. From this date, I lock up my + book—only to open it again when some event has happened which has a + claim to be recorded for its own sake. As for myself and my feelings, they + have made their last appearance in these pages. + </p> + <p> + Seventh Extract. + </p> + <p> + June 7.—The occasion for opening my diary once more has presented + itself this morning. + </p> + <p> + News has reached me of Romayne, which is too important to be passed over + without notice. He has been appointed one of the Pope’s Chamberlains. It + is also reported, on good authority, that he will be attached to a Papal + embassy when a vacancy occurs. These honors, present and to come, seem to + remove him further than ever from the possibility of a return to his wife + and child. + </p> + <p> + June 8.—In regard to Romayne, Mrs. Eyrecourt seems to be of my + opinion. + </p> + <p> + Being in Paris to-day, at a morning concert, she there met with her old + friend, Doctor Wybrow. The famous physician is suffering from overwork, + and is on his way to Italy for a few months of rest and recreation. They + took a drive together, after the performance, in the Bois de Boulogne; and + Mrs. Eyrecourt opened her mind to the doctor, as freely as usual, on the + subject of Stella and the child. He entirely agreed (speaking in the + future interests of the boy) that precious time has been lost in informing + Romayne of the birth of an heir; and he has promised, no matter what + obstacles may be placed in his way, to make the announcement himself, when + he reaches Rome. + </p> + <p> + June 9.—Madame Villeray has been speaking to me confidentially on a + very delicate subject. + </p> + <p> + I am pledged to discontinue writing about myself. But in these private + pages I may note the substance of what my good friend said to me. If I + only look back often enough at this little record, I may gather the + resolution to profit by her advice. In brief, these were her words: + </p> + <p> + “Stella has spoken to me in confidence, since she met you accidentally in + the garden yesterday. She cannot be guilty of the poor affectation of + concealing what you must have already discovered for yourself. But she + prefers to say the words that must be said to you, through me. Her + husband’s conduct to her is an outrage that she can never forget. She now + looks back with sentiments of repulsion, which she dare not describe, to + that ‘love at first sight’ (as you call it in England), conceived on the + day when they first met—and she remembers regretfully that other + love, of years since, which was love of steadier and slower growth. To her + shame she confesses that she failed to set you the example of duty and + self-restraint when you two happened to be alone yesterday. She leaves it + to my discretion to tell you that you must see her for the future, always + in the presence of some other person. Make no reference to this when you + next meet; and understand that she has only spoken to me instead of to her + mother, because she fears that Mrs. Eyrecourt might use harsh words, and + distress you again, as she once distressed you in England. If you will + take my advice, you will ask permission to go away again on your travels.” + </p> + <p> + It matters nothing what I said in reply. Let me only relate that we were + interrupted by the appearance of the nursemaid at the pavilion door. + </p> + <p> + She led the child by the hand. Among his first efforts at speaking, under + his mother’s instruction, had been the effort to call me Uncle Bernard. He + had now got as far as the first syllable of my Christian name, and he had + come to me to repeat his lesson. Resting his little hands on my knees, he + looked up at me with his mother’s eyes, and said, “Uncle Ber’.” A trifling + incident, but, at that moment, it cut me to the heart. I could only take + the boy in my arms, and look at Madame Villeray. The good woman felt for + me. I saw tears in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + No! no more writing about myself. I close the book again. + </p> + <p> + Eighth Extract. + </p> + <p> + July 3.—A letter has reached Mrs. Eyrecourt this morning, from + Doctor Wybrow. It is dated, “Castel Gandolpho, near Rome.” Here the doctor + is established during the hot months—and here he has seen Romayne, + in attendance on the “Holy Father,” in the famous summer palace of the + Popes. How he obtained the interview Mrs. Eyrecourt is not informed. To a + man of his celebrity, doors are no doubt opened which remain closed to + persons less widely known. + </p> + <p> + “I have performed my promise,” he writes “and I may say for myself that I + spoke with every needful precaution. The result a little startled me. + Romayne was not merely unprepared to hear of the birth of his child—he + was physically and morally incapable of sustaining the shock of the + disclosure. For the moment, I thought he had been seized with a fit of + catalepsy. He moved, however, when I tried to take his hand to feel the + pulse—shrinking back in his chair, and feebly signing to me to leave + him. I committed him to the care of his servant. The next day I received a + letter from one of his priestly colleagues, informing me that he was + slowly recovering after the shock that I had inflicted, and requesting me + to hold no further communication with him, either personally or by letter. + I wish I could have sent you a more favorable report of my interference in + this painful matter. Perhaps you or your daughter may hear from him.” + </p> + <p> + July 4-9.—No letter has been received. Mrs. Eyrecourt is uneasy. + Stella, on the contrary, seems to be relieved. + </p> + <p> + July 10.—A letter has arrived from London, addressed to Stella by + Romayne’s English lawyers. The income which Mrs. Romayne has refused for + herself is to be legally settled on her child. Technical particulars + follow, which it is needless to repeat here. + </p> + <p> + By return of post, Stella has answered the lawyers, declaring that, so + long as she lives, and has any influence over her son, he shall not touch + the offered income. Mrs. Eyrecourt, Monsieur and Madame Villeray—and + even Matilda—entreated her not to send the letter. To my thinking, + Stella acted with becoming spirit. Though there is no entail, still Vange + Abbey is morally the boy’s birthright—it is a cruel wrong to offer + him anything else. + </p> + <p> + July 11.