THE BLACK ROBE

by Wilkie Collins




BEFORE THE STORY.

FIRST SCENE.

BOULOGNE-SUR-MER.--THE DUEL.

I.

THE doctors could do no more for the Dowager Lady Berrick.

When the medical advisers of a lady who has reached seventy years
of age recommend the mild climate of the South of France, they
mean in plain language that they have arrived at the end of their
resources. Her ladyship gave the mild climate a fair trial, and
then decided (as she herself expressed it) to "die at home."
Traveling slowly, she had reached Paris at the date when I last
heard of her. It was then the beginning of November. A week
later, I met with her nephew, Lewis Romayne, at the club.

"What brings you to London at this time of year?" I asked.

"The fatality that pursues me," he answered grimly. "I am one of
the unluckiest men living."

He was thirty years old; he was not married; he was the enviable
possessor of the fine old country seat, called Vange Abbey; he
had no poor relations; and he was one of the handsomest men in
England. When I add that I am, myself, a retired army officer,
with a wretched income, a disagreeable wife, four ugly children,
and a burden of fifty years on my back, no one will be surprised
to hear that I answered Romayne, with bitter sincerity, in these
words:

"I wish to heaven I could change places with you!"

"I wish to heaven you could!" he burst out, with equal sincerity
on his side. "Read that."

He handed me a letter addressed to him by the traveling medical
attendant of Lady Berrick. After resting in Paris, the patient
had continued her homeward journey as far as Boulogne. In her
suffering condition, she was liable to sudden fits of caprice. An
insurmountable horror of the Channel passage had got possession
of her; she positively refused to be taken on board the
steamboat. In this difficulty, the lady who held the post of her
"companion" had ventured on a suggestion. Would Lady Berrick
consent to make the Channel passage if her nephew came to
Boulogne expressly to accompany her on the voyage? The reply had
been so immediately favorable, that the doctor lost no time in
communicating with Mr. Lewis Romayne. This was the substance of
the letter.

It was needless to ask any more questions--Romayne was plainly on
his way to Boulogne. I gave him some useful information. "Try the
oysters," I said, "at the restaurant on the pier."

He never even thanked me. He was thinking entirely of himself.

"Just look at my position," he said. "I detest Boulogne; I
cordially share my aunt's horror of the Channel passage; I had
looked forward to some months of happy retirement in the country
among my books--and what happens to me? I am brought to London in
this season of fogs, to travel by the tidal train at seven
to-morrow morning--and all for a woman with whom I have no
sympathies in common. If I am not an unlucky man--who is?"

He spoke in a tone of vehement irritation which seemed to me,
under the circumstances, to be simply absurd. But _my_ nervous
system is not the irritable system--sorely tried by night study
and strong tea--of my friend Romayne. "It's only a matter of two
days," I remarked, by way of reconciling him to his situation.

"How do I know that?" he retorted. "In two days the weather may
be stormy. In two days she may be too ill to be moved.
Unfortunately, I am her heir; and I am told I must submit to any
whim that seizes her. I'm rich enough already; I don't want her
money. Besides, I dislike all traveling--and especially traveling
alone. You are an idle man. If you were a good friend, you would
offer to go with me." He added, with the delicacy which was one
of the redeeming points in his wayward character. "Of course as
my guest."

I had known him long enough not to take offense at his reminding
me, in this considerate way, that I was a poor man. The proposed
change of scene tempted me. What did I care for the Channel
passage? Besides, there was the irresistible attraction of
getting away from home. The end of it was that I accepted
Romayne's invitation.

II.

SHORTLY after noon, on the next day, we were established at
Boulogne--near Lady Berrick, but not at her hotel. "If we live in
the same house," Romayne reminded me, "we shall be bored by the
companion and the doctor. Meetings on the stairs, you know, and
exchanging bows and small talk." He hated those trivial
conventionalities of society, in which, other people delight.
When somebody once asked him in what company he felt most at
ease? he made a shocking answer--he said, "In the company of
dogs."

I waited for him on the pier while he went to see her ladyship.
He joined me again with his bitterest smile. "What did I tell
you? She is not well enough to see me to-day. The doctor looks
grave, and the companion puts her handkerchief to her eyes. We
may be kept in this place for weeks to come."

The afternoon proved to be rainy. Our early dinner was a bad one.
This last circumstance tried his temper sorely. He was no
gourmand; the question of cookery was (with him) purely a matter
of digestion. Those late hours of study, and that abuse of tea to
which I have already alluded, had sadly injured his stomach. The
doctors warned him of serious consequences to his nervous system,
unless he altered his habits. He had little faith in medical
science, and he greatly overrated the restorative capacity of his
constitution. So far as I know, he had always neglected the
doctors' advice.

The weather cleared toward evening, and we went out for a walk.
We passed a church--a Roman Catholic church, of course--the doors
of which were still open. Some poor women were kneeling at their
prayers in the dim light. "Wait a minute," said Romayne. "I am in
a vile temper. Let me try to put myself into a better frame of
mind."

I followed him into the church. He knelt down in a dark corner by
himself. I confess I was surprised. He had been baptized in the
Church of England; but, so far as outward practice was concerned,
he belonged to no religious community. I had often heard him
speak with sincere reverence and admiration of the spirit of
Christianity--but he never, to my knowledge, attended any place
of public worship. When we met again outside the church, I asked
if he had been converted to the Roman Catholic faith.

"No," he said. "I hate the inveterate striving of that priesthood
after social influence and political power as cordially as the
fiercest Protestant living. But let us not forget that the Church
of Rome has great merits to set against great faults. Its system
is administered with an admirable knowledge of the higher needs
of human nature. Take as one example what you have just seen. The
solemn tranquillity of that church, the poor people praying near
me, the few words of prayer by which I silently united myself to
my fellow-creatures, have calmed me and done me good. In _our_
country I should have found the church closed, out of service
hours." He took my arm and abruptly changed the subject. "How
will you occupy yourself," he asked, "if my aunt receives me
to-morrow?"

I assured him that I should easily find ways and means of getting
through the time. The next morning a message came from Lady
Berrick, to say that she would see her nephew after breakfast.
Left by myself, I walked toward the pier, and met with a man who
asked me to hire his boat. He had lines and bait, at my service.
Most unfortunately, as the event proved, I decided on occupying
an hour or two by sea fishing.

The wind shifted while we were out, and before we could get back
to the harbor, the tide had turned against us. It was six o'clock
when I arrived at the hotel. A little open carriage was waiting
at the door. I found Romayne impatiently expecting me, and no
signs of dinner on the table. He informed me that he had accepted
an invitation, in which I was included, and promised to explain
everything in the carriage.

Our driver took the road that led toward the High Town. I
subordinated my curiosity to my sense of politeness, and asked
for news of his aunt's health.

"She is seriously ill, poor soul," he said. "I am sorry I spoke
so petulantly and s o unfairly when we met at the club. The near
prospect of death has developed qualities in her nature which I
ought to have seen before this. No matter how it may be delayed,
I will patiently wait her time for the crossing to England."

So long as he believed himself to be in the right, he was, as to
his actions and opinions, one of the most obstinate men I ever
met with. But once let him be convinced that he was wrong, and he
rushed into the other extreme--became needlessly distrustful of
himself, and needlessly eager in seizing his opportunity of
making atonement. In this latter mood he was capable (with the
best intentions) of committing acts of the most childish
imprudence. With some misgivings, I asked how he had amused
himself in my absence.

"I waited for you," he said, "till I lost all patience, and went
out for a walk. First, I thought of going to the beach, but the
smell of the harbor drove me back into the town; and there, oddly
enough, I met with a man, a certain Captain Peterkin, who had
been a friend of mine at college."

"A visitor to Boulogne?" I inquired.

"Not exactly."

"A resident?"

"Yes. The fact is, I lost sight of Peterkin when I left
Oxford--and since that time he seems to have drifted into
difficulties. We had a long talk. He is living here, he tells me,
until his affairs are settled."

I needed no further enlightenment--Captain Peterkin stood as
plainly revealed to me as if I had known him for years. "Isn't it
a little imprudent," I said, "to renew your acquaintance with a
man of that sort? Couldn't you have passed him, with a bow?"

Bolnayne smiled uneasily. "I daresay you're right," he answered.
"But, remember, I had left my aunt, feeling ashamed of the unjust
way in which I had thought and spoken of her. How did I know that
I mightn't be wronging an old friend next, if I kept Peterkin at
a distance? His present position may be as much his misfortune,
poor fellow, as his fault. I was half inclined to pass him, as
you say--but I distrusted my own judgment. He held out his hand,
and he was so glad to see me. It can't be helped now. I shall be
anxious to hear your opinion of him."

"Are we going to dine with Captain Peterkin?"

"Yes. I happened to mention that wretched dinner yesterday at our
hotel. He said, 'Come to my boarding-house. Out of Paris, there
isn't such a table d'hote in France.' I tried to get off it--not
caring, as you know, to go among strangers--I said I had a friend
with me. He invited you most cordially to accompany me. More
excuses on my part only led to a painful result. I hurt
Peterkin's feelings. 'I'm down in the world,' he said, 'and I'm
not fit company for you and your friends. I beg your pardon for
taking the liberty of inviting you!' He turned away with the
tears in his eyes. What could I do?"

I thought to myself, "You could have lent him five pounds, and
got rid of his invitation without the slightest difficulty." If I
had returned in reasonable time to go out with Romayne, we might
not have met the captain--or, if we had met him, my presence
would have prevented the confidential talk and the invitation
that followed. I felt I was to blame--and yet, how could I help
it? It was useless to remonstrate: the mischief was done.

We left the Old Town on our right hand, and drove on, past a
little colony of suburban villas, to a house standing by itself,
surrounded by a stone wall. As we crossed the front garden on our
way to the door, I noticed against the side of the house two
kennels, inhabited by two large watch-dogs. Was the proprietor
afraid of thieves?

III.

THE moment we were introduced to the drawing-room, my suspicions
of the company we were likely to meet with were fully confirmed.

"Cards, billiards, and betting"--there was the inscription
legibly written on the manner and appearance of Captain Peterkin.
The bright-eyed yellow old lady who kept the boarding-house would
have been worth five thousand pounds in jewelry alone, if the
ornaments which profusely covered her had been genuine precious
stones. The younger ladies present had their cheeks as highly
rouged and their eyelids as elaborately penciled in black as if
they were going on the stage, instead of going to dinner. We
found these fair creatures drinking Madeira as a whet to their
appetites. Among the men, there were two who struck me as the
most finished and complete blackguards whom I had ever met with
in all my experience, at home and abroad. One, with a brown face
and a broken nose, was presented to us by the title of
"Commander," and was described as a person of great wealth and
distinction in Peru, traveling for amusement. The other wore a
military uniform and decorations, and was spoken of as "the
General." A bold bullying manner, a fat sodden face, little
leering eyes, and greasy-looking hands, made this man so
repellent to me that I privately longed to kick him. Romayne had
evidently been announced, before our arrival, as a landed
gentleman with a large income. Men and women vied in servile
attentions to him. When we went into the dining-room, the
fascinating creature who sat next to him held her fan before her
face, and so made a private interview of it between the rich
Englishman and herself. With regard to the dinner, I shall only
report that it justified Captain Peterkin's boast, in some degree
at least. The wine was good, and the conversation became gay to
the verge of indelicacy. Usually the most temperate of men,
Romayne was tempted by his neighbors into drinking freely. I was
unfortunately seated at the opposite extremity of the table, and
I had no opportunity of warning him.

The dinner reached its conclusion, and we all returned together,
on the foreign plan, to coffee and cigars in the drawing-room.
The women smoked, and drank liqueurs as well as coffee, with the
men. One of them went to the piano, and a little impromptu ball
followed, the ladies dancing with their cigarettes in their
mouths. Keeping my eyes and ears on the alert, I saw an
innocent-looking table, with a surface of rosewood, suddenly
develop a substance of green cloth. At the same time, a neat
little roulette-table made its appearance from a hiding-place in
a sofa. Passing near the venerable landlady, I heard her ask the
servant, in a whisper, "if the dogs were loose?" After what I had
observed, I could only conclude that the dogs were used as a
patrol, to give the alarm in case of a descent of the police. It
was plainly high time to thank Captain Peterkin for his
hospitality, and to take our leave.

"We have had enough of this," I whispered to Romayne in English.
"Let us go."

In these days it is a delusion to suppose that you can speak
confidentially in the English language, when French people are
within hearing. One of the ladies asked Romayne, tenderly, if he
was tired of her already. Another reminded him that it was
raining heavily (as we could all hear), and suggested waiting
until it cleared up. The hideous General waved his greasy hand in
the direction of the card table, and said, "The game is waiting
for us."

Romayne was excited, but not stupefied, by the wine he had drunk.
He answered, discreetly enough, "I must beg you to excuse me; I
am a poor card player."

The General suddenly looked grave. "You are speaking, sir, under
a strange misapprehension," he said. "Our game is
lansquenet--essentially a game of chance. With luck, the poorest
player is a match for the whole table."

Romayne persisted in his refusal. As a matter of course, I
supported him, with all needful care to avoid giving offense. The
General took offense, nevertheless. He crossed his arms on his
breast, and looked at us fiercely.

"Does this mean, gentlemen, that you distrust the company?" he
asked.

The broken-nosed Commander, hearing the question, immediately
joined us, in the interests of peace--bearing with him the
elements of persuasion, under the form of a lady on his arm.

The lady stepped briskly forward, and tapped the General on the
shoulder with her fan. "I am one of the company," she said, "and
I am sure Mr. Romayne doesn't distrust _me_." She turned to
Romayne with her most irresistible smile. "A gentleman always
plays cards," she resumed, "when he has a lady for a partner. Let
us join our interests at the table--and, dear Mr. Romayne, don't
risk too much!" She put her pretty little purse into his hand,
and looked as if she had been in love with him for half her
lifetime.

The fatal influence of the sex, assisted by wine, produced the
inevitable result. Romayne allowed himself to be led to the card
table. For a moment the General delayed the beginning of the
game. After what had happened, it was necessary that he should
assert the strict sense of justice that was in him. "We are all
honorable men," he began.

"And brave men," the Commander added, admiring the General.

"And brave men," the General admitted, admiring the Commander.
"Gentlemen, if I have been led into expressing myself with
unnecessary warmth of feeling, I apologize, and regret it.

"Nobly spoken!" the Commander pronounced. The General put his
hand on his heart and bowed. The game began.

As the poorest man of the two I had escaped the attentions
lavished by the ladies on Romayne. At the same time I was obliged
to pay for my dinner, by taking some part in the proceedings of
the evening. Small stakes were allowed, I found, at roulette;
and, besides, the heavy chances in favor of the table made it
hardly worth while to run the risk of cheating in this case. I
placed myself next to the least rascally-looking man in the
company, and played roulette.

For a wonder, I was successful at the first attempt. My neighbor
handed me my winnings. "I have lost every farthing I possess," he
whispered to me, piteously, "and I have a wife and children at
home." I lent the poor wretch five francs. He smiled faintly as
he looked at the money. "It reminds me," he said, "of my last
transaction, when I borrowed of that gentleman there, who is
betting on the General's luck at the card table. Beware of
employing him as I did. What do you think I got for my note of
hand of four thousand francs? A hundred bottles of champagne,
fifty bottles of ink, fifty bottles of blacking, three dozen
handkerchiefs, two pictures by unknown masters, two shawls, one
hundred maps, _and_--five francs."

We went on playing. My luck deserted me; I lost, and lost, and
lost again. From time to time I looked round at the card table.
The "deal" had fallen early to the General, and it seemed to be
indefinitely prolonged. A heap of notes and gold (won mainly from
Romayne, as I afterward discovered) lay before him. As for my
neighbor, the unhappy possessor of the bottles of blacking, the
pictures by unknown masters, and the rest of it, he won, and then
rashly presumed on his good fortune. Deprived of his last
farthing, he retired into a corner of the room, and consoled
himself with a cigar. I had just arisen, to follow his example,
when a furious uproar burst out at the card table.

I saw Romayne spring up, and snatch the cards out of the
General's hand. "You scoundrel!" he shouted, "you are cheating!"
The General started to his feet in a fury. "You lie!" he cried. I
attempted to interfere, but Romayne had already seen the
necessity of controlling himself. "A gentleman doesn't accept an
insult from a swindler," he said, coolly. "Accept this, then!"
the General answered--and spat on him. In an instant Romayne
knocked him down.

The blow was dealt straight between his eyes: he was a gross
big-boned man, and he fell heavily. For the time he was stunned.
The women ran, screaming, out of the room. The peaceable
Commander trembled from head to foot. Two of the men present,
who, to give them their due, were no cowards, locked the doors.
"You don't go," they said, "till we see whether he recovers or
not." Cold water, assisted by the landlady's smelling salts,
brought the General to his senses after a while. He whispered
something to one of his friends, who immediately turned to me.
"The General challenges Mr. Romayne," he said. "As one of his
seconds, I demand an appointment for to-morrow morning." I
refused to make any appointment unless the doors were first
unlocked, and we were left free to depart. "Our carriage is
waiting outside," I added. "If it returns to the hotel without
us, there will be an inquiry." This latter consideration had its
effect. On their side, the doors were opened. On our side, the
appointment was made. We left the house.

IV.

IN consenting to receive the General's representative, it is
needless to say that I merely desired to avoid provoking another
quarrel. If those persons were really impudent enough to call at
the hotel, I had arranged to threaten them with the interference
of the police, and so to put an end to the matter. Romayne
expressed no opinion on the subject, one way or the other. His
conduct inspired me with a feeling of uneasiness. The filthy
insult of which he had been made the object seemed to be rankling
in his mind. He went away thoughtfully to his own room. "Have you
nothing to say to me?" I asked. He only answered: "Wait till
to-morrow."

The next day the seconds appeared.

I had expected to see two of the men with whom we had dined. To
my astonishment, the visitors proved to be officers of the
General's regiment. They brought proposals for a hostile meeting
the next morning; the choice of weapons being left to Romayne as
the challenged man.

It was now quite plain to me that the General's peculiar method
of card-playing had, thus far, not been discovered and exposed.
He might keep doubtful company, and might (as I afterward heard)
be suspected in certain quarters. But that he still had,
formally-speaking, a reputation to preserve, was proved by the
appearance of the two gentlemen present as his representatives.
They declared, with evident sincerity, that Romayne had made a
fatal mistake; had provoked the insult offered to him; and had
resented it by a brutal and cowardly outrage. As a man and a
soldier, the General was doubly bound to insist on a duel. No
apology would be accepted, even if an apology were offered.

In this emergency, as I understood it, there was but one course
to follow. I refused to receive the challenge.

Being asked for my reasons, I found it necessary to speak within
certain limits. Though we knew the General to be a cheat, it was
a delicate matter to dispute his right to claim satisfaction,
when he had found two officers to carry his message. I produced
the seized cards (which Romayne had brought away with him in his
pocket), and offered them as a formal proof that my friend had
not been mistaken.

The seconds--evidently prepared for this circumstance by their
principal--declined to examine the cards. In the first place,
they said, not even the discovery of foul play (supposing the
discovery to have been really made) could justify Romayne's
conduct. In the second place, the General's high character made
it impossible, under any circumstances, that he could be
responsible. Like ourselves, he had rashly associated with bad
company; and he had been the innocent victim of an error or a
fraud, committed by some other person present at the table.

Driven to my last resource, I could now only base my refusal to
receive the challenge on the ground that we were Englishmen, and
that the practice of dueling had been abolished in England. Both
the seconds at once declined to accept this statement in
justification of my conduct.

"You are now in France," said the elder of the two, "where a duel
is the established remedy for an insult, among gentlemen. You are
bound to respect the social laws of the country in which you are
for the time residing. If you refuse to do so, you lay yourselves
open to a public imputation on your courage, of a nature too
degrading to be more particularly alluded to. Let us adjourn this
interview for three hours on the ground of informality. We ought
to confer with _two_ gentlemen, acting on Mr. Romayne's behalf.
Be prepared with another second to meet us, and reconsider your
decision before we call again."

The Frenchmen had barely taken their departure by one door, when
Romayne entered by another.

"I have heard it all," he said, quietly. "Accept the challenge."

I declare solemnly that I left no means untried of opposing my
friend's resolution. No man could have felt more strongly
convinced
 than I did, that nothing could justify the course he was taking.
My remonstrances were completely thrown away. He was deaf to
sense and reason, from the moment when he had heard an imputation
on his courage suggested as a possible result of any affair in
which he was concerned.

"With your views," he said, "I won't ask you to accompany me to
the ground. I can easily find French seconds. And mind this, if
you attempt to prevent the meeting, the duel will take place
elsewhere--and our friendship is at an end from that moment."

After this, I suppose it is needless to add that I accompanied
him to the ground the next morning as one of his seconds.

V.

WE were punctual to the appointed hour--eight o'clock.

The second who acted with me was a French gentleman, a relative
of one of the officers who had brought the challenge. At his
suggestion, we had chosen the pistol as our weapon. Romayne, like
most Englishmen at the present time, knew nothing of the use of
the sword. He was almost equally inexperienced with the pistol.

Our opponents were late. They kept us waiting for more than ten
minutes. It was not pleasant weather to wait in. The day had
dawned damp and drizzling. A thick white fog was slowly rolling
in on us from the sea.

When they did appear, the General was not among them. A tall,
well-dressed young man saluted Romayne with stern courtesy, and
said to a stranger who accompanied him: "Explain the
circumstances."

The stranger proved to be a surgeon. He entered at once on the
necessary explanation. The General was too ill to appear. He had
been attacked that morning by a fit--the consequence of the blow
that he had received. Under these circumstances, his eldest son
(Maurice) was now on the ground to fight the duel on his father's
behalf; attended by the General's seconds, and with the General's
full approval.

We instantly refused to allow the duel to take place, Romayne
loudly declaring that he had no quarrel with the General's son.
Upon this, Maurice broke away from his seconds; drew off one of
his gloves; and stepping close up to Romayne, struck him on the
face with the glove. "Have you no quarrel with me now?" the young
Frenchman asked. "Must I spit on you, as my father did?" His
seconds dragged him away, and apologized to us for the outbreak.
But the mischief was done. Romayne's fiery temper flashed in his
eyes. "Load the pistols," he said. After the insult publicly
offered to him, and the outrage publicly threatened, there was no
other course to take.

It had been left to us to produce the pistols. We therefore
requested the seconds of our opponent to examine and to load
them. While this was being done, the advancing sea-fog so
completely enveloped us that the duelists were unable to see each
other. We were obliged to wait for the chance of a partial
clearing in the atmosphere. Romayne's temper had become calm
again. The generosity of his nature spoke in the words which he
now addressed to his seconds. "After all," he said, "the young
man is a good son--he is bent on redressing what he believes to
be his father's wrong. Does his flipping his glove in my face
matter to me? I think I shall fire in the air."

 "I shall refuse to act as your second if you do," answered the
French gentleman who was assisting us. "The General's son is
famous for his skill with the pistol. If you didn't see it in his
face just now, I did--he means to kill you. Defend your life,
sir!" I spoke quite as strongly, to the same purpose, when my
turn came. Romayne yielded--he placed himself unreservedly in our
hands.

In a quarter of an hour the fog lifted a little. We measured the
distance, having previously arranged (at my suggestion) that the
two men should both fire at the same moment, at a given signal.
Romayne's composure, as they faced each other, was, in a man of
his irritable nervous temperament, really wonderful. I placed him
sidewise, in a position which in some degree lessened his danger,
by lessening the surface exposed to the bullet. My French
colleague put the pistol into his hand, and gave him the last
word of advice. "Let your arm hang loosely down, with the barrel
of the pistol pointing straight to the ground. When you hear the
signal, only lift your arm as far as the elbow; keep the elbow
pressed against your side--and fire." We could do no more for
him. As we drew aside--I own it--my tongue was like a cinder in
my mouth, and a horrid inner cold crept through me to the marrow
of my bones.

The signal was given, and the two shots were fired at the same
time.

My first look was at Romayne. He took off his hat, and handed it
to me with a smile. His adversary's bullet had cut a piece out of
the brim of his hat, on the right side. He had literally escaped
by a hair-breadth.

While I was congratulating him, the fog gathered again more
thickly than ever. Looking anxiously toward the ground occupied
by our adversaries, we could only see vague, shadowy forms
hurriedly crossing and recrossing each other in the mist.
Something had happened! My French colleague took my arm and
pressed it significantly. "Leave _me_ to inquire," he said.
Romayne tried to follow; I held him back--we neither of us
exchanged a word.

The fog thickened and thickened, until nothing was to be seen.
Once we heard the surgeon's voice, calling impatiently for a
light to help him. No light appeared that _we_ could see. Dreary
as the fog itself, the silence gathered round us again. On a
sudden it was broken, horribly broken, by another voice, strange
to both of us, shrieking hysterically through the impenetrable
mist. "Where is he?" the voice cried, in the French language.
"Assassin! Assassin! where are you?" Was it a woman? or was it a
boy? We heard nothing more. The effect upon Romayne was terrible
to see. He who had calmly confronted the weapon lifted to kill
him, shuddered dumbly like a terror-stricken animal. I put my arm
round him, and hurried him away from the place.

We waited at the hotel until our French friend joined us. After a
brief interval he appeared, announcing that the surgeon would
follow him.

The duel had ended fatally. The chance course of the bullet,
urged by Romayne's unpracticed hand, had struck the General's son
just above the right nostril--had penetrated to the back of his
neck--and had communicated a fatal shock to the spinal marrow. He
was a dead man before they could take him back to his father's
house.

So far, our fears were confirmed. But there was something else to
tell, for which our worst presentiments had not prepared us.

A younger brother of the fallen man (a boy of thirteen years old)
had secretly followed the dueling party, on their way from his
father's house--had hidden himself--and had seen the dreadful
end. The seconds only knew of it when he burst out of his place
of concealment, and fell on his knees by his dying brother's
side. His were the frightful cries which we had heard from
invisible lips. The slayer of his brother was the "assassin" whom
he had vainly tried to discover through the fathomless obscurity
of the mist.

We both looked at Romayne. He silently looked back at us, like a
man turned to stone. I tried to reason with him.

"Your life was at your opponent's mercy," I said. "It was _he_
who was skilled in the use of the pistol; your risk was
infinitely greater than his. Are you responsible for an accident?
Rouse yourself, Romayne! Think of the time to come, when all this
will be forgotten."

"Never," he said, "to the end of my life."

He made that reply in dull, monotonous tones. His eyes looked
wearily and vacantly straight before him. I spoke to him again.
He remained impenetrably silent; he appeared not to hear, or not
to understand me. The surgeon came in, while I was still at a
loss what to say or do next. Without waiting to be asked for his
opinion, he observed Romayne attentively, and then drew me away
into the next room.

"Your friend is suffering from a severe nervous shock," he said.
"Can you tell me anything of his habits of life?"

I mentioned the prolonged night studies and the excessive use of
tea. The surgeon shook his head.

"If you want my advice," he proceeded, "take him home at once.
Don't subject  hi m to further excitement, when the result of the
duel is known in the town. If it ends in our appearing in a court
of law, it will be a mere formality in this case, and you can
surrender when the time comes. Leave me your address in London."

I felt that the wisest thing I could do was to follow his advice.
The boat crossed to Folkestone at an early hour that day--we had
no time to lose. Romayne offered no objection to our return to
England; he seemed perfectly careless what became of him. "Leave
me quiet," he said; "and do as you like." I wrote a few lines to
Lady Berrick's medical attendant, informing him of the
circumstances. A quarter of an hour afterward we were on board
the steamboat.

There were very few passengers. After we had left the harbor, my
attention was attracted by a young English lady--traveling,
apparently, with her mother. As we passed her on the deck she
looked at Romayne with compassionate interest so vividly
expressed in her beautiful face that I imagined they might be
acquainted. With some difficulty, I prevailed sufficiently over
the torpor that possessed him to induce him to look at our fellow
passenger.

"Do you know that charming person?" I asked.

"No," he replied, with the weariest indifference. "I never saw
her before. I'm tired--tired--tired! Don't speak to me; leave me
by myself."

I left him. His rare personal attractions--of which, let me add,
he never appeared to be conscious--had evidently made their
natural appeal to the interest and admiration of the young lady
who had met him by chance. The expression of resigned sadness and
suffering, now visible in his face, added greatly no doubt to the
influence that he had unconsciously exercised over the sympathies
of a delicate and sensitive woman. It was no uncommon
circumstance in his past experience of the sex--as I myself well
knew--to be the object, not of admiration only, but of true and
ardent love. He had never reciprocated the passion--had never
even appeared to take it seriously. Marriage might, as the phrase
is, be the salvation of him. Would he ever marry?

Leaning over the bulwark, idly pursuing this train of thought, I
was recalled to present things by a low sweet voice--the voice of
the lady of whom I had been thinking.

"Excuse me for disturbing you," she said; "I think your friend
wants you."

She spoke with the modesty and self-possession of a highly-bred
woman. A little heightening of her color made her, to my eyes,
more beautiful than ever. I thanked her, and hastened back to
Romayne.

He was standing by the barred skylight which guarded the
machinery. I instantly noticed a change in him. His eyes
wandering here and there, in search of me, had more than
recovered their animation--there was a wild look of terror in
them. He seized me roughly by the arm and pointed down to the
engine-room.

"What do you hear there?" he asked.

"I hear the thump of the engines."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing. What do _you_ hear?"

He suddenly turned away.

"I'll tell you," he said, "when we get on shore."

SECOND SCENE.

VANGE ABBEY.--THE FOREWARNINGS

VI.

As we approached the harbor at Folkestone, Romayne's agitation
appeared to subside. His head drooped; his eyes half closed--he
looked like a weary man quietly falling asleep.

On leaving the steamboat, I ventured to ask our charming
fellow-passenger if I could be of any service in reserving places
in the London train for her mother and herself. She thanked me,
and said they were going to visit some friends at Folkestone. In
making this reply, she looked at Romayne. "I am afraid he is very
ill," she said, in gently lowered tones. Before I could answer,
her mother turned to her with an expression of surprise, and
directed her attention to the friends whom she had mentioned,
waiting to greet her. Her last look, as they took her away,
rested tenderly and sorrowfully on Romayne. He never returned
it--he was not even aware of it. As I led him to the train he
leaned more and more heavily on my arm. Seated in the carriage,
he sank at once into profound sleep.

We drove to the hotel at which my friend was accustomed to reside
when he was in London. His long sleep on the journey seemed, in
some degree, to have relieved him. We dined together in his
private room. When the servants had withdrawn, I found that the
unhappy result of the duel was still preying on his mind.

"The horror of having killed that man," he said, "is more than I
can bear alone. For God's sake, don't leave me!"

I had received letters at Boulogne, which informed me that my
wife and family had accepted an invitation to stay with some
friends at the sea-side. Under these circumstances I was entirely
at his service. Having quieted his anxiety on this point, I
reminded him of what had passed between us on board the
steamboat. He tried to change the subject. My curiosity was too
strongly aroused to permit this; I persisted in helping his
memory.

"We were looking into the engine-room," I said; "and you asked me
what I heard there. You promised to tell me what _you_ heard, as
soon as we got on shore--"

He stopped me, before I could say more.

"I begin to think it was a delusion," he answered. "You ought not
to interpret too literally what a person in my dreadful situation
may say. The stain of another man's blood is on me--"

I interrupted him in my turn. "I refuse to hear you speak of
yourself in that way," I said. "You are no more responsible for
the Frenchman's death than if you had been driving, and had
accidentally run over him in the street. I am not the right
companion for a man who talks as you do. The proper person to be
with you is a doctor." I really felt irritated with him--and I
saw no reason for concealing it.

Another man, in his place, might have been offended with me.
There was a native sweetness in Romayne's disposition, which
asserted itself even in his worst moments of nervous
irritability. He took my hand.

"Don't be hard on me," he pleaded. "I will try to think of it as
you do. Make some little concession on your side. I want to see
how I get through the night. We will return to what I said to you
on board the steamboat to-morrow morning. Is it agreed?"

It was agreed, of course. There was a door of communication
between our bedrooms. At his suggestion it was left open. "If I
find I can't sleep, " he explained, "I want to feel assured that
you can hear me if I call to you."

Three times in the night I woke, and, seeing the light burning in
his room, looked in at him. He always carried some of his books
with him when he traveled. On each occasion when I entered the
room, he was reading quietly. "I suppose I forestalled my night's
sleep on the railway," he said. "It doesn't matter; I am content.
Something that I was afraid of has not happened. I am used to
wakeful nights. Go back to bed, and don't be uneasy about me."

The next morning the deferred explanation was put off again.

"Do you mind waiting a little longer?" he asked.

"Not if you particularly wish it."

"Will you do me another favor? You know that I don't like London.
The noise in the streets is distracting. Besides, I may tell you
I have a sort of distrust of noise, since--" He stopped, with an
appearance of confusion.

"Since I found you looking into the engine-room?" I asked.

"Yes. I don't feel inclined to trust the chances of another night
in London. I want to try the effect of perfect quiet. Do you mind
going back with me to Vange? Dull as the place is, you can amuse
yourself. There is good shooting, as you know."

In an hour more we had left London.

VII.

VANGE ABBEY is, I suppose, the most solitary country house in
England. If Romayne wanted quiet, it was exactly the place for
him.

On the rising ground of one of the wildest moors in the North
Riding of Yorkshire, the ruins of the old monastery are visible
from all points of the compass. There are traditions of thriving
villages clustering about the Abbey, in the days of the monks,
and of hostleries devoted to the reception of pilgrims from every
part of the Christian world. Not a vestige of these buildings is
left. They were deserted by the pious inhabitants, it is said, at
the time when Henry the Eighth suppress ed the monasteries, and
gave the Abbey and the broad lands of Vange to his faithful
friend and courtier, Sir Miles Romayne. In the next generation,
the son and heir of Sir Miles built the dwelling-house, helping
himself liberally from the solid stone walls of the monastery.
With some unimportant alterations and repairs, the house stands,
defying time and weather, to the present day.

At the last station on the railway the horses were waiting for
us. It was a lovely moonlight night, and we shortened the
distance considerably by taking the bridle path over the moor.
Between nine and ten o'clock we reached the Abbey.

Years had passed since I had last been Romayne's guest. Nothing,
out of the house or in the house, seemed to have undergone any
change in the interval. Neither the good North-country butler,
nor his buxom Scotch wife, skilled in cookery, looked any older:
they received me as if I had left them a day or two since, and
had come back again to live in Yorkshire. My well-remembered
bedroom was waiting for me; and the matchless old Madeira
welcomed us when my host and I met in the inner-hall, which was
the ordinary dining-room of the Abbey.

As we faced each other at the well-spread table, I began to hope
that the familiar influences of his country home were beginning
already to breathe their blessed quiet over the disturbed mind of
Romayne. In the presence of his faithful old servants, he seemed
to be capable of controlling the morbid remorse that oppressed
him. He spoke to them composedly and kindly; he was
affectionately glad to see his old friend once more in the old
house.

