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.