CHAPTER I.

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.”