—For the second time I have proposed to leave St. Germain. + The presence of the third person, whenever I am in her company, is + becoming unendurable to me. She still uses her influence to defer my + departure. “Nobody sympathizes with me,” she said, “but you.” + </p> + <p> + I am failing to keep my promise to myself, not to write about myself. But + there is some little excuse this time. For the relief of my own + conscience, I may surely place it on record that I have tried to do what + is right. It is not my fault if I remain at St. Germain, insensible to + Madame Villeray’s warning. + </p> + <p> + Ninth Extract. + </p> + <p> + September 13.—Terrible news from Rome of the Jesuit Mission to + Arizona. + </p> + <p> + The Indians have made a night attack on the new mission-house. The + building is burned to the ground, and the missionaries have been massacred—with + the exception of two priests, carried away captive. The names of the + priests are not known. News of the atrocity has been delayed four months + on its way to Europe, owing partly to the civil war in the United States, + and partly to disturbances in Central America. + </p> + <p> + Looking at the <i>Times</i> (which we receive regularly at St. Germain), I + found this statement confirmed in a short paragraph—but here also + the names of the two prisoners failed to appear. + </p> + <p> + Our one present hope of getting any further information seems to me to + depend on our English newspaper. The <i>Times</i> stands alone as the one + public journal which has the whole English nation for volunteer + contributors. In their troubles at home, they appeal to the Editor. In + their travels abroad, over civilized and savage regions alike, if they + meet with an adventure worth mentioning they tell it to the Editor. If any + one of our countrymen knows anything of this dreadful massacre, I foresee + with certainty where we shall find the information in print. + </p> + <p> + Soon after my arrival here, Stella had told me of her memorable + conversation with Penrose in the garden at Ten Acres Lodge. I was well + acquainted with the nature of her obligation to the young priest, but I + was not prepared for the outbreak of grief which escaped her when she had + read the telegram from Rome. She actually went the length of saying, “I + shall never enjoy another happy moment till I know whether Penrose is one + of the two living priests!” + </p> + <p> + The inevitable third person with us, this morning, was Monsieur Villeray. + Sitting at the window with a book in his hand—sometimes reading, + sometimes looking at the garden with the eye of a fond horticulturist—he + discovered a strange cat among his flower beds. Forgetful of every other + consideration, the old gentleman hobbled out to drive away the intruder, + and left us together. + </p> + <p> + I spoke to Stella, in words which I would now give everything I possess to + recall. A detestable jealousy took possession of me. I meanly hinted that + Penrose could claim no great merit (in the matter of Romayne’s conversion) + for yielding to the entreaties of a beautiful woman who had fascinated + him, though he might be afraid to own it. She protested against my + unworthy insinuation—but she failed to make me ashamed of myself. Is + a woman ever ignorant of the influence which her beauty exercises over a + man? I went on, like the miserable creature that I was, from bad to worse. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me,” I said, “if I have unintentionally made you angry. I ought to + have known that I was treading on delicate ground. Your interest in + Penrose may be due to a warmer motive than a sense of obligation.” + </p> + <p> + She turned away from me—sadly, not angrily—intending, as it + appeared, to leave the room in silence. Arrived at the door, she altered + her mind, and came back. + </p> + <p> + “Even if you insult me, Bernard, I am not able to resent it,” she said, + very gently. “<i>I</i> once wronged <i>you</i>—I have no right to + complain of your now wronging me. I will try to forget it.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand. She raised her eyes—and looked at me. + </p> + <p> + It was not her fault; I alone am to blame. In another moment she was in my + arms. I held her to my breast—I felt the quick beating of her heart + on me—I poured out the wild confession of my sorrow, my shame, my + love—I tasted again and again and again the sweetness of her lips. + She put her arms round my neck and drew her head back with a long sigh. + “Be merciful to my weakness,” she whispered. “We must meet no more.” + </p> + <p> + She pushed me back from her, with a trembling hand, and left the room. + </p> + <p> + I have broken my resolution not to write about myself—but there is + no egotism, there is a sincere sense of humiliation in me, when I record + this confession of misconduct. I can make but one atonement—I must + at once leave St. Germain. Now, when it is too late, I feel how hard for + me this life of constant repression has been. + </p> + <p> + Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a little note, + addressed in pencil. No answer was required. + </p> + <p> + The few lines were in Stella’s handwriting: “You must not leave us too + suddenly, or you may excite my mother’s suspicions. Wait until you receive + letters from England, and make them the pretext for your departure.—S.” + </p> + <p> + I never thought of her mother. She is right. Even if she were wrong, I + must obey her. + </p> + <p> + September 14.—The letters from England have arrived. One of them + presents me with the necessary excuse for my departure, ready made. My + proposal for the purchase of the yacht is accepted. The sailing-master and + crew have refused all offers of engagement, and are waiting at Cowes for + my orders. Here is an absolute necessity for my return to England. + </p> + <p> + The newspaper arrived with the letters. My anticipations have been + realized. Yesterday’s paragraph has produced another volunteer + contributor. An Englishman just returned from Central America, after + traveling in Arizona, writes to the <i>Times.