When we were near the end of our meal, something happened that
startled me. I had just handed the wine to Romayne, and he had
filled his glass--when he suddenly turned pale, and lifted his
head like a man whose attention is unexpectedly roused. No person
but ourselves was in the room; I was not speaking to him at the
time. He looked round suspiciously at the door behind him,
leading into the library, and rang the old-fashioned handbell
which stood by him on the table. The servant was directed to
close the door.

"Are you cold?" I asked.

"No." He reconsidered that brief answer, and contradicted
himself. "Yes--the library fire has burned low, I suppose."

In my position at the table, I had seen the fire: the grate was
heaped with blazing coals and wood. I said nothing. The pale
change in his face, and his contradictory reply, roused doubts in
me which I had hoped never to feel again.

He pushed away his glass of wine, and still kept his eyes fixed
on the closed door. His attitude and expression were plainly
suggestive of the act of listening. Listening to what?

After an interval, he abruptly addressed me. "Do you call it a
quiet night?" he said.

"As quiet as quiet can be," I replied. "The wind has dropped--and
even the fire doesn't crackle. Perfect stillness indoors and
out."

"Out?" he repeated. For a moment he looked at me intently, as if
I had started some new idea in his mind. I asked as lightly as I
could if I had said anything to surprise him. Instead of
answering me, he sprang to his feet with a cry of terror, and
left the room.

I hardly knew what to do. It was impossible, unless he returned
immediately to let this extraordinary proceeding pass without
notice. After waiting for a few minutes I rang the bell.

The old butler came in. He looked in blank amazement at the empty
chair. "Where's the master?" he asked.

I could only answer that he had left the table suddenly, without
a word of explanation. "He may perhaps be ill," I added. "As his
old servant, you can do no harm if you go and look for him. Say
that I am waiting here, if he wants me."

The minutes passed slowly and more slowly. I was left alone for
so long a time that I began to feel seriously uneasy. My hand was
on the bell again, when there was a knock at the door. I had
expected to see the butler. It was the groom who entered the
room.

"Garthwaite can't come down to you, sir," said the man. "He asks,
if you will please go up to the master on the Belvidere."

The house--extending round three sides of a square--was only two
stories high. The flat roof, accessible through a species of
hatchway, and still surrounded by its sturdy stone parapet, was
called "The Belvidere," in reference as usual to the fine view
which it commanded. Fearing I knew not what, I mounted the ladder
which led to the roof. Romayne received me with a harsh outburst
of laughter--that saddest false laughter which is true trouble in
disguise.

"Here's something to amuse you!" he cried. "I believe old
Garthwaite thinks I am drunk--he won't leave me up here by
myself."

Letting this strange assertion remain unanswered, the butler
withdrew. As he passed me on his way to the ladder, he whispered:
"Be careful of the master! I tell you, sir, he has a bee in his
bonnet this night."

Although not of the north country myself, I knew the meaning of
the phrase. Garthwaite suspected that the master was nothing less
than mad!

Romayne took my arm when we were alone--we walked slowly from end
to end of the Belvidere. The moon was, by this time, low in the
heavens; but her mild mysterious light still streamed over the
roof of the house and the high heathy ground round it. I looked
attentively at Romayne. He was deadly pale; his hand shook as it
rested on my arm--and that was all. Neither in look nor manner
did he betray the faintest sign of mental derangement. He had
perhaps needlessly alarmed the faithful old servant by something
that he had said or done. I determined to clear up that doubt
immediately.

"You left the table very suddenly," I said. "Did you feel ill?"

"Not ill," he replied. "I was frightened. Look at me--I'm
frightened still."

"What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, he repeated the strange question which he
had put to me downstairs.

"Do you call it a quiet night?"

Considering the time of year, and the exposed situation of the
house, the night was almost preternaturally quiet. Throughout the
vast open country all round us, not even a breath of air could be
heard. The night-birds were away, or were silent at the time. But
one sound was audible, when we stood still and listened--the cool
quiet bubble of a little stream, lost to view in the
valley-ground to the south.

"I have told you already," I said. "So still a night I never
remember on this Yorkshire moor."

He laid one hand heavily on my shoulder. "What did the poor boy
say of me, whose brother I killed?" he asked. "What words did we
hear through the dripping darkness of the mist?"

"I won't encourage you to think of them. I refuse to repeat the
words."

He pointed over the northward parapet.

"It doesn't matter whether you accept or refuse," he said, "I
hear the boy at this moment--there!"

He repeated the horrid words--marking the pauses in the utterance
of them with his finger, as if they were sounds that he heard:

"Assassin! Assassin! where are you?"

"Good God!" I cried. "You don't mean that you really _hear_ the
voice?"

"Do you hear what I say? I hear the boy as plainly as you hear
me. The voice screams at me through the clear moonlight, as it
screamed at me through the sea-fog. Again and again. It's all
round the house. _That_ way now, where the light just touches on
the tops of the heather. Tell the servants to have the horses
ready the first thing in the morning. We leave Vange Abbey
to-morrow."

These were wild words. If he had spoken them wildly, I might have
shared the butler's conclusion that his mind was deranged. There
was no undue vehemence in his voice or his manner. He spoke with
a melancholy resignation--he seemed like a prisoner submitting to
a sentence that he had deserved. Remembering the cases of men
suffering from nervous disease who had been haunted by
apparitions, I asked if he saw any imaginary figure under the
form of a boy.

"I see nothing," he said; "I only hear. Look yourself. It is in
the last degree improbable--but let us make sure that nobody has
followed me from Boulogne, and is playing me a trick."

We made the circuit of the Belvidere. On its eastward side the
house wall was built against one of the towers of the old Ab bey.
On the westward side, the ground sloped steeply down to a deep
pool or tarn. Northward and southward, there was nothing to be
seen but the open moor. Look where I might, with the moonlight to
make the view plain to me, the solitude was as void of any living
creature as if we had been surrounded by the awful dead world of
the moon.

"Was it the boy's voice that you heard on the voyage across the
Channel?" I asked.

"Yes, I heard it for the first time--down in the engine-room;
rising and falling, rising and falling, like the sound of the
engines themselves."

"And when did you hear it again?"

"I feared to hear it in London. It left me, I should have told
you, when we stepped ashore out of the steamboat. I was afraid
that the noise of the traffic in the streets might bring it back
to me. As you know, I passed a quiet night. I had the hope that
my imagination had deceived me--that I was the victim of a
delusion, as people say. It is no delusion. In the perfect
tranquillity of this place the voice has come back to me. While
we were at table I heard it again--behind me, in the library. I
heard it still, when the door was shut. I ran up here to try if
it would follow me into the open air. It _has_ followed me. We
may as well go down again into the hall. I know now that there is
no escaping from it. My dear old home has become horrible to me.
Do you mind returning to London tomorrow?"

What I felt and feared in this miserable state of things matters
little. The one chance I could see for Romayne was to obtain the
best medical advice. I sincerely encouraged his idea of going
back to London the next day.

We had sat together by the hall fire for about ten minutes, when
he took out his handkerchief, and wiped away the perspiration
from his forehead, drawing a deep breath of relief. "It has
gone!" he said faintly.

"When you hear the boy's voice," I asked, "do you hear it
continuously?"

"No, at intervals; sometimes longer, sometimes shorter."

"And thus far, it comes to you suddenly, and leaves you
suddenly?"

"Yes."

"Do my questions annoy you?"

"I make no complaint," he said sadly. "You can see for
yourself--I patiently suffer the punishment that I have
deserved."

I contradicted him at once. "It is nothing of the sort! It's a
nervous malady, which medical science can control and cure. Wait
till we get to London."

This expression of opinion produced no effect on him.

"I have taken the life of a fellow-creature," he said. "I have
closed the career of a young man who, but for me, might have
lived long and happily and honorably. Say what you may, I am of
the race of Cain. _ He_ had the mark set on his brow. I have _my_
ordeal. Delude yourself, if you like, with false hopes. I can
endure--and hope for nothing. Good-night."

VIII.

EARLY the next morning, the good old butler came to me, in great
perturbation, for a word of advice.

"Do come, sir, and look at the master! I can't find it in my
heart to wake him."

It was time to wake him, if we were to go to London that day. I
went into the bedroom. Although I was no doctor, the restorative
importance of that profound and quiet sleep impressed itself on
me so strongly, that I took the responsibility of leaving him
undisturbed. The event proved that I had acted wisely. He slept
until noon. There was no return of "the torment of the voice"--as
he called it, poor fellow. We passed a quiet day, excepting one
little interruption, which I am warned not to pass over without a
word of record in this narrative.

We had returned from a ride. Romayne had gone into the library to
read; and I was just leaving the stables, after a look at some
recent improvements, when a pony-chaise with a gentleman in it
drove up to the door. He asked politely if he might be allowed to
see the house. There were some fine pictures at Vange, as well as
many interesting relics of antiquity; and the rooms were shown,
in Romayne's absence, to the very few travelers who were
adventurous enough to cross the heathy desert that surrounded the
Abbey. On this occasion, the stranger was informed that Mr.
Romayne was at home. He at once apologized--with an appearance of
disappointment, however, which induced me to step forward and
speak to him.

"Mr. Romayne is not very well," I said; "and I cannot venture to
ask you into the house. But you will be welcome, I am sure, to
walk round the grounds, and to look at the ruins of the Abbey."

He thanked me, and accepted the invitation. I find no great
difficulty in describing him, generally. He was elderly, fat. and
cheerful; buttoned up in a long black frockcoat, and presenting
that closely shaven face and that inveterate expression of
watchful humility about the eyes, which we all associate with the
reverend personality of a priest.

To my surprise, he seemed, in some degree at least, to know his
way about the place. He made straight for the dreary little lake
which I have already mentioned, and stood looking at it with an
interest which was so incomprehensible to me, that I own I
watched him.

He ascended the slope of the moorland, and entered the gate which
led to the grounds. All that the gardeners had done to make the
place attractive failed to claim his attention. He walked past
lawns, shrubs, and flower-beds, and only stopped at an old stone
fountain, which tradition declared to have been one of the
ornaments of the garden in the time of the monks. Having
carefully examined this relic of antiquity, he took a sheet of
paper from his pocket, and consulted it attentively. It might
have been a plan of the house and grounds, or it might not--I can
only report that he took the path which led him, by the shortest
way, to the ruined Abbey church.

As he entered the roofless inclosure, he reverently removed his
hat. It was impossible for me to follow him any further, without
exposing myself to the risk of discovery. I sat down on one of
the fallen stones, waiting to see him again. It must have been at
least half an hour before he appeared. He thanked me for my
kindness, as composedly as if he had quite expected to find me in
the place that I occupied.

"I have been deeply interested in all that I have seen," he said.
"May I venture to ask, what is perhaps an indiscreet question on
the part of a stranger?"

I ventured, on my side, to inquire what the question might be.

"Mr. Romayne is indeed fortunate," he resumed, "in the possession
of this beautiful place. He is a young man, I think?"

"Yes."

"Is he married?"

"No."

"Excuse my curiosity. The owner of Vange Abbey is an interesting
person to all good antiquaries like myself. Many thanks again.
Good-day."

His pony-chaise took him away. His last look rested--not on
me--but on the old Abbey.

IX.

MY record of events approaches its conclusion.

On the next day we returned to the hotel in London. At Romayne's
suggestion, I sent the same evening to my own house for any
letters which might be waiting for me. His mind still dwelt on
the duel; he was morbidly eager to know if any communication had
been received from the French surgeon.

When the messenger returned with my letters, the Boulogne
postmark was on one of the envelopes. At Romayne's entreaty, this
was the letter that I opened first. The surgeon's signature was
at the end.

One motive for anxiety--on my part--was set at rest in the first
lines. After an official inquiry into the circumstances, the
French authorities had decided that it was not expedient to put
the survivor of the duelists on his trial before a court of law.
No jury, hearing the evidence, would find him guilty of the only
charge that could be formally brought against him--the charge of
"homicide by premeditation." Homicide by misadventure, occurring
in a duel, was not a punishable offense by the French law. My
correspondent cited many cases in proof of it, strengthened by
the publicly-expressed opinion of the illustrious Berryer
himself. In a word, we had nothing to fear.

The next page of the letter informed us that the police had
surprised the card playing community with whom we had spent the
evening at Boulogne, and that the much-bejeweled old landlady had
been sent to prison for the offense of keeping a gambling-house.
It was suspected in the town that the General was more or less
directly connected with certain disreputable circumstances
discovered by the authorities. In any case, he had retired from
active service.

He and his wife and family had left Boulogne, and had gone away
in debt. No investigation had thus far succeeded in discovering
the place of their retreat.

Reading this letter aloud to Romayne, I was interrupted by him at
the last sentence.

"The inquiries must have been carelessly made," he said. "I will
see to it myself."

"What interest can you have in the inquiries?" I exclaimed.

"The strongest possible interest," he answered. "It has been my
one hope to make some little atonement to the poor people whom I
have so cruelly wronged. If the wife and children are in
distressed circumstances (which seems to be only too likely) I
may place them beyond the reach of anxiety--anonymously, of
course. Give me the surgeon's address. I shall write instructions
for tracing them at my expense--merely announcing that an Unknown
Friend desires to be of service to the General's family."

This appeared to me to be a most imprudent thing to do. I said so
plainly--and quite in vain. With his customary impetuosity, he
wrote the letter at once, and sent it to the post that night.

X.

ON the question of submitting himself to medical advice (which I
now earnestly pressed upon him), Romayne was disposed to be
equally unreasonable. But in this case, events declared
themselves in my favor.

Lady Berrick's last reserves of strength had given way. She had
been brought to London in a dying state while we were at Vange
Abbey. Romayne was summoned to his aunt's bedside on the third
day of our residence at the hotel, and was present at her death.
The impression produced on his mind roused the better part of his
nature. He was more distrustful of himself, more accessible to
persuasion than usual. In this gentler frame of mind he received
a welcome visit from an old friend, to whom he was sincerely
attached. The visit--of no great importance in itself--led, as I
have since been informed, to very serious events in Romayne's
later life. For this reason, I briefly relate what took place
within my own healing.

Lord Loring--well known in society as the head of an old English
Catholic family, and the possessor of a magnificent gallery of
pictures--was distressed by the change for the worse which he
perceived in Romayne when he called at the hotel. I was present
when they met, and rose to leave the room, feeling that the two
friends might perhaps be embarrassed by the presence of a third
person. Romayne called me back. "Lord Loring ought to know what
has happened to me," he said. "I have no heart to speak of it
myself. Tell him everything, and if he agrees with you, I will
submit to see the doctors." With those words he left us together.

It is almost needless to say that Lord Loring did agree with me.
He was himself disposed to think that the moral remedy, in
Romayne's case, might prove to be the best remedy.

"With submission to what the doctors may decide," his lordship
said, "the right thing to do, in my opinion, is to divert our
friend's mind from himself. I see a plain necessity for making a
complete change in the solitary life that he has been leading for
years past. Why shouldn't he marry? A woman's influence, by
merely giving a new turn to his thoughts, might charm away that
horrible voice which haunts him. Perhaps you think this a merely
sentimental view of the case? Look at it practically, if you
like, and you come to the same conclusion. With that fine
estate--and with the fortune which he has now inherited from his
aunt--it is his duty to marry. Don't you agree with me?"

"I agree most cordially. But I see serious difficulties in your
lordship's way. Romayne dislikes society; and, as to marrying,
his coldness toward women seems (so far as I can judge) to be one
of the incurable defects of his character."

Lord Loring smiled. "My dear sir, nothing of that sort is
incurable, if we can only find the right woman."

The tone in which he spoke suggested to me that he had got "the
right woman"--and I took the liberty of saying so. He at once
acknowledged that I had guessed right.

"Romayne is, as you say, a difficult subject to deal with," he
resumed. "If I commit the slightest imprudence, I shall excite
his suspicion--and there will be an end of my hope of being of
service to him. I shall proceed carefully, I can tell you.
Luckily, poor dear fellow, he is fond of pictures! It's quite
natural that I should ask him to see some recent additions to my
gallery--isn't it? There is the trap that I set! I have a sweet
girl to tempt him, staying at my house, who is a little out of
health and spirits herself. At the right moment, I shall send
word upstairs. She may well happen to look in at the gallery (by
the merest accident) just at the time when Romayne is looking at
my new pictures. The rest depends, of course, on, the effect she
produces. If you knew her, I believe you would agree with me that
the experiment is worth trying."

Not knowing the lady, I had little faith in the success of the
experiment. No one, however, could doubt Lord Loring's admirable
devotion to his friend--and with that I was fain to be content.

When Romayne returned to us, it was decided to submit his case to
a consultation of physicians at the earliest possible moment.
When Lord Loring took his departure, I accompanied him to the
door of the hotel, perceiving that he wished to say a word more
to me in private. He had, it seemed, decided on waiting for the
result of the medical consultation before he tried the effect of
the young lady's attractions; and he wished to caution me against
speaking prematurely of visiting the picture gallery to our
friend.

Not feeling particularly interested in these details of the
worthy nobleman's little plot, I looked at his carriage, and
privately admired the two splendid horses that drew it. The
footman opened the door for his master, and I became aware, for
the first time, that a gentleman had accompanied Lord Loring to
the hotel, and had waited for him in the carriage. The gentleman
bent forward, and looked up from a book that he was reading. To
my astonishment, I recognized the elderly, fat and cheerful
priest who had shown such a knowledge of localities, and such an
extraordinary interest in Vange Abbey!

It struck me as an odd coincidence that I should see the man
again in London, so soon after I had met with him in Yorkshire.
This was all I thought about it, at the time. If I had known
then, what I know now, I might have dreamed, let us say, of
throwing that priest into the lake at Vange, and might have
reckoned the circumstance among the wisely-improved opportunities
of my life.

To return to the serious interests of the present narrative, I
may now announce that my evidence as an eye-witness of events has
come to an end. The day after Lord Loring's visit, domestic
troubles separated me, to my most sincere regret, from Romayne. I
have only to add, that the foregoing narrative of personal
experience has been written with a due sense of responsibility,
and that it may be depended on throughout as an exact statement
of the truth.

                                            JOHN PHILIP HYND,
                                            (late Major, 110th
Regiment).


THE STORY.

BOOK THE FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

THE CONFIDENCES.

IN an upper room of one of the palatial houses which are situated
on the north side of Hyde Park, two ladies sat at breakfast, and
gossiped over their tea.

The elder of the two was Lady Loring--still in the prime of life;
possessed of the golden hair and the clear blue eyes, the
delicately-florid complexion, and the freely developed figure,
which are among the favorite attractions popularly associated
with the beauty of Englishwomen. Her younger companion was the
unknown lady admired by Major Hynd on the sea passage from France
to England. With hair and eyes of the darkest brown; with a pure
pallor of complexion, only changing to a faint rose tint in
moments of agitation; with a tall graceful figure, incompletely
developed in substance and
 strength--she presented an almost complete contrast to Lady
Loring. Two more opposite types of beauty it would have been
hardly possible to place at the same table.

The servant brought in the letters of the morning. Lady Loring
ran through her correspondence rapidly, pushed away the letters
in a heap, and poured herself out a second cup of tea.

"Nothing interesting this morning for me," she said. "Any news of
your mother, Stella?"

The young lady handed an open letter to her hostess, with a faint
smile. "See for yourself, Adelaide," she answered, with the
tender sweetness of tone which made her voice irresistibly
charming--"and tell me if there were ever two women so utterly
unlike each other as my mother and myself."

Lady Loring ran through the letter, as she had run through her
own correspondence. "Never, dearest Stella, have I enjoyed myself
as I do in this delightful country house--twenty-seven at dinner
every day, without including the neighbors--a little carpet dance
every evening--we play billiards, and go into the smoking
room--the hounds meet three times a week--all sorts of
celebrities among the company, famous beauties included--such
dresses! such conversation!--and serious duties, my dear, not
neglected--high church and choral service in the town on
Sundays--recitations in the evening from Paradise Lost, by an
amateur elocutionist--oh, you foolish, headstrong child! why did
you make excuses and stay in London, when you might have
accompanied me to this earthly Paradise?--are you really ill?--my
love to Lady Loring--and of course, if you _are_ ill, you must
have medical advice--they ask after you so kindly here--the first
dinner bell is ringing, before I have half done my letter--what
_am_ I to wear?--why is my daughter not here to advise me," etc.,
etc., etc.

"There is time to change your mind and advise your mother," Lady
Loring remarked with grave irony as she returned the letter.

"Don't even speak of it!" said Stella. "I really know no life
that I should not prefer to the life that my mother is enjoying
at this moment. What should I have done, Adelaide, if you had not
offered me a happy refuge in your house? _My_ 'earthly Paradise'
is here, where I am allowed to dream away my time over my
drawings and my books, and to resign myself to poor health and
low spirits, without being dragged into society, and (worse
still) threatened with that 'medical advice' in which, when she
isn't threatened with it herself, my poor dear mother believes so
implicitly. I wish you would hire me as your 'companion,' and let
me stay here for the rest of my life."

Lady Loring's bright face became grave while Stella was speaking.

"My dear," she said kindly, "I know well how you love retirement,
and how differently you think and feel from other young women of
your age. And I am far from forgetting what sad circumstances
have encouraged the natural bent of your disposition. But, since
you have been staying with me this time, I see something in you
which my intimate knowledge of your character fails to explain.
We have been friends since we were together at school--and, in
those old days, we never had any secrets from each other. You are
feeling some anxiety, or brooding over some sorrow, of which I
know nothing. I don't ask for your confidence; I only tell you
what I have noticed--and I say with all my heart, Stella, I am
sorry for you."

She rose, and, with intuitive delicacy, changed the subject. "I
am going out earlier than usual this morning," she resumed. "Is
there anything I can do for you?" She laid her hand tenderly on
Stella's shoulder, waiting for the reply. Stella lifted the hand
and kissed it with passionate fondness.

"Don't think me ungrateful," she said; "I am only ashamed." Her
head sank on her bosom; she burst into tears.

Lady Loring waited by her in silence. She well knew the girl's
self-contained nature, always shrinking, except in moments of
violent emotion, from the outward betrayal of its trials and its
sufferings to others. The true depth of feeling which is marked
by this inbred modesty is most frequently found in men. The few
women who possess it are without the communicative consolations
of the feminine heart. They are the noblest---and but too often
the unhappiest of their sex.

"Will you wait a little before you go out?" Stella asked softly.

Lady Loring returned to the chair that she had left--hesitated
for a moment--and then drew it nearer to Stella. "Shall I sit by
you?" she said.

"Close by me. You spoke of our school days just now Adelaide.
There was some difference between us. Of all the girls I was the
youngest--and you were the eldest, or nearly the eldest, I
think?"

"Quite the eldest, my dear. There is a difference of ten years
between us. But why do you go back to that?"

"It's only a recollection. My father was alive then. I was at
first home-sick and frightened in the strange place, among the
big girls. You used to let me hide my face on your shoulder, and
tell me stories. May I hide in the old way and tell _my_ story?"

She was now the calmest of the two. The elder woman turned a
little pale, and looked down in silent anxiety at the darkly
beautiful head that rested on her shoulder.

"After such an experience as mine has been," said Stella, "would
you think it possible that I could ever again feel my heart
troubled by a man--and that man a stranger?"

"My dear! I think it quite possible. You are only now in your
twenty-third year. You were innocent of all blame at that
wretched by-gone time which you ought never to speak of again.
Love and be happy, Stella--if you can only find the man who is
worthy of you. But you frighten me when you speak of a stranger.
Where did you meet with him?"

"On our way back from Paris."

"Traveling in the same carriage with you?"

"No--it was in crossing the Channel. There were few travelers in
the steamboat, or I might never have noticed him."

"Did he speak to you?"

"I don't think he even looked at me."

"That doesn't say much for his taste, Stella."

"You don't understand. I mean, I have not explained myself
properly. He was leaning on the arm of a friend; weak and worn
and wasted, as I supposed, by some long and dreadful illness.
There was an angelic sweetness in his face--such patience! such
resignation! For heaven's sake keep my secret. One hears of men
falling in love with women at first sight. But a woman who looks
at a man, and feels--oh, it's shameful! I could hardly take my
eyes off him. If he had looked at me in return, I don't know what
I should have done--I burn when I think of it. He was absorbed in
his suffering and his sorrow. My last look at his beautiful face
was on the pier, before they took me away. The perfect image of
him has been in my heart ever since. In my dreams I see him as
plainly as I see you now. Don't despise me, Adelaide!"

"My dear, you interest me indescribably. Do you suppose he was in
our rank of life? I mean, of course, did he look like a
gentleman?"

"There could be no doubt of it."

"Do try to describe him, Stella. Was he tall and well dressed?"

"Neither tall nor short--rather thin--quiet and graceful in all
his movements--dressed plainly, in perfect taste. How can I
describe him? When his friend brought him on board, he stood at
the side of the vessel, looking out thoughtfully toward the sea.
Such eyes I never saw before, Adelaide, in any human face--so
divinely tender and sad--and the color of them that dark violet
blue, so uncommon and so beautiful--too beautiful for a man. I
may say the same of his hair. I saw it completely. For a minute
or two he removed his hat--his head was fevered, I think--and he
let the sea breeze blow over it. The pure light brown of his hair
was just warmed by a lovely reddish tinge. His beard was of the
same color; short and curling, like the beards of the Roman
heroes one sees in pictures. I shall never see him again--and it
is best for me that I shall not. What can I hope from a man who
never once noticed me? But I _should_ like to hear that he had
recovered his health and his tranquillity, and that his life was
a happy one. It has been a comfort to me, Adelaide, to open my
heart to you. I  am get ting bold enough to confess everything.
Would you laugh at me, I wonder, if I--?"

She stopped. Her pale complexion softly glowed into color; her
grand dark eyes brightened--she looked her loveliest at that
moment.

"I am far more inclined, Stella, to cry over you than to laugh at
you," said Lady Loring. "There is something, to my mind, very sad
about this adventure of yours. I wish I could find out who the
man is. Even the best description of a person falls so short of
the reality!"

"I thought of showing you something," Stella continued, "which
might help you to see him as I saw him. It's only making one more
acknowledgment of my own folly."

"You don't mean a portrait of him!" Lady Loring exclaimed.

"The best that I could do from recollection," Stella answered
sadly.

"Bring it here directly!"

Stella left the room and returned with a little drawing in
pencil. The instant Lady Loring looked at it, she recognized
Romayne and started excitedly to her feet.

"You know him!" cried Stella.

Lady Loring had placed herself in an awkward position. Her
husband had described to her his interview with Major Hynd, and
had mentioned his project for bringing Romayne and Stella
together, after first exacting a promise of the strictest secrecy
from his wife. She felt herself bound--doubly bound, after what
she had now discovered--to respect the confidence placed in her;
and this at the time when she had betrayed herself to Stella!
With a woman's feline fineness of perception, in all cases of
subterfuge and concealment, she picked a part of the truth out of
the whole, and answered harmlessly without a moment's hesitation.

"I have certainly seen him," she said--"probably at some party.
But I see so many people, and I go to so many places, that I must
ask for time to consult my memory. My husband might help me, if
you don't object to my asking him," she added slyly.

Stella snatched the drawing away from her, in terror. "You don't
mean that you will tell Lord Loring?" she said.

"My dear child! how can you be so foolish? Can't I show him the
drawing without mentioning who it was done by? His memory is a
much better one than mine. If I say to him, 'Where did we meet
that man?'--he may tell me at once--he may even remember the
name. Of course, if you like to be kept in suspense, you have
only to say so. It rests with you to decide."

Poor Stella gave way directly. She returned the drawing, and
affectionately kissed her artful friend. Having now secured the
means of consulting her husband without exciting suspicion, Lady
Loring left the room.

At that time in the morning, Lord Loring was generally to be
found either in the library or the picture gallery. His wife
tried the library first. On entering the room, she found but one
person in it--not the person of whom she was in search. There,
buttoned up in his long frock coat, and surrounded by books of
all sorts and sizes, sat the plump elderly priest who had been
the especial object of Major Hynd's aversion.

"I beg your pardon, Father Benwell," said Lady Loring; "I hope I
don't interrupt your studies?"

Father Benwell rose and bowed with a pleasant paternal smile. "I
am only trying to organize an improved arrangement of the
library," he said, simply. "Books are companionable
creatures--members, as it were, of his family, to a lonely old
priest like myself. Can I be of any service to your ladyship?"

"Thank you, Father. If you can kindly tell me where Lord Loring
is--"

"To be sure! His lordship was here five minutes since--he is now
in the picture gallery. Pray permit me!"

With a remarkably light and easy step for a man of his age and
size, he advanced to the further end of the library, and opened a
door which led into the gallery.

"Lord Loring is among the pictures," he announced. "And alone."
He laid a certain emphasis on the last word, which might or might
not (in the case of a spiritual director of the household) invite
a word of explanation.

Lady Loring merely said, "Just what I wanted; thank you once
more, Father Benwell"--and passed into the picture gallery.

Left by himself again in the library, the priest walked slowly to
and fro, thinking. His latent power and resolution began to show
themselves darkly in his face. A skilled observer would now have
seen plainly revealed in him the habit of command, and the
capacity for insisting on his right to be obeyed. From head to
foot, Father Benwell was one of those valuable soldiers of the
Church who acknowledge no defeat, and who improve every victory.

After a while, he returned to the table at which he had been
writing when Lady Loring entered the room. An unfinished letter
lay open on the desk. He took up his pen and completed it in
these words: "I have therefore decided on trusting this serious
matter in the hands of Arthur Penrose. I know he is young--but we
have to set against the drawback of his youth, the counter-merits
of his incorruptible honesty and his true religious zeal. No
better man is just now within my reach--and there is no time to
lose. Romayne has recently inherited a large increase of fortune.
He will be the object of the basest conspiracies--conspiracies of
men to win his money, and (worse still) of women to marry him.
Even these contemptible efforts may be obstacles in the way of
our righteous purpose, unless we are first in the field. Penrose
left Oxford last week. I expect him here this morning, by my
invitation. When I have given him the necessary instructions, and
have found the means of favorably introducing him to Romayne, I
shall have the honor of forwarding a statement of our prospects
so far."

Having signed these lines, he addressed the letter to "The
Reverend the Secretary, Society of Jesus, Rome." As he closed and
sealed the envelope, a servant opened the door communicating with
the hall, and announced:

"Mr. Arthur Penrose."

CHAPTER II.

THE JESUITS.

FATHER BENWELL rose, and welcomed the visitor with his paternal
smile. "I am heartily glad to see you," he said--and held out his
hand with a becoming mixture of dignity and cordiality. Penrose
lifted the offered hand respectfully to his lips. As one of the
"Provincials" of the Order, Father Benwell occupied a high place
among the English Jesuits. He was accustomed to acts of homage
offered by his younger brethren to their spiritual chief. "I fear
you are not well," he proceeded gently. "Your hand is feverish,
Arthur."

"Thank you, Father--I am as well as usual."

"Depression of spirits, perhaps?" Father Benwell persisted.

Penrose admitted it with a passing smile. "My spirits are never
very lively," he said.

Father Benwell shook his head in gentle disapproval of a
depressed state of spirits in a young man. "This must be
corrected," he remarked. "Cultivate cheerfulness, Arthur. I am
myself, thank God, a naturally cheerful man. My mind reflects, in
some degree (and reflects gratefully), the brightness and beauty
which are part of the great scheme of creation. A similar
disposition is to be cultivated--I know instances of it in my own
experience. Add one more instance, and you will really gratify
me. In its seasons of rejoicing, our Church is eminently
cheerful. Shall I add another encouragement? A great trust is
about to be placed in you. Be socially agreeable, or you will
fail to justify the trust. This is Father Benwell's little
sermon. I think it has a merit, Arthur--it is a sermon soon
over."

Penrose looked up at his superior, eager to hear more.

He was a very young man. His large, thoughtful, well-opened gray
eyes, and his habitual refinement and modesty of manner, gave a
certain attraction to his personal appearance, of which it stood
in some need. In stature he was little and lean; his hair had
become prematurely thin over his broad forehead; there were
hollows already in his cheeks, and marks on either side of his
thin, delicate lips. He looked like a person who had passed many
miserable hours in needlessly despairing of himself and his
prospects. With all this, there was something in him so
irresistibly truthful and sincere--so suggestive, even where he
might be wrong, of a purely conscientious belief in his own
errors--that he attached people to  him wit hout an effort, and
often without being aware of it himself. What would his friends
have said if they had been told that the religious enthusiasm of
this gentle, self-distrustful, melancholy man, might, in its very
innocence of suspicion and self-seeking, be perverted to
dangerous uses in unscrupulous hands? His friends would, one and
all, have received the scandalous assertion with contempt; and
Penrose himself, if he had heard of it, might have failed to
control his temper for the first time in his life.

"May I ask a question, without giving offense?" he said, timidly.

Father Benwell took his hand. "My dear Arthur, let us open our
minds to each other without reserve. What is your question?"

"You have spoken, Father, of a great trust that is about to be
placed in me."

"Yes. You are anxious, no doubt, to hear what it is?"

"I am anxious to know, in the first place, if it requires me to
go back to Oxford."

Father Benwell dropped his young friend's hand. "Do you dislike
Oxford?" he asked, observing Penrose attentively.

"Bear with me, Father, if I speak too confidently. I dislike the
deception which has obliged me to conceal that I am a Catholic
and a priest."

Father Benwell set this little difficulty right, with the air of
a man who could make benevolent allowance for unreasonable
scruples. "I think, Arthur, you forget two important
considerations," he said. "In the first place, you have a
dispensation from your superiors, which absolves you of all
responsibility in respect of the concealment that you have
practiced. In the second place, we could only obtain information
of the progress which our Church is silently making at the
University by employing you in the capacity of--let me say, an
independent observer. However, if it will contribute to your ease
of mind, I see no objection to informing you that you will _not_
be instructed to return to Oxford. Do I relieve you?"

There could be no question of it. Penrose breathed more freely,
in every sense of the word.

"At the same time," Father Benwell continued, "let us not
misunderstand each other. In the new sphere of action which we
design for you, you will not only be at liberty to acknowledge
that you are a Catholic, it will be absolutely necessary that you
should do so. But you will continue to wear the ordinary dress of
an English gentleman, and to preserve the strictest secrecy on
the subject of your admission to the priesthood, until you are
further advised by myself. Now, dear Arthur, read that paper. It
is the necessary preface to all that I have yet to say to you."

The "paper" contained a few pages of manuscript relating the
early history of Vange Abbey, in the days of the monks, and the
circumstances under which the property was confiscated to lay
uses in the time of Henry the Eighth. Penrose handed back the
little narrative, vehemently expressing his sympathy with the
monks, and his detestation of the King.

