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+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
+
+
+
+
+
+THE BLACK ROBE
+
+by Wilkie Collins
+
+
+
+
+BEFORE THE STORY.
+
+
+
+
+FIRST SCENE.--BOULOGNE-SUR-MER.--THE DUEL.
+
+I.
+
+THE doctors could do no more for the Dowager Lady Berrick.
+
+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.
+
+“What brings you to London at this time of year?” I asked.
+
+“The fatality that pursues me,” he answered grimly. “I am one of the
+unluckiest men living.”
+
+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:
+
+“I wish to heaven I could change places with you!”
+
+“I wish to heaven you could!” he burst out, with equal sincerity on his
+side. “Read that.”
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+He never even thanked me. He was thinking entirely of himself.
+
+“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?”
+
+He spoke in a tone of vehement irritation which seemed to me, under the
+circumstances, to be simply absurd. But _my_ 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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+II.
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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 _our_ 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?”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“A visitor to Boulogne?” I inquired.
+
+“Not exactly.”
+
+“A resident?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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?”
+
+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.”
+
+“Are we going to dine with Captain Peterkin?”
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+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?
+
+III.
+
+THE moment we were introduced to the drawing-room, my suspicions of the
+company we were likely to meet with were fully confirmed.
+
+“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.
+
+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.
+
+“We have had enough of this,” I whispered to Romayne in English. “Let us
+go.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Does this mean, gentlemen, that you distrust the company?” he asked.
+
+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.
+
+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 _me_.” 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.
+
+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.
+
+“And brave men,” the Commander added, admiring the General.
+
+“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.
+
+“Nobly spoken!” the Commander pronounced. The General put his hand on
+his heart and bowed. The game began.
+
+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.
+
+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,
+_and_--five francs.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+IV.
+
+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.”
+
+The next day the seconds appeared.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+In this emergency, as I understood it, there was but one course to
+follow. I refused to receive the challenge.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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 _two_ gentlemen,
+acting on Mr. Romayne’s behalf. Be prepared with another second to meet
+us, and reconsider your decision before we call again.”
+
+The Frenchmen had barely taken their departure by one door, when Romayne
+entered by another.
+
+“I have heard it all,” he said, quietly. “Accept the challenge.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+After this, I suppose it is needless to add that I accompanied him to
+the ground the next morning as one of his seconds.
+
+V.
+
+WE were punctual to the appointed hour--eight o’clock.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+“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.
+
+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.
+
+The signal was given, and the two shots were fired at the same time.
+
+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.
+
+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 _me_ to inquire,” he said.
+Romayne tried to follow; I held him back--we neither of us exchanged a
+word.
+
+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 _we_ 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.
+
+We waited at the hotel until our French friend joined us. After a brief
+interval he appeared, announcing that the surgeon would follow him.
+
+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.
+
+So far, our fears were confirmed. But there was something else to tell,
+for which our worst presentiments had not prepared us.
+
+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.
+
+We both looked at Romayne. He silently looked back at us, like a man
+turned to stone. I tried to reason with him.
+
+“Your life was at your opponent’s mercy,” I said. “It was _he_ 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.”
+
+“Never,” he said, “to the end of my life.”
+
+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.
+
+“Your friend is suffering from a severe nervous shock,” he said. “Can
+you tell me anything of his habits of life?”
+
+I mentioned the prolonged night studies and the excessive use of tea.
+The surgeon shook his head.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“Do you know that charming person?” I asked.
+
+“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.”
+
+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?
+
+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.
+
+“Excuse me for disturbing you,” she said; “I think your friend wants
+you.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“What do you hear there?” he asked.
+
+“I hear the thump of the engines.”
+
+“Nothing else?”
+
+“Nothing. What do _you_ hear?”
+
+He suddenly turned away.
+
+“I’ll tell you,” he said, “when we get on shore.”
+
+
+
+
+SECOND SCENE.--VANGE ABBEY.--THE FOREWARNINGS
+
+VI.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“The horror of having killed that man,” he said, “is more than I can
+bear alone. For God’s sake, don’t leave me!”
+
+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.
+
+“We were looking into the engine-room,” I said; “and you asked me what I
+heard there. You promised to tell me what _you_ heard, as soon as we got
+on shore--”
+
+He stopped me, before I could say more.
+
+“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--”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+The next morning the deferred explanation was put off again.
+
+“Do you mind waiting a little longer?” he asked.
+
+“Not if you particularly wish it.”
+
+“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.
+
+“Since I found you looking into the engine-room?” I asked.
+
+“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.”
+
+In an hour more we had left London.
+
+VII.
+
+VANGE ABBEY is, I suppose, the most solitary country house in England.
+If Romayne wanted quiet, it was exactly the place for him.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“Are you cold?” I asked.
+
+“No.” He reconsidered that brief answer, and contradicted himself.
+“Yes--the library fire has burned low, I suppose.”
+
+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.
+
+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?
+
+After an interval, he abruptly addressed me. “Do you call it a quiet
+night?” he said.
+
+“As quiet as quiet can be,” I replied. “The wind has dropped--and even
+the fire doesn’t crackle. Perfect stillness indoors and out.”
+
+“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.
+
+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.
+
+The old butler came in. He looked in blank amazement at the empty chair.
+“Where’s the master?” he asked.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.”
+
+Although not of the north country myself, I knew the meaning of the
+phrase. Garthwaite suspected that the master was nothing less than mad!
+
+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.
+
+“You left the table very suddenly,” I said. “Did you feel ill?”
+
+“Not ill,” he replied. “I was frightened. Look at me--I’m frightened
+still.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+Instead of answering, he repeated the strange question which he had put
+to me downstairs.
+
+“Do you call it a quiet night?”
+
+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.
+
+“I have told you already,” I said. “So still a night I never remember on
+this Yorkshire moor.”
+
+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?”
+
+“I won’t encourage you to think of them. I refuse to repeat the words.”
+
+He pointed over the northward parapet.
+
+“It doesn’t matter whether you accept or refuse,” he said, “I hear the
+boy at this moment--there!”
+
+He repeated the horrid words--marking the pauses in the utterance of
+them with his finger, as if they were sounds that he heard:
+
+“Assassin! Assassin! where are you?”
+
+“Good God!” I cried. “You don’t mean that you really _hear_ the voice?”
+
+“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. _That_
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Was it the boy’s voice that you heard on the voyage across the
+Channel?” I asked.
+
+“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.”
+
+“And when did you hear it again?”
+
+“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 _has_ 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?”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“When you hear the boy’s voice,” I asked, “do you hear it continuously?”
+
+“No, at intervals; sometimes longer, sometimes shorter.”
+
+“And thus far, it comes to you suddenly, and leaves you suddenly?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Do my questions annoy you?”
+
+“I make no complaint,” he said sadly. “You can see for yourself--I
+patiently suffer the punishment that I have deserved.”
+
+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.”
+
+This expression of opinion produced no effect on him.
+
+“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. _He_
+had the mark set on his brow. I have _my_ ordeal. Delude yourself,
+if you like, with false hopes. I can endure--and hope for nothing.
+Good-night.”
+
+VIII.
+
+EARLY the next morning, the good old butler came to me, in great
+perturbation, for a word of advice.
+
+“Do come, sir, and look at the master! I can’t find it in my heart to
+wake him.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+I ventured, on my side, to inquire what the question might be.
+
+“Mr. Romayne is indeed fortunate,” he resumed, “in the possession of
+this beautiful place. He is a young man, I think?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Is he married?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Excuse my curiosity. The owner of Vange Abbey is an interesting person
+to all good antiquaries like myself. Many thanks again. Good-day.”
+
+His pony-chaise took him away. His last look rested--not on me--but on
+the old Abbey.
+
+IX.
+
+MY record of events approaches its conclusion.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Reading this letter aloud to Romayne, I was interrupted by him at the
+last sentence.
+
+“The inquiries must have been carelessly made,” he said. “I will see to
+it myself.”
+
+“What interest can you have in the inquiries?” I exclaimed.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+X.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+Lord Loring smiled. “My dear sir, nothing of that sort is incurable, if
+we can only find the right woman.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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!
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+JOHN PHILIP HYND, (late Major, 110th Regiment).
+
+
+
+
+THE STORY.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK THE FIRST.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+THE CONFIDENCES.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“Nothing interesting this morning for me,” she said. “Any news of your
+mother, Stella?”
+
+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.”
+
+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 _are_ 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 _am_ I to wear?--why is my daughter not here to
+advise me,” etc., etc., etc.
+
+“There is time to change your mind and advise your mother,” Lady Loring
+remarked with grave irony as she returned the letter.
+
+“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? _My_ ‘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.”
+
+Lady Loring’s bright face became grave while Stella was speaking.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Don’t think me ungrateful,” she said; “I am only ashamed.” Her head
+sank on her bosom; she burst into tears.
+
+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.
+
+“Will you wait a little before you go out?” Stella asked softly.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+“Quite the eldest, my dear. There is a difference of ten years between
+us. But why do you go back to that?”
+
+“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 _my_ story?”
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+“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?”
+
+“On our way back from Paris.”
+
+“Traveling in the same carriage with you?”
+
+“No--it was in crossing the Channel. There were few travelers in the
+steamboat, or I might never have noticed him.”
+
+“Did he speak to you?”
+
+“I don’t think he even looked at me.”
+
+“That doesn’t say much for his taste, Stella.”
+
+“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!”
+
+“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?”
+
+“There could be no doubt of it.”
+
+“Do try to describe him, Stella. Was he tall and well dressed?”
+
+“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 _should_ 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--?”
+
+She stopped. Her pale complexion softly glowed into color; her grand
+dark eyes brightened--she looked her loveliest at that moment.
+
+“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!”
+
+“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.”
+
+“You don’t mean a portrait of him!” Lady Loring exclaimed.
+
+“The best that I could do from recollection,” Stella answered sadly.
+
+“Bring it here directly!”
+
+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.
+
+“You know him!” cried Stella.
+
+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.
+
+“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.
+
+Stella snatched the drawing away from her, in terror. “You don’t mean
+that you will tell Lord Loring?” she said.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“I beg your pardon, Father Benwell,” said Lady Loring; “I hope I don’t
+interrupt your studies?”
+
+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?”
+
+“Thank you, Father. If you can kindly tell me where Lord Loring is--”
+
+“To be sure! His lordship was here five minutes since--he is now in the
+picture gallery. Pray permit me!”
+
+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.
+
+“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.
+
+Lady Loring merely said, “Just what I wanted; thank you once more,
+Father Benwell”--and passed into the picture gallery.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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:
+
+“Mr. Arthur Penrose.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+THE JESUITS.
+
+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.”
+
+“Thank you, Father--I am as well as usual.”
+
+“Depression of spirits, perhaps?” Father Benwell persisted.
+
+Penrose admitted it with a passing smile. “My spirits are never very
+lively,” he said.
+
+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.”
+
+Penrose looked up at his superior, eager to hear more.
+
+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.
+
+“May I ask a question, without giving offense?” he said, timidly.
+
+Father Benwell took his hand. “My dear Arthur, let us open our minds to
+each other without reserve. What is your question?”
+
+“You have spoken, Father, of a great trust that is about to be placed in
+me.”
+
+“Yes. You are anxious, no doubt, to hear what it is?”
+
+“I am anxious to know, in the first place, if it requires me to go back
+to Oxford.”
+
+Father Benwell dropped his young friend’s hand. “Do you dislike Oxford?”
+ he asked, observing Penrose attentively.
+
+“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.”
+
+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 _not_ be instructed to return to Oxford.
+Do I relieve you?”
+
+There could be no question of it. Penrose breathed more freely, in every
+sense of the word.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+Penrose looked at his superior in blank bewilderment. His superior
+withheld any further information for the present.
+
+“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.”
+
+He unlocked a flat mahogany box, and displayed to view some writings on
+vellum, evidently of great age.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Not the shadow of a doubt.”
+
+“Is the Church’s right to the property clear?”