</i> He publishes his name + and address—and he declares that he has himself seen the two captive + priests. + </p> + <p> + The name of this correspondent carries its own guarantee with it. He is no + less a person than Mr. Murthwaite—the well-known traveler in India, + who discovered the lost diamond called “the Moonstone,” set in the + forehead of a Hindoo idol. He writes to the editor as follows: + </p> + <p> + “Sir—I can tell you something of the two Jesuit priests who were the + sole survivors of the massacre in the Santa Cruz Valley four months since. + </p> + <p> + “I was traveling at the time in Arizona, under the protection of an Apache + chief, bribed to show me his country and his nation (instead of cutting my + throat and tearing off my scalp) by a present tribute of whisky and + gunpowder, and by the promise of more when our association came to an end. + </p> + <p> + “About twelve miles northward of the little silver-mining town of Tubac we + came upon an Apache encampment. I at once discovered two white men among + the Indians. These were the captive priests. + </p> + <p> + “One of them was a Frenchman, named L’Herbier. The other was an + Englishman, named Penrose. They owed their lives to the influence of two + powerful considerations among the Indians. Unhappy L’Herbier lost his + senses under the horror of the night massacre. Insanity, as you may have + heard, is a sacred thing in the estimation of the American savages; they + regard this poor madman as a mysteriously inspired person The other + priest, Penrose, had been in charge of the mission medicine-chest, and had + successfully treated cases of illness among the Apaches. As a ‘great + medicine-man,’ he too is a privileged person—under the strong + protection of their interest in their own health. The lives of the + prisoners are in no danger, provided they can endure the hardship of their + wandering existence among the Indians. Penrose spoke to me with the + resignation of a true hero. ‘I am in the hands of God,’ he said; ‘and if I + die, I die in God’s service.’ + </p> + <p> + “I was entirely unprovided with the means of ransoming the missionaries—and + nothing that I could say, or that I could promise, had the smallest effect + on the savages. But for severe and tedious illness, I should long since + have been on my way back to Arizona with the necessary ransom. As it is, I + am barely strong enough to write this letter. But I can head a + subscription to pay expenses; and I can give instructions to any person + who is willing to attempt the deliverance of the priests.” + </p> + <p> + So the letter ended. + </p> + <p> + Before I had read it, I was at a loss to know where to go, or what to do, + when I leave St. Germain. I am now at no loss. I have found an object in + life, and a means of making atonement to Stella for my own ungracious and + unworthy words. Already I have communicated by telegraph with Mr. + Murthwaite and with my sailing-master. The first is informed that I hope + to be with him, in London, to-morrow morning. The second is instructed to + have the yacht fitted out immediately for a long voyage. If I can save + these men—especially Penrose—I shall not have lived in vain. + </p> + <p> + London, September 15.—No. I have resolution enough to go to Arizona, + but I have no courage to record the parting scene when it was time to say + good-by. + </p> + <p> + I had intended to keep the coming enterprise a secret, and only to make + the disclosure in writing when the vessel was ready to sail. But, after + reading the letter to the <i>Times,</i> Stella saw something in my face + (as I suppose) that betrayed me. Well, it’s over now. I do my best to keep + myself from thinking of it—and, for this reason, I abstain from + dwelling on the subject here. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Murthwaite has not only given me valuable instructions—he has + provided me with letters of introduction to persons in office, and to the + <i>padres</i> (or priests) in Mexico, which will be of incalculable use in + such an expedition as mine. In the present disturbed condition of the + United States, he recommends me to sail for a port on the eastern coast of + Mexico, and then to travel northward overland, and make my first inquiries + in Arizona at the town of Tubac. Time is of such importance, in his + opinion, that he suggests making inquiries in London and Liverpool for a + merchant vessel under immediate sailing orders for Vera Cruz or Tampico. + The fitting out of the yacht cannot be accomplished, I find, in less than + a fortnight or three weeks. I have therefore taken Mr. Murthwaite’s + advice. + </p> + <p> + September 16.—No favorable answer, so far as the port of London is + concerned. Very little commerce with Mexico, and bad harbors in that + country when you do trade. Such is the report. + </p> + <p> + September 17.—A Mexican brig has been discovered at Liverpool, under + orders for Vera Cruz. But the vessel is in debt, and the date of departure + depends on expected remittances! In this state of things I may wait, with + my conscience at ease, to sail in comfort on board my own schooner. + </p> + <p> + September 18-30.—I have settled my affairs; I have taken leave of my + friends (good. Mr. Murthwaite included); I have written cheerfully to + Stella; and I sail from Portsmouth to-morrow, well provided with the jars + of whisky and the kegs of gunpowder which will effect the release of the + captives. + </p> + <p> + It is strange, considering the serious matters I have to think of, but it + is also true, that I feel out of spirits at the prospect of leaving + England without my traveling companion, the dog. I am afraid to take the + dear old fellow with me, on such a perilous expedition as mine may be. + Stella takes care of him—and, if I don’t live to return, she will + never part with him, for his master’s sake. It implies a childish sort of + mind, I suppose—but it is a comfort to me to remember that I have + never said a hard word to Traveler, and never lifted my hand on him in + anger. + </p> + <p> + All this about a dog! And not a word about Stella? Not a word. <i>Those</i> + thoughts are not to be written. + </p> + <p> + I have reached the last page of my diary. I shall lock it, and leave it in + charge of my bankers, on my way to the Portsmouth train. Shall I ever want + a new diary? Superstitious people might associate this coming to the end + of the book with coming to an end of another kind. I have no imagination, + and I take my leap in the dark hopefully—with Byron’s glorious lines + in my mind: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here’s a sigh to those who love me, + And a smile to those that hate; + And whatever sky’s above met + Here’s heart for every fate.” + </pre> + <hr /> + <p> + (An inclosure is inserted here, marking a lapse of seven months, before + the entries in the diary are resumed. It consists of two telegrams, + dispatched respectively on the 1st and 2d of May, 1864.) + </p> + <p> + 1. “From Bernard Winterfield, Portsmouth, England. To Mrs. Romayne care of + M. Villeray, St. Germain, near Paris.