"Compose yourself, Arthur," said Father Benwell, smiling
pleasantly. "We don't mean to allow Henry the Eighth to have it
all his own way forever."

Penrose looked at his superior in blank bewilderment. His
superior withheld any further information for the present.

"Everything in its turn," the discreet Father resumed; "the turn
of explanation has not come yet. I have something else to show
you first. One of the most interesting relics in England. Look
here."

He unlocked a flat mahogany box, and displayed to view some
writings on vellum, evidently of great age.

"You have had a little sermon already," he said. "You shall have
a little story now. No doubt you have heard of Newstead
Abbey--famous among the readers of poetry as the residence of
Byron? King Henry treated Newstead exactly as he treated Vange
Abbey! Many years since, the lake at Newstead was dragged, and
the brass eagle which had served as the lectern in the old church
was rescued from the waters in which it had lain for centuries. A
secret receptacle was discovered in the body of the eagle, and
the ancient title-deeds of the Abbey were found in it. The monks
had taken that method of concealing the legal proof of their
rights and privileges, in the hope--a vain hope, I need hardly
say--that a time might come when Justice would restore to them
the property of which they had been robbed. Only last summer, one
of our bishops, administering a northern diocese, spoke of these
circumstances to a devout Catholic friend, and said he thought it
possible that the precaution taken by the monks at Newstead might
also have been taken by the monks at Vange. The friend, I should
tell you, was an enthusiast. Saying nothing to the bishop (whose
position and responsibilities he was bound to respect), he took
into his confidence persons whom he could trust. One night--in
the absence of the present proprietor, or, I should rather say,
the present usurper, of the estate--the lake at Vange was
privately dragged, with a result that proved the bishop's
conjecture to be right. Read those valuable documents. Knowing
your strict sense of honor, my son, and your admirable tenderness
of conscience, I wish you to be satisfied of the title of the
Church to the lands of Vange, by evidence which is beyond
dispute."

With this little preface, he waited while Penrose read the
title-deeds. "Any doubt on your mind?" he asked, when the reading
had come to an end.

"Not the shadow of a doubt."

"Is the Church's right to the property clear?"

"As clear, Father, as words can make it."

"Very good. We will lock up the documents. Arbitrary
confiscation, Arthur, even on the part of a king, cannot override
the law. What the Church once lawfully possessed, the Church has
a right to recover. Any doubt about that in your mind?"

"Only the doubt of _how_ the Church can recover. Is there
anything in this particular case to be hoped from the law?"

"Nothing whatever."

"And yet, Father, you speak as if you saw some prospect of the
restitution of the property. By what means can the restitution be
made?"

"By peaceful and worthy means," Father Benwell answered. "By
honorable restoration of the confiscated property to the Church,
on the part of the person who is now in possession of it."

Penrose was surprised and interested. "Is the person a Catholic?"
he asked, eagerly.

"Not yet." Father Benwell laid a strong emphasis on those two
little words. His fat fingers drummed restlessly on the table;
his vigilant eyes rested expectantly on Penrose. "Surely you
understand me, Arthur?" he added, after an interval.

The color rose slowly in the worn face of Penrose. "I am afraid
to understand you," he said.

"Why?"

"I am not sure that it is my better sense which understands. I am
afraid, Father, it may be my vanity and presumption."

Father Benwell leaned back luxuriously in his chair. "I like that
modesty," he said, with a relishing smack of his lips as if
modesty was as good as a meal to him. "There is power of the
right sort, Arthur, hidden under the diffidence that does you
honor. I am more than ever satisfied that I have been right in
reporting you as worthy of this most serious trust. I believe the
conversion of the owner of Vange Abbey is--in your hands--no more
than a matter of time."

"May I ask what his name is?"

"Certainly. His name is Lewis Romayne."

"When do you introduce me to him?"

"Impossible to say. I have not yet been introduced myself."

"You don't know Mr. Romayne?"

"I have never even seen him."

These discouraging replies were made with the perfect composure
of a man who saw his way clearly before him. Sinking from one
depth of perplexity to another, Penrose ventured on putting one
last question. "How am I to approach Mr. Romayne?" he asked.

"I can only answer that, Arthur, by admitting you still further
into my confidence. It is disagreeable to me," said the reverend
gentleman, with the most becoming humility, "to speak of myself.
But it must be done. Shall we have a little coffee to help us
through the coming extract from Father Benwell's autobiography?
Don't look so serious, my son! When the occasion justifies it,
let us take life lightly." He rang the bell and ordered the
coffee, as if he was the master of the house. The servant treate
d him with the most scrupulous respect. He hummed a little tune,
and talked at intervals of the weather, while they were waiting.
"Plenty of sugar, Arthur?" he inquired, when the coffee was
brought in. "No! Even in trifles, I should have been glad to feel
that there was perfect sympathy between us. I like plenty of
sugar myself."

Having sweetened his coffee with the closest attention to the
process, he was at liberty to enlighten his young friend. He did
it so easily and so cheerfully that a far less patient man than
Penrose would have listened to him with interest.

CHAPTER III.

THE INTRODUCTION TO ROMAYNE.

"EXCEPTING my employment here in the library," Father Benwell
began, "and some interesting conversation with Lord Loring, to
which I shall presently allude, I am almost as great a stranger
in this house, Arthur, as yourself. When the object which we now
have in view was first taken seriously into consideration, I had
the honor of being personally acquainted with Lord Loring. I was
also aware that he was an intimate and trusted friend of Romayne.
Under these circumstances, his lordship presented himself to our
point of view as a means of approaching the owner of Vange Abbey
without exciting distrust. I was charged accordingly with the
duty of establishing myself on terms of intimacy in this house.
By way of making room for me, the spiritual director of Lord and
Lady Loring was removed to a cure of souls in Ireland. And here I
am in his place! By-the-way, don't treat me (when we are in the
presence of visitors) with any special marks of respect. I am not
Provincial of our Order in Lord Loring's house--I am one of the
inferior clergy."

Penrose looked at him with admiration. "It is a great sacrifice
to make, Father, in your position and at your age."

"Not at all, Arthur. A position of authority involves certain
temptations to pride. I feel this change as a lesson in humility
which is good for me. For example, Lady Loring (as I can plainly
see) dislikes and distrusts me. Then, again, a young lady has
recently arrived here on a visit. She is a Protestant, with all
the prejudices incident to that way of thinking--avoids me so
carefully, poor soul, that I have never seen her yet. These
rebuffs are wholesome reminders of his fallible human nature, to
a man who has occupied a place of high trust and command.
Besides, there have been obstacles in my way which have had an
excellent effect in rousing my energies. How do you feel, Arthur,
when you encounter obstacles?"

"I do my best to remove them, Father. But I am sometimes
conscious of a sense of discouragement."

"Curious," said Father Benwell. "I am only conscious, myself, of
a sense of impatience. What right has an obstacle to get in _my_
way?--that is how I look at it. For example, the first thing I
heard, when I came here, was that Romayne had left England. My
introduction to him was indefinitely delayed; I had to look to
Lord Loring for all the information I wanted relating to the man
and his habits. There was another obstacle! Not living in the
house, I was obliged to find an excuse for being constantly on
the spot, ready to take advantage of his lordship's leisure
moments for conversation. I sat down in this room, and I said to
myself, 'Before I get up again, I mean to brush these impertinent
obstacles out of my way!' The state of the books suggested the
idea of which I was in search. Before I left the house, I was
charged with the rearrangement of the library. From that moment I
came and went as often as I liked. Whenever Lord Loring was
disposed for a little talk, there I was, to lead the talk in the
right direction. And what is the result? On the first occasion
when Romayne presents himself I can place you in a position to
become his daily companion. All due, Arthur, in the first
instance, to my impatience of obstacles. Amusing, isn't it?"

Penrose was perhaps deficient in the sense of humor. Instead of
being amused, he appeared to be anxious for more information.

"In what capacity am I to be Mr. Romayne's companion?" he asked.

Father Benwell poured himself out another cup of coffee.

"Suppose I tell you first," he suggested, "how circumstances
present Romayne to us as a promising subject for conversion. He
is young; still a single man; not compromised by any illicit
connection; romantic, sensitive, highly cultivated. No near
relations are alive to influence him; and, to my certain
knowledge, his estate is not entailed. He has devoted himself for
years past to books, and is collecting materials for a work of
immense research, on the Origin of Religions. Some great sorrow
or remorse--Lord Loring did not mention what it was--has told
seriously on his nervous system, already injured by night study.
Add to this, that he is now within our reach. He has lately
returned to London, and is living quite alone at a private hotel.
For some reason which I am not acquainted with, he keeps away
from Vange Abbey--the very place, as I should have thought, for a
studious man."

Penrose began to be interested. "Have you been to the Abbey?" he
said.

"I made a little excursion to that part of Yorkshire, Arthur, not
long since. A very pleasant trip--apart from the painful
associations connected with the ruin and profanation of a sacred
place. There is no doubt about the revenues. I know the value of
that productive part of the estate which stretches southward,
away from the barren region round the house. Let us return for a
moment to Romayne, and to your position as his future companion.
He has had his books sent to him from Vange, and has persuaded
himself that continued study is the one remedy for his troubles,
whatever they may be. At Lord Loring's suggestion, a consultation
of physicians was held on his case the other day."

"Is he so ill as that?" Penrose exclaimed.

"So it appears," Father Benwell replied. "Lord Loring is
mysteriously silent about the illness. One result of the
consultation I extracted from him, in which you are interested.
The doctors protested against his employing himself on his
proposed work. He was too obstinate to listen to them. There was
but one concession that they could gain from him--he consented to
spare himself, in some small degree, by employing an amanuensis.
It was left to Lord Loring to find the man. I was consulted by
his lordship; I was even invited to undertake the duty myself.
Each one in his proper sphere, my son! The person who converts
Romayne must be young enough and pliable enough to be his friend
and companion. Your part is there, Arthur--you are the future
amanuensis. How does the prospect strike you now?"

"I beg your pardon, Father! I fear I am unworthy of the
confidence which is placed in me."

"In what way?"

Penrose answered with unfeigned humility.

"I am afraid I may fail to justify your belief in me," he said,
"unless I can really feel that I am converting Mr. Romayne for
his own soul's sake. However righteous the cause may be, I cannot
find, in the restitution of the Church property, a sufficient
motive for persuading him to change his religious faith. There is
something so serious in the responsibility which you lay on me,
that I shall sink under the burden unless my whole heart is in
the work. If I feel attracted toward Mr. Romayne when I first see
him; if he wins upon me, little by little, until I love him like
a brother--then, indeed, I can promise that his conversion shall
be the dearest object of my life. But if there is not this
intimate sympathy between us--forgive me if I say it plainly--I
implore you to pass me over, and to commit the task to the hands
of another man."

His voice trembled; his eyes moistened. Father Benwell handled
his young friend's rising emotion with the dexterity of a skilled
angler humoring the struggles of a lively fish.

"Good Arthur!" he said. "I see much--too much, dear boy--of
self-seeking people. It is as refreshing to me to hear you, as a
draught of water to a thirsty man. At the same time, let me
suggest that you are innocently raising difficulties, where no
difficulties exist. I have already mentioned as one of the
necessities of the case that you and Romayne should be friends.
How can that be, un less there is precisely that sympathy between
you which you have so well described? I am a sanguine man, and I
believe you will like each other. Wait till you see him."

As the words passed his lips, the door that led to the picture
gallery was opened. Lord Loring entered the library.

He looked quickly round him--apparently in search of some person
who might, perhaps, be found in the room. A shade of annoyance
showed itself in his face, and disappeared again, as he bowed to
the two Jesuits.

"Don't let me disturb you," he said, looking at Penrose. "Is this
the gentleman who is to assist Mr. Romayne?"

Father Benwell presented his young friend. "Arthur Penrose, my
lord. I ventured to suggest that he should call here to-day, in
case you wished to put any questions to him."

"Quite needless, after your recommendation," Lord Loring
answered, graciously. "Mr. Penrose could not have come here at a
more appropriate time. As it happens, Mr. Romayne has paid us a
visit today--he is now in the picture gallery."

The priests looked at each other. Lord Loring left them as he
spoke. He walked to the opposite door of the library--opened
it--glanced round the hall, and at the stairs--and returned
again, with the passing expression of annoyance visible once
more. "Come with me to the gallery, gentlemen," he said; "I shall
be happy to introduce you to Mr. Romayne."

Penrose accepted the proposal. Father Benwell pointed with a
smile to the books scattered about him. "With permission, I will
follow your lordship," he said.

"Who was my lord looking for?" That was the question in Father
Benwell's mind, while he put some of the books away on the
shelves, and collected the scattered papers on the table,
relating to his correspondence with Rome. It had become a habit
of his life to be suspicious of any circumstances occurring
within his range of observation, for which he was unable to
account. He might have felt some stronger emotion on this
occasion, if he had known that the conspiracy in the library to
convert Romayne was matched by the conspiracy in the picture
gallery to marry him.

Lady Loring's narrative of the conversation which had taken place
between Stella and herself had encouraged her husband to try his
proposed experiment without delay. "I shall send a letter at once
to Romayne's hotel," he said.

"Inviting him to come here to-day?" her ladyship inquired.

"Yes. I shall say I particularly wish to consult him about a
picture. Are we to prepare Stella to see him? or would it be
better to let the meeting take her by surprise?"

"Certainly not!" said Lady Loring. "With her sensitive
disposition, I am afraid of taking Stella by surprise. Let me
only tell her that Romayne is the original of her portrait, and
that he is likely to call on you to see the picture to-day--and
leave the rest to me."

Lady Loring's suggestion was immediately carried out. In the
first fervor of her agitation, Stella had declared that her
courage was not equal to a meeting with Romayne on that day.
Becoming more composed, she yielded to Lady Loring's persuasion
so far as to promise that she would at least make the attempt to
follow her friend to the gallery. "If I go down with you," she
said, "it will look as if we had arranged the thing between us. I
can't bear even to think of that. Let me look in by myself, as if
it was by accident." Consenting to this arrangement, Lady Loring
had proceeded alone to the gallery, when Romayne's visit was
announced. The minutes passed, and Stella did not appear. It was
quite possible that she might shrink from openly presenting
herself at the main entrance to the gallery, and might
prefer--especially if she was not aware of the priest's presence
in the room--to slip in quietly by the library door. Failing to
find her, on putting this idea to the test, Lord Loring had
discovered Penrose, and had so hastened the introduction of the
younger of the two Jesuits to Romayne.



Having gathered his papers together, Father Benwell crossed the
library to the deep bow-window which lighted the room, and opened
his dispatch-box, standing on a small table in the recess. Placed
in this position, he was invisible to any person entering the
room by the hall door. He had secured his papers in the
dispatch-box, and had just closed and locked it, when he heard
the door cautiously opened.

The instant afterward the rustling of a woman's dress over the
carpet caught his ear. Other men might have walked out of the
recess and shown themselves. Father Benwell stayed where he was,
and waited until the lady crossed his range of view.

The priest observed with cold attention her darkly-beautiful eyes
and hair, her quickly-changing color, her modest grace of
movement. Slowly, and in evident agitation, she advanced to the
door of the picture gallery--and paused, as if she was afraid to
open it. Father Benwell heard her sigh to herself softly, "Oh,
how shall I meet him?" She turned aside to the looking-glass over
the fire-place. The reflection of her charming face seemed to
rouse her courage. She retraced her steps, and timidly opened the
door. Lord Loring must have been close by at the moment. His
voice immediately made itself heard in the library.

"Come in, Stella--come in! Here is a new picture for you to see;
and a friend whom I want to present to you, who must be your
friend too--Mr. Lewis Romayne."

The door was closed again. Father Benwell stood still as a statue
in the recess, with his head down, deep in thought. After a while
he roused himself, and rapidly returned to the writing table.
With a roughness strangely unlike his customary deliberation of
movement, he snatched a sheet of paper out of the case, and
frowning heavily, wrote these lines on it:-- "Since my letter was
sealed, I have made a discovery which must be communicated
without the loss of a post. I greatly fear there may be a woman
in our way. Trust me to combat this obstacle as I have combated
other obstacles. In the meantime, the work goes on. Penrose has
received his first instructions, and has to-day been presented to
Romayne."

He addressed this letter to Rome, as he had addressed the letter
preceding it. "Now for the woman!" he said to himself--and opened
the door of the picture gallery.

CHAPTER IV.

FATHER BENWELL HITS.

ART has its trials as well as its triumphs. It is powerless to
assert itself against the sordid interests of everyday life. The
greatest book ever written, the finest picture ever painted,
appeals in vain to minds preoccupied by selfish and secret cares.
On entering Lord Loring's gallery, Father Benwell found but one
person who was not looking at the pictures under false pretenses.

Innocent of all suspicion of the conflicting interests whose
struggle now centered in himself, Romayne was carefully studying
the picture which had been made the pretext for inviting him to
the house. He had bowed to Stella, with a tranquil admiration of
her beauty; he had shaken hands with Penrose, and had said some
kind words to his future secretary--and then he had turned to the
picture, as if Stella and Penrose had ceased from that moment to
occupy his mind.

"In your place," he said quietly to Lord Loring, "I should not
buy this work."

"Why not?"

"It seems to me to have the serious defect of the modern English
school of painting. A total want of thought in the rendering of
the subject, disguised under dexterous technical tricks of the
brush. When you have seen one of that man's pictures, you have
seen all. He manufactures--he doesn't paint."

Father Benwell came in while Romayne was speaking. He went
through the ceremonies of introduction to the master of Vange
Abbey with perfect politeness, but a little absently. His mind
was bent on putting his suspicion of Stella to the test of
confirmation. Not waiting to be presented, he turned to her with
the air of fatherly interest and chastened admiration which he
well knew how to assume in his intercourse with women.

"May I ask if you agree with Mr. Romayne's estimate of the
picture?" he said, in his gentlest tones.

She had heard of him, and of his position in the house. It was
quite needless for Lady Loring to whisper to her, "Father
Benwell, my
 dear!" Her antipathy identified him as readily as her sympathy
might have identified a man who had produced a favorable
impression on her. "I have no pretension to be a critic," she
answered, with frigid politeness. "I only know what I personally
like or dislike."

The reply exactly answered Father Benwell's purpose. It diverted
Romayne's attention from the picture to Stella. The priest had
secured his opportunity of reading their faces while they were
looking at each other.

"I think you have just stated the true motive for all criticism,"
Romayne said to Stella. "Whether we only express our opinions of
pictures or books in the course of conversation or whether we
assert them at full length, with all the authority of print, we
are really speaking, in either case, of what personally pleases
or repels us. My poor opinion of that picture means that it says
nothing to Me. Does it say anything to You?"

He smiled gently as he put the question to her, but there was no
betrayal of emotion in his eyes or in his voice. Relieved of
anxiety, so far as Romayne was concerned, Father Benwell looked
at Stella.

Steadily as she controlled herself, the confession of her heart's
secret found its way into her face. The coldly composed
expression which had confronted the priest when she spoke to him,
melted away softly under the influence of Romayne's voice and
Romayne's look. Without any positive change of color, her
delicate skin glowed faintly, as if it felt some animating inner
warmth. Her eyes and lips brightened with a new vitality; her
frail elegant figure seemed insensibly to strengthen and expand,
like the leaf of a flower under a favoring sunny air. When she
answered Romayne (agreeing with him, it is needless to say),
there was a tender persuasiveness in her tones, shyly inviting
him still to speak to her and still to look at her, which would
in itself have told Father Benwell the truth, even if he had not
been in a position to see her face. Confirmed in his doubts of
her, he looked, with concealed suspicion, at Lady Loring next.
Sympathy with Stella was undisguisedly expressed to him in the
honest blue eyes of Stella's faithful friend.

The discussion on the subject of the unfortunate picture was
resumed by Lord Loring, who thought the opinions of Romayne and
Stella needlessly severe. Lady Loring, as usual, agreed with her
husband. While the general attention was occupied in this way,
Father Benwell said a word to Penrose--thus far, a silent
listener to the discourse on Art.

"Have you seen the famous portrait of the first Lady Loring, by
Gainsborough?" he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he took
Penrose by the arm, and led him away to the picture--which had
the additional merit, under present circumstances, of hanging at
the other end of the gallery.

"How do you like Romayne?" Father Benwell put the question in low
peremptory tones, evidently impatient for a reply.

"He interests me already," said Penrose. "He looks so ill and so
sad, and he spoke to me so kindly--"

"In short," Father Benwell interposed, "Romayne has produced a
favorable impression on you. Let us get on to the next thing. You
must produce a favorable impression on Romayne."

Penrose sighed. "With the best will to make myself agreeable to
people whom I like," he said, "I don't always succeed. They used
to tell me at Oxford that I was shy--and I am afraid that is
against me. I wish I possessed some of your social advantages,
Father!"

"Leave it to me, son! Are they still talking about the picture?"

"Yes."

"I have something more to say to you. Have you noticed the young
lady?"

"I thought her beautiful--but she looks a little cold."

Father Benwell smiled. "When you are as old as I am," he said,
"you will not believe in appearances where women are concerned.
Do you know what I think of her? Beautiful, if you like--and
dangerous as well."

"Dangerous! In what way?"

"This is for your private ear, Arthur. She is in love with
Romayne. Wait a minute! And Lady Loring--unless I am entirely
mistaken in what I observed--knows it and favors it. The
beautiful Stella may be the destruction of all our hopes, unless
we keep Romayne out of her way."

These words were whispered with an earnestness and agitation
which surprised Penrose. His superior's equanimity was not easily
overthrown. "Are you sure, Father, of what you say?" he asked.

"I am quite sure--or I should not have spoken."

"Do you think Mr. Romayne returns the feeling?"

"Not yet, luckily. You must use your first friendly influence
over him--what is her name? Her surname, I mean."

"Eyrecourt. Miss Stella Eyrecourt."

"Very well. You must use your influence (when you are quite sure
that it _is_ an influence) to keep Mr. Romayne away from Miss
Eyrecourt."

Penrose looked embarrassed. "I am afraid I should hardly know how
to do that," he said "But I should naturally, as his assistant,
encourage him to keep to his studies."

Whatever Arthur's superior might privately think of Arthur's
reply, he received it with outward indulgence. "That will come to
the same thing," he said. "Besides, when I get the information I
want--this is strictly between ourselves--I may be of some use in
placing obstacles in the lady's way."

Penrose started. "Information!" he repeated. "What information?"

"Tell me something before I answer you," said Father Benwell.
"How old do you take Miss Eyrecourt to be?"

"I am not a good judge in such matters. Between twenty and
twenty-five, perhaps?"

"We will take her age at that estimate, Arthur. In former years,
I have had opportunities of studying women's characters in the
confessional. Can you guess what my experience tells me of Miss
Eyrecourt?"

"No, indeed!"

"A lady is not in love for the first time when she is between
twenty and twenty-five years old--that is my experience," said
Father Benwell. "If I can find a person capable of informing me,
I may make some valuable discoveries in the earlier history of
Miss Eyrecourt's life. No more, now. We had better return to our
friends."

CHAPTER V.

FATHER BENWELL MISSES.

THE group before the picture which had been the subject of
dispute was broken up. In one part of the gallery, Lady Loring
and Stella were whispering together on a sofa. In another part,
Lord Loring was speaking privately to Romayne.

"Do you think you will like Mr. Penrose?" his lordship asked.

"Yes--so far as I can tell at present. He seems to be modest and
intelligent."

"You are looking ill, my dear Romayne. Have you again heard the
voice that haunts you?"

Romayne answered with evident reluctance. "I don't know why," he
said--"but the dread of hearing it again has oppressed me all
this morning. To tell you the truth, I came here in the hope that
the change might relieve me."

"Has it done so?"

"Yes--thus far."

"Doesn't that suggest, my friend, that a greater change might be
of use to you?"

"Don't ask me about it, Loring! I can go through my ordeal--but I
hate speaking of it."

"Let us speak of something else then," said Lord Loring. "What do
you think of Miss Eyrecourt?"

"A very striking face; full of expression and character. Leonardo
would have painted a noble portrait of her. But there is
something in her manner--" He stopped, unwilling or unable to
finish the sentence.

"Something you don't like?" Lord Loring suggested.

"No; something I don't quite understand. One doesn't expect to
find any embarrassment in the manner of a well-bred woman. And
yet she seemed to be embarrassed when she spoke to me. Perhaps I
produced an unfortunate impression on her."

Lord Loring laughed. "In any man but you, Romayne, I should call
that affectation."

"Why?" Romayne asked, sharply.

Lord Loring looked unfeignedly surprised. "My dear fellow, do you
really think you are the sort of man who impresses a woman
unfavorably at first sight? For once in your life, indulge in the
amiable weakness of doing yourself justice--and find a better
reason for Miss Eyrecourt's embarrassment."

For the first time since he and his friend had been talking
together, Romayne turned toward Stella. He innocently caught her
in the act of looking at him. A younger woman, or a woman of
weaker character, would  have looked
 away again. Stella's noble head drooped; her eyes sank slowly,
until they rested on her long white hands crossed upon her lap.
For a moment more Romayne looked at her with steady attention.

He roused himself, and spoke to Lord Loring in lowered tones.

"Have you known Miss Eyrecourt for a long time?"

"She is my wife's oldest and dearest friend. I think, Romayne,
you would feel interested in Stella, if you saw more of her."

Romayne bowed in silent submission to Lord Loring's prophetic
remark. "Let us look at the pictures," he said, quietly.

As he moved down the gallery, the two priests met him. Father
Benwell saw his opportunity of helping Penrose to produce a
favorable impression.

"Forgive the curiosity of an old student, Mr. Romayne," he said
in his pleasant, cheerful way. "Lord Loring tells me you have
sent to the country for your books. Do you find a London hotel
favorable to study?"

"It is a very quiet hotel," Romayne answered, "and the people
know my ways." He turned to Arthur. "I have my own set of rooms,
Mr. Penrose," he continued--"with a room at your disposal. I used
to enjoy the solitude of my house in the country. My tastes have
lately changed--there are times now when I want to see the life
in the streets, as a relief. Though we are in a hotel, I can
promise that you will not be troubled by interruptions, when you
kindly lend me the use of your pen."

Father Benwell answered before Penrose could speak. "You may
perhaps find my young friend's memory of some use to you, Mr.
Romayne, as well as his pen. Penrose has studied in the Vatican
Library. If your reading leads you that way, he knows more than
most men of the rare old manuscripts which treat of the early
history of Christianity."

This delicately managed reference to the projected work on "The
Origin of Religions" produced its effect.

"I should like very much, Mr. Penrose, to speak to you about
those manuscripts," Romayne said. "Copies of some of them may
perhaps be in the British Museum. Is it asking too much to
inquire if you are disengaged this morning?"

"I am entirely at your service, Mr. Romayne."

"If you will kindly call at my hotel in an hour's time, I shall
have looked over my notes, and shall be ready for you with a list
of titles and dates. There is the address."

With those words, he advanced to take his leave of Lady Loring
and Stella.

Father Benwell was a man possessed of extraordinary power of
foresight--but he was not infallible. Seeing that Romayne was on
the point of leaving the house, and feeling that he had paved the
way successfully for Romayne's amanuensis, he too readily assumed
that there was nothing further to be gained by remaining in the
gallery. Moreover, the interval before Penrose called at the
hotel might be usefully filled up by some wise words of advice,
relating to the religious uses to which he might turn his
intercourse with his employer. Making one of his ready and
plausible excuses, he accordingly returned with Penrose to the
library--and so committed (as he himself discovered at a later
time) one of the few mistakes in the long record of his life.

In the meanwhile, Romayne was not permitted to bring his visit to
a conclusion without hospitable remonstrance on the part of Lady
Loring. She felt for Stella, with a woman's enthusiastic devotion
to the interests of true love; and she had firmly resolved that a
matter so trifling as the cultivation of Romayne's mind should
not be allowed to stand in the way of the far more important
enterprise of opening his heart to the influence of the sex.

"Stay and lunch with us," she said, when he held out his hand to
bid her good-by.

"Thank you, Lady Loring, I never take lunch."

"Well, then, come and dine with us--no party; only ourselves.
Tomorrow, and next day, we are disengaged. Which day shall it
be?"

Romayne still resisted. "You are very kind. In my state of
health, I am unwilling to make engagements which I may not be
able to keep."

Lady Loring was just as resolute on her side. She appealed to
Stella. "Mr. Romayne persists, my dear, in putting me off with
excuses. Try if you can persuade him."

"_I_ am not likely to have any influence, Adelaide."

The tone in which she replied struck Romayne. He looked at her.
Her eyes, gravely meeting his eyes, held him with a strange
fascination. She was not herself conscious how openly all that
was noble and true in her nature, all that was most deeply and
sensitively felt in her aspirations, spoke at that moment in her
look. Romayne's face changed: he turned pale under the new
emotion that she had roused in him. Lady Loring observed him
attentively.

"Perhaps you underrate your influence, Stella?" she suggested.

Stella remained impenetrable to persuasion. "I have only been
introduced to Mr. Romayne half an hour since," she said. "I am
not vain enough to suppose that I can produce a favorable
impression on any one in so short a time."

She had expressed, in other words, Romayne's own idea of himself,
in speaking of her to Lord Loring. He was struck by the
coincidence.

"Perhaps we have begun, Miss Eyrecourt, by misinterpreting one
another," he said. "We may arrive at a better understanding when
I have the honor of meeting you again."

He hesitated and looked at Lady Loring. She was not the woman to
let a fair opportunity escape her. "We will say to-morrow
evening," she resumed, "at seven o'clock."

"To-morrow," said Romayne. He shook hands with Stella, and left
the picture gallery.

Thus far, the conspiracy to marry him promised even more
hopefully than the conspiracy to convert him. And Father Benwell,
carefully instructing Penrose in the next room, was not aware of
it!

But the hours, in their progress, mark the march of events as
surely as they mark the march of time. The day passed, the
evening came--and, with its coming, the prospects of the
conversion brightened in their turn.

Let Father Benwell himself relate how it happened--in an extract
from his report to Rome, written the same evening.

". . . I had arranged with Penrose that he should call at my
lodgings, and tell me how he had prospered at the first
performance of his duties as secretary to Romayne.

"The moment he entered the room the signs of disturbance in his
face told me that something serious had happened. I asked
directly if there had been any disagreement between Romayne and
himself.

"He repeated the word with every appearance of surprise.
'Disagreement?' he said. 'No words can tell how sincerely I feel
for Mr. Romayne. I cannot express to you, Father, how eager I am
to be of service to him!'

"Relieved, so far, I naturally asked what had happened. Penrose
betrayed a marked embarrassment in answering my question.

" 'I have innocently surprised a secret,' he said, 'on which I
had no right to intrude. All that I can honorably tell you, shall
be told. Add one more to your many kindnesses--don't command me
to speak, when it is my duty toward a sorely-tried man to be
silent, even to you.'

"It is needless to say that I abstained from directly answering
this strange appeal. 'Let me hear what you can tell,' I replied,
'and then we shall see.'

"Upon this, he spoke. I need hardly recall to your memory how
careful we were, in first planning the attempt to recover the
Vange property, to assure ourselves of the promise of success
which the peculiar character of the present owner held out to us.
In reporting what Penrose said, I communicate a discovery, which
I venture to think will be as welcome to you, as it was to me.

"He began by reminding me of what I had myself told him in
speaking of Romayne. 'You mentioned having heard from Lord Loring
of a great sorrow or remorse from which he was suffering,'
Penrose said. 'I know what he suffers and why he suffers, and
with what noble resignation he submits to his affliction. We were
sitting together at the table, looking over his notes and
memoranda, when he suddenly dropped the manuscript from which he
was reading to me. A ghastly paleness overspread his face. He
started up, and put both his hands to his ears as if he heard
something dreadful, and was trying to deafen himself to it. I ran
to the door to call for help. He stopped me;
 he spoke in faint, gasping tones, forbidding me to call any one
in to witness what he suffered. It was not the first time, he
said; it would soon be over. If I had not courage to remain with
him I could go, and return when he was himself again. I so pitied
him that I found the courage to remain. When it was over he took
me by the hand, and thanked me. I had stayed by him like a
friend, he said, and like a friend he would treat me. Sooner or
later (those were his exact words) I must be taken into his
confidence--and it should be now. He told me his melancholy
story. I implore you, Father, don't ask me to repeat it! Be
content if I tell you the effect of it on myself. The one hope,
the one consolation for him, is in our holy religion. With all my
heart I devote myself to his conversion--and, in my inmost soul,
I feel the conviction that I shall succeed!'

"To this effect, and in this tone, Penrose spoke. I abstained
from pressing him to reveal Romayne's confession. The confession
is of no consequence to us. You know how the moral force of
Arthur's earnestness and enthusiasm fortifies his otherwise weak
character. I, too, believe he will succeed.

"To turn for a moment to another subject. You are already
informed that there is a woman in our way. I have my own idea of
the right method of dealing with this obstacle when it shows
itself more plainly. For the present, I need only assure you that
neither this woman nor any woman shall succeed in her designs on
Romayne, if I can prevent it."

Having completed his report in these terms, Father Benwell
reverted to the consideration of his proposed inquiries into the
past history of Stella's life.

Reflection convinced him that it would be unwise to attempt, no
matter how guardedly, to obtain the necessary information from
Lord Loring or his wife. If he assumed, at his age, to take a
strong interest in a Protestant young lady, who had notoriously
avoided him, they would certainly feel surprise--and surprise
might, in due course of development, turn to suspicion.

There was but one other person under Lord Loring's roof to whom
he could address himself--and that person was the housekeeper. As
an old servant, possessing Lady Loring's confidence, she might
prove a source of information on the subject of Lady Loring's
fair friend; and, as a good Catholic, she would feel flattered by
the notice of the spiritual director of the household.

"It may not be amiss," thought Father Benwell, "if I try the
housekeeper."

CHAPTER VI.

THE ORDER OF THE DISHES.

WHEN Miss Notman assumed the post of housekeeper in Lady Loring's
service, she was accurately described as "a competent and
respectable person"; and was praised, with perfect truth, for her
incorruptible devotion to the interests of her employers. On its
weaker side, her character was represented by the wearing of a
youthful wig, and the erroneous conviction that she still
possessed a fine figure. The ruling idea in her narrow little
mind was the idea of her own dignity. Any offense offered in this
direction oppressed her memory for days together, and found its
way outward in speech to any human being whose attention she
could secure.

At five o'clock, on the day which followed his introduction to
Romayne, Father Benwell sat drinking his coffee in the
housekeeper's room--to all appearance as much at his ease as if
he had known Miss Notman from the remote days of her childhood. A
new contribution to the housekeeper's little library of
devotional works lay on the table; and bore silent witness to the
means by which he had made those first advances which had won him
his present position. Miss Notman's sense of dignity was doubly
flattered. She had a priest for her guest, and a new book with
the reverend gentleman's autograph inscribed on the title-page.