+
+“As clear, Father, as words can make it.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“Only the doubt of _how_ the Church can recover. Is there anything in
+this particular case to be hoped from the law?”
+
+“Nothing whatever.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+Penrose was surprised and interested. “Is the person a Catholic?” he
+asked, eagerly.
+
+“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.
+
+The color rose slowly in the worn face of Penrose. “I am afraid to
+understand you,” he said.
+
+“Why?”
+
+“I am not sure that it is my better sense which understands. I am
+afraid, Father, it may be my vanity and presumption.”
+
+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.”
+
+“May I ask what his name is?”
+
+“Certainly. His name is Lewis Romayne.”
+
+“When do you introduce me to him?”
+
+“Impossible to say. I have not yet been introduced myself.”
+
+“You don’t know Mr. Romayne?”
+
+“I have never even seen him.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+THE INTRODUCTION TO ROMAYNE.
+
+“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.”
+
+Penrose looked at him with admiration. “It is a great sacrifice to make,
+Father, in your position and at your age.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“I do my best to remove them, Father. But I am sometimes conscious of a
+sense of discouragement.”
+
+“Curious,” said Father Benwell. “I am only conscious, myself, of a sense
+of impatience. What right has an obstacle to get in _my_ 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?”
+
+Penrose was perhaps deficient in the sense of humor. Instead of being
+amused, he appeared to be anxious for more information.
+
+“In what capacity am I to be Mr. Romayne’s companion?” he asked.
+
+Father Benwell poured himself out another cup of coffee.
+
+“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.”
+
+Penrose began to be interested. “Have you been to the Abbey?” he said.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Is he so ill as that?” Penrose exclaimed.
+
+“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?”
+
+“I beg your pardon, Father! I fear I am unworthy of the confidence which
+is placed in me.”
+
+“In what way?”
+
+Penrose answered with unfeigned humility.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+As the words passed his lips, the door that led to the picture gallery
+was opened. Lord Loring entered the library.
+
+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.
+
+“Don’t let me disturb you,” he said, looking at Penrose. “Is this the
+gentleman who is to assist Mr. Romayne?”
+
+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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.
+
+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.
+
+“Inviting him to come here to-day?” her ladyship inquired.
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+FATHER BENWELL HITS.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“In your place,” he said quietly to Lord Loring, “I should not buy this
+work.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“May I ask if you agree with Mr. Romayne’s estimate of the picture?” he
+said, in his gentlest tones.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.
+
+“How do you like Romayne?” Father Benwell put the question in low
+peremptory tones, evidently impatient for a reply.
+
+“He interests me already,” said Penrose. “He looks so ill and so sad,
+and he spoke to me so kindly--”
+
+“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.”
+
+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!”
+
+“Leave it to me, son! Are they still talking about the picture?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I have something more to say to you. Have you noticed the young lady?”
+
+“I thought her beautiful--but she looks a little cold.”
+
+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.”
+
+“Dangerous! In what way?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“I am quite sure--or I should not have spoken.”
+
+“Do you think Mr. Romayne returns the feeling?”
+
+“Not yet, luckily. You must use your first friendly influence over
+him--what is her name? Her surname, I mean.”
+
+“Eyrecourt. Miss Stella Eyrecourt.”
+
+“Very well. You must use your influence (when you are quite sure that it
+_is_ an influence) to keep Mr. Romayne away from Miss Eyrecourt.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+Penrose started. “Information!” he repeated. “What information?”
+
+“Tell me something before I answer you,” said Father Benwell. “How old
+do you take Miss Eyrecourt to be?”
+
+“I am not a good judge in such matters. Between twenty and twenty-five,
+perhaps?”
+
+“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?”
+
+“No, indeed!”
+
+“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.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+FATHER BENWELL MISSES.
+
+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.
+
+“Do you think you will like Mr. Penrose?” his lordship asked.
+
+“Yes--so far as I can tell at present. He seems to be modest and
+intelligent.”
+
+“You are looking ill, my dear Romayne. Have you again heard the voice
+that haunts you?”
+
+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.”
+
+“Has it done so?”
+
+“Yes--thus far.”
+
+“Doesn’t that suggest, my friend, that a greater change might be of use
+to you?”
+
+“Don’t ask me about it, Loring! I can go through my ordeal--but I hate
+speaking of it.”
+
+“Let us speak of something else then,” said Lord Loring. “What do you
+think of Miss Eyrecourt?”
+
+“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.
+
+“Something you don’t like?” Lord Loring suggested.
+
+“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.”
+
+Lord Loring laughed. “In any man but you, Romayne, I should call that
+affectation.”
+
+“Why?” Romayne asked, sharply.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+He roused himself, and spoke to Lord Loring in lowered tones.
+
+“Have you known Miss Eyrecourt for a long time?”
+
+“She is my wife’s oldest and dearest friend. I think, Romayne, you would
+feel interested in Stella, if you saw more of her.”
+
+Romayne bowed in silent submission to Lord Loring’s prophetic remark.
+“Let us look at the pictures,” he said, quietly.
+
+As he moved down the gallery, the two priests met him. Father
+Benwell saw his opportunity of helping Penrose to produce a favorable
+impression.
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.”
+
+This delicately managed reference to the projected work on “The Origin
+of Religions” produced its effect.
+
+“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?”
+
+“I am entirely at your service, Mr. Romayne.”
+
+“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.”
+
+With those words, he advanced to take his leave of Lady Loring and
+Stella.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“Stay and lunch with us,” she said, when he held out his hand to bid her
+good-by.
+
+“Thank you, Lady Loring, I never take lunch.”
+
+“Well, then, come and dine with us--no party; only ourselves. Tomorrow,
+and next day, we are disengaged. Which day shall it be?”
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+“_I_ am not likely to have any influence, Adelaide.”
+
+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.
+
+“Perhaps you underrate your influence, Stella?” she suggested.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.”
+
+“To-morrow,” said Romayne. He shook hands with Stella, and left the
+picture gallery.
+
+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!
+
+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.
+
+Let Father Benwell himself relate how it happened--in an extract from
+his report to Rome, written the same evening.
+
+“... 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.
+
+“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.
+
+“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!’
+
+“Relieved, so far, I naturally asked what had happened. Penrose betrayed
+a marked embarrassment in answering my question.
+
+“‘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.’
+
+“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.’
+
+“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.
+
+“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!’
+
+“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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“It may not be amiss,” thought Father Benwell, “if I try the
+housekeeper.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+THE ORDER OF THE DISHES.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“Is your coffee to your liking, Father?”
+
+“A little more sugar, if you please.”
+
+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.
+
+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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“A large dinner party, Miss Notman?”
+
+“Oh, dear, no! Quite the reverse. Only one gentleman--Mr. Romayne.”
+
+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.”
+
+“Anything wrong with the coffee?” Miss Notman asked anxiously.
+
+He rushed on his fate. He said, “Nothing whatever. Pray go on.”
+
+Miss Notman went on.
+
+“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.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+“Certainly, Father!”
+
+“A very charming person, Miss Notman. I only speak as a stranger. You,
+no doubt, are much better acquainted with Miss Eyrecourt?”
+
+“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?”
+
+“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?”
+
+“Oh, no! Indeed, I should have objected to her presence; I should have
+said she was a young lady out of her proper place.”
+
+“Yes; I understand. Is Miss Eyrecourt an only child?”
+
+“She had two sisters, Father Benwell. One of them is in a convent.”
+
+“Ah, indeed?”
+
+“And the other is dead.”
+
+“Sad for the father and mother, Miss Notman!”
+
+“Pardon me, sad for the mother, no doubt. The father died long since.”
+
+“Aye? aye? A sweet woman, the mother? At least, I think I have heard
+so.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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. _She_ 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 _you,_
+Father, at what part of a dinner an oyster-omelet ought to be served?”
+
+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?”
+
+“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 _look_ 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--”
+
+Father Benwell made a last desperate effort to pave the way for one more
+question before he submitted to defeat. “That must be _your_ fault, my
+dear lady!” he interposed, with his persuasive smile.
+
+Miss Notman simpered. “You confuse me, Father!” she said softly.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+“I once made the same remark myself to Lady Loring,” she said.
+
+Father Benwell’s pulse began to quicken its beat. “Yes?” he murmured, in
+tones of the gentlest encouragement.
+
+“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 _cheese_-omelette might be in its proper place if
+it followed the sweets. ‘An _oyster_-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.”
+
+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.
+
+“You are not going away already, Father?”
+
+“Time flies fast in your society, dear Miss Notman. I have an
+engagement--and I am late for it already.”
+
+The housekeeper smiled sadly. “At least let me hear that you don’t
+disapprove of my conduct under trying circumstances,” she said.
+
+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 _you_ are a true Christian. My evening
+has indeed been well spent. God bless you!”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+THE INFLUENCE OF STELLA.
+
+ENTERING the hall, Father Benwell heard a knock at the house door.
+The servants appeared to recognize the knock--the porter admitted Lord
+Loring.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“I remember,” said Father Benwell. “Has your lordship decided what to
+do?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“Certainly. My work in the library, as your lordship can see, has only
+begun.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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?”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Lord Loring showed him the letter.
+
+“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 _he_, as well as I recollect, told you how the
+consultation ended?”
+
+“Quite right, Romayne--so far.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“The substance of what he said,” Lord Loring replied, “and the substance
+of his prescriptions--which, I think, you afterward tore up?”
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+“Are you sure that I shall not distress you?”
+
+“On the contrary, you may help me to hope.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.’”
+
+“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.”
+
+Romayne’s eyes sparkled.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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!”
+
+Lord Loring glanced once more at the clock on the mantel-piece. The
+hands pointed to the dinner hour.
+
+“Miss Eyrecourt?” he whispered.
+
+“Yes; Miss Eyrecourt.”
+
+The library door was thrown open by a servant. Stella herself entered
+the room.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+THE PRIEST OR THE WOMAN?
+
+LORD LORING hurried away to his dressing room. “I won’t be more than ten
+minutes,” he said--and left Romayne and Stella together.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“I thought I heard my name when I came in,” she said. “Were you and Lord
+Loring speaking of me?”
+
+Romayne owned without hesitation that they had been speaking of her.
+
+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?”
+
+It was impossible to answer this plainly without entering into
+explanations from which Romayne shrank. He hesitated.
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+“The influence on Me?” she asked.
+
+“No. The influence which You might exercise on another person.”
+
+She knew perfectly well that he was speaking of himself. But she was
+determined to feel the pleasure of making him own it.
+
+“If I have any such influence as you describe,” she began, “I hope it is
+for good?”
+
+“Certainly for good.”
+
+“You speak positively, Mr. Romayne. Almost as positively--only that can
+hardly be--as if you were speaking from experience.”
+
+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.
+
+“Shall I own that you are right?” he said. “I was thinking of my own
+experience yesterday.”
+
+She returned to the photographs. “It sounds impossible,” she rejoined,
+softly. There was a pause. “Was it anything I said?” she asked.
+
+“No. It was only when you looked at me. But for that look, I don’t think
+I should have been here to-day.”
+
+She shut up the photographs on a sudden, and drew her chair a little
+away from him.
+
+“I hope,” she said, “you have not so poor an opinion of me as to think I
+like to be flattered?”
+
+Romayne answered with an earnestness that instantly satisfied her.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Fancies about me, Mr. Romayne?”
+
+Before he could answer, the dinner bell rang. Lord and Lady Loring
+entered the library together.
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“What are you walking about for?” Lady Loring asked in a whisper,
+without interrupting her musical performance.
+
+“I’m not quite easy, my dear.”
+
+“Turn over the music. Indigestion?”
+
+“Good heavens, Adelaide, what a question!”
+
+“Well, what is it, then?”
+
+Lord Loring looked toward Stella and her companion. “They don’t seem to
+get on together as well as I had hoped,” he said.
+
+“I should think not--when you are walking about and disturbing them! Sit
+down there behind me.”