—Penrose is safe on board my + yacht. His unfortunate companion has died of exhaustion, and he is himself + in a feeble state of health. I at once take him with me to London for + medical advice. We are eager for news of you. Telegraph to Derwent’s + Hotel.” + </p> + <p> + 2. “From Mrs. Eyrecourt, St. Germain. To Bernard Winterfield, Derwent’s + Hotel, London.—Your telegram received with joy, and sent on to + Stella in Paris. All well. But strange events have happened. If you cannot + come here at once, go to Lord Loring. He will tell you everything.” + </p> + <p> + Tenth Extract. + </p> + <p> + London, 2d May, 1864.—Mrs. Eyrecourt’s telegram reached me just + after Doctor Wybrow had paid his first professional visit to Penrose, at + the hotel. I had hardly time to feel relieved by the opinion of the case + which he expressed, before my mind was upset by Mrs. Eyrecourt. Leaving + Penrose under the charge of our excellent landlady, I hurried away to Lord + Loring. + </p> + <p> + It was still early in the day: his lordship was at home. He maddened me + with impatience by apologizing at full length for “the inexcusable manner + in which he had misinterpreted my conduct on the deplorable occasion of + the marriage ceremony at Brussels.” I stopped his flow of words (very + earnestly spoken, it is only right to add), and entreated him to tell me, + in the first place, what Stella was doing in Paris. + </p> + <p> + “Stella is with her husband,” Lord Loring replied. + </p> + <p> + My head turned giddy, my heart beat furiously. Lord Loring looked at me—ran + to the luncheon table in the next room—and returned with a glass of + wine. I really don’t know whether I drank the wine or not. I know I + stammered out another inquiry in one word. + </p> + <p> + “Reconciled?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mr. Winterfield—reconciled, before he dies.” + </p> + <p> + We were both silent for a while. + </p> + <p> + What was he thinking of? I don’t know. What was I thinking of? I daren’t + write it down. + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring resumed by expressing some anxiety on the subject of my + health. I made the best excuse for myself that I could, and told him of + the rescue of Penrose. He had heard of my object in leaving England, and + heartily congratulated me. “This will be welcome news indeed,” he said, + “to Father Benwell.” + </p> + <p> + Even the name of Father Benwell now excites my distrust. “Is <i>he</i> in + Paris too?” I inquired. + </p> + <p> + “He left Paris last night,” Lord Loring answered; “and he is now in + London, on important business (as I understand) connected with Romayne’s + affairs.” + </p> + <p> + I instantly thought of the boy. + </p> + <p> + “Is Romayne in possession of his faculties?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “In complete possession.” + </p> + <p> + “While justice is in his power, has he done justice to his son?” + </p> + <p> + Lord Loring looked a little confused. “I have not heard,” was all he said + in reply. + </p> + <p> + I was far from satisfied. “You are one of Romayne’s oldest friends,” I + persisted. “Have you not seen him yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “I have seen him more than once. But he has never referred to his + affairs.” Having said this he hastily changed the subject. “Is there any + other information that I can give you?” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + I had still to learn under what circumstances Romayne had left Italy for + France, and how the event of his illness in Paris had been communicated to + his wife. Lord Loring had only to draw on his own recollections to + enlighten me. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Loring and I passed the last winter in Rome,” he said. “And, there, + we saw Romayne. You look surprised. Perhaps you are aware that we had + offended him, by advice which we thought it our duty to offer to Stella + before her marriage?” + </p> + <p> + I was certainly thinking of what Stella had said of the Lorings on the + memorable day when she visited me at the hotel. + </p> + <p> + “Romayne would probably have refused to receive us,” Lord Loring resumed, + “but for the gratifying circumstance of my having been admitted to an + interview with the Pope. The Holy Father spoke of him with the most + condescending kindness; and, hearing that I had not yet seen him, gave + instructions, commanding Romayne to present himself. Under these + circumstances it was impossible for him to refuse to receive Lady Loring + and myself on a later occasion. I cannot tell you how distressed we were + at the sad change for the worse in his personal appearance. The Italian + physician, whom he occasionally consulted, told me that there was a + weakness in the action of his heart, produced, in the first instance, by + excessive study and the excitement of preaching, and aggravated by the + further drain on his strength due to insufficient nourishment. He would + eat and drink just enough to keep him alive, and no more; and he + persistently refused to try the good influence of rest and change of + scene. My wife, at a later interview with him, when they were alone, + induced him to throw aside the reserve which he had maintained with me, + and discovered another cause for the deterioration in his health. I don’t + refer to the return of a nervous misery, from which he has suffered at + intervals for years past; I speak of the effect produced on his mind by + the announcement—made no doubt with best intentions by Doctor Wybrow—of + the birth of his child. This disclosure (he was entirely ignorant of his + wife’s situation when he left her) appears to have affected him far more + seriously than the English doctor supposed. Lady Loring was so shocked at + what he said to her on the subject, that she has only repeated it to me + with a certain reserve. ‘If I could believe I did wrong,’ he said, ‘in + dedicating myself to the service of the Church, after the overthrow of my + domestic happiness, I should also believe that the birth of this child was + the retributive punishment of my sin, and the warning of my approaching + death. I dare not take this view. And yet I have it not in me, after the + solemn vows by which I am bound, to place any more consoling + interpretation on an event which, as a priest, it disturbs and humiliates + me even to think of.’ That one revelation of his tone of thought will tell + you what is the mental state of this unhappy man. He gave us little + encouragement to continue our friendly intercourse with him. It was only + when we were thinking of our return to England that we heard of his + appointment to the vacant place of first attache to the Embassy at Paris. + The Pope’s paternal anxiety on the subject of Romayne’s health had chosen + this wise and generous method of obliging him to try a salutary change of + air as well as a relaxation from his incessant employments in Rome. On the + occasion of his departure we met again. He looked like a worn-out old man. + We could now only remember his double claim on us—as a priest of our + religion, and as a once dear friend—and we arranged to travel with + him. The weather at the time was mild; our progress was made by easy + stages. We left him at Paris, apparently the better for his journey.” + </p> + <p> + I asked if they had seen Stella on that occasion. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Lord Loring. “We had reason to doubt whether Stella would be + pleased to see us, and we felt reluctant to meddle, unasked, with a matter + of extreme delicacy. I arranged with the Nuncio (whom I have the honor to + know) that we should receive written information of Romayne’s state of + health, and on that understanding we returned to England. A week since, + our news from the Embassy was so alarming that Lady Loring at once + returned to Paris. Her first letter informed me that she had felt it her + duty to tell Stella of the critical condition of Romayne’s health. She + expressed her sense of my wife’s kindness most gratefully and feelingly + and at once removed to Paris, to be on the spot if her husband expressed a + wish to see her. The two ladies are now staying at the same hotel. I have + thus far been detained in London by family affairs. But, unless I hear of + a change for the better before evening, I follow Lady Loring to Paris by + the mail train.” + </p> + <p> + It was needless to trespass further on Lord Loring’s time. I thanked him, + and returned to Penrose. He was sleeping when I got to the hotel. + </p> + <p> + On the table in the sitting-room I found a telegram waiting for me. It had + been sent by Stella, and it contained these lines: + </p> + <p> + “I have just returned from his bedside, after telling him of the rescue of + Penrose. He desires to see you. There is no positive suffering—he is + sinking under a complete prostration of the forces of life. That is what + the doctors tell me. They said, when I spoke of writing to you, ‘Send a + telegram; there is no time to lose.’” + </p> + <p> + Toward evening Penrose awoke. I showed him the telegram. Throughout our + voyage, the prospect of seeing Romayne again had been the uppermost + subject in his thoughts. In the extremity of his distress, he declared + that he would accompany me to Paris by the night train. Remembering how + severely he had felt the fatigue of the short railway journey from + Portsmouth, I entreated him to let me go alone. His devotion to Romayne + was not to be reasoned with. While we were still vainly trying to convince + each other, Doctor Wybrow came in. + </p> + <p> + To my amazement he sided with Penrose. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, get up by all means,” he said; “we will help you to dress.” We took + him out of bed and put on his dressing-gown. He thanked us; and saying he + would complete his toilet by himself, sat down in an easy chair. In + another moment he was asleep again, so soundly asleep that we put him back + in his bed without waking him. Doctor Wybrow had foreseen this result: he + looked at the poor fellow’s pale peaceful face with a kindly smile. + </p> + <p> + “There is the treatment,” he said, “that will set our patient on his legs + again. Sleeping, eating, and drinking—let that be his life for some + weeks to come, and he will be as good a man as ever. If your homeward + journey had been by land, Penrose would have died on the way. I will take + care of him while you are in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + At the station I met Lord Loring. He understood that I too had received + bad news, and gave me a place in the <i>coupe</i> carriage which had been + reserved for him. We had hardly taken our seats when we saw Father Benwell + among the travelers on the platform, accompanied by a gray-haired + gentleman who was a stranger to both of us. Lord Loring dislikes + strangers. Otherwise, I might have found myself traveling to Paris with + that detestable Jesuit for a companion. + </p> + <p> + Paris, May 3.—On our arrival at the hotel I was informed that no + message had yet been received from the Embassy. + </p> + <p> + We found Lady Loring alone at the breakfast-table, when we had rested + after our night journey. + </p> + <p> + “Romayne still lives,” she said. “But his voice has sunk to a whisper, and + he is unable to breathe if he tries to rest in bed. Stella has gone to the + Embassy; she hopes to see him to-day for the second time.” + </p> + <p> + “Only for the second time!” I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “You forget, Mr. Winterfield, that Romayne is a priest. He was only + consecrated on the customary condition of an absolute separation from his + wife. On her side—never let her know that I told you this—Stella + signed a formal document, sent from Rome, asserting that she consented of + her own free will to the separation. She was relieved from the performance + of another formality (which I need not mention more particularly) by a + special dispensation. Under these circumstances—communicated to me + while Stella and I have been together in this house—the wife’s + presence at the bedside of her dying husband is regarded by the other + priests at the Embassy as a scandal and a profanation. The kind-hearted + Nuncio is blamed for having exceeded his powers in yielding (even under + protest) to the last wishes of a dying man. He is now in communication + with Rome, waiting for the final instructions which are to guide him.” + </p> + <p> + “Has Romayne seen his child?