"Is your coffee to your liking, Father?"

"A little more sugar, if you please."

Miss Notman was proud of her hand, viewed as one of the
meritorious details of her figure. She took up the sugar-tongs
with suavity and grace; she dropped the sugar into the cup with a
youthful pleasure in ministering to the minor desires of her
illustrious guest. "It is so good of you, Father, to honor me in
this way," she said--with the appearance of sixteen super-induced
upon the reality of sixty.

Father Benwell was an adept at moral disguises of all kinds. On
this occasion he wore the disguise of pastoral simplicity. "I am
an idle old man at this hour of the afternoon," he said. "I hope
I am not keeping you from any household duties?"

"I generally enjoy my duties," Miss Notman answered. "To-day,
they have not been so agreeable as usual; it is a relief to me to
have done with them. Even my humble position has its trials."

Persons acquainted with Miss Notman's character, hearing these
last words, would have at once changed the subject. When she
spoke of "her humble position," she invariably referred to some
offense offered to her dignity, and she was invariably ready to
state the grievance at full length. Ignorant of this peculiarity,
Father Benwell committed a fatal error. He inquired, with
courteous interest, what the housekeeper's "trials" might be.

"Oh, sir, they are beneath your notice!" said Miss Notman
modestly. "At the same time, I should feel it an honor to have
the benefit of your opinion--I should so like to know that you do
not altogether disapprove of my conduct, under some provocation.
You see, Father, the whole responsibility of ordering the dinners
falls on me. And, when there is company, as there is this
evening, the responsibility is particularly trying to a timid
person like myself."

"A large dinner party, Miss Notman?"

"Oh, dear, no! Quite the reverse. Only one gentleman--Mr.
Romayne."

Father Benwell set down his cup of coffee, half way to his lips.
He at once drew the correct conclusion that the invitation to
Romayne must have been given and accepted after he had left the
picture gallery. That the object was to bring Romayne and Stella
together, under circumstances which would rapidly improve their
acquaintance, was as plain to him as if he had heard it confessed
in so many words. If he had only remained in the gallery, he
might have become acquainted with the form of persuasion used to
induce a man so unsocial as Romayne to accept an invitation. "I
have myself to blame," he thought bitterly, "for being left in
the dark."

"Anything wrong with the coffee?" Miss Notman asked anxiously.

He rushed on his fate. He said, "Nothing whatever. Pray go on."

Miss Notman went on.

"You see, Father, Lady Loring was unusually particular about the
dinner on this occasion. She said, 'Lord Loring reminds me that
Mr. Romayne is a very little eater, and yet very difficult to
please in what he does eat.' Of course I consulted my experience,
and suggested exactly the sort of dinner that was wanted under
the circumstances. I wish to do her ladyship the utmost justice.
She made no objection to the dinner in itself. On the contrary,
she complimented me on what she was pleased to call my ready
invention. But when we came next to the order in which the dishes
were to be served--" Miss Notman paused in the middle of the
sentence, and shuddered over the private and poignant
recollections which the order of the dishes called up.

By this time Father Benwell had discovered his mistake. He took a
mean advantage of Miss Notman's susceptibilities to slip his own
private inquiries into the interval of silence.

"Pardon my ignorance," he said; "my own poor dinner is a matter
of ten minutes and one dish. I don't understand a difference of
opinion on a dinner for three people only; Lord and Lady Loring,
two; Mr. Romayne, three--oh! perhaps I am mistaken? Perhaps Miss
Eyrecourt makes a fourth?"

"Certainly, Father!"

"A very charming person, Miss Notman. I only speak as a stranger.
You, no doubt, are much better acquainted with Miss Eyrecourt?"

"Much better, indeed--if I may presume to say so," Miss Notman
replied. "She is my lady's intimate friend; we have often talked
of Miss Eyrecourt during the many years of my residence in this
house. On such subjects, her ladyship treats me quite on the
footing of a humble friend.  A complete co ntrast to the tone she
took, Father, when we came to the order of the dishes. We agreed,
of course, about the soup and the fish; but we had a little, a
very little, divergence of opinion, as I may call it, on the
subject of the dishes to follow. Her ladyship said, 'First the
sweetbreads, and then the cutlets.' I ventured to suggest that
the sweetbreads, as white meat, had better not immediately follow
the turbot, as white fish. 'The brown meat, my lady,' I said, 'as
an agreeable variety presented to the eye, and then the white
meat, recalling pleasant remembrances of the white fish.' You see
the point, Father?"

"I see, Miss Notman, that you are a consummate mistress of an art
which is quite beyond poor me. Was Miss Eyrecourt present at the
little discussion?"

"Oh, no! Indeed, I should have objected to her presence; I should
have said she was a young lady out of her proper place."

"Yes; I understand. Is Miss Eyrecourt an only child?"

"She had two sisters, Father Benwell. One of them is in a
convent."

"Ah, indeed?"

"And the other is dead."

"Sad for the father and mother, Miss Notman!"

"Pardon me, sad for the mother, no doubt. The father died long
since."

"Aye? aye? A sweet woman, the mother? At least, I think I have
heard so."

Miss Notman shook her head. "I should wish to guard myself
against speaking unjustly of any one," she said; "but when you
talk of 'a sweet woman,' you imply (as it seems to me) the
domestic virtues. Mrs. Eyrecourt is essentially a frivolous
person."

A frivolous person is, in the vast majority of cases, a person
easily persuaded to talk, and not disposed to be reticent in
keeping secrets. Father Benwell began to see his way already to
the necessary information. "Is Mrs. Eyrecourt living in London?"
he inquired.

"Oh, dear, no! At this time of year she lives entirely in other
people's houses--goes from one country seat to another, and only
thinks of amusing herself. No domestic qualities, Father. _She_
would know nothing of the order of the dishes! Lady Loring, I
should have told you, gave way in the matter of the sweetbread.
It was only at quite the latter part of my 'Menoo' (as the French
call it) that she showed a spirit of opposition--well! well! I
won't dwell on that. I will only ask _you,_ Father, at what part
of a dinner an oyster-omelet ought to be served?"

Father Benwell seized his opportunity of discovering Mrs.
Eyrecourt's present address. "My dear lady," he said, "I know no
more when the omelet ought to be served than Mrs. Eyrecourt
herself! It must be very pleasant, to a lady of her way of
thinking, to enjoy the beauties of Nature inexpensively--as seen
in other people's houses, from the point of view of a welcome
guest. I wonder whether she is staying at any country seat which
I happen to have seen?"

"She may be in England, Scotland, or Ireland, for all I know,"
Miss Notman answered, with an unaffected ignorance which placed
her good faith beyond doubt. "Consult your own taste, Father.
After eating jelly, cream, and ice-pudding, could you even _look_
at an oyster-omelet without shuddering? Would you believe it? Her
ladyship proposed to serve the omelet with the cheese. Oysters,
after sweets! I am not (as yet) a married woman--"

Father Benwell made a last desperate effort to pave the way for
one more question before he submitted to defeat. "That must be
_your_ fault, my dear lady!" he interposed, with his persuasive
smile.

Miss Notman simpered. "You confuse me, Father!" she said softly.

"I speak from inward conviction, Miss Notman. To a looker-on,
like myself, it is sad to see how many sweet women who might be
angels in the households of worthy men prefer to lead a single
life. The Church, I know, exalts the single life to the highest
place. But even the Church allows exceptions to its rule. Under
this roof, for example, I think I see two exceptions. One of them
my unfeigned respect" (he bowed to Miss Notman) "forbids me to
indicate more particularly. The other seems, to my humble view,
to be the young lady of whom we have been speaking. Is it not
strange that Miss Eyrecourt has never been married?"

The trap had been elaborately set; Father Benwell had every
reason to anticipate that Miss Notman would walk into it. The
disconcerting housekeeper walked up to it--and then proved unable
to advance a step further.

"I once made the same remark myself to Lady Loring," she said.

Father Benwell's pulse began to quicken its beat. "Yes?" he
murmured, in tones of the gentlest encouragement.

"And her ladyship," Miss Notman proceeded, "did not encourage me
to go on. 'There are reasons for not pursuing that subject,' she
said; 'reasons into which, I am sure, you will not expect me to
enter.' She spoke with a flattering confidence in my prudence,
which I felt gratefully. Such a contrast to her tone when the
omelet presented itself in the order of the dishes! As I said
just now I am not a married woman. But if I proposed to my
husband to give him an oyster-omelet after his puddings and his
pies, I should not be surprised if he said to me, 'My dear, have
you taken leave of your senses?' I reminded Lady Loring (most
respectfully) that a _cheese_-omelette might be in its proper
place if it followed the sweets. 'An _oyster_-omelet,' I
suggested, 'surely comes after the birds?' I should be sorry to
say that her ladyship lost her temper--I will only mention that I
kept mine. Let me repeat what she said, and leave you, Father, to
draw your own conclusions. She said, 'Which of us is mistress in
this house, Miss Notman? I order the oyster-omelet to come in
with the cheese.' There was not only irritability, there was
contempt--oh, yes! contempt in her tone. Out of respect for
myself, I made no reply. As a Christian, I can forgive; as a
wounded gentlewoman, I may not find it so easy to forget."

Miss Notman laid herself back in her easy chair--she looked as if
she had suffered martyrdom, and only regretted having been
obliged to mention it. Father Benwell surprised the wounded
gentlewoman by rising to his feet.

"You are not going away already, Father?"

"Time flies fast in your society, dear Miss Notman. I have an
engagement--and I am late for it already."

The housekeeper smiled sadly. "At least let me hear that you
don't disapprove of my conduct under trying circumstances," she
said.

Father Benwell took her hand. "A true Christian only feels
offenses to pardon them," he remarked, in his priestly and
paternal character. "You have shown me, Miss Notman, that _you_
are a true Christian. My evening has indeed been well spent. God
bless you!"

He pressed her hand; he shed on her the light of his fatherly
smile; he sighed, and took his leave. Miss Notman's eyes followed
him out with devotional admiration.

Father Benwell still preserved his serenity of temper when he was
out of the housekeeper's sight. One important discovery he had
made, in spite of the difficulties placed in his way. A
compromising circumstance had unquestionably occurred in Stella's
past life; and, in all probability, a man was in some way
connected with it. "My evening has not been entirely thrown
away," he thought, as he ascended the stairs which led from the
housekeeper's room to the hall.

CHAPTER VII.

THE INFLUENCE OF STELLA.

ENTERING the hall, Father Benwell heard a knock at the house
door. The servants appeared to recognize the knock--the porter
admitted Lord Loring.

Father Benwell advanced and made his bow. It was a perfect
obeisance of its kind--respect for Lord Loring, unobtrusively
accompanied by respect for himself. "Has your lordship been
walking in the park?" he inquired.

"I have been out on business," Lord Loring answered; "and I
should like to tell you about it. If you can spare me a few
minutes, come into the library. Some time since," he resumed,
when the door was closed, "I think I mentioned that my friends
had been speaking to me on a subject of some importance--the
subject of opening my picture gallery occasionally to the
public."

"I remember," said Father Benwell. "Has your lordship decided
what to do?"

"Yes. I have decided (as the phrase is) to 'go with the times,'
and follow the example of other owners of picture g alleries.
Don't suppose I ever doubted that it is my duty to extend, to the
best of my ability, the civilizing influences of Art. My only
hesitation in the matter arose from a dread of some accident
happening, or some injury being done, to the pictures. Even now,
I can only persuade myself to try the experiment under certain
restrictions."

"A wise decision, undoubtedly," said Father Benwell. "In such a
city as this, you could hardly open your gallery to anybody who
happens to pass the house-door."

"I am glad you agree with me, Father. The gallery will be open
for the first time on Monday. Any respectably-dressed person,
presenting a visiting card at the offices of the librarians in
Bond Street and Regent Street, will receive a free ticket of
admission; the number of tickets, it is needless to say, being
limited, and the gallery being only open to the public two days
in the week. You will be here, I suppose, on Monday?"

"Certainly. My work in the library, as your lordship can see, has
only begun."

"I am very anxious about the success of this experiment," said
Lord Loring. "Do look in at the gallery once or twice in the
course of the day, and tell me what your own impression is."

Having expressed his readiness to assist "the experiment" in
every possible way, Father Benwell still lingered in the library.
He was secretly conscious of a hope that he might, at the
eleventh hour, be invited to join Romayne at the dinner-table.
Lord Loring only looked at the clock on the mantel-piece: it was
nearly time to dress for dinner. The priest had no alternative
but to take the hint, and leave the house.

Five minutes after he had withdrawn, a messenger delivered a
letter for Lord Loring, in which Father Benwell's interests were
directly involved. The letter was from Romayne; it contained his
excuses for breaking his engagement, literally at an hour's
notice.

"Only yesterday," he wrote, "I had a return of what you, my dear
friend, call 'the delusion of the voice.' The nearer the hour of
your dinner approaches, the more keenly I fear that the same
thing may happen in your house. Pity me, and forgive me."

Even good-natured Lord Loring felt some difficulty in pitying and
forgiving, when he read these lines. "This sort of caprice might
be excusable in a woman," he thought. "A man ought really to be
capable of exercising some self-control. Poor Stella! And what
will my wife say?"

He walked up and down the library, with Stella's disappointment
and Lady Loring's indignation prophetically present in his mind.
There was, however, no help for it--he must accept his
responsibility, and be the bearer of the bad news.

He was on the point of leaving the library, when a visitor
appeared. The visitor was no less a person than Romayne himself.
"Have I arrived before my letter?" he asked eagerly.

Lord Loring showed him the letter.

"Throw it into the fire," he said, "and let me try to excuse
myself for having written it. You remember the happier days when
you used to call me the creature of impulse? An impulse produced
that letter. Another impulse brings me here to disown it. I can
only explain my strange conduct by asking you to help me at the
outset. Will you carry your memory back to the day of the medical
consultation on my case? I want you to correct me, if I
inadvertently misrepresent my advisers. Two of them were
physicians. The third, and last, was a surgeon, a personal friend
of yours; and _he_, as well as I recollect, told you how the
consultation ended?"

"Quite right, Romayne--so far."

"The first of the two physicians," Romayne proceeded, "declared
my case to be entirely attributable to nervous derangement, and
to be curable by purely medical means. I speak ignorantly; but,
in plain English, that, I believe, was the substance of what he
said?"

"The substance of what he said," Lord Loring replied, "and the
substance of his prescriptions--which, I think, you afterward
tore up?"

"If you have no faith in a prescription," said Romayne, "that is,
in my opinion, the best use to which you can put it. When it came
to the turn of the second physician, he differed with the first,
as absolutely as one man can differ with another. The third
medical authority, your friend the surgeon, took a middle course,
and brought the consultation to an end by combining the first
physician's view and the second physician's view, and mingling
the two opposite forms of treatment in one harmonious result?"

Lord Loring remarked that this was not a very respectful way of
describing the conclusion of the medical proceedings. That it was
the conclusion, however, he could not honestly deny.

"As long as I am right," said Romayne, "nothing else appears to
be of much importance. As I told you at the time, the second
physician appeared to me to be the only one of the three
authorities who really understood my case. Do you mind giving me,
in few words, your own impression of what he said?"

"Are you sure that I shall not distress you?"

"On the contrary, you may help me to hope."

"As I remember it," said Lord Loring, "the doctor did not deny
the influence of the body over the mind. He was quite willing to
admit that the state of your nervous system might be one, among
other predisposing causes, which led you--I really hardly like to
go on."

"Which led me," Romayne continued, finishing the sentence for his
friend, "to feel that I never shall forgive myself--accident or
no accident--for having taken that man's life. Now go on."

"The delusion that you still hear the voice," Lord Loring
proceeded, "is, in the doctor's opinion, the moral result of the
morbid state of your mind at the time when you really heard the
voice on the scene of the duel. The influence acts physically, of
course, by means of certain nerves. But it is essentially a moral
influence; and its power over you is greatly maintained by the
self-accusing view of the circumstances which you persist in
taking. That, in substance, is my recollection of what the doctor
said."

"And when he was asked what remedies he proposed to try," Romayne
inquired, "do you remember his answer? 'The mischief which moral
influences have caused, moral influences alone can remedy.' "

"I remember," said Lord Loring. "And he mentioned, as examples of
what he meant, the occurrence of some new and absorbing interest
in your life, or the working of some complete change in your
habits of thought--or perhaps some influence exercised over you
by a person previously unknown, appearing under unforeseen
circumstances, or in scenes quite new to you."

Romayne's eyes sparkled.

"Now you are coming to it!" he cried. "Now I feel sure that I
recall correctly the last words the doctor said: 'If my view is
the right one, I should not be surprised to hear that the
recovery which we all wish to see had found its beginning in such
apparently trifling circumstances as the tone of some other
person's voice or the influence of some other person's look.'
That plain expression of his opinion only occurred to my memory
after I had written my foolish letter of excuse. I spare you the
course of other recollections that followed, to come at once to
the result. For the first time I have the hope, the faint hope,
that the voice which haunts me has been once already controlled
by one of the influences of which the doctor spoke--the influence
of a look."

If he had said this to Lady Loring, instead of to her husband,
she would have understood him at once. Lord Loring asked for a
word more of explanation.

"I told you yesterday," Romayne answered, "that a dread of the
return of the voice had been present to me all the morning, and
that I had come to see the picture with an idea of trying if
change would relieve me. While I was in the gallery I was free
from the dread, and free from the voice. When I returned to the
hotel it tortured me--and Mr. Penrose, I grieve to say, saw what
I suffered. You and I attributed the remission to the change of
scene. I now believe we were both wrong. Where was the change? In
seeing you and Lady Loring, I saw the two oldest friends I have.
In visiting your gallery, I only revived the familiar
associations of hundreds of other visits. To what in fluence was
I really indebted for my respite? Don't try to dismiss the
question by laughing at my morbid fancies. Morbid fancies are
realities to a man like me. Remember the doctor's words, Loring.
Think of a new face, seen in your house! Think of a look that
searched my heart for the first time!"

Lord Loring glanced once more at the clock on the mantel-piece.
The hands pointed to the dinner hour.

"Miss Eyrecourt?" he whispered.

"Yes; Miss Eyrecourt."

The library door was thrown open by a servant. Stella herself
entered the room.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE PRIEST OR THE WOMAN?

LORD LORING hurried away to his dressing room. "I won't be more
than ten minutes," he said--and left Romayne and Stella together.

She was attired with her customary love of simplicity. White lace
was the only ornament on her dress of delicate silvery gray. Her
magnificent hair was left to plead its own merits, without
adornment of any sort. Even the brooch which fastened her lace
pelerine was of plain gold only. Conscious that she was showing
her beauty to the greatest advantage in the eyes of a man of
taste, she betrayed a little of the embarrassment which Romayne
had already noticed at the moment when she gave him her hand.
They were alone, and it was the first time she had seen him in
evening dress.

It may be that women have no positive appreciation of what is
beautiful in form and color--or it may be that they have no
opinions of their own when the laws of fashion have spoken. This
at least is certain, that not one of them in a thousand sees
anything objectionable in the gloomy and hideous evening costume
of a gentleman in the nineteenth century. A handsome man is, to
their eyes, more seductive than ever in the contemptible black
coat and the stiff white cravat which he wears in common with the
servant who waits on him at table. After a stolen glance at
Romayne, Stella lost all confidence in herself--she began turning
over the photographs on the table.

The momentary silence which followed their first greeting became
intolerable to her. Rather than let it continue, she impulsively
confessed the uppermost idea in her mind when she entered the
room.

"I thought I heard my name when I came in," she said. "Were you
and Lord Loring speaking of me?"

Romayne owned without hesitation that they had been speaking of
her.

She smiled and turned over another photograph. But when did
sun-pictures ever act as a restraint on a woman's curiosity? The
words passed her lips in spite of her. "I suppose I mustn't ask
what you were saying?"

It was impossible to answer this plainly without entering into
explanations from which Romayne shrank. He hesitated.

She turned over another photograph. "I understand," she said.
"You were talking of my faults." She paused, and stole another
look at him. "I will try to correct my faults, if you will tell
me what they are."

Romayne felt that he had no alternative but to tell the
truth--under certain reserves. "Indeed you are wrong," he said.
"We were talking of the influence of a tone or a look on a
sensitive person."

"The influence on Me?" she asked.

"No. The influence which You might exercise on another person."

She knew perfectly well that he was speaking of himself. But she
was determined to feel the pleasure of making him own it.

"If I have any such influence as you describe," she began, "I
hope it is for good?"

"Certainly for good."

"You speak positively, Mr. Romayne. Almost as positively--only
that can hardly be--as if you were speaking from experience."

He might still have evaded a direct reply, if she had been
content with merely saying this. But she looked at him while she
spoke. He answered the look.

"Shall I own that you are right?" he said. "I was thinking of my
own experience yesterday."

She returned to the photographs. "It sounds impossible," she
rejoined, softly. There was a pause. "Was it anything I said?"
she asked.

"No. It was only when you looked at me. But for that look, I
don't think I should have been here to-day."

She shut up the photographs on a sudden, and drew her chair a
little away from him.

"I hope," she said, "you have not so poor an opinion of me as to
think I like to be flattered?"

Romayne answered with an earnestness that instantly satisfied
her.

"I should think it an act of insolence to flatter you," he said.
"If you knew the true reason why I hesitated to accept Lady
Loring's invitation--if I could own to you the new hope for
myself that has brought me here--you would feel, as I feel, that
I have been only speaking the truth. I daren't say yet that I owe
you a debt of gratitude for such a little thing as a look. I must
wait till time puts certain strange fancies of mine to the
proof."

"Fancies about me, Mr. Romayne?"

Before he could answer, the dinner bell rang. Lord and Lady
Loring entered the library together.



The dinner having pursued its appointed course (always excepting
the case of the omelet), the head servant who had waited at table
was graciously invited to rest, after his labors, in the
housekeeper's room. Having additionally conciliated him by means
of a glass of rare liqueur, Miss Notman, still feeling her
grievance as acutely as ever, ventured to inquire, in the first
place, if the gentlefolks upstairs had enjoyed their dinner. So
far the report was, on the whole, favorable. But the conversation
was described as occasionally flagging. The burden of the talk
had been mainly borne by my lord and my lady, Mr. Romayne and
Miss Eyrecourt contributing but little to the social enjoyment of
the evening. Receiving this information without much appearance
of interest, the housekeeper put another question, to which,
judging by her manner, she attached a certain importance. She
wished to know if the oyster-omelet (accompanying the cheese) had
been received as a welcome dish, and treated with a just
recognition of its merits. The answer to this was decidedly in
the negative. Mr. Romayne and Miss Eyrecourt had declined to
taste it. My lord had tried it, and had left it on his plate. My
lady alone had really eaten her share of the misplaced dish.
Having stated this apparently trivial circumstance, the head
servant was surprised by the effect which it produced on the
housekeeper. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes,
with an appearance of unutterable enjoyment. That night there was
one supremely happy woman in London. And her name was Miss
Notman.

Ascending from the housekeeper's room to the drawing-room, it is
to be further reported that music was tried, as a means of
getting through the time, in the absence of general conversation.
Lady Loring sat down at the piano, and played as admirably as
usual. At the other end of the room Romayne and Stella were
together, listening to the music. Lord Loring, walking backward
and forward, with a restlessness which was far from being
characteristic of him in his after-dinner hours, was stopped when
he reached the neighborhood of the piano by a private signal from
his wife.

"What are you walking about for?" Lady Loring asked in a whisper,
without interrupting her musical performance.

"I'm not quite easy, my dear."

"Turn over the music. Indigestion?"

"Good heavens, Adelaide, what a question!"

"Well, what is it, then?"

Lord Loring looked toward Stella and her companion. "They don't
seem to get on together as well as I had hoped," he said.

"I should think not--when you are walking about and disturbing
them! Sit down there behind me."

"What am I to do?"

"Am I not playing? Listen to me."

"My dear, I don't understand modern German music."

"Then read the evening paper."

The evening paper had its attractions. Lord Loring took his
wife's advice.

Left entirely by themselves, at the other end of the room,
Romayne and Stella justified Lady Loring's belief in the result
of reducing her husband to a state of repose. Stella ventured to
speak first, in a discreet undertone.

"Do you pass most of your evenings alone, Mr. Romayne?"

"Not quite alone. I have the company of my books."

"Are your books the companions that you like best?"

"I have been true to those companions, Miss Eyrecourt, for many
years. If the doctors are to be believed, my b ooks have not
treated me very well in return. They have broken down my health,
and have made me, I am afraid, a very unsocial man." He seemed
about to say more, and suddenly checked the impulse. "Why am I
talking of myself?" he resumed with a smile. "I never do it at
other times. Is this another result of your influence over me?"

He put the question with an assumed gayety. Stella made no
effort, on her side, to answer him in the same tone.

"I almost wish I really had some influence over you," she said,
gravely and sadly.

"Why?"

"I should try to induce you to shut up your books, and choose
some living companion who might restore you to your happier
self."

"It is already done," said Romayne; "I have a new companion in
Mr. Penrose."

"Penrose?" she repeated. "He is the friend--is he not--of the
priest here, whom they call Father Benwell?"

"Yes."

"I don't like Father Benwell."

"Is that a reason for disliking Mr. Penrose?"

"Yes," she said, boldly, "because he is Father Benwell's friend."

"Indeed, you are mistaken, Miss Eyrecourt. Mr. Penrose only
entered yesterday on his duties as my secretary, and I have
already had reason to think highly of him. Many men, after _that_
experience of me," he added, speaking more to himself than to
her, "might have asked me to find another secretary."

Stella heard those last words, and looked at him in astonishment.
"Were you angry with Mr. Penrose?" she asked innocently. "Is it
possible that _you_ could speak harshly to any person in your
employment?"

Romayne smiled. "It was not what I said," he answered. "I am
subject to attacks--to sudden attacks of illness. I am sorry I
alarmed Mr. Penrose by letting him see me under those
circumstances."

She looked at him; hesitated; and looked away again. "Would you
be angry with me if I confessed something?" she said timidly.

"It is impossible I can be angry with you!"

"Mr. Romayne, I think I have seen what your secretary saw. I know
how you suffer, and how patiently you bear it."

"You!" he exclaimed.

"I saw you with your friend, when you came on board the steamboat
at Boulogne. Oh, no, you never noticed me! You never knew how I
pitied you. And afterward, when you moved away by yourself, and
stood by the place in which the engines work--you are sure you
won't think the worse of me, if I tell it?"

"No! no!"

"Your face frightened me--I can't describe it--I went to your
friend and took it on myself to say that you wanted him. It was
an impulse--I meant well."

"I am sure you meant well." As he spoke, his face darkened a
little, betraying a momentary feeling of distrust. Had she put
indiscreet questions to his traveling companion; and had the
Major, under the persuasive influence of her beauty, been weak
enough to answer them? "Did you speak to my friend?" he asked.

"Only when I told him that he had better go to you. And I think I
said afterward I was afraid you were very ill. We were in the
confusion of arriving at Folkestone--and, even if I had thought
it right to say more, there was no opportunity."

Romayne felt ashamed of the suspicion by which he had wronged
her. "You have a generous nature," he said earnestly. "Among the
few people whom I know, how many would feel the interest in me
that you felt?"

"Don't say that, Mr. Romayne! You could have had no kinder friend
than the gentleman who took care of you on your journey. Is he
with you now in London?"

"No."

"I am sorry to hear it. You ought to have some devoted friend
always near you."

She spoke very earnestly. Romayne shrank, with a strange shyness,
from letting her see how her sympathy affected him. He answered
lightly. "You go almost as far as my good friend there reading
the newspaper," he said. "Lord Loring doesn't scruple to tell me
that I ought to marry. I know he speaks with a sincere interest
in my welfare. He little thinks how he distresses me."

"Why should he distress you?"

"He reminds me--live as long as I may--that I must live alone.
Can I ask a woman to share such a dreary life as mine? It would
be selfish, it would be cruel; I should deservedly pay the
penalty of allowing my wife to sacrifice herself. The time would
come when she would repent having married me."

Stella rose. Her eyes rested on him with a look of gentle
remonstrance. "I think you hardly do women justice," she said
softly. "Perhaps some day a woman may induce you to change your
opinion." She crossed the room to the piano. "You must be tired
of playing, Adelaide," she said, putting her hand caressingly on
Lady Loring's shoulder.

"Will you sing, Stella?"

She sighed, and turned away. "Not to-night," she answered.

Romayne took his leave rather hurriedly. He seemed to be out of
spirits and eager to get away. Lord Loring accompanied his guest
to the door. "You look sad and careworn," he said. "Do you regret
having left your books to pass an evening with us?"

Romayne looked up absently, and answered, "I don't know yet."

Returning to report this extraordinary reply to his wife and
Stella, Lord Loring found the drawing-room empty. Eager for a
little private conversation, the two ladies had gone upstairs.



"Well?" said Lady Loring, as they sat together over the fire.
"What did he say?"

Stella only repeated what he had said before she rose and left
him. "What is there in Mr. Romayne's life," she asked, "which
made him say that he would be selfish and cruel if he expected a
woman to marry him? It must be something more than mere illness.
If he had committed a crime he could not have spoken more
strongly. Do you know what it is?"

Lady Loring looked uneasy. "I promised my husband to keep it a
secret from everybody," she said.

"It is nothing degrading, Adelaide--I am sure of that."

"And you are right, my dear. I can understand that he has
surprised and disappointed you; but, if you knew his motives--"
she stopped and looked earnestly at Stella. "They say," she went
on, "the love that lasts longest is the love of slowest growth.
This feeling of yours for Romayne is of sudden growth. Are you
very sure that your whole heart is given to a man of whom you
know little?"

"I know that I love him," said Stella simply.

"Even though he doesn't seem as yet to love you?" Lady Loring
asked.

"All the more _because_ he doesn't. I should be ashamed to make
the confession to any one but you. It is useless to say any more.
Good-night."

Lady Loring allowed her to get as far as the door, and then
suddenly called her back. Stella returned unwillingly and
wearily. "My head aches and my heart aches," she said. "Let me go
away to my bed."

"I don't like you to go away, wronging Romayne perhaps in your
thoughts," said Lady Loring. "And, more than that, for the sake
of your own happiness, you ought to judge for yourself if this
devoted love of yours may ever hope to win its reward. It is
time, and more than time, that you should decide whether it is
good for you to see Romayne again. Have you courage enough to do
that?"

"Yes--if I am convinced that it ought to be done."

"Nothing would make me so happy," Lady Loring resumed, "as to
know that you were one day, my dear, to be his wife. But I am not
a prudent person--I can never look, as you can, to consequences.
You won't betray me, Stella? If I am doing wrong in telling a
secret which has been trusted to me, it is my fondness for you
that misleads me. Sit down again. You shall know what the misery
of Romayne's life really is."

With those words, she told the terrible story of the duel, and of
all that had followed it.

"It is for you to say," she concluded, "whether Romayne is right.
Can any woman hope to release him from the torment that he
suffers, with nothing to help her but love? Determine for
yourself."

Stella answered instantly.

"I determine to be his wife!"

With the same pure enthusiasm, Penrose had declared that he too
devoted himself to the deliverance of Romayne. The loving woman
was not more resolved to give her whole life to him, than the
fanatical man was resolved to convert him. On the same common
battle-ground the two were now to meet in unconscious antagonism.
Would the priest or the woman win the day?

CHAPTER IX.

THE PUBLIC AND THE PICTURES.

ON the memorable Monday , when the picture gallery was opened to
the public for the first time, Lord Loring and Father Benwell met
in the library.

"Judging by the number of carriages already at the door," said
Father Benwell, "your lordship's kindness is largely appreciated
by the lovers of Art."

"All the tickets were disposed of in three hours," Lord Loring
answered. "Everybody (the librarians tell me) is eager to see the
pictures. Have you looked in yet?"

"Not yet. I thought I would get on first with my work among the
books."

"I have just come from the gallery," Lord Loring continued. "And
here I am, driven out of it again by the remarks of some of the
visitors. You know my beautiful copies of Raphael's Cupid and
Psyche designs? The general impression, especially among the
ladies, is that they are disgusting and indecent. That was enough
for me. If you happen to meet Lady Loring and Stella, kindly tell
them that I have gone to the club."

"Do the ladies propose paying a visit to the gallery?"

"Of course--to see the people! I have recommended them to wait
until they are ready to go out for their drive. In their indoor
costume they might become the objects of general observation as
the ladies of the house. I shall be anxious to hear, Father, if
you can discover the civilizing influences of Art among my guests
in the gallery. Good-morning."

Father Benwell rang the bell when Lord Loring had left him.

"Do the ladies drive out to-day at their usual hour?" he
inquired, when the servant appeared. The man answered in the
affirmative. The carriage was ordered at three o'clock.

At half-past two Father Benwell slipped quietly into the gallery.
He posted himself midway between the library door and the grand
entrance; on the watch, not for the civilizing influences of Art,
but for the appearance of Lady Loring and Stella. He was still of
opinion that Stella's "frivolous" mother might be turned into a
source of valuable information on the subject of her daughter's
earlier life. The first step toward attaining this object was to
discover Mrs. Eyrecourt's present address. Stella would certainly
know it--and Father Benwell felt a just confidence in his
capacity to make the young lady serviceable, in this respect, to
the pecuniary interests of the Church.

After an interval of a quarter of an hour, Lady Loring and Stella
entered the gallery by the library door. Father Benwell at once
advanced to pay his respects.

For some little time he discreetly refrained from making any
attempt to lead the conversation to the topic that he had in
view. He was too well acquainted with the insatiable interest of
women in looking at other women to force himself into notice. The
ladies made their remarks on the pretensions to beauty and to
taste in dress among the throng of visitors--and Father Benwell
waited by them, and listened with the resignation of a modest
young man. Patience, being a virtue, is sometimes its own reward.
Two gentlemen, evidently interested in the pictures, approached
the priest. He drew back, with his ready politeness, to let them
see the picture before which he happened to be standing.

The movement disturbed Stella. She turned sharply--noticed one of
the gentlemen, the taller of the two--became deadly pale--and
instantly quitted the gallery. Lady Loring, looking where Stella
had looked, frowned angrily and followed Miss Eyrecourt into the
library. Wise Father Benwell let them go, and concentrated his
attention on the person who had been the object of this startling
recognition.

Unquestionably a gentleman--with light hair and complexion--with
a bright benevolent face and keen intelligent blue
eyes--apparently still in the prime of life. Such was Father
Benwell's first impression of the stranger. He had evidently seen
Miss Eyrecourt at the moment when she first noticed him; and he
too showed signs of serious agitation. His face flushed deeply,
and his eyes expressed, not merely surprise, but distress. He
turned to his friend. "This place is hot," he said; "let us get
out of it!"

"My dear Winterfield!" the friend remonstrated, "we haven't seen
half the pictures yet."

"Excuse me if I leave you," the other replied. "I am used to the
free air of the country. Let us meet again this evening. Come and
dine with me. The same address as usual--Derwent's Hotel."