+
+“What am I to do?”
+
+“Am I not playing? Listen to me.”
+
+“My dear, I don’t understand modern German music.”
+
+“Then read the evening paper.”
+
+The evening paper had its attractions. Lord Loring took his wife’s
+advice.
+
+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.
+
+“Do you pass most of your evenings alone, Mr. Romayne?”
+
+“Not quite alone. I have the company of my books.”
+
+“Are your books the companions that you like best?”
+
+“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?”
+
+He put the question with an assumed gayety. Stella made no effort, on
+her side, to answer him in the same tone.
+
+“I almost wish I really had some influence over you,” she said, gravely
+and sadly.
+
+“Why?”
+
+“I should try to induce you to shut up your books, and choose some
+living companion who might restore you to your happier self.”
+
+“It is already done,” said Romayne; “I have a new companion in Mr.
+Penrose.”
+
+“Penrose?” she repeated. “He is the friend--is he not--of the priest
+here, whom they call Father Benwell?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I don’t like Father Benwell.”
+
+“Is that a reason for disliking Mr. Penrose?”
+
+“Yes,” she said, boldly, “because he is Father Benwell’s friend.”
+
+“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 _that_ experience of me,” he
+added, speaking more to himself than to her, “might have asked me to
+find another secretary.”
+
+Stella heard those last words, and looked at him in astonishment. “Were
+you angry with Mr. Penrose?” she asked innocently. “Is it possible that
+_you_ could speak harshly to any person in your employment?”
+
+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.”
+
+She looked at him; hesitated; and looked away again. “Would you be angry
+with me if I confessed something?” she said timidly.
+
+“It is impossible I can be angry with you!”
+
+“Mr. Romayne, I think I have seen what your secretary saw. I know how
+you suffer, and how patiently you bear it.”
+
+“You!” he exclaimed.
+
+“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?”
+
+“No! no!”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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?”
+
+“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?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“I am sorry to hear it. You ought to have some devoted friend always
+near you.”
+
+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.”
+
+“Why should he distress you?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Will you sing, Stella?”
+
+She sighed, and turned away. “Not to-night,” she answered.
+
+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?”
+
+Romayne looked up absently, and answered, “I don’t know yet.”
+
+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.
+
+
+
+“Well?” said Lady Loring, as they sat together over the fire. “What did
+he say?”
+
+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?”
+
+Lady Loring looked uneasy. “I promised my husband to keep it a secret
+from everybody,” she said.
+
+“It is nothing degrading, Adelaide--I am sure of that.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“I know that I love him,” said Stella simply.
+
+“Even though he doesn’t seem as yet to love you?” Lady Loring asked.
+
+“All the more _because_ 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.”
+
+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.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“Yes--if I am convinced that it ought to be done.”
+
+“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.”
+
+With those words, she told the terrible story of the duel, and of all
+that had followed it.
+
+“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.”
+
+Stella answered instantly.
+
+“I determine to be his wife!”
+
+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?
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+THE PUBLIC AND THE PICTURES.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“Not yet. I thought I would get on first with my work among the books.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“Do the ladies propose paying a visit to the gallery?”
+
+“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.”
+
+Father Benwell rang the bell when Lord Loring had left him.
+
+“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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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!”
+
+“My dear Winterfield!” the friend remonstrated, “we haven’t seen half
+the pictures yet.”
+
+“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.”
+
+With those words he hurried out, making his way, without ceremony,
+through the crowd in the picture gallery.
+
+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!”
+
+He took up his pen and made a little memorandum--“Winterfield. Derwent’s
+Hotel.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+FATHER BENWELL’S CORRESPONDENCE.
+
+I.
+
+_To Mr. Bitrake. Private and Confidential._
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+I beg your acceptance--as time is of importance--of a check for
+preliminary expenses, and remain, sir, your faithful servant,
+
+AMBROSE BENWELL.
+
+II.
+
+_To the Secretary, Society of Jesus, Rome._
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+I returned to the waiting-room, not forgetting of course to close the
+door of communication.
+
+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.
+
+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!
+
+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.
+
+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?”
+
+Here, judging by certain sounds that followed, Penrose got up
+discreetly, and left the room. Lord Loring went on.
+
+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?”
+
+Romayne answered: “My opinion remains unchanged. All that I said to you
+of Miss Eyrecourt, I believe as firmly as ever.”
+
+His lordship remonstrated, naturally enough. “Then why remain away from
+the good influence? Why--if it really _can_ be controlled--risk another
+return of that dreadful nervous delusion?”
+
+“I have had another return.”
+
+“Which, as you yourself believe, might have been prevented! Romayne, you
+astonish me.”
+
+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.”
+
+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?”
+
+“Most assuredly not.”
+
+“Then what is it?”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+Solitude was apparently not to his taste just then. I heard him call to
+Penrose. I heard Penrose ask: “Do you want me?”
+
+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.”
+
+Penrose asked why.
+
+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.
+
+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. _We_ might otherwise have been morally enervated by
+the weakness which degrades Romayne--and priests might have become
+instruments in the hands of women.
+
+But you will be anxious to hear what Penrose did under the
+circumstances. For the moment, I can tell you this, he startled me.
+
+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.
+
+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?”
+
+Make your mind easy, reverend sir! Romayne’s answer set everything
+right.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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!”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Monday, 10 A.M..
+
+There _is_ more news. Penrose has just left me.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+The motive for this sudden resolution is directly traceable to Lady
+Loring.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+For the present, there is no more to be said.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+STELLA ASSERTS HERSELF.
+
+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.
+
+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?”
+
+“In the worst possible way,” Lady Loring answered. “In silence.”
+
+“Not a word even to you?”
+
+“Not a word.”
+
+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.”
+
+“Show him in directly!” cried Lady Loring.
+
+Lord Loring remonstrated. “My dear! perhaps I had better see this
+gentleman alone?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+Major Hynd hesitated. “I am not quite sure that it would be discreet to
+write to him, under the circumstances.”
+
+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.”
+
+The Major looked embarrassed. “I can hardly answer your ladyship,” he
+said, “without reviving painful recollections--”
+
+Lady Loring’s impatience interrupted the Major’s apologies. “Do you mean
+the duel?” she inquired.
+
+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.”
+
+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?”
+
+He handed the letter to Lord Loring. Translated from the French, it ran
+as follows:
+
+
+
+“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.
+
+“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.
+
+“You will perhaps be surprised to find that I address these lines to
+you, instead of to Mr. Romayne. The reason is soon told.
+
+“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.”
+
+
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+“I am obliged to leave London again to-day,” the Major replied; “but on
+my return I will certainly follow your ladyship’s advice.”
+
+“And you will let us know the result?”
+
+“With the greatest pleasure.”
+
+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.
+
+“I think not,” said Lady Loring.
+
+She rose to leave the room. “Are you going out?” her husband asked.
+
+“No. I am going upstairs to Stella.”
+
+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.
+
+“Well, Stella, and what does the portrait tell you?”
+
+“What I knew before, Adelaide. There is nothing false and nothing cruel
+in that face.”
+
+“And does the discovery satisfy you? For my part, I despise Romayne for
+hiding himself from us. Can you excuse him?”
+
+Stella locked up the portrait in her writing-case. “I can wait,” she
+said quietly.
+
+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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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?”
+
+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.”
+
+“I wish I had the letter,” cried Stella.
+
+“Would you forward it to Romayne?”
+
+“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 _him_ to keep him in ignorance of
+what has happened. Why didn’t you take the letter away from Major Hynd?”
+
+“Gently, Stella! The Major is going to make inquiries about the widow
+and children when he returns to London.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“Why do you want to know it?” Lady Loring asked. “You are not going to
+write to Romayne yourself?”
+
+“I am going to think, before I do anything. If you can’t trust my
+discretion, Adelaide, you have only to say so!”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“Where is Miss Eyrecourt?”
+
+“Gone out, my lady.”
+
+“Did she leave no message?”
+
+“No, my lady. She went away in a great hurry.”
+
+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!
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+THE GENERAL’S FAMILY.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+The second of the two workwomen suddenly looked up.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+“Charity?” asked the daughter, looking up again sternly from her needle.
+
+“Sympathy,” Stella answered gently.
+
+The girl resumed her work. “I beg your pardon,” she said; “I shall learn
+to submit to my lot in time.”
+
+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?”
+
+“I hope you will excuse me,” Stella replied. “I am not at liberty to
+answer that question.”
+
+The mother said nothing. The daughter asked sharply, “Why not?”
+
+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.
+
+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?”
+
+“No, no!” Stella interposed; “I must not mislead you. The person whom I
+represent is no relation of yours.”
+
+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--”
+
+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?”
+
+“Certainly, or I should not be here.”
+
+“You know the person’s family connections, in that case? and you can say
+for certain whether they are French connections or not?”
+
+“I can say for certain,” Stella answered, “that they are English
+connections. I represent a friend who feels kindly toward Madame
+Marillac; nothing more.”
+
+“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--_you_ cannot have given the
+information?”
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+Blanche took up her needle again, with dogged submission. “If we _are_
+to accept charity, mother, I should like to know the hand that gives
+it,” she answered. “I will say no more.”
+
+“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--”
+
+“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.
+
+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.”
+
+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!”
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+Stella at once complied with the request. Madame Marillac smiled as she
+repeated the name.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+Stella roused herself. “Yes! yes!” she answered, eagerly. “Pray go on!”
+
+“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!”
+
+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!”
+
+“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?”
+
+“No! I would rather hear you speak of him. Is he not conscious of his
+own misfortune?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“Do you mean that he leaves you and his sisters?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“In your unhappy position,” said Stella, “I should try to resign myself
+to parting with him--I mean to placing him under medical care.”
+
+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!”
+
+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.”
+
+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?”
+
+“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 _me!_ 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!”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+She followed the widow into the little room.
+
+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.
+
+The boy nodded, to show that he understood her. The moment after he
+laid down his flageolet with an expression of surprise.
+
+“You are trembling!” he said. “Are you frightened?”
+
+She _was_ 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?
+
+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?
+
+
+
+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.”
+
+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?”
+
+“I am going to write to him the moment we get home.”
+
+The answer seemed to alarm Lady Loring. “You won’t betray me?” she said.
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“You won’t let Romayne discover that I have told you about the duel?”
+
+“Certainly not. You shall see my letter before I send it to be
+forwarded.”
+
+Tranquilized so far, Lady Loring bethought herself next of Major Hynd.
+“Can we tell him what you have done?” her ladyship asked.
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“Does it matter to me what Major Hynd thinks?”
+
+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?”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+The letter ended in these lines:
+
+“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.”
+
+Lady Loring read these concluding sentences twice over.
+
+“I think the end of your letter will have its effect on him,” she said.
+
+“If it brings me a kind letter in reply,” Stella answered, “it will have
+all the effect I hope for.”
+
+“If it does anything,” Lady Loring rejoined, “it will do more than
+that.”
+
+“What more can it do?”
+
+“My dear, it can bring Romayne back to you.”
+
+Those hopeful words seemed rather to startle Stella than to encourage
+her.
+
+“Bring him back to me?” she repeated “Oh, Adelaide, I wish I could think
+as you do!”
+
+“Send the letter to the post,” said Lady Loring, “and we shall see.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+FATHER BENWELL’S CORRESPONDENCE.
+
+I.
+
+_Arthur Penrose to Father Benwell._
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+By to-morrow evening I hope to present my respects to you.
+
+II.
+
+_Mr. Bitrake to Father Benwell._
+
+SIR--The inquiries which I have instituted at your request have proved
+successful in one respect.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Be pleased to preserve your confidence in me, and to give me time--and I
+answer for the result.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK THE SECOND.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+THE SANDWICH DANCE.
+
+A FINE spring, after a winter of unusual severity, promised well for the
+prospects of the London season.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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 _pate de fois gras_ 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.
+
+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.
+
+“I hear you were a little angry,” she said, “when you were told that
+Miss Eyrecourt had taken your inquiries out of your hands.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“I suppose you know what Romayne thinks of it?”