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Stella has taken the child with her to-day. It is doubtful in the last + degree whether the poor little boy will be allowed to enter his father’s + room. <i>That</i> complication is even more serious than the other. The + dying Romayne persists in his resolution to see the child. So completely + has his way of thinking been altered by the approach of death, and by the + closing of the brilliant prospect which was before him, that he even + threatens to recant, with his last breath, if his wishes are not complied + with. How it will end I cannot even venture to guess. + </p> + <p> + “Unless the merciful course taken by the Nuncio is confirmed,” said Lord + Loring, “it may end in a revival of the protest of the Catholic priests in + Germany against the prohibition of marriage to the clergy. The movement + began in Silesia in 1826, and was followed by unions (or Leagues, as we + should call them now) in Baden, Wurtemburg, Bavaria, and Rhenish Prussia. + Later still, the agitation spread to France and Austria. It was only + checked by a papal bull issued in 1847, reiterating the final decision of + the famous Council of Trent in favor of the celibacy of the priesthood. + Few people are aware that this rule has been an institution of slow growth + among the clergy of the Church of Rome. Even as late as the twelfth + century, there were still priests who set the prohibition of marriage at + defiance.” + </p> + <p> + I listened, as one of the many ignorant persons alluded to by Lord Loring. + It was with difficulty that I fixed my attention on what he was saying. My + thoughts wandered to Stella and to the dying man. I looked at the clock. + </p> + <p> + Lady Loring evidently shared the feeling of suspense that had got + possession of me. She rose and walked to the window. + </p> + <p> + “Here is the message!” she said, recognizing her traveling servant as he + entered the hotel door. + </p> + <p> + The man appeared, with a line written on a card. I was requested to + present the card at the Embassy, without delay. + </p> + <p> + May 4.—I am only now able to continue my record of the events of + yesterday. + </p> + <p> + A silent servant received me at the Embassy, looked at the card, and led + the way to an upper floor of the house. Arrived at the end of a long + passage, he opened a door, and retired. + </p> + <p> + As I crossed the threshold Stella met me. She took both my hands in hers + and looked at me in silence. All that was true and good and noble + expressed itself in that look. + </p> + <p> + The interval passed, and she spoke—very sadly, very quietly. + </p> + <p> + “One more work of mercy, Bernard. Help him to die with a heart at rest.” + </p> + <p> + She drew back—and I approached him. + </p> + <p> + He reclined, propped up with pillows, in a large easy-chair; it was the + one position in which he could still breathe with freedom. The ashy shades + of death were on his wasted face. In the eyes alone, as they slowly turned + on me, there still glimmered the waning light of life. One of his arms + hung down over the chair; the other was clasped round his child, sitting + on his knee. The boy looked at me wonderingly, as I stood by his father. + Romayne signed to me to stoop, so that I might hear him. + </p> + <p> + “Penrose?” he asked, faintly whispering. “Dear Arthur! Not dying, like + me?” + </p> + <p> + I quieted <i>that</i> anxiety. For a moment there was even the shadow of a + smile on his face, as I told him of the effort that Penrose had vainly + made to be the companion of my journey. He asked me, by another gesture, + to bend my ear to him once more. + </p> + <p> + “My last grateful blessing to Penrose. And to you. May I not say it? You + have saved Arthur”—his eyes turned toward Stella—“you have + been <i>her</i> best friend.” He paused to recover his feeble breath; + looking round the large room, without a creature in it but ourselves. Once + more the melancholy shadow of a smile passed over his face—and + vanished. I listened, nearer to him still. + </p> + <p> + “Christ took a child on His knee. The priests call themselves ministers of + Christ. They have left me, because of <i>this</i> child, here on my knee. + Wrong, wrong, wrong. Winterfield, Death is a great teacher. I know how I + have erred—what I have lost. Wife and child. How poor and barren all + the rest of it looks now!” + </p> + <p> + He was silent for a while. Was he thinking? No: he seemed to be listening—and + yet there was no sound in the room. Stella, anxiously watching him, saw + the listening expression as I did. Her face showed anxiety, but no + surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Does it torture you still?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said; “I have never heard it plainly, since I left Rome. It has + grown fainter and fainter from that time. It is not a Voice now. It is + hardly a whisper: my repentance is accepted, my release is coming.—Where + is Winterfield?” + </p> + <p> + She pointed to me. + </p> + <p> + “I spoke of Rome just now. What did Rome remind me of?” He slowly + recovered the lost recollection. “Tell Winterfield,” he whispered to + Stella, “what the Nuncio said when he knew that I was going to die. The + great man reckoned up the dignities that might have been mine if I had + lived. From my place here in the Embassy—” + </p> + <p> + “Let me say it,” she gently interposed, “and spare your strength for + better things. From your place in the Embassy you would have mounted a + step higher to the office of Vice-Legate. Those duties wisely performed, + another rise to the Auditorship of the Apostolic Chamber. That office + filled, a last step upward to the highest rank left, the rank of a Prince + of the Church.” + </p> + <p> + “All vanity!” said the dying Romayne. He looked at his wife and his child. + “The true happiness was waiting for me here. And I only know it now. Too + late. Too late.” + </p> + <p> + He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his weary eyes. We thought + he was composing himself to sleep. Stella tried to relieve him of the boy. + “No,” he whispered; “I am only resting my eyes to look at him again.” We + waited. The child stared at me, in infantine curiosity. His mother knelt + at his side, and whispered in his ear. A bright smile irradiated his face; + his clear brown eyes sparkled; he repeated the forgotten lesson of the + bygone time, and called me once more, “Uncle Ber’.” + </p> + <p> + Romayne heard it. His heavy eyelids opened again. “No,” he said. “Not + uncle. Something better and dearer. Stella, give me your hand.” + </p> + <p> + Still kneeling, she obeyed him. He slowly raised himself on the chair. + “Take her hand,” he said to me. I too knelt. Her hand lay cold in mine. + After a long interval he spoke to me. “Bernard Winterfield,” he said, + “love them, and help them, when I am gone.” He laid his weak hand on our + hands, clasped together. “May God protect you! may God bless you!” he + murmured. “Kiss me, Stella.” + </p> + <p> + I remember no more. As a man, I ought to have set a better example; I + ought to have preserved my self-control. It was not to be done. I turned + away from them—and burst out crying. + </p> + <p> + The minutes passed. Many minutes or few minutes, I don’t know which. + </p> + <p> + A soft knock at the door aroused me. I dashed away the useless tears. + Stella had retired to the further end of the room. She was sitting by the + fireside, with the child in her arms. I withdrew to the same part of the + room, keeping far enough away not to disturb them. + </p> + <p> + Two strangers came in and placed themselves on either side of Romayne’s + chair. He seemed to recognize them unwillingly. From the manner in which + they examined him, I inferred that they were medical men. After a + consultation in low tones, one of them went out. + </p> + <p> + He returned again almost immediately, followed by the gray-headed + gentleman whom I had noticed on the journey to Paris—and by Father + Benwell. + </p> + <p> + The Jesuit’s vigilant eyes discovered us instantly, in our place near the + fireside. I thought I saw suspicion as well as surprise in his face. But + he recovered himself so rapidly that I could not feel sure. He bowed to + Stella. She made no return; she looked as if she had not even seen him. + </p> + <p> + One of the doctors was an Englishman. He said to Father Benwell: “Whatever + your business may be with Mr. Romayne, we advise you to enter on it + without delay. Shall we leave the room?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” Father Benwell answered. “The more witnesses are present, + the more relieved I shall feel.” He turned to his traveling companion. + “Let Mr. Romayne’s lawyer,” he resumed, “state what our business is.” + </p> + <p> + The gray-headed gentleman stepped forward. + </p> + <p> + “Are you able to attend to me, sir?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Romayne, reclining in his chair, apparently lost to all interest in what + was going on, heard and answered. The weak tones of his voice failed to + reach my ear at the other end of the room. The lawyer, seeming to be + satisfied so far, put a formal question to the doctors next. He inquired + if Mr. Romayne was in full possession of his faculties. + </p> + <p> + Both the physicians answered without hesitation in the affirmative. Father + Benwell added <i>his</i> attestation. “Throughout Mr. Romayne’s illness,” + he said firmly, “his mind has been as clear as mine is.” + </p> + <p> + While this was going on, the child had slipped off his mother’s lap, with + the natural restlessness of his age. He walked to the fireplace and + stopped—fascinated by the bright red glow of the embers of burning + wood. In one corner of the low fender lay a loose little bundle of sticks, + left there in case the fire might need relighting. The boy, noticing the + bundle, took out one of the sticks and threw it experimentally into the + grate. The flash of flame, as the stick caught fire, delighted him. He + went on burning stick after stick. The new game kept him quiet: his mother + was content to be on the watch, to see that no harm was done. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, the lawyer briefly stated his case. + </p> + <p> + “You remember, Mr. Romayne, that your will was placed, for safe keeping, + in our office,” he began. “Father Benwell called upon us, and presented an + order, signed by yourself, authorizing him to convey the will from London + to Paris. The object was to obtain your signature to a codicil, which had + been considered a necessary addition to secure the validity of the will.—Are + you favoring me with your attention, sir?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne answered by a slight bending of his head. His eyes were fixed on + the boy—still absorbed in throwing his sticks, one by one, into the + fire. + </p> + <p> + “At the time when your will was executed,” the lawyer went on, “Father + Benwell obtained your permission to take a copy of it. Hearing of your + illness, he submitted the copy to a high legal authority. The written + opinion of this competent person declares the clause, bequeathing the + Vange estate to Father Benwell, to be so imperfectly expressed, that the + will might be made a subject of litigation after the testator’s death. He + has accordingly appended a form of codicil amending the defect, and we + have added it to the will. I thought it my duty, as one of your legal + advisers, to accompany Father Benwell on his return to Paris in charge of + the will—in case you might feel disposed to make any alteration.” He + looked toward Stella and the child as he completed that sentence. The + Jesuit’s keen eyes took the same direction. “Shall I read the will, sir?” + the lawyer resumed; “or would you prefer to look at it yourself?” + </p> + <p> + Romayne held out his hand for the will, in silence. He was still watching + his son. There were but few more sticks now left to be thrown in the fire. + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell interfered, for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “One word, Mr. Romayne, before you examine that document,” he said. “The + Church receives back from you (through me) the property which was once its + own. Beyond that it authorizes and even desires you to make any changes + which you or your trusted legal adviser may think right. I refer to the + clauses of the will which relate to the property you have inherited from + the late Lady Berrick—and I beg the persons present to bear in + memory the few plain words that I have now spoken.