With those words he hurried out, making his way, without
ceremony, through the crowd in the picture gallery.

Father Benwell returned to the library. It was quite needless to
trouble himself further about Mrs. Eyrecourt or her address.
"Thanks to Lord Loring's picture gallery," he thought, "I have
found the man!"

He took up his pen and made a little memorandum--"Winterfield.
Derwent's Hotel."

CHAPTER X.

FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE.

I.

_To Mr. Bitrake. Private and Confidential._

SIR--I understand that your connection with the law does not
exclude your occasional superintendence of confidential
inquiries, which are not of a nature to injure your professional
position. The inclosed letter of introduction will satisfy you
that I am incapable of employing your experience in a manner
unbecoming to you, or to myself.

The inquiry that I propose to you relates to a gentleman named
Winterfield. He is now staying in London, at Derwent's Hotel, and
is expected to remain there for a week from the present date. His
place of residence is on the North Devonshire coast, and is well
known in that locality by the name of Beaupark House.

The range of my proposed inquiry dates back over the last four or
five years--certainly not more. My object is to ascertain, as
positively as may be, whether, within this limit of time, events
in Mr. Winterfield's life have connected him with a young lady
named Miss Stella Eyrecourt. If this proves to be the case it is
essential that I should be made acquainted with the whole of the
circumstances.

I have now informed you of all that I want to know. Whatever the
information may be, it is most important that it shall be
information which I can implicitly trust. Please address to me,
when you write, under cover to the friend whose letter I inclose.

I beg your acceptance--as time is of importance--of a check for
preliminary expenses, and remain, sir, your faithful servant,

                                            AMBROSE BENWELL.

II.

_To the Secretary, Society of Jesus, Rome._

I inclose a receipt for the remittance which your last letter
confides to my care. Some of the money has been already used in
prosecuting inquiries, the result of which will, as I hope and
believe, enable me to effectually protect Romayne from the
advances of the woman who is bent on marrying him.

You tell me that our Reverend Fathers, lately sitting in council
on the Vange Abbey affair, are anxious to hear if any positive
steps have yet been taken toward the conversion of Romayne. I am
happily able to gratify their wishes, as you shall now see.

Yesterday, I called at Romayne's hotel to pay one of those
occasional visits which help to keep up our acquaintance. He was
out, and Penrose (for whom I asked next) was with him. Most
fortunately, as the event proved, I had not seen Penrose, or
heard from him, for some little time; and I thought it desirable
to judge for myself of the progress that he was making in the
confidence of his employer. I said I would wait. The hotel
servant knows me by sight. I was shown into Romayne's
waiting-room.

This room is so small as to be a mere cupboard. It is lighted by
a glass fanlight over the door which opens from the passage, and
is supplied with air (in the absence of a fireplace) by a
ventilator in a second door, which communicates with Romayne's
study. Looking about me, so far, I crossed to the other end of
the study, and discovered a dining-room and two bedrooms
beyond--the set of apartments being secluded, by means of a door
at the end of the passage, from the other parts of the hotel. I
trouble you with these details in order that you may understand
the events that followed.

I returned to the waiting-room, not forgetting of course to close
the door of communication.

Nearly an hour must have passed before I heard footsteps in the
passage. The study door was opened,
 and the voices of persons entering the room reached me through
the ventilator. I recognized Romayne, Penrose--and Lord Loring.

The first words exchanged among them informed me that Romayne and
his secretary had overtaken Lord Loring in the street, as he was
approaching the hotel door. The three had entered the house
together--at a time, probably, when the servant who had admitted
me was out of the way. However it may have happened, there I was,
forgotten in the waiting-room!

Could I intrude myself (on a private conversation perhaps) as an
unannounced and unwelcome visitor? And could I help it, if the
talk found its way to me through the ventilator, along with the
air that I breathed? If our Reverend Fathers think I was to
blame, I bow to any reproof which their strict sense of propriety
may inflict on me. In the meantime, I beg to repeat the
interesting passages in the conversation, as nearly word for word
as I can remember them.

His lordship, as the principal personage in social rank, shall be
reported first. He said: "More than a week has passed, Romayne,
and we have neither seen you nor heard from you. Why have you
neglected us?"

Here, judging by certain sounds that followed, Penrose got up
discreetly, and left the room. Lord Loring went on.

He said to Romayne: "Now we are alone, I may speak to you more
freely. You and Stella seemed to get on together admirably that
evening when you dined with us. Have you forgotten what you told
me of her influence over you? Or have you altered your
opinion--and is that the reason why you keep away from us?"

Romayne answered: "My opinion remains unchanged. All that I said
to you of Miss Eyrecourt, I believe as firmly as ever."

His lordship remonstrated, naturally enough. "Then why remain
away from the good influence? Why--if it really _can_ be
controlled--risk another return of that dreadful nervous
delusion?"

"I have had another return."

"Which, as you yourself believe, might have been prevented!
Romayne, you astonish me."

There was a time of silence, before Romayne answered this. He was
a little mysterious when he did reply. "You know the old saying,
my good friend--of two evils, choose the least. I bear my
sufferings as one of two evils, and the least of the two."

Lord Loring appeared to feel the necessity of touching a delicate
subject with a light hand. He said, in his pleasant way: "Stella
isn't the other evil, I suppose?"

"Most assuredly not."

"Then what is it?"

Romayne answered, almost passionately: "My own weakness and
selfishness! Faults which I must resist, or become a mean and
heartless man. For me, the worst of the two evils is there. I
respect and admire Miss Eyrecourt--I believe her to be a woman in
a thousand--don't ask me to see her again! Where is Penrose? Let
us talk of something else."

Whether this wild way of speaking offended Lord Loring, or only
discouraged him, I cannot say. I heard him take his leave in
these words: "You have disappointed me, Romayne. We will talk of
something else the next time we meet." The study door was opened
and closed. Romayne was left by himself.

Solitude was apparently not to his taste just then. I heard him
call to Penrose. I heard Penrose ask: "Do you want me?"

Romayne answered: "God knows I want a friend--and I have no
friend near me but you! Major Hynd is away, and Lord Loring is
offended with me."

Penrose asked why.

Romayne, thereupon, entered on the necessary explanation. As a
priest writing to priests, I pass over details utterly
uninteresting to us. The substance of what he said amounted to
this: Miss Eyrecourt had produced an impression on him which was
new to him in his experience of women. If he saw more of her, it
might end--I ask your pardon for repeating the ridiculous
expression--in his "falling in love with her." In this condition
of mind or body, whichever it may be, he would probably be
incapable of the self-control which he had hitherto practiced. If
she consented to devote her life to him, he might accept the
cruel sacrifice. Rather than do this, he would keep away from
her, for her dear sake--no matter what he might suffer, or whom
he might offend.

Imagine any human being, out of a lunatic asylum, talking in this
way. Shall I own to you, my reverend colleague, how this curious
self-exposure struck me? As I listened to Romayne, I felt
grateful to the famous Council which definitely forbade the
priests of the Catholic Church to marry. _We_ might otherwise
have been morally enervated by the weakness which degrades
Romayne--and priests might have become instruments in the hands
of women.

But you will be anxious to hear what Penrose did under the
circumstances. For the moment, I can tell you this, he startled
me.

Instead of seizing the opportunity, and directing Romayne's mind
to the consolations of religion, Penrose actually encouraged him
to reconsider his decision. All the weakness of my poor little
Arthur's character showed itself in his next words.

He said to Romayne: "It may be wrong in me to speak to you as
freely as I wish to speak. But you have so generously admitted me
to your confidence--you have been so considerate and so kind
toward me--that I feel an interest in your happiness, which
perhaps makes me over bold. Are you very sure that some such
entire change in your life as your marriage might not end in
delivering you from your burden? If such a thing could be, is it
wrong to suppose that your wife's good influence over you might
be the means of making your marriage a happy one? I must not
presume to offer an opinion on such a subject. It is only my
gratitude, my true attachment to you that ventures to put the
question. Are you conscious of having given this matter--so
serious a matter for you--sufficient thought?"

Make your mind easy, reverend sir! Romayne's answer set
everything right.

He said: "I have thought of it till I could think no longer. I
still believe that sweet woman might control the torment of the
voice. But could she deliver me from the remorse perpetually
gnawing at my heart? I feel as murderers feel. In taking another
man's life--a man who had not even injured me!--I have committed
the one unatonable and unpardonable sin. Can any human creature's
influence make me forget that? No more of it--no more. Come! Let
us take refuge in our books."

Those words touched Penrose in the right place. Now, as I
understand his scruples, he felt that he might honorably speak
out. His zeal more than balanced his weakness, as you will
presently see.

He was loud, he was positive, when I heard him next. "No!" he
burst out, "your refuge is not in books, and not in the barren
religious forms which call themselves Protestant. Dear master,
the peace of mind, which you believe you have lost forever, you
will find again in the divine wisdom and compassion of the holy
Catholic Church. There is the remedy for all that you suffer!
There is the new life that will yet make you a happy man!"

I repeat what he said, so far, merely to satisfy you that we can
trust his enthusiasm, when it is once roused. Nothing will
discourage, nothing will defeat him now. He spoke with all the
eloquence of conviction--using the necessary arguments with a
force and feeling which I have rarely heard equaled. Romayne's
silence vouched for the effect on him. He is not the man to
listen patiently to reasoning which he thinks he can overthrow.

Having heard enough to satisfy me that Penrose had really begun
the good work, I quietly slipped out of the waiting-room and left
the hotel.

To-day being Sunday, I shall not lose a post if I keep my letter
open until to-morrow. I have already sent a note to Penrose,
asking him to call on me at his earliest convenience. There may
be more news for you before post time.

Monday, 10 A.M..

There _is_ more news. Penrose has just left me.

His first proceeding, of course, was to tell me what I had
already discovered for myself. He is modest, as usual, about the
prospect of success which awaits him. But he has induced Romayne
to suspend his historical studies for a few days, and to devote
his attention to the books which we are accustomed to recommend
for perusal in such cases  as his. This is un questionably a great
gain at starting.

But my news is not at an end yet. Romayne is actually playing our
game--he has resolved definitely to withdraw himself from the
influence of Miss Eyrecourt! In another hour he and Penrose will
have left London. Their destination is kept a profound secret.
All letters addressed to Romayne are to be sent to his bankers.

The motive for this sudden resolution is directly traceable to
Lady Loring.

Her ladyship called at the hotel yesterday evening, and had a
private interview with Romayne. Her object, no doubt, was to
shake his resolution, and to make him submit himself again to
Miss Eyrecourt's fascinations. What means of persuasion she used
to effect this purpose is of course unknown to us. Penrose saw
Romayne after her ladyship's departure, and describes him as
violently agitated. I can quite understand it. His resolution to
take refuge in secret flight (it is really nothing less) speaks
for itself as to the impression produced on him, and the danger
from which, for the time at least, we have escaped.

Yes! I say "for the time at least." Don't let our reverend
fathers suppose that the money expended on my private inquiries
has been money thrown away. Where these miserable love affairs
are concerned, women are daunted by no adverse circumstances and
warned by no defeat. Romayne has left London, in dread of his own
weakness--we must not forget that. The day may yet come when
nothing will interpose between us and failure but my knowledge of
events in Miss Eyrecourt's life.

For the present, there is no more to be said.

CHAPTER XI.

STELLA ASSERTS HERSELF.

Two days after Father Benwell had posted his letter to Rome, Lady
Loring entered her husband's study, and asked eagerly if he had
heard any news of Romayne.

Lord Loring shook his head. "As I told you yesterday," he said,
"the proprietor of the hotel can give me no information. I went
myself this morning to the bankers, and saw the head partner. He
offered to forward letters, but he could do no more. Until
further notice, he was positively enjoined not to disclose
Romayne's address to anybody. How does Stella bear it?"

"In the worst possible way," Lady Loring answered. "In silence."

"Not a word even to you?"

"Not a word."

At that reply, the servant interrupted them by announcing the
arrival of a visitor, and presenting his card. Lord Loring
started, and handed it to his wife. The card bore the name of
"Major Hynd," and this line was added in pencil: "On business
connected with Mr. Romayne. "

"Show him in directly!" cried Lady Loring.

Lord Loring remonstrated. "My dear! perhaps I had better see this
gentleman alone?"

"Certainly not--unless you wish to drive me into committing an
act of the most revolting meanness! If you send me away I shall
listen at the door."

Major Hynd was shown in, and was duly presented to Lady Loring.
After making the customary apologies, he said: "I returned to
London last night, expressly to see Romayne on a matter of
importance. Failing to discover his present address at the hotel,
I had the hope that your lordship might be able to direct me to
our friend."

I am sorry to say I know no more than you do," Lord Loring
replied. "Romayne's present address is a secret confided to his
bankers, and to no one else. I will give you their names, if you
wish to write to him.

Major Hynd hesitated. "I am not quite sure that it would be
discreet to write to him, under the circumstances."

Lady Loring could no longer keep silence. "Is it possible, Major
Hynd, to tell us what the circumstances are?" she asked. "I am
almost as old a friend of Romayne as my husband--and I am very
anxious about him."

The Major looked embarrassed. "I can hardly answer your
ladyship," he said, "without reviving painful recollections--"

Lady Loring's impatience interrupted the Major's apologies. "Do
you mean the duel?" she inquired.

Lord Loring interposed. "I should tell you, Major Hynd, that Lady
Loring is as well informed as I am of what happened at Boulogne,
and of the deplorable result, so far as Romayne is concerned. If
you still wish to speak to me privately, I will ask you to
accompany me into the next room."

Major Hynd's embarrassment vanished. "After what you tell me," he
said, "I hope to be favored with Lady Loring's advice. You both
know that Romayne fought the fatal duel with a son of the French
General who had challenged him. When we returned to England, we
heard that the General and his family had been driven away from
Boulogne by pecuniary difficulties. Romayne, against my advice,
wrote to the surgeon who had been present at the duel, desiring
that the General's place of retreat might be discovered, and
expressing his wish to assist the family anonymously, as their
Unknown Friend. The motive, of course, was, in his own words, 'to
make some little atonement to the poor people whom he had
wronged.' I thought it a rash proceeding at the time; and I am
confirmed in my opinion by a letter from the surgeon, received
yesterday. Will you kindly read it to Lady Loring?"

He handed the letter to Lord Loring. Translated from the French,
it ran as follows:



"SIR--I am at last able to answer Mr. Romayne's letter
definitely, with the courteous assistance of the French Consul in
London, to whom I applied when other means of investigation had
produced no result.

"A week since the General died, circumstances connected with the
burial expenses informed the Consul that he had taken refuge from
his creditors, not in Paris as we supposed, but in London. The
address is, Number 10, Camp's Hill, Islington. I should also add
that the General, for obvious reasons, lived in London under the
assumed name of Marillac. It will be necessary, therefore, to
inquire for his widow by the name of Madame Marillac.

"You will perhaps be surprised to find that I address these lines
to you, instead of to Mr. Romayne. The reason is soon told.

"I was acquainted with the late General--as you know--at a time
when I was not aware of the company that he kept, or of the
deplorable errors into which his love of gambling had betrayed
him. Of his widow and his children I know absolutely nothing.
Whether they have resisted the contaminating influence of the
head of the household--or whether poverty and bad example
combined have hopelessly degraded them--I cannot say. There is at
least a doubt whether they are worthy of Mr. Romayne's benevolent
intentions toward them. As an honest man, I cannot feel this
doubt, and reconcile it to my conscience to be the means, however
indirectly, of introducing them to Mr. Romayne. To your
discretion I leave it to act for the best, after this warning."



Lord Loring returned the letter to Major Hynd. "I agree with
you," he said. "It is more than doubtful whether you ought to
communicate this information to Romayne."

Lady Loring was not quite of her husband's opinion. "While there
is a doubt about these people," she said, "it seems only just to
find out what sort of character they bear in the neighborhood. In
your place, Major Hynd, I should apply to the person in whose
house they live, or to the tradespeople whom they have employed."

"I am obliged to leave London again to-day," the Major replied;
"but on my return I will certainly follow your ladyship's
advice."

"And you will let us know the result?"

"With the greatest pleasure."

Major Hynd took his leave. "I think you will be responsible for
wasting the Major's time," said Lord Loring, when the visitor had
retired.

"I think not," said Lady Loring.

She rose to leave the room. "Are you going out?" her husband
asked.

"No. I am going upstairs to Stella."

Lady Loring found Miss Eyrecourt in her own room. The little
portrait of Romayne which she had drawn from recollection lay on
the table before her. She was examining it with the closest
attention.

"Well, Stella, and what does the portrait tell you?"

"What I knew before, Adelaide. There is nothing false and nothing
cruel in that face."

"And does the discovery satisfy you? For my part, I despise
Romayne for hiding himself from us. Can you excuse him?"

Stella locked up the portrait in her writing-case. "I can wait,"
she said quietly

Thi s assertion of patience seemed to irritate Lady Loring "What
is the matter with you this morning?" she asked. "You are more
reserved than ever."

"No; I am only out of spirits, Adelaide. I can't help thinking of
that meeting with Winterfield. I feel as if some misfortune was
hanging over my head."

"Don't speak of that hateful man!" her ladyship exclaimed. "I
have something to tell you about Romayne. Are you completely
absorbed in your presentiments of evil? or do you think you can
listen to me?"

Stella's face answered for her. Lady Loring described the
interview with Major Hynd in the minutest detail--including, by
way of illustration, the Major's manners and personal appearance.
"He and Lord Loring," she added, "both think that Romayne will
never hear the last of it if he allows these foreigners to look
to him for money. Until something more is known about them, the
letter is not to be forwarded."

"I wish I had the letter," cried Stella.

"Would you forward it to Romayne?"

"Instantly! Does it matter whether these poor French people are
worthy of his generosity? If it restores his tranquillity to help
them, who cares whether they deserve the help? They are not even
to know who it is that assists them--Romayne is to be their
unknown friend. It is he, not they, whom we have to think of--his
peace of mind is everything; their merit is nothing. I say it's
cruel to _him_ to keep him in ignorance of what has happened. Why
didn't you take the letter away from Major Hynd?"

"Gently, Stella! The Major is going to make inquiries about the
widow and children when he returns to London."

"When he returns!" Stella repeated indignantly. "Who knows what
the poor wretches may be suffering in the interval, and what
Romayne may feel if he ever hears of it? Tell me the address
again--it was somewhere in Islington, you said."

"Why do you want to know it?" Lady Loring asked. "You are not
going to write to Romayne yourself?"

"I am going to think, before I do anything. If you can't trust my
discretion, Adelaide, you have only to say so!"

It was spoken sharply. Lady Loring's reply betrayed a certain
loss of temper on her side. "Manage your own affairs, Stella--I
have done meddling with them." Her unlucky visit to Romayne at
the hotel had been a subject of dispute between the two
friends--and this referred to it. "You shall have the address,"
my lady added in her grandest manner. She wrote it on a piece of
paper, and left the room.

Easily irritated, Lady Loring had the merit of being easily
appeased. That meanest of all vices, the vice of sulkiness, had
no existence in her nature. In five minutes she regretted her
little outburst of irritability. For five minutes more she
waited, on the chance that Stella might be the first to seek a
reconciliation. The interval passed, and nothing happened. "Have
I really offended her?" Lady Loring asked herself. The next
moment she was on her way back to Stella. The room was empty. She
rang the bell for the maid.

"Where is Miss Eyrecourt?"

"Gone out, my lady."

"Did she leave no message?"

"No, my lady. She went away in a great hurry."

Lady Loring at once drew the conclusion that Stella had rashly
taken the affair of the General's family into her own hands. Was
it possible to say how this most imprudent proceeding might end?
After hesitating and reflecting, and hesitating again, Lady
Loring's anxiety got beyond her control. She not only decided on
following Stella, but, in the excess of her nervous apprehension,
she took one of the men-servants with her, in case of emergency!

CHAPTER XII.

THE GENERAL'S FAMILY.

NOT always remarkable for arriving at just conclusions, Lady
Loring had drawn the right inference this time. Stella had
stopped the first cab that passed her, and had directed the
driver to Camp's Hill, Islington.

The aspect of the miserable little street, closed at one end, and
swarming with dirty children quarreling over their play, daunted
her for the moment. Even the cabman, drawing up at the entrance
to the street, expressed his opinion that it was a queer sort of
place for a young lady to venture into alone. Stella thought of
Romayne. Her firm persuasion that she was helping him to perform
an act of mercy, which was (to his mind) an act of atonement as
well, roused her courage. She boldly approached the open door of
No. 10, and knocked on it with her parasol.

The tangled gray hair and grimy face of a hideous old woman
showed themselves slowly at the end of the passage, rising from
the strong-smelling obscurity of the kitchen regions. "What do
you want?" said the half-seen witch of the London slums. "Does
Madame Marillac live here?" Stella asked. "Do you mean the
foreigner?" "Yes." "Second door." With those instructions the
upper half of the witch sank and vanished. Stella gathered her
skirts together, and ascended a filthy flight of stairs for the
first time in her life.

Coarse voices, shameless language, gross laughter behind the
closed doors of the first floor hurried her on her way to the
rooms on the higher flight. Here there was a change for the
better--here, at least, there was silence. She knocked at the
door on the landing of the second floor. A gentle voice answered,
in French; "Entrez!"--then quickly substituted the English
equivalent, "Come in!" Stella opened the door.

The wretchedly furnished room was scrupulously clean. Above the
truckle-bed, a cheap little image of the Virgin was fastened to
the wall, with some faded artificial flowers arranged above it in
the form of a wreath. Two women, in dresses of coarse black
stuff, sat at a small round table, working at the same piece of
embroidery. The elder of the two rose when the visitor entered
the room. Her worn and weary face still showed the remains of
beauty in its finely proportioned parts--her dim eyes rested on
Stella with an expression of piteous entreaty. "Have you come for
the work, madam?" she asked, in English, spoken with a strong
foreign accent. "Pray forgive me; I have not finished it yet."

The second of the two workwomen suddenly looked up.

She, too, was wan and frail; but her eyes were bright; her
movements still preserved the elasticity of youth. Her likeness
to the elder woman proclaimed their relationship, even before she
spoke. "Ah! it's my fault!" she burst out passionately in French.
"I was hungry and tired, and I slept hours longer than I ought.
My mother was too kind to wake me and set me to work. I am a
selfish wretch--and my mother is an angel!" She dashed away the
tears gathering in her eyes, and proudly, fiercely, resumed her
work.

Stella hastened to reassure them, the moment she could make
herself heard. "Indeed, I have nothing to do with the work," she
said, speaking in French, so that they might the more readily
understand her. "I came here, Madame Marillac--if you will not be
offended with me, for plainly owning it--to offer you some little
help."

"Charity?" asked the daughter, looking up again sternly from her
needle.

"Sympathy," Stella answered gently.

The girl resumed her work. "I beg your pardon," she said; "I
shall learn to submit to my lot in time."

The quiet long-suffering mother placed a chair for Stella. "You
have a kind beautiful face, miss," she said; "and I am sure you
will make allowances for my poor girl. I remember the time when I
was as quick to feel as she is. May I ask how you came to hear of
us?"

"I hope you will excuse me," Stella replied. "I am not at liberty
to answer that question."

The mother said nothing. The daughter asked sharply, "Why not?"

Stella addressed her answer to the mother. "I come from a person
who desires to be of service to you as an unknown friend," she
said.

The wan face of the widow suddenly brightened. "Oh!" she
exclaimed, "has my brother heard of the General's death? and has
he forgiven me my marriage at last?"

"No, no!" Stella interposed; "I must not mislead you. The person
whom I represent is no relation of yours."

Even in spite of this positive assertion, the poor woman held
desperately to the hope that had been roused in her. "The name by
which you know me may mislead you," she suggested anxiously. "My
late husband assumed the name in his exile
 here. Perhaps, if I told you--"

The daughter stopped her there. "My dear mother, leave this to
me." The widow sighed resignedly, and resumed her work. "Madame
Marillac will do very well as a name," the girl continued,
turning to Stella, "until we know something more of each other. I
suppose you are well acquainted with the person whom you
represent?"

"Certainly, or I should not be here."

"You know the person's family connections, in that case? and you
can say for certain whether they are French connections or not?"

"I can say for certain," Stella answered, "that they are English
connections. I represent a friend who feels kindly toward Madame
Marillac; nothing more."

"You see, mother, you were mistaken. Bear it as bravely, dear, as
you have borne other trials." Saying this very tenderly, she
addressed herself once more to Stella, without attempting to
conceal the accompanying change in her manner to coldness and
distrust. "One of us must speak plainly," she said. "Our few
friends are nearly as poor as we are, and they are all French. I
tell you positively that we have no English friends. How has this
anonymous benefactor been informed of our poverty? You are a
stranger to us--_you_ cannot have given the information?"

Stella's eyes were now open to the awkward position in which she
had placed herself. She met the difficulty boldly, still upheld
by the conviction that she was serving a purpose cherished by
Romayne. "You had good reasons, no doubt, mademoiselle, when you
advised your mother to conceal her true name," she rejoined. "Be
just enough to believe that your 'anonymous benefactor' has good
reasons for concealment too."

It was well said, and it encouraged Madame Marillac to take
Stella's part. "My dear Blanche, you speak rather harshly to this
good young lady," she said to her daughter. "You have only to
look at her, and to see that she means well."

Blanche took up her needle again, with dogged submission. "If we
_are_ to accept charity, mother, I should like to know the hand
that gives it," she answered. "I will say no more."

"When you are as old as I am, my dear," rejoined Madame Marillac,
"you will not think quite so positively as you think now. I have
learned some hard lessons," she proceeded, turning to Stella,
"and I hope I am the better for them. My life has not been a
happy one--"

"Your life has been a martyrdom!" said the girl, breaking out
again in spite of herself. "Oh, my father! my father!" She pushed
aside the work and hid her face in her hands.

The gentle mother spoke severely for the first time. "Respect
your father's memory!" she said. Blanche trembled and kept
silence. "I have no false pride," Madame Marillac continued. "I
own that we are miserably poor; and I thank you, my dear young
lady, for your kind intentions toward us, without embarrassing
you by any inquiries. We manage to live. While my eyes last, our
work helps to support us. My good eldest daughter has some
employment as a teacher of music, and contributes her little
share to assist our poor household. I don't distrust you--I only
say, let us try a little longer if we cannot help ourselves."

She had barely pronounced the last words, when a startling
interruption led to consequences which the persons present had
not foreseen. A shrill, wailing voice suddenly pierced through
the flimsy partition which divided the front room and the back
room. "Bread!" cried the voice in French; "I'm hungry. Bread!
bread!"

The daughter started to her feet. "Think of his betraying us at
this moment!" she exclaimed indignantly. The mother rose in
silence, and opened a cupboard. Its position was opposite to the
place in which Stella was sitting. She saw two or three knives
and forks, some cups and saucers and plates, and a folded
table-cloth. Nothing else appeared on the shelves; not even the
stray crust of bread for which the poor woman had been looking.
"Go, my dear, and quiet your brother," she said--and closed the
cupboard door again as patiently as ever.

Stella opened her pocketbook when Blanche had left the room. "For
God's sake, take something!" she cried. " I offer it with the
sincerest respect--I offer it as a loan."

Madame Marillac gently signed to Stella to close the pocketbook
again. "That kind heart of yours must not be distressed about
trifles," she said. "The baker will trust us until we get the
money for our work--and my daughter knows it. If you can tell me
nothing else, my dear, will you tell me your Christian name? It
is painful to me to speak to you quite as a stranger."

Stella at once complied with the request. Madame Marillac smiled
as she repeated the name.

"There is almost another tie between us," she said. "We have your
name in France--it speaks with a familiar sound to me in this
strange place. Dear Miss Stella, when my poor boy startled you by
that cry for food, he recalled to me the saddest of all my
anxieties. When I think of him, I should be tempted if my better
sense did not restrain me-- No! no! put back the pocketbook. I am
incapable of the shameless audacity of borrowing a sum of money
which I could never repay. Let me tell you what my trouble is,
and you will understand that I am in earnest. I had two sons,
Miss Stella. The elder--the most lovable, the most affectionate
of my children--was killed in a duel."

The sudden disclosure drew a cry of sympathy from Stella, which
she was not mistress enough of herself to repress. Now for the
first time she understood the remorse that tortured Romayne, as
she had not understood it when Lady Loring had told her the
terrible story of the duel. Attributing the effect produced on
her to the sensitive nature of a young woman, Madame Marillac
innocently added to Stella's distress by making excuses.

"I am sorry to have frightened you, my dear," she said. "In your
happy country such a dreadful death as my son's is unknown. I am
obliged to mention it, or you might not understand what I have
still to say. Perhaps I had better not go on?"

Stella roused herself. "Yes! yes!" she answered, eagerly. "Pray
go on!"

"My son in the next room," the widow resumed, "is only fourteen
years old. It has pleased God sorely to afflict a harmless
creature. He has not been in his right mind since--since the
miserable day when he followed the duelists, and saw his
brother's death. Oh! you are turning pale! How thoughtless, how
cruel of me! I ought to have remembered that such horrors as
these have never overshadowed your happy life!"

Struggling to recover her self-control, Stella tried to reassure
Madame Marillac by a gesture. The voice which she had heard in
the next room was--as she now knew--the voice that haunted
Romayne. Not the words that had pleaded hunger and called for
bread--but those other words, "Assassin! assassin! where are
you?"--rang in her ears. She entreated Madame Marillac to break
the unendurable interval of silence. The widow's calm voice had a
soothing influence which she was eager to feel. "Go on!" she
repeated. "Pray go on!"

"I ought not to lay all the blame of my boy's affliction on the
duel," said Madame Marillac. "In childhood, his mind never grew
with his bodily growth. His brother's death may have only hurried
the result which was sooner or later but too sure to come. You
need feel no fear of him. He is never violent--and he is the most
beautiful of my children. Would you like to see him?"

"No! I would rather hear you speak of him. Is he not conscious of
his own misfortune?"

"For weeks together, Stella--I am sure I may call you Stella?--he
is quite calm; you would see no difference outwardly between him
and other boys. Unhappily, it is just at those times that a
spirit of impatience seems to possess him. He watches his
opportunity, and, however careful we may be, he is cunning enough
to escape our vigilance."

"Do you mean that he leaves you and his sisters?"

"Yes, that is what I mean. For nearly two months past he has been
away from us. Yesterday only, his return relieved us from a state
of suspense which I cannot attempt to describe. We don't know
where he has been, or in the company of what persons he has
passed the time of his absense. No persuasion will induce him to
spe ak to us on the subject. This morning we listened while he
was talking to himself."

"Was it part of the boy's madness to repeat the words which still
tormented Romayne?" Stella asked if he ever spoke of the duel.

"Never! He seems to have lost all memory of it. We only heard,
this morning, one or two unconnected words--something about a
woman, and then more that appeared to allude to some person's
death. Last night I was with him when he went to bed, and I found
that he had something to conceal from me. He let me fold all his
clothes, as usual, except his waistcoat--and that he snatched
away from me, and put it under his pillow. We have no hope of
being able to examine the waistcoat without his knowledge. His
sleep is like the sleep of a dog; if you only approach him, he
wakes instantly. Forgive me for troubling you with these trifling
details, only interesting to ourselves. You will at least
understand the constant anxiety that we suffer."

"In your unhappy position," said Stella, "I should try to resign
myself to parting with him--I mean to placing him under medical
care."

The mother's face saddened. "I have inquired about it," she
answered. "He must pass a night in the workhouse before he can be
received as a pauper lunatic in a public asylum. Oh, my dear, I
am afraid there is some pride still left in me! He is my only son
now; his father was a General in the French army; I was brought
up among people of good blood and breeding--I can't take my own
boy to the workhouse!"

Stella understood her. "I feel for you with all my heart," she
said. "Place him privately, dear Madame Marillac, under skillful
and kind control--and let me, do let me, open the pocketbook
again."

The widow steadily refused even to look at the pocketbook.
"Perhaps," Stella persisted, "you don't know of a private asylum
that would satisfy you?"

"My dear, I do know of such a place! The good doctor who attended
my husband in his last illness told me of it. A friend of his
receives a certain number of poor people into his house, and
charges no more than the cost of maintaining them. An
unattainable sum to _me!_ There is the temptation that I spoke
of. The help of a few pounds I might accept, if I fell ill,
because I might afterward pay it back. But a larger sum--never!"

She rose, as if to end the interview. Stella tried every means of
persuasion that she could think of, and tried in vain. The
friendly dispute between them might have been prolonged, if they
had not both been silenced by another interruption from the next
room.

This time, it was not only endurable, it was even welcome. The
poor boy was playing the air of a French vaudeville on a pipe or
flageolet. "Now he is happy!" said the mother. "He is a born
musician; do come and see him!" An idea struck Stella. She
overcame the inveterate reluctance in her to see the boy so
fatally associated with the misery of Romayne's life. As Madame
Marillac led the way to the door of communication between the
rooms, she quickly took from her pocketbook the bank-notes with
which she had provided herself, and folded them so that they
could be easily concealed in her hand.

She followed the widow into the little room.

The boy was sitting on his bed. He laid down his flageolet and
bowed to Stella. His long silky hair flowed to his shoulders. But
one betrayal of a deranged mind presented itself in his delicate
face--his large soft eyes had the glassy, vacant look which it is
impossible to mistake. "Do you like music, mademoiselle?" he
asked, gently. Stella asked him to play his little vaudeville air
again. He proudly complied with the request. His sister seemed to
resent the presence of a stranger. "The work is at a standstill,"
she said--and passed into the front room. Her mother followed her
as far as the door, to give her some necessary directions. Stella
seized her opportunity. She put the bank-notes into the pocket of
the boy's jacket, and whispered to him: "Give them to your mother
when I have gone away." Under those circumstances, she felt sure
that Madame Marillac would yield to the temptation. She could
resist much--but she could not resist her son.

The boy nodded, to show that he understood her. The moment after.
he laid down his flageolet with an expression of surprise.

"You are trembling!" he said. "Are you frightened?"

She _was_ frightened. The mere sense of touching him had made her
shudder. Did she feel a vague presentiment of some evil to come
from that momentary association with him?

Madame Marillac, turning away again from her daughter, noticed
Stella's agitation. "Surely, my poor boy doesn't alarm you?" she
said. Before Stella could answer, some one outside knocked at the
door. Lady Loring's servant appeared, charged with a
carefully-worded message. "If you please, miss, a friend is
waiting for you below." Any excuse for departure was welcome to
Stella at that moment. She promised to call at the house again in
a few days. Madame Marillac kissed her on the forehead as she
took leave. Her nerves were still shaken by that momentary
contact with the boy. Descending the stairs, she trembled so that
she was obliged to hold by the servant's arm. She was not
naturally timid. What did it mean?