+
+“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?”
+
+“That beautiful creature, Major, is the bold young lady of whose conduct
+you don’t approve.”
+
+“Miss Eyrecourt?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“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.”
+
+The Major was introduced, and Lady Loring returned to her guests.
+
+“I think we have met before, Major Hynd,” said Stella.
+
+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.”
+
+“I hope you have forgiven me for going to Camp’s Hill in your place,”
+ said Stella.
+
+“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?”
+
+“No. He desires to remain unknown; and he is kindly content, for the
+present, to be represented by me.”
+
+“For the present.” Major Hynd repeated.
+
+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.”
+
+“Will the mother accept nothing?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“I will do it with pleasure, Miss Eyrecourt. Is Romayne likely to be
+here to-night?”
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+“You are looking quite another man, Romayne!” he said mischievously,
+“since we met last.”
+
+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.
+
+The Major dropped his voice to a whisper.
+
+“Have you not had any return--?” he began.
+
+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, _you_ ought to know what it means.”
+
+“Any discoverable reason for the improvement?” persisted the
+Major, still bent on getting evidence in support of his own private
+conclusions.
+
+“None!” Romayne answered sharply.
+
+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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.
+
+“It is a very beautiful scene, Miss Eyrecourt,” he said, in his low
+quiet tones.
+
+“Did you come here with Mr. Romayne?” she asked.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“He will certainly be here, Miss Eyrecourt, if he can get back to London
+in time.”
+
+“Has he been long away?”
+
+“Nearly a week.”
+
+Not knowing what else to say, she still paid Penrose the compliment of
+feigning an interest in Father Benwell.
+
+“Has he a long journey to make in returning to London?” she asked.
+
+“Yes--all the way from Devonshire.”
+
+“From South Devonshire?”
+
+“No. North Devonshire--Clovelly.”
+
+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.
+
+“I know something of the neighborhood of Clovelly,” she said. “I wonder
+whether Father Benwell is visiting any friends of mine there?”
+
+“I am not able to say, Miss Eyrecourt. The reverend Father’s letters are
+forwarded to the hotel--I know no more than that.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“If Father Benwell comes here to-night,” she said, “try to find out what
+he has been doing at Clovelly.”
+
+“Clovelly?” Lady Loring repeated. “Is that the village near
+Winterfield’s house?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE.
+
+As Stella answered Lady Loring, she was smartly tapped on the shoulder
+by an eager guest with a fan.
+
+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.
+
+Stella turned quickly at the tap of the fan. “Mamma!” she exclaimed,
+“how you startle me!”
+
+“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.”
+
+Stella drew back a step, and eyed her mother in blank surprise. “Is it
+possible that you know him?” she asked.
+
+“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. _He_ 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!”
+
+“Mamma! Pray don’t--!”
+
+“Stella, I will _not_ 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 _don’t_ 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. _Will_ 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.”
+
+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.
+
+In the next room Stella found Romayne. He looked careworn and irritable,
+but brightened directly when she approached him.
+
+“My mother has been speaking to you,” she said. “I am afraid--”
+
+He stopped her there. “She _is_ your mother,” he interposed, kindly.
+“Don’t think that I am ungrateful enough to forget that.”
+
+She took his arm, and looked at him with all her heart in her eyes.
+“Come into a quieter room,” she whispered.
+
+Romayne led her away. Neither of them noticed Penrose as they left the
+room.
+
+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.
+
+Romayne and Stella passed through the card-room and the chess-room,
+turned into a corridor, and entered the conservatory.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+“What would Mr. Penrose say if he saw you?” she whispered.
+
+“Why do you speak of Penrose? Have you seen him to-night?”
+
+“Yes--looking sadly out of his element, poor man. I did my best to set
+him at his ease--because I know _you_ like him.”
+
+“Dear Stella!”
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“Nothing more, since that time?”
+
+“Nothing.”
+
+“Not a word of what we said to each other when we were alone last week
+in the picture gallery?”
+
+“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?”
+
+She rested her head caressingly on his shoulder, and looked up at him
+with her charming smile.
+
+“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 _that_ confession satisfy
+your scruples? And will you promise never again to doubt yourself or
+me?”
+
+Romayne promised, and sealed the promise--unresisted this time--with a
+kiss. “When are we to be married?” he whispered.
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+Romayne looked astonished. “Do you think Mrs. Eyrecourt will disapprove
+of it?” he asked.
+
+Stella was equally astonished on her side. “Disapprove of it?” she
+repeated. “I know for certain that my mother will be delighted.”
+
+“Then where is the difficulty?”
+
+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 _his_
+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.
+
+“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.
+
+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 _are_ my ideas, for all that.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+He made another suggestion. “Can we marry privately,” he said, “and tell
+Mrs. Eyrecourt of it afterward?”
+
+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 _must_ be present
+at my marriage.”
+
+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--”
+
+“She would be angry,” Stella interposed.
+
+“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?”
+
+“Object? They are my dearest friends, as well as yours!”
+
+“Any one else, Stella?”
+
+“Any one, Lewis, whom _you_ like.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+The first person she encountered, on returning to the reception-room,
+was Father Benwell.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+THE END OF THE BALL.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+“Oh, yes.”
+
+“Has he gone away?”
+
+“Not that I know of.”
+
+The tone of her replies warned Father Benwell to let Romayne be. He
+tried another name.
+
+“And Arthur Penrose?” he inquired next.
+
+“I think Mr. Penrose has left us.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+Not the faintest change passed over the priest’s face; his fatherly
+smile had never been in a better state of preservation.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+At that critical moment her mother appeared--eager for news of the
+conquest of Romayne.
+
+“My dear child, how pale you look!” said Mrs. Eyrecourt. “Come with me
+directly--you must have a glass of wine.”
+
+This dexterous device for entrapping Stella into a private conversation
+failed. “Not now, mamma, thank you,” she said.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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!
+
+“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Eyrecourt. “I know Beaupark House; but--may I make
+a confession?” she added, with her sweetest smile.
+
+Father Benwell caught her tone, with his customary tact. “A confession
+at a ball is a novelty, even in my experience,” he answered with _his_
+sweetest smile.
+
+“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 _real_ 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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Are you staying in town, Mrs. Eyrecourt?” he asked.
+
+“Oh, of course, at the height of the season!”
+
+“May I have the honor of calling on you--and talking a little more about
+the Continent?”
+
+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!”
+
+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?”
+
+“Indeed I don’t, mamma. I hate him!”
+
+“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?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“All going on well?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“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.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+IN THE SMALL HOURS.
+
+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.
+
+Penrose was waiting to speak to him. Romayne noticed signs of suppressed
+agitation in his secretary’s face. “Has anything happened?” he inquired.
+
+“Nothing of any importance,” Penrose answered, in sad subdued tones. “I
+only wanted to ask you for leave of absence.”
+
+“Certainly. Is it for a long time?”
+
+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.
+
+“Not meet again?” Romayne repeated. “My dear Penrose, if _you_ forget
+how many happy days I owe to your companionship, _my_ 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?”
+
+Penrose lifted his hand with a gesture of entreaty.
+
+“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.”
+
+Romayne was more than surprised, he was shocked. “Why must you leave
+me?” he asked.
+
+“It is best for you and for _her,_” said Penrose, “that I should
+withdraw myself from your new life.”
+
+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.”
+
+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!”
+
+In spite of his fortitude, the tears rose in his eyes. He hurried out of
+the room.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+Stella made no reply; she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.
+
+Lady Loring went on.
+
+“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--”
+
+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 _him?_ Ought I
+not to tell him about Winterfield?”
+
+Lady Loring started. “You astonish me,” she said. “What right has
+Romayne to know it?”
+
+“What right have I to keep it a secret from him?”
+
+“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!”
+
+“I daren’t think of it,” cried Stella passionately. “But if it is my
+duty--”
+
+“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 _that_
+position toward your husband, if you wish for a happy married life.”
+
+Stella was not quite convinced yet. “Suppose Romayne finds it out?” she
+said.
+
+“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 _could_ betray you. I suppose you
+can trust your mother, and Lord Loring, and me?”
+
+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?”
+
+“Come in!” cried his wife. “Let us hear what my husband thinks,” she
+said to Stella.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+Those last unanswerable words brought the debate to an end. From that
+moment the subject was dropped.
+
+
+
+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:
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+I will dispose of the case of Penrose first.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+I may now proceed to the failure of my agent, and to the course of
+action that I have adopted in consequence.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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:
+
+1. The events which connect Mr. Winterfield with Miss Eyrecourt happened
+about two years since, and had their beginning at Beaupark House.
+
+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.
+
+3. Not long afterward, Miss Eyrecourt and her mother surprised the
+neighborhood by suddenly leaving Beaupark House. Their destination was
+supposed to be London.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+6. Mr. Winterfield remains, to the present day, an unmarried man.
+
+Having arrived at these preliminary discoveries, it was time to try what
+I could make of Mr. Winterfield next.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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!”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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:
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK THE THIRD.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+THE HONEYMOON.
+
+MORE than six weeks had passed. The wedded lovers were still enjoying
+their honeymoon at Vange Abbey.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“Do I disturb you, Lewis?” she asked softly.
+
+“No, my dear.”
+
+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.
+
+“I am a little tired after our long ride to-day. Do you want to go back
+to the Belvidere?”
+
+“Not without you. Shall I leave you to rest here?”
+
+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 _are_ ill, and you are trying to hide it from
+me.”
+
+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?”
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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?”
+
+“No. I am surprised she has not written.”
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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 _that_ secret from
+your wife! You have heard it again!”
+
+She was too irresistibly beautiful, at that moment, to be reproved. He
+gently raised her from the floor--and owned the truth.
+
+“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.”
+
+She threw her arms round his neck. “We will leave Vange to-morrow,” she
+said.
+
+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?
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+EVENTS AT TEN ACRES.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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 _are_ 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.”
+
+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.
+
+“I am afraid, mamma, you have been overexerting yourself,” said Stella.
+“You go to too many parties.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Your mother is killing herself,” said Romayne.
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“I have written to Hynd,” he began. “Do you mind his dining with us
+to-day?”
+
+“Of course not!”
+
+“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.
+
+“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?”
+
+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?”
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+Romayne came in before he could speak more particularly. When the
+servants had left the room, after dinner, the Major made his report.
+
+“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.”
+
+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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“Have you seen him?” Stella asked, eagerly.
+
+“I have been with him to the asylum.”
+
+“Does the boy go back to France?”
+
+“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--”
+
+“Hynd! you didn’t tell the uncle my name?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“No!” Romayne rejoined, positively. “Let things remain as they are.”
+
+“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.”
+
+
+On the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Eyrecourt’s maid arrived at Ten
+Acres with a note from her mistress.
+
+“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.”
+
+Stella turned to the maid with a sinking heart.
+
+“Is my mother very ill?” she asked.
+
+“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--”
+
+“I will order the carriage instantly, and take you back with me.”
+
+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.”
+
+It was late in the evening before Stella returned. She brought sad news.
+
+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!”
+
+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.
+
+Thus, in a little more than a month from the day of his marriage,
+Romayne was, for the time, a lonely man again.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+FATHER BENWELL AND THE BOOK.
+
+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!”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+“I think not,” Romayne answered; “but I will write down the title, and
+leave it here with my letter.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+“And Mrs. Romayne?” pursued Father Benwell. “This is a sad trial for
+her. She is in attendance on her mother, I suppose?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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
+_had_ come!
+
+“You can hardly go to Paris to consult the book,” he said, “in the
+present state of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s health?”
+
+“Certainly not!”
+
+“Perhaps you will send somebody to search the catalogue at the British
+Museum?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“No; the name is quite new to me.”
+
+“Then come and see the man himself. He is now in London--and I am
+entirely at your service.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+With those words, he dispatched the telegram to the office. Romayne
+attempted to make his acknowledgments. Mr. Winterfield would hear no
+acknowledgments.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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 _him_ a part of
+that noble sight?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“I should require very good evidence to persuade me of it.”