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed with dignity and drew back. Even the lawyer was favorably + impressed. The doctors looked at each other with silent approval. For the + first time, the sad repose of Stella’s face was disturbed—I could + see that it cost her an effort to repress her indignation. The one unmoved + person was Romayne. The sheet of paper on which the will was written lay + unregarded upon his lap; his eyes were still riveted on the little figure + at the fireplace. + </p> + <p> + The child had thrown his last stick into the glowing red embers. He looked + about him for a fresh supply, and found nothing. His fresh young voice + rose high through the silence of the room. + </p> + <p> + “More!” he cried. “More!” + </p> + <p> + His mother held up a warning finger. “Hush!” she whispered. He shrank away + from her as she tried to take him on her knee, and looked across the room + at his father. “More!” he burst out louder than ever. Romayne beckoned to + me, and pointed to the boy. + </p> + <p> + I led him across the room. He was quite willing to go with me—he + reiterated his petition, standing at his father’s knees. + </p> + <p> + “Lift him to me,” said Romayne. + </p> + <p> + I could barely hear the words: even his strength to whisper seemed to be + fast leaving him. He kissed his son—with a panting fatigue under + that trifling exertion, pitiable to see. As I placed the boy on his feet + again, he looked up at his dying father, with the one idea still in his + mind. + </p> + <p> + “More, papa! More!” + </p> + <p> + Romayne put the will into his hand. + </p> + <p> + The child’s eyes sparkled. “Burn?” he asked, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” + </p> + <p> + Father Benwell sprang forward with outstretched hands. I stopped him. He + struggled with me. I forgot the privilege of the black robe. I took him by + the throat. + </p> + <p> + The boy threw the will into the fire. “Oh!” he shouted, in high delight, + and clapped his chubby hands as the bright little blaze flew up the + chimney. I released the priest. + </p> + <p> + In a frenzy of rage and despair, he looked round at the persons in the + room. “I take you all to witness,” he cried; “this is an act of madness!” + </p> + <p> + “You yourself declared just now,” said the lawyer, “that Mr. Romayne was + in perfect possession of his faculties.” + </p> + <p> + The baffled Jesuit turned furiously on the dying man. They looked at each + other. + </p> + <p> + For one awful moment Romayne’s eyes brightened, Romayne’s voice rallied + its power, as if life was returning to him. Frowning darkly, the priest + put his question. + </p> + <p> + “What did you do it for?” + </p> + <p> + Quietly and firmly the answer came: + </p> + <p> + “Wife and child.” + </p> + <p> + The last long-drawn sigh rose and fell. With those sacred words on his + lips, Romayne died. + </p> + <p> + London, 6th May.—At Stella’s request, I have returned to Penrose—with + but one fellow-traveler. My dear old companion, the dog, is coiled up, + fast asleep at my feet, while I write these lines. Penrose has gained + strength enough to keep me company in the sitting-room. In a few days more + he will see Stella again. + </p> + <p> + What instructions reached the Embassy from Rome—whether Romayne + received the last sacrament at the earlier period of his illness—we + never heard. No objection was made, when Lord Loring proposed to remove + the body to England, to be buried in the family vault at Vange Abbey. + </p> + <p> + I had undertaken to give the necessary directions for the funeral, on my + arrival in London. Returning to the hotel, I met Father Benwell in the + street. I tried to pass on. He deliberately stopped me. + </p> + <p> + “How is Mrs. Romayne?” he asked, with that infernal suavity which he seems + always to have at command. “Fairly well I hope? And the boy? Ah, he little + thought how he was changing his prospects for the better, when he made + that blaze in the fire! Pardon me, Mr. Winterfield, you don’t seem to be + quite so cordial as usual. Perhaps you are thinking of your inconsiderate + assault on my throat? Let us forgive and forget. Or, perhaps, you object + to my having converted poor Romayne, and to my being ready to accept from + him the restoration of the property of the Church. In both cases I only + did my duty as a priest. You are a liberal-minded man. Surely I deserve a + favorable construction of my conduct?” + </p> + <p> + I really could not endure this. “I have my own opinion of what you + deserve,” I answered. “Don’t provoke me to mention it.” + </p> + <p> + He eyed me with a sinister smile. + </p> + <p> + “I am not so old as I look,” he said; “I may live another twenty years!” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he answered, “much may happen in twenty years!” + </p> + <p> + With that he left me. If he means any further mischief, I can tell him + this—he will find Me in his way. + </p> + <p> + To turn to a more pleasant subject. Reflecting on all that had passed at + my memorable interview with Romayne, I felt some surprise that one of the + persons present had made no effort to prevent the burning of the will. It + was not to be expected of Stella—or of the doctors, who had no + interest in the matter—but I was unable to understand the passive + position maintained by the lawyer. He enlightened my ignorance in two + words. + </p> + <p> + “The Vange property and the Berrick property were both absolutely at the + disposal of Mr. Romayne,” he said. “If he died without leaving a will, he + knew enough of the law to foresee that houses, lands, and money would go + to his ‘nearest of kin.’ In plainer words, his widow and his son.” + </p> + <p> + When Penrose can travel, he accompanies me to Beaupark. Stella and her + little son and Mrs. Eyrecourt will be the only other guests in my house. + Time must pass, and the boy will be older, before I may remind Stella of + Romayne’s last wishes on that sad morning when we two knelt on either side + of him. In the meanwhile, it is almost happiness enough for me to look + forward to the day— + </p> + <p> + NOTE.—The next leaf of the Diary is missing. By some accident, a + manuscript page has got into its place, bearing a later date, and + containing elaborate instructions for executing a design for a wedding + dress. The handwriting has since been acknowledged as her own, by no less + a person than—Mrs. Eyrecourt.<br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Black Robe, by Wilkie Collins + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK ROBE *** + +***** This file should be named 1587-h.htm or 1587-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/8/1587/ + +Produced by James Rusk and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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