Lady Loring's carriage was waiting at the entrance of the street,
with all the children in the neighborhood assembled to admire it.
She impulsively forestalled the servant in opening the carriage
door. "Come in!" she cried. "Oh, Stella, you don't know how you
have frightened me! Good heavens, you look frightened yourself!
From what wretches have I rescued you? Take my smelling bottle,
and tell me all about it."

The fresh air, and the reassuring presence of her old friend,
revived Stella. She was able to describe her interview with the
General's family, and to answer the inevitable inquiries which
the narrative called forth. Lady Loring's last question was the
most important of the series: "What are you going to do about
Romayne?"

"I am going to write to him the moment we get home."

The answer seemed to alarm Lady Loring. "You won't betray me?"
she said.

"What do you mean?"

"You won't let Romayne discover that I have told you about the
duel?"

"Certainly not. You shall see my letter before I send it to be
forwarded."

Tranquilized so far, Lady Loring bethought herself next of Major
Hynd. "Can we tell him what you have done?" her ladyship asked.

"Of course we can tell him," Stella replied. "I shall conceal
nothing from Lord Loring, and I shall beg your good husband to
write to the Major. He need only say that I have made the
necessary inquiries, after being informed of the circumstances by
you, and that I have communicated the favorable result to Mr.
Romayne."

"It's easy enough to write the letter, my dear. But it's not so
easy to say what Major Hynd may think of you."

"Does it matter to me what Major Hynd thinks?"

Lady Loring looked at Stella with a malicious smile. "Are you
equally indifferent," she said, "to what Romayne's opinion of
your conduct may be?"

Stella's color rose. "Try to be serious, Adelaide, when you speak
to me of Romayne," she answered, gravely. "His good opinion of me
is the breath of my life."

An hour later, the important letter to Romayne was written.
Stella scrupulously informed him of all that had happened--with
two necessary omissions. In the first place, nothing was said of
the widow's reference to her son's death, and of the effect
produced by it on his younger brother. The boy was simply
described as being of weak intellect, and as requiring to be kept
under competent control. In the second place, Romayne was left to
infer that ordinary motives of benevolence were the only motives,
on his part, known to Miss Eyrecourt.

The letter ended in these lines:

"If I have taken an undue liberty in venturing, unasked, to
appear as your representative, I can only plead that I meant
well. It seemed to me to be hard on these poor people, and not
just to you in your absence, to interpose any needless delays in
carrying out those kind intentions of yours, which had no doubt
been properly considered beforehand. In forming your opinion of
my conduct, pray remember that I have been careful not to com
promise you in any way. You are only known to Madame Marillac as
a compassionate person who offers to help her, and who wishes to
give that help anonymously. If, notwithstanding this, you
disapprove of what I have done, I must not conceal that it will
grieve and humiliate me--I have been so eager to be of use to
you, when others appeared to hesitate. I must find my consolation
in remembering that I have become acquainted with one of the
sweetest and noblest of women, and that I have helped to preserve
her afflicted son from dangers in the future which I cannot
presume to estimate. You will complete what I have only begun. Be
forbearing and kind to me if I have innocently offended in this
matter--and I shall gratefully remember the day when I took it on
myself to be Mr. Romayne's almoner."

Lady Loring read these concluding sentences twice over.

"I think the end of your letter will have its effect on him," she
said.

"If it brings me a kind letter in reply," Stella answered, "it
will have all the effect I hope for."

"If it does anything," Lady Loring rejoined, "it will do more
than that."

"What more can it do?"

"My dear, it can bring Romayne back to you. "

Those hopeful words seemed rather to startle Stella than to
encourage her.

"Bring him back to me?" she repeated "Oh, Adelaide, I wish I
could think as you do!"

"Send the letter to the post," said Lady Loring, "and we shall
see."

CHAPTER XIII

FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE.

I.

_Arthur Penrose to Father Benwell._

REVEREND AND DEAR FATHER--When I last had the honor of seeing
you, I received your instructions to report, by letter, the
result of my conversations on religion with Mr. Romayne.

As events have turned out, it is needless to occupy your time by
dwelling at any length on this subject, in writing. Mr. Romayne
has been strongly impressed by the excellent books which I have
introduced to his notice. He raises certain objections, which I
have done my best to meet; and he promises to consider my
arguments with his closest attention, in the time to come. I am
happier in the hope of restoring his mental tranquillity--in
other and worthier words, of effecting his conversion--than I can
tell you in any words of mine. I respect and admire, I may almost
say I love, Mr. Romayne.

The details which are wanting in this brief report of progress I
shall have the privilege of personally relating to you. Mr.
Romayne no longer desires to conceal himself from his friends. He
received a letter this morning which has changed all his plans,
and has decided him on immediately returning to London. I am not
acquainted with the contents of the letter, or with the name of
the writer; but I am pleased, for Mr. Romayne's sake, to see that
the reading of it has made him happy.

By to-morrow evening I hope to present my respects to you.

II.

_Mr. Bitrake to Father Benwell._

SIR--The inquiries which I have instituted at your request have
proved successful in one respect.

I am in a position to tell you that events in Mr. Winterfield's
life have unquestionably connected him with the young lady named
Miss Stella Eyrecourt.

The attendant circumstances, however, are not so easy to
discover. Judging by the careful report of the person whom I
employ, there must have been serious reasons, in this case, for
keeping facts secret and witnesses out of the way. I mention
this, not to discourage you, but to prepare you for delays that
may occur on our way to discovery.

Be pleased to preserve your confidence in me, and to give me
time--and I answer for the result.

BOOK THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

THE SANDWICH DANCE.

A FINE spring, after a winter of unusual severity, promised well
for the prospects of the London season.

Among the social entertainments of the time, general curiosity
was excited, in the little sphere which absurdly describes itself
under the big name of Society, by the announcement of a party to
be given by Lady Loring, bearing the quaint title of a Sandwich
Dance. The invitations were issued at an unusually early hour;
and it was understood that nothing so solid and so commonplace as
the customary supper was to be offered to the guests. In a word,
Lady Loring's ball was designed as a bold protest against late
hours and heavy midnight meals. The younger people were all in
favor of the proposed reform. Their elders declined to give an
opinion beforehand.

In the small inner circle of Lady Loring's most intimate friends,
it was whispered that an innovation in the matter of refreshments
was contemplated, which would put the tolerant principles of the
guests to a severe test. Miss Notman, the housekeeper, politely
threatening retirement on a small annuity, since the memorable
affair of the oyster-omelet, decided on carrying out her design
when she heard that there was to be no supper. "My attachment to
the family can bear a great deal," she said. "But when Lady
Loring deliberately gives a ball, without a supper, I must hide
my head somewhere--and it had better be out of the house!" Taking
Miss Notman as representative of a class, the reception of the
coming experiment looked, to say the least of it, doubtful.

On the appointed evening, the guests made one agreeable discovery
when they entered the reception rooms. They were left perfectly
free to amuse themselves as they liked.

The drawing-rooms were given up to dancing; the picture gallery
was devoted to chamber music. Chess-players and card-players
found remote and quiet rooms especially prepared for them. People
who cared for nothing but talking were accommodated to perfection
in a sphere of their own. And lovers (in earnest or not in
earnest) discovered, in a dimly-lighted conservatory with many
recesses, that ideal of discreet retirement which combines
solitude and society under one roof.

But the ordering of the refreshments failed, as had been
foreseen, to share in the approval conferred on the arrangement
of the rooms. The first impression was unfavorable. Lady Loring,
however, knew enough of human nature to leave results to two
potent allies--experience and time.

Excepting the conservatory, the astonished guests could go
nowhere without discovering tables prettily decorated with
flowers, and bearing hundreds of little pure white china plates,
loaded with nothing but sandwiches. All varieties of opinion were
consulted. People of ordinary tastes, who liked to know what they
were eating, could choose conventional beef or ham, encased in
thin slices of bread of a delicate flavor quite new to them.
Other persons, less easily pleased, were tempted by sandwiches of
_pate de fois gras_ and by exquisite combinations of chicken and
truffles, reduced to a creamy pulp which clung to the bread like
butter. Foreigners, making experiments, and not averse to garlic,
discovered the finest sausages of Germany and Italy transformed
into English sandwiches. Anchovies and sardines appealed, in the
same unexpected way, to men who desired to create an artificial
thirst--after having first ascertained that the champagne was
something to be fondly remembered and regretted, at other
parties, to the end of the season. The hospitable profusion of
the refreshments was all-pervading and inexhaustible. Wherever
the guests might be, or however they were amusing themselves,
there were the pretty little white plates perpetually tempting
them. People eat as they had never eat before, and even the
inveterate English prejudice against anything new was conquered
at last. Universal opinion declared the Sandwich Dance to be an
admirable idea, perfectly carried out.

Many of the guests paid their hostess the compliment of arriving
at the early hour mentioned in the invitations. One of them was
Major Hynd. Lady Loring took her first opportunity of speaking to
him apart.

"I hear you were a little angry," she said, "when you were told
that Miss Eyrecourt had taken your inquiries out of your hands."

"I thought it rather a bold proceeding, Lady Loring," the Major
replied. "But as the General's widow turned out to be a lady, in
the best sense of the word, Miss Eyrecourt's romantic adventure
has justified itself. I wouldn't recommend her to run the same
risk a second time."

"I suppos e you know what Romayne thinks of it?"

"Not yet. I have been too busy to call on him since I have been
in town. Pardon me, Lady Loring, who is that beautiful creature
in the pale yellow dress? Surely I have seen her somewhere
before?"

"That beautiful creature, Major, is the bold young lady of whose
conduct you don't approve."

"Miss Eyrecourt?"

"Yes."

"I retract everything I said!" cried the Major, quite
shamelessly. "Such a woman as that may do anything. She is
looking this way. Pray introduce me."

The Major was introduced, and Lady Loring returned to her guests.

"I think we have met before, Major Hynd," said Stella.

Her voice supplied the missing link in the Major's memory of
events. Remembering how she had looked at Romayne on the deck of
the steamboat, he began dimly to understand Miss Eyrecourt's
otherwise incomprehensible anxiety to be of use to the General's
family. "I remember perfectly," he answered. "It was on the
passage from Boulogne to Folkestone--and my friend was with me.
You and he have no doubt met since that time?" He put the
question as a mere formality. The unexpressed thought in him was,
"Another of them in love with Romayne! and nothing, as usual,
likely to come of it."

"I hope you have forgiven me for going to Camp's Hill in your
place," said Stella.

"I ought to be grateful to you," the Major rejoined. "No time has
been lost in relieving these poor people--and your powers of
persuasion have succeeded, where mine might have failed. Has
Romayne been to see them himself since his return to London?"

"No. He desires to remain unknown; and he is kindly content, for
the present, to be represented by me."

"For the present." Major Hynd repeated.

A faint flush passed over her delicate complexion. "I have
succeeded," she resumed, "in inducing Madame Marillac to accept
the help offered through me to her son. The poor creature is
safe, under kind superintendence, in a private asylum. So far, I
can do no more."

"Will the mother accept nothing?"

"Nothing, either for herself or her daughter, so long as they can
work. I cannot tell you how patiently and beautifully she speaks
of her hard lot. But her health may give way--and it is possible,
before long, that I may leave London." She paused; the flush
deepened on her face. "The failure of the mother's health may
happen in my absence," she continued; "and Mr. Romayne will ask
you to look after the family, from time to time, while I am
away."

"I will do it with pleasure, Miss Eyrecourt. Is Romayne likely to
be here to-night?"

She smiled brightly, and looked away. The Major's curiosity was
excited--he looked in the same direction. There was Romayne,
entering the room, to answer for himself.

What was the attraction which drew the unsocial student to an
evening party? Major Hynd's eyes were on the watch. When Romayne
and Stella shook hands, the attraction stood self-revealed to
him, in Miss Eyrecourt. Recalling the momentary confusion which
she had betrayed, when she spoke of possibly leaving London, and
of Romayne's plans for supplying her place as his almoner, the
Major, with military impatience of delays, jumped to a
conclusion. "I was wrong," he thought; "my impenetrable friend is
touched in the right place at last. When the splendid creature in
yellow leaves London, the name on her luggage will be Mrs.
Romayne."

"You are looking quite another man, Romayne!" he said
mischievously, "since we met last."

Stella gently moved away, leaving them to talk freely. Romayne
took no advantage of the circumstance to admit his old friend to
his confidence. Whatever relations might really exist between
Miss Eyrecourt and himself were evidently kept secret thus far.
"My health has been a little better lately," was the only reply
he made.

The Major dropped his voice to a whisper.

"Have you not had any return--?" he began.

Romayne stopped him there. "I don't want my infirmities made
public," he whispered back irritably. "Look at the people all
round us! When I tell you I have been better lately, _you_ ought
to know what it means."

"Any discoverable reason for the improvement?" persisted the
Major, still bent on getting evidence in support of his own
private conclusions.

"None!" Romayne answered sharply.

But Major Hynd was not to be discouraged by sharp replies. "Miss
Eyrecourt and I have been recalling our first meeting on board
the steamboat," he went on. "Do you remember how indifferent you
were to that beautiful person when I asked you if you knew her?
I'm glad to see that you show better taste to-night. I wish I
knew her well enough to shake hands as you did."

"Hynd! When a young man talks nonsense, his youth is his excuse.
At your time of life, you have passed the excusable age--even in
the estimation of your friends."

With those words Romayne turned away. The incorrigible Major
instantly met the reproof inflicted on him with a smart answer.
"Remember," he said, "that I was the first of your friends to
wish you happiness!" He, too, turned away--in the direction of
the champagne and the sandwiches.

Meanwhile, Stella had discovered Penrose, lost in the brilliant
assemblage of guests, standing alone in a corner. It was enough
for her that Romayne's secretary was also Romayne's friend.
Passing by titled and celebrated personages, all anxious to speak
to her, she joined the shy, nervous, sad-looking little man, and
did all she could to set him at his ease.

"I am afraid, Mr. Penrose, this is not a very attractive scene to
you." Having said those kind words, she paused. Penrose was
looking at her confusedly, but with an expression of interest
which was new to her experience of him. "Has Romayne told him?"
she wondered inwardly.

"It is a very beautiful scene, Miss Eyrecourt," he said, in his
low quiet tones.

"Did you come here with Mr. Romayne?" she asked.

"Yes. It was by his advice that I accepted the invitation with
which Lady Loring has honored me. I am sadly out of place in such
an assembly as this--but I would make far greater sacrifices to
please Mr. Romayne."

She smiled kindly. Attachment so artlessly devoted to the man she
loved, pleased and touched her. In her anxiety to discover a
subject which might interest him, she overcame her antipathy to
the spiritual director of the household. "Is Father Benwell
coming to us to-night?" she inquired.

"He will certainly be here, Miss Eyrecourt, if he can get back to
London in time."

"Has he been long away?"

"Nearly a week."

Not knowing what else to say, she still paid Penrose the
compliment of feigning an interest in Father Benwell.

"Has he a long journey to make in returning to London?" she
asked.

"Yes--all the way from Devonshire."

"From South Devonshire?"

"No. North Devonshire--Clovelly."

The smile suddenly left her face. She put another
question--without quite concealing the effort that it cost her,
or the anxiety with which she waited for the reply.

"I know something of the neighborhood of Clovelly," she said. "I
wonder whether Father Benwell is visiting any friends of mine
there?"

"I am not able to say, Miss Eyrecourt. The reverend Father's
letters are forwarded to the hotel--I know no more than that."

With a gentle inclination of her head, she turned toward other
guests--looked back--and with a last little courteous attention
offered to him, said, "If you like music, Mr. Penrose, I advise
you to go to the picture gallery. They are going to play a
Quartet by Mozart."

Penrose thanked her, noticing that her voice and manner had
become strangely subdued. She made her way back to the room in
which the hostess received her guests. Lady Loring was, for the
moment, alone, resting on a sofa. Stella stooped over her, and
spoke in cautiously lowered tones.

"If Father Benwell comes here to-night," she said, "try to find
out what he has been doing at Clovelly."

"Clovelly?" Lady Loring repeated. "Is that the village near
Winterfield's house?"

"Yes."

CHAPTER II.

THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE.

As Stella answered Lady Loring, she was smartly tapped on the
shoulder by an eager guest with a fan.

The guest was a very little woman, with twinkling eyes and a
perpetual smile. Nature, corrected by powder and paint, was liber
ally displayed in her arms, her bosom, and the upper part of her
back. Such clothes as she wore, defective perhaps in quantity,
were in quality absolutely perfect. More adorable color, shape,
and workmanship never appeared, even in a milliner's
picture-book. Her light hair was dressed with a fringe and
ringlets, on the pattern which the portraits of the time of
Charles the Second have made familiar to us. There was nothing
exactly young or exactly old about her except her voice, which
betrayed a faint hoarseness, attributable possibly to exhaustion
produced by untold years of incessant talking. It might be added
that she was as active as a squirrel and as playful as a kitten.
But the lady must be treated with a certain forbearance of tone,
for this good reason--she was Stella's mother.

Stella turned quickly at the tap of the fan. "Mamma!" she
exclaimed, "how you startle me!"

"My dear child," said Mrs. Eyrecourt, "you are constitutionally
indolent, and you want startling. Go into the next room directly.
Mr. Romayne is looking for you."

Stella drew back a step, and eyed her mother in blank surprise.
"Is it possible that you know him?" she asked.

"Mr. Romayne doesn't go into Society, or we should have met long
since," Mrs. Eyrecourt replied. "He is a striking person--and I
noticed him when he shook hands with you. That was quite enough
for me. I have just introduced myself to him as your mother. He
was a little stately and stiff, but most charming when he knew
who I was. I volunteered to find you. He was quite astonished. I
think he took me for your elder sister. Not the least like each
other--are we, Lady Loring? She takes after her poor dear father.
_He_ was constitutionally indolent. My sweet child, rouse
yourself. You have drawn a prize in the great lottery at last. If
ever a man was in love, Mr. Romayne is that man. I am a
physiognomist, Lady Loring, and I see the passions in the face.
Oh, Stella, what a property! Vange Abbey. I once drove that way
when I was visiting in the neighborhood. Superb! And another
fortune (twelve thousand a year and a villa at Highgate) since
the death of his aunt. And my daughter may be mistress of this if
she only plays her cards properly. What a compensation after all
that we suffered through that monster, Winterfield!"

"Mamma! Pray don't-- !"

"Stella, I will _not_ be interrupted, when I am speaking to you
for your own good. I don't know a more provoking person, Lady
Loring, than my daughter--on certain occasions. And yet I love
her. I would go through fire and water for my beautiful child.
Only last week I was at a wedding, and I thought of Stella. The
church was crammed to the doors! A hundred at the wedding
breakfast! The bride's lace--there; no language can describe it.
Ten bridesmaids, in blue and silver. Reminded me of the ten
virgins. Only the proportion of foolish ones, this time, was
certainly more than five. However, they looked well. The
Archbishop proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom; so
sweetly pathetic. Some of us cried. I thought of my daughter. Oh,
if I could live to see Stella the central attraction, so to
speak, of such a wedding as that. Only I would have twelve
bridesmaids at least, and beat the blue and silver with green and
gold. Trying to the complexion, you will say. But there are
artificial improvements. At least, I am told so. What a house
this would be--a broad hint, isn't it, dear Lady Loring?--what a
house for a wedding, with the drawing-room to assemble in and the
picture gallery for the breakfast. I know the Archbishop. My
darling, he shall marry you. Why _don't_ you go into the next
room? Ah, that constitutional indolence. If you only had my
energy, as I used to say to your poor father. _Will_ you go? Yes,
dear Lady Loring, I should like a glass of champagne, and another
of those delicious chicken sandwiches. If you don't go, Stella, I
shall forget every consideration of propriety, and, big as you
are, I shall push you out."

Stella yielded to necessity. "Keep her quiet, if you can," she
whispered to Lady Loring, in the moment of silence that followed.
Even Mrs. Eyrecourt was not able to talk while she was drinking
champagne.

In the next room Stella found Romayne. He looked careworn and
irritable, but brightened directly when she approached him.

"My mother has been speaking to you," she said. "I am afraid--"

He stopped her there. "She _is_ your mother," he interposed,
kindly. "Don't think that I am ungrateful enough to forget that."

She took his arm, and looked at him with all her heart in her
eyes. "Come into a quieter room," she whispered.

Romayne led her away. Neither of them noticed Penrose as they
left the room.

He had not moved since Stella had spoken to him. There he
remained in his corner, absorbed in thought--and not in happy
thought, as his face would have plainly betrayed to any one who
had cared to look at him. His eyes sadly followed the retiring
figures of Stella and Romayne. The color rose on his haggard
cheeks. Like most men who are accustomed to live alone, he had
the habit, when he was strongly excited, of speaking to himself.
"No," he said, as the unacknowledged lovers disappeared through
the door, "it is an insult to ask me to do it!" He turned the
other way, escaped Lady Loring's notice in the reception-room,
and left the house.

Romayne and Stella passed through the card-room and the
chess-room, turned into a corridor, and entered the conservatory.

For the first time the place was a solitude. The air of a
newly-invented dance, faintly audible through the open windows of
the ballroom above, had proved an irresistible temptation. Those
who knew the dance were eager to exhibit themselves. Those who
had only heard of it were equally anxious to look on and learn.
Even toward the latter end of the nineteenth century the youths
and maidens of Society can still be in earnest--when the object
in view is a new dance.

What would Major Hynd have said if he had seen Romayne turn into
one of the recesses of the conservatory, in which there was a
seat which just held two? But the Major had forgotten his years
and his family, and he too was one of the spectators in the
ballroom.

"I wonder," said Stella, "whether you know how I feel those kind
words of yours when you spoke of my mother. Shall I tell you?"

She put her arm round his neck and kissed him. He was a man new
to love, in the nobler sense of the word. The exquisite softness
in the touch of her lips, the delicious fragrance of her breath,
intoxicated him. Again and again he returned the kiss. She drew
back; she recovered her self-possession with a suddenness and a
certainty incomprehensible to a man. From the depths of
tenderness she passed to the shallows of frivolity. In her own
defense she was almost as superficial as her mother, in less than
a moment.

"What would Mr. Penrose say if he saw you?" she whispered.

"Why do you speak of Penrose? Have you seen him to-night?"

"Yes--looking sadly out of his element, poor man. I did my best
to set him at his ease--because I know _you_ like him."

"Dear Stella!"

"No, not again! I am speaking seriously now. Mr. Penrose looked
at me with a strange kind of interest--I can't describe it. Have
you taken him into our confidence?"

"He is so devoted--he has such a true interest in me," said
Romayne--"I really felt ashamed to treat him like a stranger. On
our journey to London I did own that it was your charming letter
which had decided me on returning. I did say, 'I must tell her
myself how well she has understood me, and how deeply I feel her
kindness.' Penrose took my hand, in his gentle, considerate way.
'I understand you, too,' he said--and that was all that passed
between us."

"Nothing more, since that time?"

"Nothing."

"Not a word of what we said to each other when we were alone last
week in the picture gallery?"

"Not a word. I am self-tormentor enough to distrust myself, even
now. God knows I have concealed nothing from you; and yet-- Am I
not selfishly thinking of my own happiness, Stella, when I ought
to be thinking only of you? You know, my angel, with what a life
you must associate yourself if you marry me. Are you really sure
tha t you have love enough and courage enough to be my wife?"

She rested her head caressingly on his shoulder, and looked up at
him with her charming smile.

"How many times must I say it," she asked, "before you will
believe me? Once more--I have love enough and courage enough to
be your wife; and I knew it, Lewis, the first time I saw you!
Will _that_ confession satisfy your scruples? And will you
promise never again to doubt yourself or me?"

Romayne promised, and sealed the promise--unresisted this
time--with a kiss. "When are we to be married?" he whispered.

She lifted her head from his shoulder with a sigh. "If I am to
answer you honestly," she replied, "I must speak of my mother,
before I speak of myself."

Romayne submitted to the duties of his new position, as well as
he understood them. "Do you mean that you have told your mother
of our engagement?" he said. "In that case, is it my duty or
yours--I am very ignorant in these matters--to consult her
wishes? My own idea is, that I ought to ask her if she approves
of me as her son-in-law, and that you might then speak to her of
the marriage."

Stella thought of Romayne's tastes, all in favor of modest
retirement, and of her mother's tastes, all in favor of
ostentation and display. She frankly owned the result produced in
her own mind. "I am afraid to consult my mother about our
marriage, " she said.

Romayne looked astonished. "Do you think Mrs. Eyrecourt will
disapprove of it?" he asked.

Stella was equally astonished on her side. "Disapprove of it?"
she repeated. "I know for certain that my mother will be
delighted."

"Then where is the difficulty?"

There was but one way of definitely answering that question.
Stella boldly described her mother's idea of a wedding--including
the Archbishop, the twelve bridesmaids in green and gold, and the
hundred guests at breakfast in Lord Loring's picture gallery.
Romayne's consternation literally deprived him, for the moment,
of the power of speech. To say that he looked at Stella, as a
prisoner in "the condemned cell" might have looked at the
sheriff, announcing the morning of his execution, would be to do
injustice to the prisoner. He receives _his_ shock without
flinching; and, in proof of his composure, celebrates his wedding
with the gallows by a breakfast which he will not live to digest.

"If you think as your mother does," Romayne began, as soon as he
had recovered his self-possession, "no opinion of mine shall
stand in the way--" He could get no further. His vivid
imagination saw the Archbishop and the bridesmaids, heard the
hundred guests and their dreadful speeches: his voice faltered,
in spite of himself.

Stella eagerly relieved him. "My darling, I don't think as my
mother does," she interposed, tenderly. "I am sorry to say we
have very few sympathies in common. Marriages, as I think, ought
to be celebrated as privately as possible--the near and dear
relations present, and no one else. If there must be rejoicings
and banquets, and hundreds of invitations, let them come when the
wedded pair are at home after the honeymoon, beginning life in
earnest. These are odd ideas for a woman to have--but they _are_
my ideas, for all that."

Romayne's face brightened. "How few women possess your fine sense
and your delicacy of feeling!" he exclaimed "Surely your mother
must give way, when she hears we are both of one mind about our
marriage."

Stella knew her mother too well to share the opinion thus
expressed. Mrs. Eyrecourt's capacity for holding to her own
little ideas, and for persisting (where her social interests were
concerned) in trying to insinuate those ideas into the minds of
other persons, was a capacity which no resistance, short of
absolute brutality, could overcome. She was perfectly capable of
worrying Romayne (as well as her daughter) to the utmost limits
of human endurance, in the firm conviction that she was bound to
convert all heretics, of their way of thinking, to the orthodox
faith in the matter of weddings. Putting this view of the case
with all possible delicacy, in speaking of her mother, Stella
expressed herself plainly enough, nevertheless, to enlighten
Romayne.

He made another suggestion. "Can we marry privately," he said,
"and tell Mrs. Eyrecourt of it afterward?"

This essentially masculine solution of the difficulty was at once
rejected. Stella was too good a daughter to suffer her mother to
be treated with even the appearance of disrespect. "Oh," she
said, "think how mortified and distressed my mother would be! She
_must_ be present at my marriage."

An idea of a compromise occurred to Romayne. "What do you say,"
he proposed, "to arranging for the marriage privately--and then
telling Mrs. Eyrecourt only a day or two beforehand, when it
would be too late to send out invitations? If your mother would
be disappointed--"

"She would be angry," Stella interposed.

"Very well--lay all the blame on me. Besides, there might be two
other persons present, whom I am sure Mrs. Eyrecourt is always
glad to meet. You don't object to Lord and Lady Loring?"

"Object? They are my dearest friends, as well as yours!"

"Any one else, Stella?"

"Any one, Lewis, whom _you_ like.

"Then I say--no one else. My own love, when may it be? My lawyers
can get the settlements ready in a fortnight, or less. Will you
say in a fortnight?"

His arm was round her waist; his lips were touching her lovely
neck. She was not a woman to take refuge in the commonplace
coquetries of the sex. "Yes," she said, softly, "if you wish it."
She rose and withdrew herself from him. "For my sake, we must not
be here together any longer, Lewis." As she spoke, the music in
the ballroom ceased. Stella ran out of the conservatory.

The first person she encountered, on returning to the
reception-room, was Father Benwell.

CHAPTER III.

THE END OF THE BALL.

THE priest's long journey did not appear to have fatigued him. He
was as cheerful and as polite as ever--and so paternally
attentive to Stella that it was quite impossible for her to pass
him with a formal bow.

"I have come all the way from Devonshire," he said. "The train
has been behind time as usual, and I am one of the late arrivals
in consequence. I miss some familiar faces at this delightful
party. Mr. Romayne, for instance. Perhaps he is not one of the
guests?"

"Oh, yes."

"Has he gone away?"

"Not that I know of."

The tone of her replies warned Father Benwell to let Romayne be.
He tried another name.

"And Arthur Penrose?" he inquired next.

"I think Mr. Penrose has left us."

As she answered she looked toward Lady Loring. The hostess was
the center of a circle of ladles and gentlemen. Before she was at
liberty, Father Benwell might take his departure. Stella resolved
to make the attempt for herself which she had asked Lady Loring
to make for her. It was better to try, and to be defeated, than
not to try at all.

"I asked Mr. Penrose what part of Devonshire you were visiting,"
she resumed, assuming her more gracious manner. "I know something
myself of the north coast, especially the neighborhood of
Clovelly."

Not the faintest change passed over the priest's face; his
fatherly smile had never been in a better state of preservation.

"Isn't it a charming place?" he said with enthusiasm. "Clovelly
is the most remarkable and most beautiful village in England. I
have so enjoyed my little holiday--excursions by sea and
excursions by land- you know I feel quite young again?"

He lifted his eyebrows playfully, and rubbed his plump hands one
over the other with such an intolerably innocent air of enjoyment
that Stella positively hated him. She felt her capacity for
self-restraint failing her. Under the influence of strong emotion
her thoughts lost their customary discipline. In attempting to
fathom Father Benwell, she was conscious of having undertaken a
task which required more pliable moral qualities than she
possessed. To her own unutterable annoyance, she was at a loss
what to say next.

At that critical moment her mother appeared--eager for news of
the conquest of Romayne.

"My dear child, how pale you look!" said Mrs. Eyrecourt. "Come
with me directly--you must have a glass of wine."

This dexterous devic e for entrapping Stella into a private
conversation failed. "Not now, mamma, thank you," she said.

Father Benwell, on the point of discreetly withdrawing, stopped,
and looked at Mrs. Eyrecourt with an appearance of respectful
interest. As things were, it might not have been worth his while
to take the trouble of discovering her. But when she actually
placed herself in his way, the chance of turning Mrs. Eyrecourt
to useful account was not a chance to be neglected. "Your
mother?" he said to Stella. "I should feel honored if you will
introduce me."

Having (not very willingly) performed the ceremony of
presentation, Stella drew back a little. She had no desire to
take any part in the conversation that might follow--but she had
her own reasons for waiting near enough to hear it.

In the meanwhile, Mrs. Eyrecourt turned on her inexhaustible flow
of small-talk with her customary facility. No distinction of
persons troubled her; no convictions of any sort stood in her
way. She was equally ready (provided she met him in good society)
to make herself agreeable to a Puritan or a Papist.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Father Benwell. Surely I
met you at that delightful evening at the Duke's? I mean when we
welcomed the Cardinal back from Rome. Dear old man--if one may
speak so familiarly of a Prince of the Church. How charmingly he
bears his new honors. Such patriarchal simplicity, as every one
remarked. Have you seen him lately?"

The idea of the Order to which he belonged feeling any special
interest in a Cardinal (except when they made him of some use to
them) privately amused Father Benwell. "How wise the Church was,"
he thought, "in inventing a spiritual aristocracy. Even this fool
of a woman is impressed by it." His spoken reply was true to his
assumed character as one of the inferior clergy. "Poor priests
like me, madam, see but little of Princes of the Church in the
houses of Dukes." Saying this with the most becoming humility, he
turned the talk in a more productive direction, before Mrs.
Eyrecourt could proceed with her recollections of "the evening at
the Duke's."

"Your charming daughter and I have been talking about Clovelly,"
he continued. "I have just been spending a little holiday in that
delightful place. It was a surprise to me, Mrs. Eyrecourt, to see
so many really beautiful country seats in the neighborhood. I was
particularly struck--you know it, of course?--by Beaupark House."

Mrs. Eyrecourt's little twinging eyes suddenly became still and
steady. It was only for a moment. But that trifling change boded
ill for the purpose which the priest had in view. Even the wits
of a fool can be quickened by contact with the world. For many
years Mrs. Eyrecourt had held her place in society, acting under
an intensely selfish sense of her own interests, fortified by
those cunning instincts which grow best in a barren intellect.
Perfectly unworthy of being trusted with secrets which only
concerned other people, this frivolous creature could be the
unassailable guardian of secrets which concerned herself. The
instant the priest referred indirectly to Winterfield, by
speaking of Beaupark: House, her instincts warned her, as if in
words:--Be careful for Stella's sake!

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Eyrecourt. "I know Beaupark House; but--may
I make a confession?" she added, with her sweetest smile.

Father Benwell caught her tone, with his customary tact. "A
confession at a ball is a novelty, even in my experience," he
answered with _his_ sweetest smile.

"How good of you to encourage me!" proceeded Mrs. Eyrecourt. "No,
thank you, I don't want to sit down. My confession won't take
long--and I really must give that poor pale daughter of mine a
glass of wine. A student of human nature like you--they say all
priests are students of human nature; accustomed of course to be
consulted in difficulties, and to hear _real_ confessions--must
know that we poor women are sadly subject to whims and caprices.
We can't resist them as men do; and the dear good men generally
make allowances for us. Well, do you know that place of Mr.
Winterfield's is one of my caprices? Oh, dear, I speak
carelessly; I ought to have said the place represents one of my
caprices. In short. Father Benwell, Beaupark House is perfectly
odious to me, and I think Clovelly the most overrated place in
the world. I haven't the least reason to give, but so it is.
Excessively foolish of me. It's like hysterics, I can't help it;
I'm sure you will forgive me. There isn't a place on the
habitable globe that I am not ready to feel interested in, except
detestable Devonshire. I am so sorry you went there. The next
time you have a holiday, take my advice. Try the Continent."

"I should like it of all things," said Father Benwell. "Only I
don't speak French. Allow me to get Miss Eyrecourt a glass of
wine."

He spoke with the most perfect temper and tranquillity. Having
paid his little attention to Stella, and having relieved her of
the empty glass, he took his leave, with a parting request
thoroughly characteristic of the man.

"Are you staying in town, Mrs. Eyrecourt?" he asked.

"Oh, of course, at the height of the season!"

"May I have the honor of calling on you--and talking a little
more about the Continent?"

If he had said it in so many words he could hardly have informed
Mrs. Eyrecourt more plainly that he thoroughly understood her,
and that he meant to try again. Strong in the worldly training of
half a lifetime, she at once informed him of her address, with
the complimentary phrases proper to the occasion. "Five o'clock
tea on Wednesdays, Father Benwell. Don't forget!"