+
+This touched Romayne on a sad side of his own personal experience.
+“Perhaps,” he said, “you don’t believe in remorse?”
+
+“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--”
+
+Romayne could not resist interrupting him. “Say you have killed one of
+your fellow-creatures,” he suggested.
+
+“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 _not_ 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.”
+
+“I entirely agree with you,” said Father Benwell; “I have had occasion
+to say the same thing in the confessional.”
+
+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.”
+
+Romayne caressed the dog rather absently.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“Do you remain long at Ten Acres Lodge?” he said to Romayne.
+
+“I hardly know as yet. We have no other plans at present.”
+
+“You inherit the place, I think, from your late aunt, Lady Berrick?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+The tone of the reply was not encouraging; Romayne felt no interest in
+talking of Ten Acres Lodge. Father Benwell persisted.
+
+“I was told by Mrs. Eyrecourt,” he went on “that Lady Berrick had some
+fine pictures. Are they still at the Lodge?”
+
+“Certainly. I couldn’t live in a house without pictures.”
+
+Father Benwell looked at Winterfield. “Another taste in common between
+you and Mr. Romayne,” he said, “besides your liking for dogs.”
+
+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?”
+
+“The sooner the better,” Winterfield answered, cordially. “Will
+to-morrow do--by the noonday light?”
+
+“Whenever you please. Your time is mine.”
+
+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.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+THE END OF THE HONEYMOON.
+
+ON the next morning, Winterfield arrived alone at Romayne’s house.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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 _that_ painter? There, truth to Nature and
+poetical feeling go hand in hand together. It is absolutely lovely--I
+could kiss that picture.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+Romayne looked at him in surprise. “I suspect, Mr. Winterfield, you have
+used your pen for other purposes than writing letters.”
+
+“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?”
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+Romayne looked out, and recognized his wife.
+
+“Excuse me for one moment,” he said, “it is Mrs. Romayne.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.”
+
+Romayne looked at her anxiously. “Let me get you a glass of wine,” he
+said.
+
+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.
+
+“How did you become acquainted with this gentleman?”
+
+“Through Father Benwell.”
+
+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.
+
+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!”
+
+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.
+
+“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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Yes,” he answered, with formal politeness; “it seems to me to be one of
+the painter’s finest works.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.
+
+“I have more than consideration for you, Stella--”
+
+She angrily interrupted him. “How dare you call me by my Christian
+name?”
+
+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?”
+
+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?”
+
+“You know that I will.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“What mistake?”
+
+“When Mr. Romayne introduced us, you met me like a stranger--and you
+left me no choice but to do as you did.”
+
+“I wish you to be a stranger.”
+
+Her sharpest replies made no change in his manner. He spoke as kindly
+and as patiently as ever.
+
+“You forget that you and your mother were my guests at Beaupark, two
+years ago--”
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+Romayne was unwilling to part with him on these terms. “You will let me
+know when you are next in town?” he said.
+
+“Certainly!”
+
+With that short answer he hurried away.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+FATHER BENWELL’S CORRESPONDENCE.
+
+_To the Secretary, S. J., Rome._
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“I envy him his pictures.” That was the only answer.
+
+“And how do you like Mrs. Romayne?” I inquired next.
+
+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.
+
+“Can you account for such a reception as you describe?” I asked. He
+answered shortly, “No.”
+
+“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?”
+
+He fixed another searching look on me. “Mr. Romayne might have said so
+when he left me to receive his wife at the door.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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!
+
+“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?”
+
+He gave me another short answer. “I think not.”
+
+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?”
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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!
+
+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.
+
+*****
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Before I had been five minutes in his company, Romayne asked me if I had
+seen Winterfield since his visit to Ten Acres Lodge.
+
+I said I had seen him, and waited, anticipating the next question.
+Romayne fulfilled my expectations. He inquired if Winterfield had left
+London.
+
+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.”
+
+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?”
+
+I told the truth once more, with courteous expressions of regret.
+“Mr. Winterfield spoke of an ungracious reception on the part of Mrs.
+Romayne.”
+
+He started to his feet, and walked irritably up and down the room. “It
+is beyond endurance!” he said to himself.
+
+The truth had served its purpose by this time. I affected not to have
+heard him. “Did you speak to me?” I asked.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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--?”
+
+He was too impatient to let me finish the sentence. “I did mention it to
+Mrs. Romayne,” he said. “And what of it?”
+
+“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.”
+
+He was almost angry with me for suggesting the very explanation which
+had proved so acceptable to Winterfield.
+
+“Nonsense!” he cried. “My wife is far too well-bred a woman to let her
+prejudices express themselves in _that_ way. Winterfield’s personal
+appearance must have inspired her with some unreasonable antipathy,
+or--”
+
+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.
+
+“What other reason _can_ there be?” I asked.
+
+He turned on me sharply. “I don’t know. Do you?”
+
+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?”
+
+His eyes flashed with a sudden sinister brightness--the new idea had
+caught light in his mind. “They _met_ as strangers,” he said.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“Why not write to him?” I suggested. “He would be so glad to hear from
+you again.”
+
+“I don’t know where to write.”
+
+“Did I not send you his address when I forwarded your letter to him?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then let me atone for my forgetfulness at once.”
+
+I wrote down the address, and took my leave.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+*****
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Let me make this clear by an example.
+
+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.
+
+You see, I hope, that if I maintain a passive position, it is not from
+indolence or discouragement. Now we may get on.
+
+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.
+
+I was invited to go upstairs.
+
+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.
+
+“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!”
+
+There, her breath failed her. She reclined in her chair, and fanned
+herself silently--for a while.
+
+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 _he_ was in the room.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+Dr. Wybrow looked at me with a smile.
+
+“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--”
+
+“Is to cure people, of course,” she interposed in her smartest manner.
+
+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.”
+
+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
+_smell_ the odious madhouse. Go straight to the window, Matilda; I want
+to bury my nose among the flowers.”
+
+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.”
+
+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?”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+The doctor turned to me. “Am I wrong, Father Benwell, in supposing that
+I had better have addressed myself to _you?”_
+
+I admitted that I knew a gentleman named Winterfield.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+II.
+
+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 _your_ Winterfield is the man of whom I am in search. Do you
+only know him by name? or are you a friend of his?”
+
+I answered, of course, that I was a friend.
+
+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?”
+
+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.
+
+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?”
+
+Proprietors of private asylums are, in these days, the objects of very
+general distrust in England. I understood the doctor’s motive perfectly.
+
+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!”
+
+I looked at him, when he made this amazing assertion, with a momentary
+doubt of his being in earnest. Doctor Wybrow understood me.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Did the examination satisfy you?”
+
+“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.”
+
+This was a disappointment. I had begun to hope for some coming result,
+obtained by the lad’s confession.
+
+“Is it quite correct to call him sane, when his memory is gone?” I
+ventured to ask.
+
+“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 _you_ with details which are mainly
+interesting to a medical man.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+I leave you to imagine the effect which those words produced on me.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+I was punctual to my appointment. We drove together to the asylum.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+The circumstances under which the discovery was made were related to me
+by the proprietor of the asylum.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+My questions led to nothing. The French boy knew no more about the
+stolen envelope than I did.
+
+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!
+
+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.
+
+His absence in Paris having been mentioned, I stated plainly my own
+position toward him at the present time.
+
+“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?”
+
+He made a courteous reply. “A friend of Dr. Wybrow’s,” he said,
+“requires no other reference.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+*****
+
+THE STOLEN PAPERS.--(COPIES.)
+
+_Number One.--From Emma Winterfield to Bernard Winterfield._
+
+4 Maidwell Buildings, Belhaven.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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!
+
+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.
+
+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?
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+I own it, to my shame. I triumphed in the mischief I had done.
+
+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 _you_, 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.
+
+One more duty (the last) still remains to be done.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+I am told that I owe it to you to leave proof of my death behind me.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+_Number Two--From The Rev. Charles Fennick to Bernard Winterfield._
+
+The Rectory, Belhaven.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+I need hardly add that all the information I can give you is willingly
+at your service.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Believe me, sir, your faithful servant,
+
+CHARLES FENNICK.
+
+P.S.--I fear my letter and its inclosures may be delayed in reaching
+you.
+
+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.
+
+_Added by Father Benwell._
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK THE FOURTH.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+THE BREACH IS WIDENED.
+
+A FORTNIGHT after Father Benwell’s discovery, Stella followed her
+husband one morning into his study. “Have you heard from Mr. Penrose?”
+ she inquired.
+
+“Yes. He will be here to-morrow.”
+
+“To make a long visit?”
+
+“I hope so. The longer the better.”
+
+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?”
+
+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.”
+
+“Are you jealous of Penrose?” he asked, with a bitter smile.
+
+She desperately told him the truth. “I am afraid of Penrose,” she
+answered.
+
+He eyed her with a strange expression of suspicious surprise. “Why are
+you afraid of Penrose?”
+
+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.
+
+“I think you might have told me,” she said, “that Mr. Penrose was a
+Catholic priest.”
+
+He looked down again at his book. “How did you know Penrose was a
+Catholic priest?”
+
+“I had only to look at the direction on your letters to him.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“I didn’t know then, Lewis, that he had concealed his profession from
+us. I can’t help distrusting a man who does that.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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!”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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 _that_ 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.
+
+“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.”
+
+There was a momentary paleness in her face which looked like fear, but
+it passed away again. She confronted him firmly with steady eyes.
+
+“Why do you refer again to that?” she asked. “Is--” (she hesitated
+and recovered herself)--“Is Mr. Winterfield another devoted friend of
+yours?”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+He left the room.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+“God help me!” she said to herself; “the priest has got between us
+already!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+A CHRISTIAN JESUIT.
+
+ON the next day Penrose arrived on his visit to Romayne.
+
+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.
+
+She only bowed to him, and took refuge in her own room.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Penrose was speaking at the time.
+
+“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.”
+
+Romayne sighed. “Ah, if you knew how I have missed you!”
+
+(Stella waited, in breathless expectation, for what Penrose would say to
+this. Would he speak of _her?_ No. There was a natural tact and delicacy
+in him which waited for the husband to introduce the subject.)
+
+Penrose only said, “How is the great work getting on?”
+
+The answer was sternly spoken in one word--“Badly!”
+
+“I am surprised to hear that, Romayne.”
+
+“Why? Were you as innocently hopeful as I was? Did you expect my
+experience of married life to help me in writing my book?”
+
+Penrose replied after a pause, speaking a little sadly. “I expected your
+married life to encourage you in all your highest aspirations,” he said.
+
+(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.)
+
+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--?”
+
+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!”
+
+“Romayne! I don’t like to hear you speak of your marriage in that way.”
+
+“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 _you_ 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?”
+
+Penrose spoke out at last without hesitation. “You are in a thoroughly
+unwholesome state of mind,” he said.
+
+Romayne laughed recklessly. “When was I ever in a healthy state of
+mind?” he asked.
+
+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.”
+
+“What is it?”
+
+“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?”
+
+(Stella rose to her feet, in her eagerness to hear what her husband’s
+answer would be.)
+
+“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.”
+
+(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!)
+
+“Romayne,” he proceeded quietly, “I want you to be happy.”
+
+“How am I to be happy?”
+
+“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 _my_ 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.”
+
+(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?)
+
+“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.
+
+Penrose understood, and felt for him.
+
+“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?”
+
+“Look at the book here on my desk--look at the other books, within easy
+reach, on that table--are you satisfied?”
+
+“More than satisfied. Tell me--do you feel nearer to an understanding of
+the Faith to which I have tried to convert you?”
+
+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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“Have you not forgotten something, Penrose?”
+
+“What have I forgotten?”
+
+“A serious consideration, perhaps. I have a Protestant wife.”
+
+“I have borne that in mind, Romayne, throughout our conversation.”
+
+“And you still say--what you have just said?”
+
+“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.”
+
+(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.)
+
+“Lewis!” she cried, “why do you stay indoors on this beautiful day? I am
+sure Mr. Penrose would like a walk in the grounds.”
+
+Penrose appeared alone at the window. “You are quite right, Mrs.
+Romayne,” he said; “we will join you directly.”
+
+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.”
+
+Stella looked at him, suspecting some underhand exercise of influence on
+her husband.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+“No, Mrs. Romayne; we were not speaking at that time of the book.”
+
+“May I ask an odd question, Mr. Penrose?”
+
+“Certainly!”
+
+“Are you a very zealous Catholic?”
+
+“Pardon me. I am a priest. Surely my profession speaks for me?”
+
+“I hope you are not trying to convert my husband?”
+
+Penrose stopped and looked at her attentively.
+
+“Are you strongly opposed to your husband’s conversion?” he asked.
+
+“As strongly,” she answered, “as a woman can be.”
+
+“By religious conviction, Mrs. Romayne?”
+
+“No. By experience.”
+
+Penrose started. “Is it indiscreet,” he said gently, “to inquire what
+your experience may have been?”
+
+“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?”
+
+“I hear what you say, Mrs. Romayne, with very great pain--I don’t
+presume to form any opinion thus far.”
+
+“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?”
+
+Penrose owned the truth, without an instant’s hesitation.
+
+“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.”
+
+Stella drew back from him, as if he had stung her, and clasped her hands
+in silent despair.
+
+“But I am bound as a Christian,” he went on, “to do to others as I would
+they should do to me.”
+
+She turned on him suddenly, her beautiful face radiant with hope, her
+hand trembling as it caught him by the arm.
+
+“Speak plainly!” she cried.
+
+He obeyed her to the letter.
+
+“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.”
+
+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!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+WINTERFIELD RETURNS.
+
+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.
+
+It was then half-past four. Father Benwell decided to await the return
+of his friend.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+This last letter especially attracted the priest’s attention.
+
+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!
+
+It was nearly half-past five before quick footsteps were audible
+outside. Winterfield entered the room.
+
+“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!”
+
+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.
+
+“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
+_this_ friend? I haven’t one. And there are fools who talk of a dog as
+an inferior being to ourselves! _This_ 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 _his_ 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!’”
+
+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.
+
+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?
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+Winterfield carelessly gathered the letters together, tossed them on the
+dining table at his side, and took the uppermost one of the little heap.
+
+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.
+
+“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. _He_ 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?”
+
+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.
+
+“Forwarded from Beaupark,” Winterfield said to himself. He opened the
+letter--read it carefully to the end--thought over it--and read it
+again.
+
+“Father Benwell!” he said suddenly.
+
+The priest put down the newspaper. For a few moments more nothing was
+audible but the steady tick-tick of the clock.
+
+“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 _my_ prejudices.”
+
+Father Benwell bowed, in silence.
+
+“You are mentioned,” Winterfield proceeded, “in the letter which I have
+just read.”
+
+“Are you at liberty to tell me the name of your correspondent?” Father
+Benwell asked.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“You actually believe in a priest!” he said gayly. “We shall make a good
+Catholic of you yet.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“Perhaps a free thinker, Mr. Winterfield?”
+
+“Anything you like to call it, Father Benwell, so long as it _is_ free.”
+
+They both laughed. Father Benwell went back to his newspaper.
+Winterfield broke the seal of the envelope and took out the inclosures.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Father Benwell rightly conjectured that Winterfield’s destination was
+the town in which his wife had died.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+FATHER BENWELL’S CORRESPONDENCE.
+
+_To the Secretary, S. J., Rome._
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+My visit to the Lodge was duly paid this afternoon.
+
+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. *
+
+The ladies having served my purpose, I ventured into the house, to pay
+my respects to Romayne.
+
+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.
+
+“I hope you are in better spirits, now that you have your old companion
+with you,” I said.
+
+“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.
+
+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.
+
+“I suppose you know that Penrose had an idea of converting me?” he said,
+suddenly.
+
+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.
+
+“He might have succeeded, Father Benwell, if he had chosen to go on.”
+
+This reply, as you may easily imagine, took me by surprise.
+
+“Are you really so obdurate that Arthur despairs of your conversion?” I
+asked.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Then where is the obstacle?” I exclaimed.
+
+He pointed through the window to his wife. “There is the obstacle,” he
+said, in a tone of ironical resignation.
+
+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.
+
+Romayne went on.
+
+“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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+I changed the conversation to the subject of his literary labors.
+
+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!
+
+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. _We_ will improve it when it returns to the Church.
+
+My interview with Penrose was over in two minutes. Dispensing with
+formality, I took his arm, and led him into the front garden.
+
+“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.”
+
+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
+_her_ (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.
+
+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.
+
+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?
+
+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.
+
+     * 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.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+BERNARD WINTERFIELD’S CORRESPONDENCE.
+
+I.
+
+_From Mrs. Romayne to Mr. Winterfield._
+
+HAS my letter failed to reach you? I directed it (as I direct this) to
+Beaupark, not knowing your London address.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+II.
+
+_From Mr. Winterfield to Mrs. Romayne._
+
+Both your letters have reached me.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+My address, when I am in London, is at the head of this page.
+
+III.
+
+_From Dr. Wybrow to Mr. Winterfield._
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Faithfully yours, JOSEPH WYBROW.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+THE SADDEST OF ALL WORDS.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+Romayne barely listened. He turned round at the fireplace and studied
+the reflection of his face in the glass.
+
+“I look worse and worse,” he said thoughtfully to himself.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+For the first time in Romayne’s experience of him, Penrose answered
+evasively.
+
+“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?”
+
+Romayne still looked at him without attending to what he said.
+
+“Surely you don’t think I am deceiving you?” Penrose remonstrated.
+
+“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?”
+
+“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?”
+
+Romayne hesitated. “It seems strange--” he began.
+
+“What seems strange?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.
+
+Romayne held out his hand. “I hope I have not thoughtlessly hurt you?”
+ he said.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Have you seen Penrose?” he asked.
+
+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?”
+
+“No, Lewis. He is distressed.”
+
+“About what?”
+
+“About you, and about himself.”
+
+“Is he going to leave us?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“But he will come back again?”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“He leaves England this afternoon,” she answered, “for Rome.”
+
+“Why does he tell this to you, and not to me?” Romayne asked.
+
+“He cannot trust himself to speak of it to you. He begged me to prepare
+you--”
+
+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?”
+
+Stella hesitated no longer.
+
+“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.”
+
+Romayne rose, and advanced to the door. There, he turned, and spoke to
+Stella. “Where is Arthur?” he said.
+
+Stella gently detained him.
+
+“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.”
+
+There was a knock at the door. The servant appeared, to announce that
+the carriage was waiting.
+
+Penrose entered the room as the man left it.
+
+“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.
+
+“The saddest of all words must be spoken,” he said. “Farewell!”
+
+Pale and trembling, Romayne took his hand. “Is this Father Benwell’s
+doing?” he asked.
+
+“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--!”
+
+His voice failed him. With a resolution which was nothing less than
+heroic in a man of his affectionate nature, he recovered his composure.
+
+“Let us make it as little miserable as it _can_ 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.
+
+She returned to the study.
+
+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.
+
+“Every blessing falls away from me,” he said. “I have lost my best
+friend.”
+
+Years afterward Stella remembered those words, and the tone in which he
+had spoken them.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+THE IMPULSIVE SEX.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“I hardly knew it myself, Mr. Romayne, until our dear Arthur was taken
+away from us.”
+
+“If you used your influence, Father Benwell, is there no hope that you
+might yet persuade him--?”
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“May I ask why?” Father Benwell inquired, with an apostolic suavity
+worthy of the best days of Rome.
+
+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.”
+
+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--”
+
+“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--?”
+
+“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--”
+
+Mrs. Eyrecourt cocked her head, with the artless vivacity of a bird.
+“Ah, but it might, though!” she suggested, slyly.
+
+Father Benwell once more remonstrated in dumb show, and Romayne lost his
+temper.
+
+“Mrs. Eyrecourt!” he cried, sternly.
+
+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.”
+
+Romayne refused to follow it.
+
+“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.”
+
+A son-in-law may make a request, and a mother-in-law may decline to
+comply. Mrs. Eyrecourt declined to comply.
+
+“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_ know what King Lear felt, and _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--”
+
+Romayne’s temper gave way once more.
+
+“If anything can make me a Catholic,” he said, “your interference will
+do it.”
+
+“Out of sheer perversity, dear Romayne?”
+
+“Not at all, Mrs. Eyrecourt. If I became a Catholic, I might escape from
+the society of ladies, in the refuge of a monastery.”
+
+Mrs. Eyrecourt hit him back again with the readiest dexterity.
+
+“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?”
+
+“You have done me a service, dear Mrs. Eyrecourt. But for your salutory
+caution, I _might_ have drifted into controversial subjects. I shall be
+on my guard now.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+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--”
+
+Romayne interrupted her without ceremony. “Favor me,” he said,
+addressing his wife, “by inducing Mrs. Eyrecourt to continue her
+narrative in some other room.”
+
+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.
+
+“Whatever my mother may have said to you, Father Benwell, has been
+without my knowledge.”
+
+Romayne attempted to speak, but Father Benwell was too quick for him.
+
+“Dear Mrs. Romayne, nothing has been said which needs any disclaimer on
+your part.”
+
+“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.”
+
+Once more Romayne attempted to speak. And, once more, Father Benwell was
+beforehand with him.
+
+“May I hope,” said the priest, with a finely ironical smile, “that Mrs.
+Romayne agrees with her excellent mother?”
+
+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.
+
+“I am not sufficiently well acquainted with you, Father Benwell, to
+express an opinion.”
+
+With that answer, she took her mother’s arm and left the room.
+
+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!”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“No more, Mr. Romayne! As a favor to Me, I beg and entreat you will say
+no more. Sit down and compose yourself.”
+
+But Romayne was impenetrable to the influence of friendly and forgiving
+demonstrations. “I can never expect you to enter my house again!” he
+exclaimed.
+
+“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?”
+
+He held out his hand with irresistible cordiality. Romayne took it
+gratefully--still bent, however, on making atonement.
+
+“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--”
+
+“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!”
+
+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.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+FATHER BENWELL’S CORRESPONDENCE
+
+_To the Secretary, S. J., Rome._
+
+I.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+II.
+
+The week’s grace granted to me has elapsed. I write with humility. At
+the same time I have something to say for myself.
+
+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.
+
+Be pleased to inform me, by telegraph, whether our Reverend Fathers wish
+me to go on, or not.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK THE FIFTH.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+MRS. EYRECO URT’S DISCOVERY.
+
+THE leaves had fallen in the grounds at Ten Acres Lodge, and stormy
+winds told drearily that winter had come.
+
+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.”
+
+On a dim gray morning, mother and daughter sat by the fireside, with
+another long day before them.
+
+“Where is that contemptible husband of yours?” Mrs. Eyrecourt asked,
+looking up from her book.
+
+“Lewis is staying in town,” Stella answered listlessly.
+
+“In company with Judas Iscariot?”
+
+Stella was too dull to immediately understand the allusion. “Do you mean
+Father Benwell?” she inquired.
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“My dear, don’t you remember your sister began in the same way? _She_
+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.”
+
+“What is it, mama?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.”
+
+“About Romayne?” said her mother.
+
+“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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Told him of what, my dear?”
+
+“Of what happened to me with Winterfield.”
+
+Mrs. Eyrecourt’s faded eyes opened wide in astonishment.
+
+“Do you really mean it?” she asked.
+
+“I do, indeed.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“Don’t speak too positively, mama. Lewis may find it out yet.”
+
+“Is that one of your presentiments?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“How is he to find it out, if you please?”
+
+“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.”
+
+Mrs. Eyrecourt burst out laughing.
+
+“What is there to laugh at?” Stella asked.