The moment he was gone, she drew her daughter into a quiet
corner. "Don't be frightened, Stella. That sly old person has
some interest in trying to find out about Winterfield. Do you
know why?"

"Indeed I don't, mamma. I hate him!"

"Oh, hush ! hush! Hate him as much as you like; but always be
civil to him. Tell me--have you been in the conservatory with
Romayne?"

"Yes."

"All going on well?"

"Yes."

"My sweet child! Dear, dear me, the wine has done you no good;
you're as pale as ever. Is it that priest? Oh, pooh, pooh, leave
Father Benwell to me."

CHAPTER IV.

IN THE SMALL HOURS.

WHEN Stella left the conservatory, the attraction of the ball for
Romayne was at an end. He went back to his rooms at the hotel.

Penrose was waiting to speak to him. Romayne noticed signs of
suppressed agitation in his secretary's face. "Has anything
happened?" he inquired.

"Nothing of any importance," Penrose answered, in sad subdued
tones. "I only wanted to ask you for leave of absence."

"Certainly. Is it for a long time?"

Penrose hesitated. "You have a new life opening before you," he
said. "If your experience of that life is--as I hope and pray it
may be--a happy one, you will need me no longer; we may not meet
again." His voice began to tremble; he could say no more.

"Not meet again?" Romayne repeated. "My dear Penrose, if _you_
forget how many happy days I owe to your companionship, _my_
memory is to be trusted. Do you really know what my new life is
to be? Shall I tell you what I have said to Stella to-night?"

Penrose lifted his hand with a gesture of entreaty.

"Not a word!" he said, eagerly. "Do me one more kindness--leave
me to be prepared (as I am prepared) for the change that is to
come, without any confidence on your part to enlighten me
further. Don't think me ungrateful. I have reasons for saying
what I have just said--I cannot mention what they are--I can only
tell you they are serious reasons. You have spoken of my devotion
to you. If you wish to reward me a hundred-fold more than I
deserve, bear in mind our conversations on religion, and keep the
books I asked you to read as gifts from a friend who loves you
with his whole heart. No new duties that you can undertake are
incompatible with the higher interests of your soul. Think of me
sometimes. When I leave you I go back to a lonely life. My poor
heart is full of your brotherly kindness at this last moment when
I may be saying good-by forever. And what is my one consolation?
What helps me to bear my hard lot? The Faith that I hold!
Remember that, Romayne. If there comes a time of sorrow in the
future, remember that."

Romayne was more than surprised, he was shocked. "Why must you
leave me?" he asked.

"It is best for you and for _her,_" said Penrose, "that I should
withdraw myself from your new life."

He held out his hand. Romayne refused to let him go. "Penrose!"
he said, "I can't match your resignation. Give me something to
look forward to. I must and will see you again."

Penrose smiled sadly. "You know that my career in life depends
wholly on my superiors," he answered. "But if I am still in
England--and if you have sorrows in the future that I can share
and alleviate--only let me know it. There is nothing within the
compass of my power which I will not do for your sake. God bless
and prosper you! Good-by!"

In spite of his fortitude, the tears rose in his eyes. He hurried
out of the room.

Romayne sat down at his writing-table, and hid his face in his
hands. He had entered the room with the bright image of Stella in
his mind. The image had faded from it now--the grief that was in
him not even the beloved woman could share. His thoughts were
wholly with the brave and patient Christian who had left him--the
true man, whose spotless integrity no evil influence could
corrupt. By what inscrutable fatality do some men find their way
into spheres that are unworthy of them? Oh, Penrose, if the
priests of your Order were all like you, how easily I should be
converted! These were Romayne's thoughts, in the stillness of the
first hours of the morning. The books of which his lost friend
had spoken were close by him on the table. He opened one of them,
and turned to a page marked by pencil lines. His sensitive nature
was troubled to its inmost depths. The confession of that Faith
which had upheld Penrose was before him in words. The impulse was
strong in him to read those words, and think over them again.



He trimmed his lamp, and bent his mind on his book. While he was
still reading, the ball at Lord Loring's house came to its end.
Stella and Lady Loring were alone together, talking of him,
before they retired to their rooms.

"Forgive me for owning it plainly," said Lady Loring--"I think
you and your mother are a little too ready to suspect Father
Benwell without any discoverable cause. Thousands of people go to
Clovelly, and Beaupark House is one of the show-places in the
neighborhood. Is there a little Protestant prejudice in this new
idea of yours?"

Stella made no reply; she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.

Lady Loring went on.

"I am open to conviction, my dear. If you will only tell me what
interest Father Benwell can have in knowing about you and
Winterfield--"

Stella suddenly looked up. "Let us speak of another person," she
said; "I own I don't like Father Benwell. As you know, Romayne
has concealed nothing from me. Ought I to have any concealments
from _him?_ Ought I not to tell him about Winterfield?"

Lady Loring started. "You astonish me," she said. "What right has
Romayne to know it?"

"What right have I to keep it a secret from him?"

"My dear Stella! if you had been in any way to blame in that
miserable matter, I should be the last person in the world to
advise you to keep it a secret. But you are innocent of all
blame. No man--not even the man who is soon to be your
husband--has a right to know what you have so unjustly suffered.
Think of the humiliation of even speaking of it to Romayne!"

"I daren't think of it," cried Stella passionately. "But if it is
my duty--"

"It is your duty to consider the consequences," Lady Loring
interposed. "You don't know how such things sometimes rankle in a
man's mind. He may be perfectly willing to do you justice--and
yet, there may be moments when he would doubt if you had told him
the whole truth. I speak with the experience of a married woman.
Don't place yourself in _that_ position toward your husband, if
you wish for a happy married life."

Stella was not quite convinced yet. "Suppose Romayne finds it
out?" she said.

"He can't possibly find it out. I detest Winterfield, but let us
do him justice. He is no fool. He has his position in the world
to keep up--and that is enough of itself to close his lips. And
as for others, there are only three people now in England who
_could_ betray you. I suppose you can trust your mother, and Lord
Loring, and me?"

It was needless to answer such a question as that. Before Stella
could speak again, Lord Loring's voice was audible outside the
door. "What! talking still," he exclaimed. "Not in bed yet?"

"Come in!" cried his wife. "Let us hear what my husband thinks,"
she said to Stella.

Lord Loring listened with the closest attention while the subject
under discussion was communicated to him. When the time came to
give his opinion, he sided unhesitatingly with his wife.

"If the fault was yours, even in the slightest degree," he said
to Stella, "Romayne would have a right to be taken into your
confidence. But, my dear child, we, who know the truth, know you
to be a pure and innocent woman. You go to Romayne in every way
worthy of him, and you know that he loves you. If you did tell
him that miserable story, he could only pity you. Do you want to
be pitied?"

Those last unanswerable words brought the debate to an end. From
that moment the subject was dropped.



There was still one other person among the guests at the ball who
was waking in the small hours of the morning. Father Benwell,
wrapped comfortably in his dressing gown, was too hard at work on
his correspondence to think of his bed. With one exception, all
the letters that he had written thus far were closed, directed
and stamped for the post. The letter that he kept open he was now
engaged in reconsidering and correcting. It was addressed as
usual to the Secretary of the Order at Rome; and, when it had
undergone the final revision, it contained these lines:

My last letter informed you of Romayne's return to London and to
Miss Eyrecourt. Let me entreat our reverend brethren to preserve
perfect tranquillity of mind, in spite of this circumstance. The
owner of Vange Abbey is not married yet. If patience and
perseverance on my part win their fair reward, Miss Eyrecourt
shall never be his wife.

But let me not conceal the truth. In the uncertain future that
lies before us, I have no one to depend on but myself. Penrose is
no longer to be trusted; and the exertions of the agent to whom I
committed my inquiries are exertions that have failed.

I will dispose of the case of Penrose first.

The zeal with which this young man has undertaken the work of
conversion intrusted to him has, I regret to say, not been fired
by devotion to the interests of the Church, but by a dog-like
affection for Romayne. Without waiting for my permission, Penrose
has revealed himself in his true character as a priest. And, more
than this, he has not only refused to observe the proceedings of
Romayne and Miss Eyrecourt--he has deliberately closed his ears
to the confidence which Romayne wished to repose in him, on the
ground that I might have ordered him to repeat that confidence to
me.

To what use can we put this poor fellow's ungovernable sense of
honor and gratitude? Under present circumstances, he is clearly
of little use to us. I have therefore given him time to think.
That is to say, I have not opposed his leaving London, to assist
in the spiritual care of a country district. It will be a
question for the future, whether we may not turn his enthusiasm
to good account in a foreign mission. However, as it is always
possible that his influence may still be of use to us, I venture
to suggest keeping him within our reach until Romayne's
conversion has actually taken place. Don't suppose that the
present separation between them is final; I will answer for their
meeting again.



I may now proceed to the failure of my agent, and to the course
of action that I have adopted in consequence.

The investigations appear to have definitely broken down at the
seaside village of Clovelly, in the neighborhood of Mr.
Winterfield's country seat. Knowing that I could depend upon the
information which associated this gentleman with Miss Eyrecourt,
under compromising circumstances of some sort, I decided on
seeing Mr. Winterfield, and judging for myself.

The agent's report informed me that the person who had finally
baffled his inquiries was an aged Catholic priest, long resident
at Clovelly. His name is Newbliss, and he is much respected among
the Catholic gentry in that part of Devonshire. After due
consideration, I obtained a letter of introduction to my reverend
colleague, and traveled to Clovelly--telling my friends here that
I was taking a little holiday, in the interests of my health.

I found Father Newbliss a venerable and reticent son of the
Church--with one weak point, however, to work on, which was
entirely beyond the reach of the otherwise astute person charged
with my inquiries. My reverend friend is a scholar, and is
inordinately proud of his learning. I am a scholar too. In that
capacity I first found my way to his sympathies, and then gently
encouraged his pride. The result will appear in certain
discoveries, which I number as follows:

1. The events which connect Mr. Winterfield with Miss Eyrecourt
happened about two years since, and had their beginning at
Beaupark House.

2. At this period, Miss Eyrecourt and her mother were staying at
Beaupark House. The general impression in the neighborhood was
that Mr. Winterfield and Miss Eyrecourt were engaged to be
married.

3. Not long afterward, Miss Eyrecourt and her mother surprised
the neighborhood by suddenly leaving Beaupark House. Their
destination was supposed to be London.

4. Mr. Winterfield himself next left his country seat for the
Continent. His exact destination was not mentioned to any one.
The steward, soon afterward, dismissed all the servants, and the
house was left empty for more than a year.

5. At the end of that time Mr. Winterfield returned alone to
Beaupark House, and told nobody how, or where, he had passed the
long interval of his absence.

6. Mr. Winterfield remains, to the present day, an unmarried man.

Having arrived at these preliminary discoveries, it was time to
try what I could make of Mr. Winterfield next.

Among the other good things which this gentleman has inherited is
a magnificent library collected by his father. That one learned
man should take another learned man to see the books was a
perfectly natural proceeding. My introduction to the master of
the house followed my introduction to the library almost as a
matter of course.

I am about to surprise you, as I was myself surprised. In all my
long experience, Mr. Winterfield is, I think, the most
fascinating person I ever met with. Genial, unassuming manners, a
prepossessing personal appearance, a sweet temper, a quaint humor
delightfully accompanied by natural refinement--such are the
characteristic qualities of the man from whom I myself saw Miss
Eyrecourt (accidentally meeting him in public) recoil with dismay
and disgust! It is absolutely impossible to look at him, and to
believe him to be capable of a cruel or dishonorable action. I
never was so puzzled in my life.

You may be inclined to think that I am misled by a false
impression, derived from the gratifying welcome that I received
as a friend of Father Newbliss. I will not appeal to my knowledge
of human nature--I will refer to the unanswerable evidence of Mr.
Winterfield's poorer neighbors. Wherever I went, in the village
or out of it, if I mentioned his name, I produced a universal
outburst of admiration and gratitude. "There never was such a
friend to poor people, and there never can be such another to the
end of the world." Such was a fisherman's description of him; and
the one cry of all the men and women near us answered, "That's
the truth!"

And yet there is something wrong--for this plain reason, that
there is something to be concealed in the past lives of Mr.
Winterfield and Miss Eyrecourt.

Under these perplexing circumstances, what use have I made of my
opportunities? I am going to surprise you again--I have mentioned
Romayne's name to Mr. Winterfield; and I have ascertained that
they are, so far, perfect strangers to one another--and that is
all.

The little incident of mentioning Romayne arose out of my
examination of the library. I discovered certain old volumes,
which may one day be of use to him, if he continues his
contemplated work on the Origin of Religions. Hearing me express
myself to this effect, Mr. Winterfield replied with the readiest
kindness:

"I can't compare myself to my excellent father," he said; "but I
have at least inherited his respect for the writers of books. My
library is a treasure which I hold in trust for the interests of
literature. Pray say so, from me, to your friend Mr. Romayne."

And what does this amount to?-- you will ask. My reverend friend,
it offers me an opportunity, in the future, of bringing Romayne
and Winterfield together. Do you see the complications which may
ensue? If I can put no other difficulty in Miss Eyrecourt's way,
I think there is fruitful promise of a scandal of some kind
arising out of the introduction to each other of those two men.
You will agree with me that a scandal may prove a valuable
obstacle in the way of a marriage.

Mr. Winterfield has kindly invited me to call on him when he is
next in London. I may then have opportunities of putting
questions which I could not venture to ask on a short
acquaintance.

In the meantime, I have obtained another introduction since my
return to town. I have been presented to Miss Eyrecourt's mother,
and I am invited to drink tea with her on Wednesday. My next
letter may tell you--what Penrose ought to have
discovered--whether Romayne has been already entrapped into a
marriage engagement or not.

Farewell for the present. Remind the Reverend Fathers, with my
respects, that I possess one of the valuable qualities of an
Englishman--I never know when I am beaten.

BOOK THE THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

THE HONEYMOON.

MORE than six weeks had passed. The wedded lovers were still
enjoying their honeymoon at Vange Abbey.

Some offense had been given, not only to Mrs. Eyrecourt, but to
friends of her way of thinking, by the strictly private manner in
which the marriage had been celebrated. The event took everybody
by surprise when the customary advertisement appeared in the
newspapers. Foreseeing the unfavorable impression that might be
produced in some quarters, Stella had pleaded for a timely
retreat to the seclusion of Romayne's country house. The will of
the bride being, as usual, the bridegroom's law, to Vange they
retired accordingly.

On one lovely moonlight night, early in July, Mrs. Romayne left
her husband on the Belvidere, described in Major Hynd's
narrative, to give the housekeeper certain instructions relating
to the affairs of the household. Half an hour later, as she was
about to ascend again to the top of the house, one of the
servants informed her that "the master had just left the
Belvidere, and had gone into his study."

Crossing the inner hall, on her way to the study, Stella noticed
an unopened letter, addressed to Romayne, lying on a table in a
corner. He had probably laid it aside and forgotten it. She
entered his room with the letter in her hand.

The only light was a reading lamp, with the shade so lowered that
the corners of the study were left in obscurity. In one of these
corners Romayne was dimly visible, sitting with his head sunk on
his breast. He never moved when Stella opened the door. At first
she thought he might be asleep.

"Do I disturb you, Lewis?" she asked softly.

"No, my dear."

There was a change in the tone of his voice, which his wife's
quick ear detected. "I am afraid you are not well," she said
anxiously.

"I am a little tired after our long ride to-day. Do you want to
go back to the Belvidere?"

"Not without you. Shall I leave you to rest here?"

He seemed not to hear the question. There he sat, with his head
hanging down, the shadowy counterfeit of an old man. In her
anxiety, Stella approached him, and put her hand caressingly on
his head. It was burning hot. "O!" she cried, "you _are_ ill, and
you are trying to hide it from me."

He put his arm round her waist and made her sit on his knee.
"Nothing is the matter with me," he said, with an uneasy laugh.
"What have you got in
 your hand? A letter?"

"Yes. Addressed to you and not opened yet." He took it out of her
hand, and threw it carelessly on a sofa near him. "Never mind
that now! Let us talk." He paused, and kissed her, before he went
on. "My darling, I think you must be getting tired of Vange?"

"Oh, no! I can be happy anywhere with you--and especially at
Vange. You don't how this noble old house interests me, and how I
admire the glorious country all round it."

He was not convinced. "Vange is very dull," he said, obstinately;
"and your friends will be wanting to see you. Have you heard from
your mother lately?"

"No. I am surprised she has not written."

"She has not forgiven us for getting married so quietly," he went
on. "We had better go back to London and make our peace with her.
Don't you want to see the house my aunt left me at Highgate?"

Stella sighed. The society of the man she loved was society
enough for her. Was he getting tired of his wife already? "I will
go with you wherever you like." She said those words in tones of
sad submission, and gently got up from his knee.

He rose also, and took from the sofa the letter which he had
thrown on it. "Let us see what our friends say," he resumed. "The
address is in Loring's handwriting."

As he approached the table on which the lamp was burning, she
noticed that he moved with a languor that was new in her
experience of him. He sat down and opened the letter. She watched
him with an anxiety which had now become intensified to
suspicion. The shade of the lamp still prevented her from seeing
his face plainly. "Just what I told you," he said; "the Lorings
want to know when they are to see us in London; and your mother
says she 'feels like that character in Shakespeare who was cut by
his own daughters.' Read it."

He handed her the letter. In taking it, she contrived to touch
the lamp shade, as if by accident, and tilted it so that the full
flow of the light fell on him. He started back--but not before
she had seen the ghastly pallor on his face. She had not only
heard it from Lady Loring, she knew from his own unreserved
confession to her what that startling change really meant. In an
instant she was on her knees at his feet. "Oh, my darling," she
cried, "it was cruel to keep _that_ secret from your wife! You
have heard it again!"

She was too irresistibly beautiful, at that moment, to be
reproved. He gently raised her from the floor--and owned the
truth.

"Yes," he said; "I heard it after you left me on the
Belvidere--just as I heard it on another moonlight night, when
Major Hynd was here with me. Our return to this house is perhaps
the cause. I don't complain; I have had a long release."

She threw her arms round his neck. "We will leave Vange
to-morrow," she said.

It was firmly spoken. But her heart sank as the words passed her
lips. Vange Abbey had been the scene of the most unalloyed
happiness in her life. What destiny was waiting for her when she
returned to London?

CHAPTER II.

EVENTS AT TEN ACRES.

THERE was no obstacle to the speedy departure of Romayne and his
wife from Vange Abbey. The villa at Highgate--called Ten Acres
Lodge, in allusion to the measurement of the grounds surrounding
the house--had been kept in perfect order by the servants of the
late Lady Berrick, now in the employment of her nephew.

On the morning after their arrival at the villa, Stella sent a
note to her mother. The same afternoon, Mrs. Eyrecourt arrived at
Ten Acres--on her way to a garden-party. Finding the house, to
her great relief, a modern building, supplied with all the newest
comforts and luxuries, she at once began to plan a grand party,
in celebration of the return of the bride and bridegroom.

"I don't wish to praise myself," Mrs. Eyrecourt said; "but if
ever there was a forgiving woman, I am that person. We will say
no more, Stella, about your truly contemptible wedding--five
people altogether, including ourselves and the Lorings. A grand
ball will set you right with society, and that is the one thing
needful. Tea and coffee, my dear Romayne, in your study; Coote's
quadrille band; the supper from Gunter's, the grounds illuminated
with colored lamps; Tyrolese singers among the trees, relieved by
military music--and, if there _are_ any African or other savages
now in London, there is room enough in these charming grounds for
encampments, dances, squaws, scalps, and all the rest of it, to
end in a blaze of fireworks."

A sudden fit of coughing seized her, and stopped the further
enumeration of attractions at the contemplated ball. Stella had
observed that her mother looked unusually worn and haggard,
through the disguises of paint and powder. This was not an
uncommon result of Mrs. Eyrecourt's devotion to the demands of
society; but the cough was something new, as a symptom of
exhaustion.

"I am afraid, mamma, you have been overexerting yourself," said
Stella. "You go to too many parties."

"Nothing of the sort, my dear; I am as strong as a horse. The
other night, I was waiting for the carriage in a draught (one of
the most perfect private concerts of the season, ending with a
delightfully naughty little French play)--and I caught a slight
cold. A glass of water is all I want. Thank you. Romayne, you are
looking shockingly serious and severe; our ball will cheer you.
If you would only make a bonfire of all those horrid books, you
don't know how it would improve your spirits. Dearest Stella, I
will come and lunch here to-morrow--you are within such a nice
easy drive from town--and I'll bring my visiting-book, and settle
about the invitations and the day. Oh, dear me, how late it is. I
have nearly an hour's drive before I get to my garden party.
Good-by, my turtle doves good-by."

She was stopped, on the way to her carriage, by another fit of
coughing. But she still persisted in making light of it. "I'm as
strong as a horse," she repeated, as soon as she could speak--and
skipped into the carriage like a young girl.

"Your mother is killing herself," said Romayne.

"If I could persuade her to stay with us a little while," Stella
suggested, "the rest and quiet might do wonders for her. Would
you object to it, Lewis?"

"My darling, I object to nothing--except giving a ball and
burning my books. If your mother will yield on these two points,
my house is entirely at her disposal."

He spoke playfully--he looked his best, since he had separated
himself from the painful associations that were now connected
with Vange Abbey. Had "the torment of the Voice" been left far
away in Yorkshire? Stella shrank from approaching the subject in
her husband's presence, knowing that it must remind him of the
fatal duel. To her surprise, Romayne himself referred to the
General's family.

"I have written to Hynd," he began. "Do you mind his dining with
us to-day?"

"Of course not!"

"I want to hear if he has anything to tell me--about those French
ladies. He undertook to see them, in your absence, and to
ascertain--" He was unable to overcome his reluctance to
pronounce the next words. Stella was quick to understand what he
meant. She finished the sentence for him.

"Yes," he said, "I wanted to hear how the boy is getting on, and
if there is any hope of curing him. Is it--" he trembled as he
put the question--"Is it hereditary madness?"

Feeling the serious importance of concealing the truth, Stella
only replied that she had hesitated to ask if there was a taint
of madness in the family. "I suppose," she added, "you would not
like to see the boy, and judge of his chances of recovery for
yourself?"

"You suppose?" he burst out, with sudden anger. "You might be
sure. The bare idea of seeing him turns me cold. Oh, when shall I
forget! when shall I forget! Who spoke of him first?" he said,
with renewed irritability, after a moment of silence. "You or I?"

"It was my fault, love--he is so harmless and so gentle, and he
has such a sweet face--I thought it might soothe you to see him.
Forgive me; we will never speak of him again. Have you any notes
for me to copy? You know, Lewis, I am your secretary now."

So she led Romayne away to his study and his books. When Major
Hynd arrived, she contrived to be the first to see him. "Say as
litt le as possible about the General's widow and her son," she
whispered.

The Major understood her. "Don't be uneasy, Mrs. Romayne," he
answered. "I know your husband well enough to know what you mean.
Besides, the news I bring is good news."

Romayne came in before he could speak more particularly. When the
servants had left the room, after dinner, the Major made his
report.

"I am going to agreeably surprise you," he began. "All
responsibility toward the General's family is taken off our
hands. The ladies are on their way back to France."

Stella was instantly reminded of one of the melancholy incidents
associated with her visit to Camp's Hill. "Madame Marillac spoke
of a brother of hers who disapproved of the marriage," she said.
"Has he forgiven her?"

"That is exactly what he has done, Mrs. Romayne. Naturally
enough, he felt the disgrace of his sister's marriage to such a
man as the General. Only the other day he heard for the first
time that she was a widow--and he at once traveled to England. I
bade them good-by yesterday--most happily reunited--on their
journey home again. Ah, I thought you would be glad, Mrs.
Romayne, to hear that the poor widow's troubles are over. Her
brother is rich enough to place them all in easy
circumstances--he is as good a fellow as ever lived."

"Have you seen him?" Stella asked, eagerly.

"I have been with him to the asylum."

"Does the boy go back to France?"

"No. We took the place by surprise, and saw for ourselves how
well conducted it was. The boy has taken a strong liking to the
proprietor--a bright, cheerful old man, who is teaching him some
of our English games, and has given him a pony to ride on. He
burst out crying, poor creature, at the idea of going away--and
his mother burst out crying at the idea of leaving him. It was a
melancholy scene You know what a good mother is--no sacrifice is
too great for her. The boy stays at the asylum, on the chance
that his healthier and happier life there may help to cure him.
By-the-way, Romayne, his uncle desires me to thank you--"

"Hynd! you didn't tell the uncle my name?"

"Don't alarm yourself. He is a gentleman, and when I told him I
was pledged to secrecy, he made but one inquiry--he asked if you
were a rich man. I told him you had eighteen thousand a year."

"Well?"

"Well, he set that matter right between us with perfect taste. He
said: 'I cannot presume to offer repayment to a person so
wealthy. We gratefully accept our obligation to our kind unknown
friend. For the future, however, my nephew's expenses must be
paid from my purse.' Of course I could only agree to that. From
time to time the mother is to hear, and I am to hear, how the boy
goes on. Or, if you like, Romayne--now that the General's family
has left England--I don't see why the proprietor might not make
his report directly to yourself."

"No!" Romayne rejoined, positively. "Let things remain as they
are."

Very well. I can send you any letters that I may receive from the
asylum. Will you give us some music, Mrs. Romayne? Not to-night?
Then let us go to the billiard-room; and as I am the worst of bad
players, I will ask you to help me to beat your accomplished
husband."



On the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Eyrecourt's maid arrived
at Ten Acres with a note from her mistress.

"Dearest Stella--Matilda must bring you my excuses for to-day. I
don't in the least understand it, but I seem to have turned lazy.
It is most ridiculous--I really cannot get out of bed. Perhaps I
did do just a little too much yesterday. The opera after the
garden party, and a ball after the opera, and this tiresome cough
all night after the ball. Quite a series, isn't it? Make my
apologies to our dear dismal Romayne--and if you drive out this
afternoon, come and have a chat with me. Your affectionate
mother, Emily Eyrecourt. P. S.--You know what a fidget Matilda
is. If she talks about me, don't believe a word she says to you."

Stella turned to the maid with a sinking heart.

"Is my mother very ill?" she asked.

"So ill, ma'am, that I begged and prayed her to let me send for a
doctor. You know what my mistress is. If you would please to use
your influence--"

"I will order the carriage instantly, and take you back with me."

Before she dressed to go out, Stella showed the letter to her
husband. He spoke with perfect kindness and sympathy, but he did
not conceal that he shared his wife's apprehensions. "Go at
once," were his last words to her; "and, if I can be of any use,
send for me."

It was late in the evening before Stella returned. She brought
sad news.

The physician consulted told her plainly that the neglected
cough, and the constant fatigue, had together made the case a
serious one. He declined to say that there was any absolute
danger as yet, or any necessity for her remaining with her mother
at night. The experience of the next twenty-four hours, at most,
would enable him to speak positively. In the meantime, the
patient insisted that Stella should return to her husband. Even
under the influence of opiates, Mrs. Eyrecourt was still drowsily
equal to herself. "You are a fidget, my dear, and Matilda is a
fidget--I can't have two of you at my bedside. Good-night."
Stella stooped over her and kissed her. She whispered: "Three
weeks notice, remember, for the party!"

By the next evening the malady had assumed so formidable an
aspect that the doctor had his doubts of the patient's chance of
recovery. With her husband's full approval, Stella remained night
and day at her mother's bedside.

Thus, in a little more than a month from the day of his marriage,
Romayne was, for the time, a lonely man again.

The illness of Mrs. Eyrecourt was unexpectedly prolonged. There
were intervals during which her vigorous constitution rallied and
resisted the progress of the disease. On these occasions, Stella
was able to return to her husband for a few hours--subject always
to a message which recalled her to her mother when the chances of
life or death appeared to be equally balanced. Romayne's one
resource was in his books and his pen. For the first time since
his union with Stella he opened the portfolios in which Penrose
had collected the first introductory chapters of his historical
work. Almost at every page the familiar handwriting of his
secretary and friend met his view. It was a new trial to his
resolution to be working alone; never had he felt the absence of
Penrose as he felt it now. He missed the familiar face, the quiet
pleasant voice, and, more than both, the ever-welcome sympathy
with his work. Stella had done all that a wife could do to fill
the vacant place; and her husband's fondness had accepted the
effort as adding another charm to the lovely creature who had
opened a new life to him. But where is the woman who can
intimately associate herself with the hard brain-work of a man
devoted to an absorbing intellectual pursuit? She can love him,
admire him, serve him, believe in him beyond all other men--but
(in spite of exceptions which only prove the rule) she is out of
her place when she enters the study while the pen is in his hand.
More than once, when he was at work, Romayne closed the page
bitterly; the sad thought came to him, "Oh, if I only had Penrose
here!" Even other friends were not available as a resource in the
solitary evening hours. Lord Loring was absorbed in social and
political engagements. And Major Hynd--true to the principle of
getting away as often as possible from his disagreeable wife and
his ugly children--had once more left London.

One day, while Mrs. Eyrecourt still lay between life and death,
Romayne found his historical labors suspended by the want of a
certain volume which it was absolutely necessary to consult. He
had mislaid the references written for him by Penrose, and he was
at a loss to remember whether the book was in the British Museum,
in the Bodleian Library, or in the Bibliotheque at Paris. In this
emergency a letter to his former secretary would furnish him with
the information that he required. But he was ignorant of
Penrose's present address. The Lorings might possibly know it--so
to the Lorings he resolved to apply.

CHAPTER III.

FATHER BENWELL AND THE BOOK.

R OMAYNE'S first errand in London was to see his wife, and to
make inquiries at Mrs. Eyrecourt's house. The report was more
favorable than usual. Stella whispered, as she kissed him, "I
shall soon come back to you, I hope!"

Leaving the horses to rest for a while, he proceeded to Lord
Loring's residence on foot. As he crossed a street in the
neighborhood, he was nearly run over by a cab, carrying a
gentleman and his luggage. The gentleman was Mr. Winterfield, on
his way to Derwent's Hotel.

Lady Loring very kindly searched her card-basket, as the readiest
means of assisting Romayne. Penrose had left his card, on his
departure from London, but no address was written on it. Lord
Loring, unable himself to give the required information,
suggested the right person to consult.

"Father Benwell will be here later in the day," he said. "If you
will write to Penrose at once, he will add the address. Are you
sure, before the letter goes, that the book you want is not in my
library?"

"I think not," Romayne answered; "but I will write down the
title, and leave it here with my letter."

The same evening he received a polite note from Father Benwell,
informing him that the letter was forwarded, and that the book he
wanted was not in Lord Loring's library. "If there should be any
delay or difficulty in obtaining this rare volume," the priest
added, "I only wait the expression of your wishes, to borrow it
from the library of a friend of mine, residing in the country."

By return of post the answer, affectionately and gratefully
written, arrived from Penrose. He regretted that he was not able
to assist Romayne personally. But it was out of his power (in
plain words, he had been expressly forbidden by Father Benwell)
to leave the service on which he was then engaged. In reference
to the book that was wanted, it was quite likely that a search in
the catalogues of the British Museum might discover it. He had
only met with it himself in the National Library at Paris.

This information led Romayne to London again, immediately. For
the first time he called at Father Benwell's lodgings. The priest
was at home, expecting the visit. His welcome was the perfection
of unassuming politeness. He asked for the last news of "poor
Mrs. Eyrecourt's health," with the sympathy of a true friend.

"I had the honor of drinking tea with Mrs. Eyrecourt, some little
time since," he said. "Her flow of conversation was never more
delightful--it seemed impossible to associate the idea of illness
with so bright a creature. And how well she kept the secret of
your contemplated marriage! May I offer my humble congratulations
and good wishes?"

Romayne thought it needless to say that Mrs. Eyrecourt had not
been trusted with the secret until the wedding day was close at
hand. "My wife and I agreed in wishing to be married as quietly
as possible," he answered, after making the customary
acknowledgments.

"And Mrs. Romayne?" pursued Father Benwell. "This is a sad trial
for her. She is in attendance on her mother, I suppose?"

"In constant attendance; I am quite alone now. To change the
subject, may I ask you to look at the reply which I have received
from Penrose? It is my excuse for troubling you with this visit."

Father Benwell read the letter with the closest attention. In
spite of his habitual self-control, his vigilant eyes brightened
as he handed it back.

Thus far, the priest's well-planned scheme, (like Mr. Bitrake's
clever inquiries) had failed. He had not even entrapped Mrs.
Eyrecourt into revealing the marriage engagement. Her
unconquerable small-talk had foiled him at every point. Even when
he had deliberately kept his seat after the other guests at the
tea-table had taken their departure, she rose with the most
imperturbable coolness, and left him. "I have a dinner and two
parties to-night, and this is just the time when I take my little
restorative nap. Forgive me--and do come again!" When he sent the
fatal announcement of the marriage to Rome, he had been obliged
to confess that he was indebted for the discovery to the
newspaper. He had accepted the humiliation; he had accepted the
defeat--but he was not beaten yet. "I counted on Romayne's
weakness; and Miss Eyrecourt counted on Romayne's weakness; and
Miss Eyrecourt has won. So let it be. My turn will come." In that
manner he had reconciled himself to his position. And now--he
knew it when he handed back the letter to Romayne--his turn _had_
come!

"You can hardly go to Paris to consult the book," he said, "in
the present state of Mrs. Eyrecourt's health?"

"Certainly not!"

"Perhaps you will send somebody to search the catalogue at the
British Museum?"

"I should have done that already, Father Benwell, but for the
very kind allusion in your note to your friend in the country.
Even if the book is in the Museum Library, I shall be obliged to
go to the Reading Room to get my information. It would be far
more convenient to me to have the volume at home to consult, if
you think your friend will trust me with it."

"I am certain he will trust you with it. My friend is Mr.
Winterfield, of Beaupark House, North Devon. Perhaps you may have
heard of him?"

"No; the name is quite new to me."

"Then come and see the man himself. He is now in London--and I am
entirely at your service."

In half an hour more, Romayne was presented to a well-bred,
amiable gentleman in the prime of life, smoking, and reading the
newspaper. The bowl of his long pipe rested on the floor, on one
side of him, and a handsome red and white spaniel reposed on the
other. Before his visitors had been two minutes in the room, he
understood the motive which had brought them to consult him, and
sent for a telegraphic form.

"My steward will find the book and forward it to your address by
passenger train this afternoon," he said. "I will tell him to put
my printed catalogue of the library into the parcel, in case I
have any other books which may be of use to you."

With those words, he dispatched the telegram to the office.
Romayne attempted to make his acknowledgments. Mr. Winterfield
would hear no acknowledgments.