+
+“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?”
+
+Stella resignedly took up the book again.
+
+“I daresay you are right,” she said. “Let us read our novel.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“For me?” Stella asked, looking round from the window.
+
+“No, ma’am--for Mrs. Eyrecourt.”
+
+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.
+
+In these terms Lady Loring wrote:
+
+“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.”
+
+Mrs. Eyrecourt put the letter in her pocket smiling quietly to herself.
+
+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.
+
+Mrs. Eyrecourt joined her daughter at the window.
+
+“Well, my dear, is it clearing up? Shall we take a drive before
+luncheon?”
+
+“If you like, mama.”
+
+She turned to her mother as she answered.
+
+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.
+
+“Do you see any extraordinary change in me?” Stella asked, with a faint
+smile.
+
+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.
+
+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?”
+
+Stella’s color rose brightly, and faded again.
+
+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?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“He doesn’t care, now, for anything that I can tell him.”
+
+“Nonsense, Stella! You may win him back to you by a word--and do you
+hesitate to say the word? _I_ shall tell him!”
+
+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!”
+
+“Will you tell him, yourself--if I leave it to you?”
+
+“Yes--at my own time. Promise!”
+
+“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--_then_ bring him to his senses; then is the time to tell
+him. Will you think of it?”
+
+“Yes; I will think of it.”
+
+“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!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+THE SEED IS SOWN.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“I think you have been Mr. Romayne’s companion for a few days, in the
+hours of recreation?” the priest began.
+
+“Yes, Father.”
+
+“Does he appear to be at all weary of his residence in this house?”
+
+“Oh, far from it! He feels the benign influence of The Retreat; we have
+had some delightful hours together.”
+
+“Have you anything to report?”
+
+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.”
+
+“Have I spoken to you on that subject?”
+
+“No, Father.”
+
+“Then you have committed no sin. You have only made an excusable
+mistake. How were you led into error?”
+
+“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?”
+
+Father Benwell considered for a moment. “Did Mr. Romayne say anything
+more?” he asked.
+
+“No, Father.”
+
+“Did you attempt to return to the subject?”
+
+“I thought it best to be silent.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Romayne opened the door.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“I hope I have not disappointed you?” said Father Benwell.
+
+“I am only anxious,” Romayne answered, “to hear what you have to say.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+THE HARVEST IS REAPED.
+
+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.
+
+“They breakfast early at The Retreat,” he said. “What may I offer you?”
+
+“I want nothing, thank you,” Romayne answered, with an effort to control
+his habitual impatience of needless delay.
+
+“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!”
+
+The wine and biscuits were brought in. Father Benwell filled the glasses
+and bowed cordially to his guest.
+
+“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?”
+
+“I believed that you had good reasons, Father--and that was enough for
+me.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“I feel like a different man, Father Benwell.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“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--”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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!”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+Romayne looked at his spiritual adviser with a momentary change of
+expression--a relapse into the ironical bitterness of the past time.
+
+“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.”
+
+“In what respect, dear Romayne?”
+
+“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?”
+
+Father Benwell shook his head. “No,” he replied; “I can’t honestly say
+that.”
+
+“Then you had a reason for your silence?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“May I not know it?”
+
+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.
+
+“My good friend,” he said, “I am afraid of hurting your feelings.”
+
+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.”
+
+“Then I _will_ 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.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+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.
+
+“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 _their_ time. Take another glass of wine.”
+
+Romayne looked at the title-deeds, and laid them aside unread.
+
+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--_he_ 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.
+
+“I hope I have not offended you?” said Father Benwell.
+
+“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.”
+
+Father Benwell took both Romayne’s hands in his, and pressed them
+fervently.
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“Romayne, it must not be!”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+Romayne refused to yield, even to this unanswerable appeal.
+
+“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.”
+
+Father Benwell smiled sadly.
+
+“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.”
+
+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?”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“What _was_ it I had to say to you?” he resumed “Surely, I was speaking
+on the subject of your future life?”
+
+“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.”
+
+Still pacing the room, Father Benwell stopped at that reply, and put his
+hand kindly on Romayne’s shoulder.
+
+“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.”
+
+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?”
+
+“Suppose you were _not_ a man with a wife.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“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?”
+
+There was a pause. The flush on Romayne’s face faded away. He was
+silent.
+
+“You are not in the confessional,” Father Benwell reminded him, with
+melancholy submission to circumstances. “You are under no obligation to
+answer me.”
+
+Romayne roused himself. He spoke in low, reluctant tones. “I am afraid
+to answer you,” he said.
+
+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.
+
+“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 _your_ 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?”
+
+“So far as I know it--yes.”
+
+Father Benwell went on.
+
+“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’?”
+
+“I cannot truly say it,” Romayne answered.
+
+The time had now come for speaking plainly. Father Benwell no longer
+advanced to his end under cover of a cloud of words.
+
+“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.”
+
+“No, Father Benwell! Not open to every man.”
+
+“I say, Yes!”
+
+“It is not open to Me!”
+
+“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?”
+
+Romayne started to his feet, shaken to the soul by the solemnity of the
+appeal.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Nothing is beyond the limit of a priest’s sympathies.”
+
+“Father Benwell, I am married!”
+
+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.
+
+“Rouse your courage,” he said sternly. “You are no more married than I
+am.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+ON THE ROAD TO ROME.
+
+THERE was not a sound in the room. Romayne stood, looking at the priest
+
+“Did you hear what I said?” Father Benwell asked.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Do you understand that I really mean what I said?”
+
+He made no reply--he waited, like a man expecting to hear more.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.
+
+“Who is the man?” he asked.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+The bride’s mother was the first witness. The two names that followed
+were the names of Lord and Lady Loring. “_They_, too, in the conspiracy
+to deceive me!” Romayne said, as he laid the paper back on the table.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Quite needless. What is this other paper?”
+
+“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.”
+
+“What have I to do with it?”
+
+He put the question in a tone of passive endurance--resigned to the
+severest moral martyrdom that could be inflicted on him.
+
+“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.”
+
+Romayne looked at him in stern amazement.
+
+“Excuse!” he repeated.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+Romayne took up the second paper, looked at it, and threw it back again
+on the table with an expression of disgust.
+
+“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?”
+
+“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?”
+
+“I admit it.”
+
+“Now, listen! In _our_ 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 _be_ 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?”
+
+“Yes. His first marriage took place before the registrar.”
+
+“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.”
+
+“I understand you,” said Romayne. “Mr. Winterfield’s marriage at
+Brussels--”
+
+“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?”
+
+“No! I don’t know what I may think, I don’t know what I may do, if you
+leave me by myself.”
+
+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.
+
+Romayne took it--as an act of justice, if not as an act of gratitude.
+
+“Can I be of any use in advising you?” Father Benwell asked.
+
+“Who can advise a man in my position?” Romayne bitterly rejoined.
+
+“I can at least suggest that you should take time to think over your
+position.”
+
+“Time? take time? You talk as if my situation was endurable.”
+
+“Everything is endurable, Romayne!”
+
+“It may be so to you, Father Benwell. Did you part with your humanity
+when you put on the black robe of the priest?”
+
+“I parted, my son, with those weaknesses of _our_ humanity on which
+women practice. You talk of your position. I will put it before you at
+its worst.”
+
+“For what purpose?”
+
+“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--”
+
+“I don’t regret it, Father Benwell.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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!”
+
+The priest poured out the wine. “I feel for you,” he said. “Indeed,
+indeed, I feel for you.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Impossible!”
+
+“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--”
+
+“Don’t speak of it!”
+
+Father Benwell sighed. “Ah, I understand!” he said, sadly. “The house
+associated with Mr. Winterfield’s visit--”
+
+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?
+
+“Can I see my lawyer here?” he asked, suddenly.
+
+“My dear Romayne, you can see any one whom you like to invite.”
+
+“I shall not trouble you by staying very long, Father Benwell.”
+
+“Do nothing in a hurry, my son. Pray do nothing in a hurry!”
+
+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.
+
+“Not alone!” Father Benwell remonstrated.
+
+“Who will be my companion?”
+
+“I will,” the priest answered.
+
+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.
+
+“Can you go with me at any time?” he asked. “Have you no duties that
+keep you in England?”
+
+“My duties, Romayne, are already confided to other hands.”
+
+“Then you have foreseen this?”
+
+“I have thought it possible. Your journey may be long, or it may be
+short--you shall not go away alone.”
+
+“I can think of nothing yet; my mind is a blank,” Romayne confessed
+sadly. “I don’t know where I shall go.”
+
+“I know where you ought to go--and where you _will_ go,” said Father
+Benwell, emphatically.
+
+“Where?”
+
+“To Rome.”
+
+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?
+
+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.
+
+
+
+Before post-time, on the same day, Father Benwell wrote his last report
+to the Secretary of the Society of Jesus, in these lines:
+
+“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.”
+
+AFTER THE STORY.
+
+EXTRACTS FROM BERNARD WINTERFIELD’S DIARY.
+
+I.
+
+WINTERFIELD DEFENDS HIMSELF.
+
+Beaupark House, June 17th, 18--.
+
+You and I, Cousin Beeminster, seldom meet. But I occasionally hear of
+you, from friends acquainted with both of us.
+
+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:
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+With you, the case is different. If I die without male offspring, the
+Beaupark estate goes to you, as next heir.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+B. W.
+
+II.
+
+WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.
+
+First Extract.
+
+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.
+
+12th.--I am becoming superstitious! In the Obituary of to-day’s _Times_
+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.
+
+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?
+
+18th, Paris.--She has accepted me! Words are useless to express my
+happiness.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+*****
+
+(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.)
+
+*****
+
+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.
+
+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!
+
+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.
+
+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?
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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:
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+January 29.--A day missed out of my Diary. The events of yesterday
+unnerved me for the time.
+
+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.
+
+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!
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Soon after ten, on the morning of the 28th, she entered my sitting-room.
+
+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.
+
+“I am ashamed that you should have taken the journey to London in this
+wintry weather--” she began.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+It was her husband’s letter of farewell.
+
+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:--
+
+“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.”
+
+There the page was turned down, and the explanation was concealed from
+me.
+
+A faint color stole over her face as I handed the letter back to her.
+
+“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.”
+
+I attempted to speak. She saw in my face how I despised him, and stopped
+me.
+
+“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--”
+
+She paused, poor soul, in evident confusion and distress.
+
+“Why speak of those days?” I ventured to say.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+After answering her to this effect, I waited to hear more.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“Do you remember my reply to your letter about Father Benwell?” I asked.
+
+“Yes--every word of it.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“At once!”
+
+“When your mother and your friends took you from me,” I resumed, “if you
+had shown any hesitation--”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Since we parted at Brussels,” I said, “my wife has died. Here is a copy
+of the medical certificate of her death.”
+
+Stella refused to look at it. “I don’t understand such things,” she
+answered faintly. “What is this?”
+
+She took up my wife’s death-bed confession.
+
+“Read it,” I said.
+
+She looked frightened. “What will it tell me?” she asked.
+
+“It will tell you, Stella, that false appearances once led you into
+wronging an innocent man.”
+
+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.
+
+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!”
+
+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 _me_--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.
+
+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.
+
+“Now you know that you have a friend to help and advise you--” I began.
+
+“No,” she interposed; “more than a friend; say a brother.”
+
+I said it. “You had something to ask of me,” I resumed, “and you never
+put the question.”
+
+She understood me.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+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?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“How did they reach you, then?”
+
+“Through Father Benwell.”
+
+She started at that name like a woman electrified.
+
+“I knew it!” she cried. “It _is_ 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.”
+
+She was surely wrong about Father Benwell? I tried to show her why.
+
+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.
+
+There was but one way of answering her.
+
+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.
+
+“Anything connected with that poor creature,” she said, “has a dreadful
+interest for me now.”
+
+“Did you know him?” I asked, with some surprise.
+
+“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?”
+
+“I asked the Rector nothing. But he thought it his duty to tell me all
+that he knew of the theft.”
+
+She drew her chair nearer to me. “Let me hear every word of it!” she
+pleaded eagerly.
+
+I felt some reluctance to comply with the request.
+
+“Is it not fit for me to hear?” she asked.
+
+This forced me to be plain with her. “If I repeat what the Rector told
+me,” I said, “I must speak of my wife.”
+
+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.”
+
+I kissed the hand that she had given to me--even her “brother” might do
+that!
+
+“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.”
+
+“Did the Rector understand it?” Stella asked.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Do you think he showed the confession to any other person?” Stella
+asked. “I happen to know that he concealed it from his mother.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“It is very strange!” she said
+
+“What is strange?”
+
+“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?”
+
+This morbid way of thinking distressed me. I reminded her that she had
+dear and devoted friends.
+
+“Not one,” she answered, “but you.”
+
+“Have you not seen Lady Loring?” I asked.
+
+“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.”
+
+“I am sorry to hear it,” I said.
+
+“Are you thinking of the Lorings?” she asked.
+
+“I don’t even know the Lorings. I can think of nobody but you.”
+
+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.
+
+“Surely your brother may speak plainly,” I pleaded.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+January 30.--I have just returned from my visit.
+
+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?
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+I shook hands, of course. Mrs. Eyrecourt perceived that I was looking
+for Stella.
+
+“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?”
+
+I begged her to continue. She perplexed--I am not sure that she did not
+even alarm me.
+
+“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.”
+
+This startled me, and I suppose I showed it.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+This unworthy way of thinking was instantly checked by Mrs. Eyrecourt’s
+next words.
+
+“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.”
+
+She paused. Her eyes softened, her voice sank low--she became quite
+unlike the Mrs. Eyrecourt whom I knew.
+
+“In a few months more, Winterfield,” she said, “my poor Stella will be a
+mother. My letter calls Romayne back to his wife--_and his child.”_
+
+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.
+
+“Are you a little deaf, Winterfield?” she asked.
+
+“Not that I know of.”
+
+“Do you understand me?”
+
+“Oh, yes.”
+
+“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 _you_ had left Stella--”
+
+“I should never have left her, Mrs. Eyrecourt.”
+
+“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?”
+
+“Most assuredly not!”
+
+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.
+
+In the meantime, Mrs. Eyrecourt was satisfied. She dashed at the next
+subject as fluent and as confident as ever.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“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!”
+
+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.
+
+“You will make my excuses to Stella?” I said.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Will you let me know,” I said, “when you hear from Rome?”
+
+“With the greatest pleasure,” Mrs. Eyrecourt answered, briskly.
+“Good-by, you best of friends--good-by.”
+
+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!
+
+Second Extract.
+
+Beaupark, February 10.--News at last from Mrs. Eyrecourt.
+
+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:
+
+“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, _unread_--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.”
+
+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?
+
+11th.--I was disappointed at not hearing from Stella, yesterday. This
+morning has made amends; it has brought me a letter from her.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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 _was_ in the room; I had no other choice than to
+enter on my business, as if I had been the family lawyer.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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!”
+
+I start for Paris by the mail train, to-night.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+We went into the large garden at the back of the house, and there I
+committed another act of duplicity.
+
+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.
+
+Third Extract.
+
+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.
+
+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?
+
+No! the influence that keeps me away from St. Germain is the influence
+of Stella herself.
+
+“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.
+
+“Am I never to see you again?” I asked.
+
+“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--?”
+
+She turned away from me and said no more.
+
+It was time to take leave. We were under her mother’s superintendence;
+we shook hands and that was all.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Cowes, March 2.--I am in treaty with an agent for the hire of a yacht.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Fourth Extract.
+
+_Naples, May_ 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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Matilda is faithful to her engagement; Matilda’s letter tells me the
+truth.
+
+“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
+_you,_ 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.”
+
+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!
+
+Well, I suppose a man can harden his heart if he likes. Let me harden
+_my_ heart, and forget her.
+
+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.
+
+Fifth Extract.
+
+Civita Vecchia, February 28, 1863.--Back again on the coast of
+Italy--after an absence, at sea and ashore, of nine months!
+
+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.
+
+Rome, March 1.--I have found my letters waiting for me at the office of
+my banker.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+“Is he a priest?”
+
+“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--”
+
+“A preacher!” I exclaimed. “And a popular reputation! How do the
+Italians understand him?”
+
+The banker looked puzzled.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Are you acquainted with him yourself?” I asked.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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 _Il Gesu_. 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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+I listened, without making any remark. To tell the truth, I was thinking
+of Stella.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Returning to Rome in the evening, I found waiting for me a letter from
+Stella.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+To-morrow will be a memorable day in my calendar. To-morrow I leave Rome
+for St. Germain.
+
+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.
+
+Sixth Extract.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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 _pate de foie gras._
+
+My experience of to-day will, as Stella tells me, be my general
+experience of the family life at St. Germain.
+
+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.
+
+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?
+
+Nothing more, of course.
+
+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?
+
+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.
+
+The good old moral must be _my_ moral: “Be content with such things as
+ye have.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Seventh Extract.
+
+June 7.--The occasion for opening my diary once more has presented
+itself this morning.
+
+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.
+
+June 8.--In regard to Romayne, Mrs. Eyrecourt seems to be of my opinion.
+
+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.
+
+June 9.--Madame Villeray has been speaking to me confidentially on a
+very delicate subject.
+
+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:
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+No! no more writing about myself. I close the book again.
+
+Eighth Extract.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+July 4-9.--No letter has been received. Mrs. Eyrecourt is uneasy.
+Stella, on the contrary, seems to be relieved.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+Ninth Extract.
+
+September 13.--Terrible news from Rome of the Jesuit Mission to Arizona.
+
+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.
+
+Looking at the _Times_ (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.
+
+Our one present hope of getting any further information seems to me to
+depend on our English newspaper. The _Times_ 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.
+
+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!”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+“Even if you insult me, Bernard, I am not able to resent it,” she said,
+very gently. “_I_ once wronged _you_--I have no right to complain of your
+now wronging me. I will try to forget it.”
+
+She held out her hand. She raised her eyes--and looked at me.
+
+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.”
+
+She pushed me back from her, with a trembling hand, and left the room.
+
+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.
+
+Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a little note,
+addressed in pencil. No answer was required.
+
+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.”
+
+I never thought of her mother. She is right. Even if she were wrong, I
+must obey her.
+
+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.
+
+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 _Times._ He publishes his name
+and address--and he declares that he has himself seen the two captive
+priests.
+
+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:
+
+“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.
+
+“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.
+
+“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.
+
+“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.’
+
+“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.”
+
+So the letter ended.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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 _Times,_ 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.
+
+Mr. Murthwaite has not only given me valuable instructions--he has
+provided me with letters of introduction to persons in office, and to
+the _padres_ (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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+All this about a dog! And not a word about Stella? Not a word. _Those_
+thoughts are not to be written.
+
+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:
+
+     “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.”
+
+*****
+
+(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.)
+
+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.”
+
+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.”
+
+Tenth Extract.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“Stella is with her husband,” Lord Loring replied.
+
+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.
+
+“Reconciled?” I said.
+
+“Yes, Mr. Winterfield--reconciled, before he dies.”
+
+We were both silent for a while.
+
+What was he thinking of? I don’t know. What was I thinking of? I daren’t
+write it down.
+
+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.”
+
+Even the name of Father Benwell now excites my distrust. “Is _he_ in
+Paris too?” I inquired.
+
+“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.”
+
+I instantly thought of the boy.
+
+“Is Romayne in possession of his faculties?” I asked.
+
+“In complete possession.”
+
+“While justice is in his power, has he done justice to his son?”
+
+Lord Loring looked a little confused. “I have not heard,” was all he
+said in reply.
+
+I was far from satisfied. “You are one of Romayne’s oldest friends,” I
+persisted. “Have you not seen him yourself?”
+
+“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.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+I was certainly thinking of what Stella had said of the Lorings on the
+memorable day when she visited me at the hotel.
+
+“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.”
+
+I asked if they had seen Stella on that occasion.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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:
+
+“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.’”
+
+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.
+
+To my amazement he sided with Penrose.
+
+“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.
+
+“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.”
+
+At the station I met Lord Loring. He understood that I too had received
+bad news, and gave me a place in the _coupe_ 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.
+
+Paris, May 3.--On our arrival at the hotel I was informed that no
+message had yet been received from the Embassy.
+
+We found Lady Loring alone at the breakfast-table, when we had rested
+after our night journey.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Only for the second time!” I exclaimed.
+
+“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.”
+
+“Has Romayne seen his child?” I asked.
+
+“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. _That_ 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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+Lady Loring evidently shared the feeling of suspense that had got
+possession of me. She rose and walked to the window.
+
+“Here is the message!” she said, recognizing her traveling servant as he
+entered the hotel door.
+
+The man appeared, with a line written on a card. I was requested to
+present the card at the Embassy, without delay.
+
+May 4.--I am only now able to continue my record of the events of
+yesterday.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+The interval passed, and she spoke--very sadly, very quietly.
+
+“One more work of mercy, Bernard. Help him to die with a heart at rest.”
+
+She drew back--and I approached him.
+
+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.
+
+“Penrose?” he asked, faintly whispering. “Dear Arthur! Not dying, like
+me?”
+
+I quieted _that_ 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.
+
+“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 _her_
+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.
+
+“Christ took a child on His knee. The priests call themselves ministers
+of Christ. They have left me, because of _this_ 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!”
+
+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.
+
+“Does it torture you still?” she asked.
+
+“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?”
+
+She pointed to me.
+
+“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--”
+
+“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.”
+
+“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.”
+
+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’.”
+
+Romayne heard it. His heavy eyelids opened again. “No,” he said. “Not
+uncle. Something better and dearer. Stella, give me your hand.”
+
+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.”
+
+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.
+
+The minutes passed. Many minutes or few minutes, I don’t know which.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+He returned again almost immediately, followed by the gray-headed
+gentleman whom I had noticed on the journey to Paris--and by Father
+Benwell.
+
+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.
+
+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?”
+
+“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.”
+
+The gray-headed gentleman stepped forward.
+
+“Are you able to attend to me, sir?” he asked.
+
+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.
+
+Both the physicians answered without hesitation in the affirmative.
+Father Benwell added _his_ attestation. “Throughout Mr. Romayne’s
+illness,” he said firmly, “his mind has been as clear as mine is.”
+
+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.
+
+In the meantime, the lawyer briefly stated his case.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+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.
+
+Father Benwell interfered, for the first time.
+
+“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.”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“More!” he cried. “More!”
+
+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.
+
+I led him across the room. He was quite willing to go with me--he
+reiterated his petition, standing at his father’s knees.
+
+“Lift him to me,” said Romayne.
+
+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.
+
+“More, papa! More!”
+
+Romayne put the will into his hand.
+
+The child’s eyes sparkled. “Burn?” he asked, eagerly.
+
+“Yes!”
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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!”
+
+“You yourself declared just now,” said the lawyer, “that Mr. Romayne was
+in perfect possession of his faculties.”
+
+The baffled Jesuit turned furiously on the dying man. They looked at
+each other.
+
+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.
+
+“What did you do it for?”
+
+Quietly and firmly the answer came:
+
+“Wife and child.”
+
+The last long-drawn sigh rose and fell. With those sacred words on his
+lips, Romayne died.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+“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?”
+
+I really could not endure this. “I have my own opinion of what you
+deserve,” I answered. “Don’t provoke me to mention it.”
+
+He eyed me with a sinister smile.
+
+“I am not so old as I look,” he said; “I may live another twenty years!”
+
+“Well?” I asked.
+
+“Well,” he answered, “much may happen in twenty years!”
+
+With that he left me. If he means any further mischief, I can tell him
+this--he will find Me in his way.
+
+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.
+
+“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.”
+
+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--
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Black Robe, by Wilkie Collins
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