"My dear sir," he said, with a smile that brightened his whole
face, "you are engaged in writing a great historical work; and I
am an obscure country gentleman, who is lucky enough to associate
himself with the production of a new book. How do you know that I
am not looking forward to a complimentary line in the preface? I
am the obliged person, not you. Pray consider me as a handy
little boy who runs on errands for the Muse of History. Do you
smoke?"

Not even tobacco would soothe Romayne's wasted and irritable
nerves. Father Benwell--"all things to all men"--cheerfully
accepted a cigar from the box on the table.

"Father Benwell possesses all the social virtues," Mr.
Winterfield ran on. "He shall have his coffee, and the largest
sugar-basin that the hotel can produce. I can quite understand
that your literary labors have tried your nerves," he said to
Romayne, when he had ordered the coffee. "The mere title of your
work overwhelms an idle man like me. 'The Origin of
Religions'--what an immense subject! How far must we look back to
find out the first worshipers of the human family?--Where are the
hieroglyphics, Mr. Romayne, that will give you the earliest
information? In the unknown center of Africa, or among the ruined
cities of Yucatan? My own idea, as an ignorant man, is that the
first of all forms of worship must have been the worship of the
sun. Don't be shocked, Father Benwell--I confess I have a certain
sympathy with sun-worship. In the East especially, the rising of
the sun is surely the grandest of all objects--the visible symbol
of a beneficent Deity, who gives life, warmth and light to the
world of his creation."

"Very grand, no doubt," remarked Father Benwell, sweetening his
coffee. "But not to be compared with the noble sight at Rome,
when the Pope blesses the Christian world from the balcony of St.
Peter's."

"So much for professional feeling!" said Mr. Winterfield. "But,
surely, something depends on what sort of man the Pope is. If we
had lived in the time of Alexander the Sixth, would you have
called _him_ a part of that noble sight?"

"Certainly--at a proper distance," Father Benwell briskly
replied. "Ah, you heretics only know the worst side of that most
unhappy pontiff! Mr. Winterfield, we have every reason to believe
that he felt (privately) the truest remorse."

"I should require very good evidence to persuade me of it."

This touched Romayne on a sad side of his own personal
experience. "Perhaps," he said, "you don't believe in remorse?"

"Pardon me," Mr. Winterfield rejoined, "I only distinguish
between false remorse and true remorse. We will say no more of
Alexander the Sixth, Father Benwell. If we want an illustration,
I will supply it, and give no offense. True remorse depends, to
my mind, on a man's accurate knowledge of his own motives--far
from a common knowledge, in my experience. Say, for instance,
that I have committed some serious offense--"

Romayne could not resist interrupting him. "Say you have killed
one of your fellow-creatures," he suggested.

"Very well. If I know that I really meant to kill him, for some
vile purpose of my own; and if (which by no means always follows)
I am really capable of feeling the enormity of my own crime--that
is, as I think, true remorse. Murderer as I am, I have, in that
case, some moral worth still left in me. But if I did _not_ mean
to kill the man--if his death was my misfortune as well as
his--and if (as frequently happens) I am nevertheless troubled by
remorse, the true cause lies in my own inability fairly to
realize my own motives--before I look to results. I am the
ignorant victim of false remorse; and if I will only ask myself
boldly what has blinded me to the true state of the case, I shall
find the mischief due to that misdirected appreciation of my own
importance which is nothing but egotism in disguise."

"I entirely agree with you," said Father Benwell; "I have had
occasion to say the same thing in the confessional."

Mr. Winterfield looked at his dog, and changed the subject. "Do
you like dogs, Mr. Romayne?" he asked. "I see my spaniel's eyes
saying that he likes you, and his tail begging you to take some
notice of him."

Romayne caressed the dog rather absently.

His new friend had unconsciously presented to him a new view of
the darker aspect of his own life. Winterfield's refined,
pleasant manners, his generous readiness in placing the treasures
of his library at a stranger's disposal, had already appealed
irresistibly to Romayne's sensitive nature. The favorable
impression was now greatly strengthened by the briefly bold
treatment which he had just heard of a subject in which he was
seriously interested. "I must see more of this man," was his
thought, as he patted the companionable spaniel.

Father Benwell's trained observation followed the vivid changes
of expression on Romayne's face, and marked the eager look in his
eyes as he lifted his head from the dog to the dog's master. The
priest saw his opportunity and took it.

"Do you remain long at Ten Acres Lodge?" he said to Romayne.

"I hardly know as yet. We have no other plans at present."

"You inherit the place, I think, from your late aunt, Lady
Berrick?"

"Yes."

The tone of the reply was not encouraging; Romayne felt no
interest in talking of Ten Acres Lodge. Father Benwell persisted.

"I was told by Mrs. Eyrecourt," he went on "that Lady Berrick had
some fine pictures. Are they still at the Lodge?"

"Certainly. I couldn't live in a house without pictures."

Father Benwell looked at Winterfield. "Another taste in common
between you and Mr. Romayne," he said, "besides your liking for
dogs."

This at once produced the desired result. Romayne eagerly invited
Winterfield to see his pictures. "There are not many of them," he
said. "But they are really worth looking at. When will you come?"

"The sooner the better," Winterfield answered, cordially. "Will
to-morrow do--by the noonday light?"

"Whenever you please. Your time is mine."

Among his other accomplishments, Father Benwell was a
chess-player. If his thoughts at that moment had been expressed
in language, they would have said, "Check to the queen."

CHAPTER IV.

THE END OF THE HONEYMOON.

ON the next morning, Winterfield arrived alone at Romayne's
house.

Having been included, as a matter of course, in the invitation to
see the pictures, Father Benwell had made an excuse, and had
asked leave to defer the proposed visit. From his point of view,
he had nothing further to gain by being present at a second
meeting between the two men--in the absence of Stella. He had it
on Romayne's own authority that she was in constant attendance on
her mother, and that her husband was alone. "Either Mrs.
Eyrecourt will get better, or she will die," Father Benwell
reasoned. "I shall make constant inquiries after her health, and,
in either case, I shall know when Mrs. Romayne returns to Ten
Acres Lodge. After that domestic event, the next time Mr.
Winterfield visits Mr. Romayne, I shall go and see the pictures."

It is one of the defects of a super-subtle intellect to trust too
implicitly to calculation, and to leave nothing to chance. Once
or twice already Father Benwell had been (in the popular phrase)
a little too clever--and chance had thrown him out. As events
happened, chance was destined to throw him out once more.

Of the most modest pretensions, in regard to numbers and size,
the pictures collected by the late Lady Berrick were masterly
works of modern art. With few exceptions, they had been produced
by the matchless English landscape painters of half a century
since. There was no formal gallery here. The pictures were so few
that they could be hung in excellent lights in the different
living-rooms of the villa. Turner, Constable, Collins, Danby,
Callcott, Linnell--the master of Beaupark House passed from one
to the other with the enjoyment of a man who thoroughly
appreciated the truest and finest landscape art that the world
has yet seen.

"You had better not have asked me here," he said to Romayne, in
his quaintly good-humored way. "I can't part with those pictures
when I say good-by to-day. You will find me calling here again
and again, till you are perfectly sick of me. Look at this sea
piece. Who thinks of the brushes and palette of _that_ painter?
There, truth to Nature and poetical feeling go hand in hand
together. It is absolutely lovely--I could kiss that picture."

They were in Romayne's study when this odd outburst of enthusiasm
escaped Winterfield. He happened to look toward the writing-table
next. Some pages of manuscript, blotted and interlined with
corrections, at once attracted his attention.

"Is that the forthcoming history?" he asked. "You are not one of
the authors who perform the process of correction mentally--you
revise and improve with the pen in your hand."

Romayne looked at him in surprise. "I suspect, Mr. Winterfield,
you have used your pen for other purposes than writing letters."

"No, indeed; you pay me an undeserved compliment. When you come
to see me in Devonshire, I can show you some manuscripts, and
corrected proofs, left by our great writers, collected by my
father. My knowledge of the secrets of the craft has been gained
by examining those literary treasures. If the public only knew
that every writer worthy of the name is the severest critic of
his own book before it ever gets into the hands of the reviewers,
how surprised they would be! The man who has worked in the full
fervor of composition yesterday is the same man who sits in
severe and merciless judgment to-day on what he has himself
produced. What a fascination there must be in the Art which
exacts and receives such double labor as this?"

Romayne thought--not unkindly--of his wife. Stella had once asked
him how long a time he was usually occupied in writing one page.
The reply had filled her with pity and wonder. "Why do you take
all that trouble?" she had gently remonstrated. "It would be just
the same to the people, darling, if you did it in half the time."

By way of changing the topic, Romayne led his visitor into
another room. "I have a picture here," he said, "which belongs to
a newer school of painting. You have been talking of hard work in
one Art; there it is in another."

"Yes," said Winterfield,
 "there it is--the misdirected hard work, which has been guided
by no critical faculty, and which doesn't know where to stop. I
try to admire it; and I end in pitying the poor artist. Look at
that leafless felled tree in the middle distance. Every little
twig, on the smallest branch, is conscientiously painted--and the
result is like a colored photograph. You don't look at a
landscape as a series of separate parts; you don't discover every
twig on a tree; you see the whole in Nature, and you want to see
the whole in a picture. That canvas presents a triumph of
patience and pains, produced exactly as a piece of embroidery is
produced, all in little separate bits, worked with the same
mechanically complete care. I turn away from it to your shrubbery
there, with an ungrateful sense of relief."

He walked to the window as he spoke. It looked out on the grounds
in front of the house. At the same moment the noise of rolling
wheels became audible on the drive. An open carriage appeared at
the turn in the road. Winterfield called Romayne to the window.
"A visitor," he began--and suddenly drew back, without saying a
word more.

Romayne looked out, and recognized his wife.

"Excuse me for one moment," he said, "it is Mrs. Romayne."

On that morning an improvement in the fluctuating state of Mrs.
Eyrecourt's health had given Stella another of those
opportunities of passing an hour or two with her husband, which
she so highly prized. Romayne withdrew, to meet her at the
door--too hurriedly to notice Winterfield standing, in the corner
to which he had retreated, like a man petrified.

Stella had got out of the carriage when her husband reached the
porch. She ascended the few steps that led to the hall as slowly
and painfully as if she had been an infirm old woman. The
delicately tinted color in her face had faded to an ashy white.
She had seen Winterfield at the window.

For the moment, Romayne looked at her in speechless
consternation. He led her into the nearest room that opened out
of the hall, and took her in his arms. "My love, this nursing of
your mother has completely broken you down!" he said, with the
tenderest pity for her. "If you won't think of yourself, you must
think of me. For my sake remain here, and take the rest that you
need. I will be a tyrant, Stella, for the first time; I won't let
you go back."

She roused herself, and tried to smile--and hid the sad result
from him in a kiss. "I do feel the anxiety and fatigue," she
said. "But my mother is really improving; and, if it only
continues, the blessed sense of relief will make me strong
again." She paused, and roused all her courage, in anticipation
of the next words--so trivial and so terrible--that must, sooner
or later, be pronounced. "You have a visitor?" she said.

"Did you see him at the window? A really delightful man--I know
you will like him. Under any other circumstances, I should have
introduced him. You are not well enough to see strangers today."

She was too determined to prevent Winterfield from ever entering
the house again to shrink from the meeting. "I am not so ill as
you think, Lewis," she said, bravely. "When you go to your new
friend, I will go with you. I am a little tired--that's all."

Romayne looked at her anxiously. "Let me get you a glass of
wine," he said.

She consented--she really felt the need of it. As he turned away
to ring the bell, she put the question which had been in her mind
from the moment when she had seen Winterfield.

"How did you become acquainted with this gentleman?"

"Through Father Benwell."

She was not surprised by the answer--her suspicion of the priest
had remained in her mind from the night of Lady Loring's ball.
The future of her married life depended on her capacity to check
the growing intimacy between the two men. In that conviction she
found the courage to face Winterfield.

How should she meet him? The impulse of the moment pointed to the
shortest way out of the dreadful position in which she was
placed--it was to treat him like a stranger. She drank her glass
of wine, and took Romayne's arm. "We mustn't keep your friend
waiting any longer," she resumed. "Come!"

As they crossed the hall, she looked suspiciously toward the
house door. Had he taken the opportunity of leaving the villa? At
any other time she would have remembered that the plainest laws
of good breeding compelled him to wait for Romayne's return. His
own knowledge of the world would tell him that an act of gross
rudeness, committed by a well-bred man, would inevitably excite
suspicion of some unworthy motive--and might, perhaps, connect
that motive with her unexpected appearance at the house. Romayne
opened the door, and they entered the room together.

"Mr. Winterfield, let me introduce you to Mrs. Romayne." They
bowed to each other; they spoke the conventional words proper to
the occasion--but the effort that it cost them showed itself.
Romayne perceived an unusual formality in his wife's manner, and
a strange disappearance of Winterfield's easy grace of address.
Was he one of the few men, in these days, who are shy in the
presence of women? And was the change in Stella attributable,
perhaps, to the state of her health? The explanation might, in
either case, be the right one. He tried to set them at their
ease.

"Mr. Winterfield is so pleased with the pictures, that he means
to come and see them again," he said to his wife. "And one of his
favorites happens to be your favorite, too."

She tried to look at Winterfield, but her eyes sank. She could
turn toward him, and that was all. "Is it the sea-piece in the
study?" she said to him faintly.

"Yes," he answered, with formal politeness; "it seems to me to be
one of the painter's finest works."

Romayne looked at him in unconcealed wonder. To what flat
commonplace Winterfield's lively enthusiasm had sunk in Stella's
presence! She perceived that some unfavorable impression had been
produced on her husband, and interposed with a timely suggestion.
Her motive was not only to divert Romayne's attention from
Winterfield, but to give him a reason for leaving the room.

"The little water-color drawing in my bedroom is by the same
artist," she said. "Mr. Winterfield might like to see it. If you
will ring the bell, Lewis, I will send my maid for it."

Romayne had never allowed the servants to touch his works of art,
since the day when a zealous housemaid had tried to wash one of
his plaster casts. He made the reply which his wife had
anticipated.

"No! no!" he said. "I will fetch the drawing myself." He turned
gayly to Winterfield. "Prepare yourself for another work that you
would like to kiss." He smiled, and left the room.

The instant the door was closed, Stella approached Winterfield.
Her beautiful face became distorted by a mingled expression of
rage and contempt. She spoke to him in a fierce peremptory
whisper.

"Have you any consideration for me left?" His look at her, as she
put that question, revealed the most complete contrast between
his face and hers. Compassionate sorrow was in his eyes, tender
forbearance and respect spoke in his tones, as he answered her.

"I have more than consideration for you, Stella--"

She angrily interrupted him. "How dare you call me by my
Christian name?"

He remonstrated, with a gentleness that might have touched the
heart of any woman. "Do you still refuse to believe that I never
deceived you? Has time not softened your heart to me yet?"

She was more contemptuous toward him than ever. "Spare me your
protestations," she said; "I heard enough of them two years
since. Will you do what I ask of you?"

"You know that I will."

"Put an end to your acquaintance with my husband. Put an end to
it," she repeated vehemently, "from this day, at once and
forever! Can I trust you to do it?"

"Do you think I would have entered this house if I had known he
was your husband?" He made that reply with a sudden change in
him--with a rising color and in firm tones of indignation. In a
moment more, his voice softened again, and his kind blue eyes
rested on her sadly and devotedly. "You may trust me to do more
than you ask," he resumed. "You have made a mistake."

"What mistake?"

"When Mr. Romayne introduced us, you met me like a stranger--and
you left me no choice but to do as you did."

"I wish you to be a stranger."

Her sharpest replies made no change in his manner. He spoke as
kindly and as patiently as ever.

"You forget that you and your mother were my guests at Beaupark,
two years ago--"

Stella understood what he meant--and more. In an instant she
remembered that Father Benwell had been at Beaupark House. Had he
heard of the visit? She clasped her hands in speechless terror.

Winterfield gently reassured her. "You must not be frightened,"
he said. "It is in the last degree unlikely that Mr. Romayne will
ever find out that you were at my house. If he does--and if you
deny it--I will do for you what I would do for no other human
creature; I will deny it too. You are safe from discovery. Be
happy--and forget me."

For the first time she showed signs of relenting--she turned her
head away, and sighed. Although her mind was full of the serious
necessity of warning him against Father Benwell, she had not even
command enough over her own voice to ask how he had become
acquainted with the priest. His manly devotion, the perfect and
pathetic sincerity of his respect, pleaded with her, in spite of
herself. For a moment she paused to recover her composure. In
that moment Romayne returned to them with the drawing in his
hand.

"There!" he said. "It's nothing, this time, but some children
gathering flowers on the outskirts of a wood. What do you think
of it?"

"What I thought of the larger work," Winterfield answered. "I
could look at it by the hour together." He consulted his watch.
"But time is a hard master, and tells me that my visit must come
to an end. Thank you, most sincerely."

He bowed to Stella. Romayne thought his guest might have taken
the English freedom of shaking hands. "When will you come and
look at the pictures again?" he asked. "Will you dine with us,
and see how they bear the lamplight?"

"I am sorry to say I must beg you to excuse me. My plans are
altered since we met yesterday. I am obliged to leave London."

Romayne was unwilling to part with him on these terms. "You will
let me know when you are next in town?" he said.

"Certainly!"

With that short answer he hurried away.

Romayne waited a little in the hall before he went back to his
wife. Stella's reception of Winterfield, though not positively
ungracious, was, nevertheless, the reverse of encouraging. What
extraordinary caprice had made her insensible to the social
attractions of a man so unaffectedly agreeable? It was not
wonderful that Winterfield's cordiality should have been chilled
by the cold welcome that he had received from the mistress of the
house. At the same time, some allowance was to be made for the
influence of Stella's domestic anxieties, and some sympathy was
claimed by the state of her health. Although her husband shrank
from distressing her by any immediate reference to her reception
of his friend, he could not disguise from himself that she had
disappointed him. When he went back to the room, Stella was lying
on the sofa with her face turned toward the wall. She was in
tears, and she was afraid to let him see it. "I won't disturb
you," he said, and withdrew to his study. The precious volume
which Winterfield had so kindly placed at his disposal was on the
table, waiting for him.

Father Benwell had lost little by not being present at the
introduction of Winterfield to Stella. He had witnessed a plainer
betrayal of emotion when they met unexpectedly in Lord Loring's
picture gallery. But if he had seen Romayne reading in his study,
and Stella crying secretly on the sofa, he might have written to
Rome by that day's post, and might have announced that he had
sown the first seeds of disunion between husband and wife.

CHAPTER V.

FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE.

_To the Secretary, S. J., Rome._

In my last few hasty lines I was only able to inform you of the
unexpected arrival of Mrs. Romayne while Winterfield was visiting
her husband. If you remember, I warned you not to attach any
undue importance to my absence on that occasion. My present
report will satisfy my reverend brethren that the interests
committed to me are as safe as ever in my hands.

I have paid three visits, at certain intervals. The first to
Winterfield (briefly mentioned in my last letter); the second to
Romayne; the third to the invalid lady, Mrs. Eyrecourt. In every
case I have been rewarded by important results.

We will revert to Winterfield first. I found him at his hotel,
enveloped in clouds of tobacco smoke. Having led him, with some
difficulty, into talking of his visit to Ten Acres Lodge, I asked
how he liked Romayne's pictures.

"I envy him his pictures." That was the only answer.

"And how do you like Mrs. Romayne?" I inquired next.

He laid down his pipe, and looked at me attentively. My face (I
flatter myself) defied discovery. He inhaled another mouthful of
tobacco, and began to play with his dog. "If I must answer your
question," he burst out suddenly, "I didn't get a very gracious
reception from Mrs. Romayne." There he abruptly stopped. He is a
thoroughly transparent man; you see straight into his mind,
through his eyes. I perceived that he was only telling me a part
(perhaps a very small part) of the truth.

"Can you account for such a reception as you describe?" I asked.
He answered shortly, "No."

"Perhaps I can account for it," I went on. "Did Mr. Romayne tell
his wife that I was the means of introducing you to him?"

He fixed another searching look on me. "Mr. Romayne might have
said so when he left me to receive his wife at the door."

"In that case, Mr. Winterfield, the explanation is as plain as
the sun at noonday. Mrs. Romayne is a strong Protestant, and I am
a Catholic priest."

He accepted this method of accounting for his reception with an
alacrity that would not have imposed on a child. You see I had
relieved him from all further necessity of accounting for the
conduct of Mrs. Romayne!

"A lady's religious prejudices," I proceeded in the friendliest
way, "are never taken seriously by a sensible man. You have
placed Mr. Romayne under obligations to your kindness--he is
eager to improve his acquaintance with you. You will go again to
Ten Acres Lodge?"

He gave me another short answer. "I think not."

I said I was sorry to hear it. "However," I added, "you can
always see him here, when you are in London." He puffed out a big
volume of smoke, and made no remark. I declined to be put down by
silence and smoke. "Or perhaps," I persisted, "you will honor me
by meeting him at a simple little dinner at my lodgings?" Being a
gentleman, he was of course obliged to answer this. He said, "You
are very kind; I would rather not. Shall we talk of something
else, Father Benwell?"

We talked of something else. He was just as amiable as ever--but
he was not in good spirits. "I think I shall run over to Paris
before the end of the month," he said. "To make a long stay?" I
asked. "Oh, no! Call in a week or ten days--and you will find me
here again."

When I got up to go, he returned of his own accord to the
forbidden subject. He said, "I must beg you to do me two favors.
The first is, not to let Mr. Romayne know that I am still in
London. The second is, not to ask me for any explanations."

The result of our interview may be stated in very few words. It
has advanced me one step nearer to discovery. Winterfield's
voice, look, and manner satisfied me of this--the true motive for
his sudden change of feeling toward Romayne is jealousy of the
man who has married Miss Eyrecourt. Those compromising
circumstances which baffled the inquiries of my agent are
associated, in plain English, with a love affair. Remember all
that I have told you of Romayne's peculiar disposition--and
imagine, if you can, what the consequences of such a disclosure
will be when we are in a position to enlighten the master of
Vange Abbey!

As to the present relations between the husband and wife, I have
only to tell you next what passed, when I visited Romayne a day
or two later. I did well to keep Penrose at our disposal. We
shall want him again.

                                             ----


On arriving at Ten Acres Lodge, I found Romayne in his study. His
manuscript lay before him--but he was not at work. He looked worn
and haggard. To this day I don't know from what precise nervous
malady he suffers; I could only guess that it had been troubling
him again since he and I last met.

My first conventional civilities were dedicated, of course, to
his wife. She is still in attendance on her mother. Mrs.
Eyrecourt is now considered to be out of danger. But the good
lady (who is ready enough to recommend doctors to other people)
persists in thinking that she is too robust a person to require
medical help herself. The physician in attendance trusts entirely
to her daughter to persuade her to persevere with the necessary
course of medicine. Don't suppose that I trouble you by
mentioning these trumpery circumstances without a reason. We
shall have occasion to return to Mrs. Eyrecourt and her doctor.

Before I had been five minutes in his company, Romayne asked me
if I had seen Winterfield since his visit to Ten Acres Lodge.

I said I had seen him, and waited, anticipating the next
question. Romayne fulfilled my expectations. He inquired if
Winterfield had left London.

There are certain cases (as I am told by medical authorities) in
which the dangerous system of bleeding a patient still has its
advantages. There are other cases in which the dangerous system
of telling the truth becomes equally judicious. I said to
Romayne, "If I answer you honestly, will you consider it as
strictly confidential? Mr. Winterfield, I regret to say, has no
intention of improving his acquaintance with you. He asked me to
conceal from you that he is still in London."

Romayne's face plainly betrayed that he was annoyed and
irritated. "Nothing that you say to me, Father Benwell, shall
pass the walls of this room," he replied. "Did Winterfield give
any reason for not continuing his acquaintance with me?"

I told the truth once more, with courteous expressions of regret.
"Mr. Winterfield spoke of an ungracious reception on the part of
Mrs. Romayne."

He started to his feet, and walked irritably up and down the
room. "It is beyond endurance!" he said to himself.

The truth had served its purpose by this time. I affected not to
have heard him. "Did you speak to me?" I asked.

He used a milder form of expression. "It is most unfortunate," he
said. "I must immediately send back the valuable book which Mr.
Winterfield has lent to me. And that is not the worst of it.
There are other volumes in his library which I have the greatest
interest in consulting--and it is impossible for me to borrow
them now. At this time, too, when I have lost Penrose, I had
hoped to find in Winterfield another friend who sympathized with
my pursuits. There is something so cheering and attractive in his
manner--and he has just the boldness and novelty of view in his
opinions that appeal to a man like me. It was a pleasant future
to look forward to; and it must be sacrificed--and to what? To a
woman's caprice."

From our point of view this was a frame of mind to be encouraged.
I tried the experiment of modestly taking the blame on myself. I
suggested that I might be (quite innocently) answerable for
Romayne's disappointment.

He looked at me thoroughly puzzled. I repeated what I had said to
Winterfield. "Did you mention to Mrs. Romayne that I was the
means of introducing you--?"

He was too impatient to let me finish the sentence. "I did
mention it to Mrs. Romayne," he said. "And what of it?"

"Pardon me for reminding you that Mrs. Romayne has Protestant
prejudices," I rejoined. "Mr. Winterfield would, I fear, not be
very welcome to her as the friend of a Catholic priest."

He was almost angry with me for suggesting the very explanation
which had proved so acceptable to Winterfield.

"Nonsense!" he cried. "My wife is far too well-bred a woman to
let her prejudices express themselves in _that_ way.
Winterfield's personal appearance must have inspired her with
some unreasonable antipathy, or--"

He stopped, and turned away thoughtfully to the window. Some
vague suspicion had probably entered his mind, which he had only
become aware of at that moment, and which he was not quite able
to realize as yet. I did my best to encourage the new train of
thought.

"What other reason _can_ there be?" I asked.

He turned on me sharply. "I don't know. Do you?"

I ventured on a courteous remonstrance. "My dear sir! if you
can't find another reason, how can I? It must have been a sudden
antipathy, as you say. Such things do happen between strangers. I
suppose I am right in assuming that Mrs. Romayne and Mr.
Winterfield are strangers?"

His eyes flashed with a sudden sinister brightness--the new idea
had caught light in his mind. "They _met_ as strangers," he said.

There he stopped again, and returned to the window. I felt that I
might lose the place I had gained in his confidence if I pressed
the subject any further. Besides, I had my reasons for saying a
word about Penrose next. As it happened, I had received a letter
from him, relating to his present employment, and sending kindest
regards to his dear friend and master in the postscript.

I gave the message. Romayne looked round, with an instant change
in his face. The mere sound of Penrose's name seemed to act as a
relief to the gloom and suspicion that had oppressed him the
moment before. "You don't know how I miss the dear gentle little
fellow," he said, sadly.

"Why not write to him?" I suggested. "He would be so glad to hear
from you again."

"I don't know where to write."

"Did I not send you his address when I forwarded your letter to
him?"

"No."

"Then let me atone for my forgetfulness at once."

I wrote down the address, and took my leave.

As I approached the door I noticed on a side table the Catholic
volumes which Penrose left with Romayne. One of them was open,
with a pencil lying beside it. I thought that a good sign--but I
said nothing.

Romayne pressed my hand at parting. "You have been very kind and
friendly, Father Benwell," he said. "I shall be glad to see you
again."

Don't mention it in quarters where it might do me harm. Do you
know, I really pitied him. He has sacrificed everything to his
marriage--and his marriage has disappointed him. He was even
reduced to be friendly with Me.

Of course when the right time comes I shall give Penrose leave of
absence. Do you foresee, as I do, the speedy return of "the dear
gentle little fellow" to his old employment; the resumed work of
conversion advancing more rapidly than ever; and the jealousy of
the Protestant wife aggravating the false position in which she
is already placed by her equivocal reception of Winterfield? You
may answer this by reminding me of the darker side of the
prospect. An heir may be born; and the heir's mother, backed by
general opinion, may insist--if there is any hesitation in the
matter--on asserting the boy's natural right to succeed his
father.

Patience, my reverend colleague! There is no threatening of any
such calamity yet. And, even if it happens, don't forget that
Romayne has inherited a second fortune. The Vange estate has an
estimated value. If the act of restitution represented that value
in ready money, do you think the Church would discourage a good
convert by refusing his check? You know better than that--and so
do I.

                                            ----

The next day I called to inquire how Mrs. Eyrecourt was getting
on. The report was favorable. Three days later I called again.
The report was still more encouraging. I was also informed that
Mrs. Romayne had returned to Ten Acres Lodge.

Much of my success in life has been achieved by never being in a
hurry. I was not in a hurry now. Time sometimes brings
opportunities--and opportunities are worth waiting for.

Let me make this clear by an example.

A man of headlong disposition, in my place, would have probably
spoken of Miss Eyrecourt's marriage to Romayne at his first
meeting with Winterfield, and would have excited their distrust,
and put them respectively on their guard, without obtaining any
useful result. I can, at any time, make the disclosure to Romayne
which informs him that his wife had been Winterfield's guest in
Devonshire, when she affected to meet her former host on the
footing of a stranger. In the meanwhile, I give Penrose ample
opportunity for innocently widening the breach between husband
and wife.

You see, I hope, that if I maintain a passive position, it is not
from indolence or discouragement. Now we may get on.

After an interval of a few days more I decided on making further
inquiries at Mrs. Eyrecourt's house. This time, when I left my
card, I sent a message, asking if the lady could receive me.
Shall I own my weakness? She possesses all the information that I
want, and she has twice baffled my inquiries. Under these
humiliating circumstances, it is part of the priestly pugnacity
of my disposition to inquire again.

I was invited to go upstairs.

The front and back drawing-rooms of the house were thrown into
one. Mrs. Eyrecourt was being gently moved backward and forward
in a chair on wheels, propelled by her maid; two gentlemen being
present, visitors like myself. In spite of rouge and loosely
folded lace and flowing draperies, she presented a deplorable
spectacle. The bodily part of her looked like a dead woman,
painted and revived--while the moral part, in the strongest
contrast, was just as lively as ever.

"So glad to see you again, Father Benwell, and so much obliged by
your kind inquiries. I am quite well, though the doctor won't
admit it. Isn't it funny to see me being wheeled about, like a
child in a perambulator? Returning to first principles, I call
it. You see it's a law of my nature that I must go about. The
doctor won't let me go about outside the house, so I go about
inside the house. Matilda is the nurse, and I am the baby who
will learn to walk some of these days. Are you tired, Matilda?
No? Then give me another turn, there's a good creature. Movement,
perpetual movement, is a law of Nature. Oh, dear no, doctor; I
didn't make that discovery for myself. Some eminent scientific
person mentioned it in a lecture. The ugliest man I ever saw. Now
back again, Matilda. Let me introduce you to my friends, Father
Benwell. Introducing is out of fashion, I know. But I am one of
the few women who can resist the tyranny of fashion. I like
introducing people. Sir John Drone--Father Benwell. Father
Benwell--Doctor Wybrow. Ah, yes, you know the doctor by
reputation? Shall I give you his character? Personally charming;
professionally detestable. Pardon my impudence, doctor, it is one
of the consequences of the overflowing state of my health.
Another turn, Matilda--and a little faster this time. Oh, how I
wish I was traveling by railway!"

There, her breath failed her. She reclined in her chair, and
fanned herself silently--for a while.

I was now able to turn my attention to the two visitors. Sir John
Drone, it was easy to see, would be no obstacle to confidential
conversation with Mrs. Eyrecourt. An excellent country gentleman,
with the bald head, the ruddy complexion, and the inexhaustible
capacity for silence, so familiar to us in English society--there
you have the true description of Sir John. But the famous
physician was quite another sort of man. I had only to look at
him, and to feel myself condemned to small talk while _he_ was in
the room.

You have always heard of it in my correspondence, whenever I have
been in the wrong. I was in the wrong again now--I had forgotten
the law of chances. Capricious Fortune, after a long interval,
was about to declare herself again in my favor, by means of the
very woman who had twice already got the better of me. What a
recompense for my kind inquiries after Mrs. Eyrecourt! She
recovered breath enough to begin talking again.

"Dear me, how dull you are!" she said to us. "Why don't you amuse
a poor prisoner confined to the house? Rest a little, Matilda, or
you will be falling ill next. Doctor! is this your last
professional visit?"

"Promise to take care of yourself, Mrs. Eyrecourt, and I will
confess that the professional visits are over. I come here to-day
only as a friend."

"You best of men! Do me another favor. Enliven our dullness. Tell
us some interesting story about a patient. These great doctors,
Sir John, pass their lives in a perfect atmosphere of romance.
Dr. Wybrow's consulting-room is like your confessional, Father
Benwell. The most fascinating sins and sorrows are poured into
his ears. What is the last romance in real life, doctor, that has
asked you to treat it medically? We don't want names and
places--we are good children; we only want a story."

Dr. Wybrow looked at me with a smile.

"It is impossible to persuade ladies," he said, "that we, too,
are father-confessors in our way. The first duty of a doctor,
Mrs. Eyrecourt--"

"Is to cure people, of course," she interposed in her smartest
manner.

The doctor answered seriously. "No, indeed. That is only the
second duty. Our first duty is invariably to respect the
confidence of our patients. However," he resumed in his easier
tone, "I happen to have seen a patient to-day, under
circumstances which the rules of professional honor do not forbid
me to mention. I don't know, Mrs. Eyrecourt, whether you will
quite like to be introduced to the scene of the story. The scene
is in a madhouse."

Mrs. Eyrecourt burst out with a coquettish little scream, and
shook her fan at the doctor. "No horrors!" she cried. "The bare
idea of a madhouse distracts me with terror. Oh, fie, fie! I
won't listen to you--I won't look at you--I positively refuse to
be frightened out of my wits. Matilda! wheel me away to the
furthest end of the room. My vivid imagination, Father Benwell,
is my rock ahead in life. I declare I can _smell_ the odious
madhouse. Go straight to the window, Matilda; I want to bury my
nose among the flowers."

Sir John, upon this, spoke for the first time. His language
consisted entirely of beginnings of sentences, mutely completed
by a smile. "Upon my word, you know. Eh, Doctor Wybrow? A man of
your experience. Horrors in madhouses. A lady in delicate health.
No, really. Upon my honor, now, I cannot. Something funny, oh
yes. But such a subject, oh no."

He rose to leave us. Dr. Wybrow gently stopped him. "I had a
motive, Sir John," he said, "but I won't trouble you with
needless explanations. There is a person, unknown to me, whom I
want to discover. You are a great deal in society when you are in
London. May I ask if you have ever met with a gentleman named
Winterfield?"

I have always considered the power of self-control as one of the
strongest points in my character. For the future I shall be more
humble. When I heard that name, my surprise so completely
mastered me that I sat self-betrayed to Dr. Wybrow as the man who
could answer his question.

In the meanwhile, Sir John took his time to consider, and
discovered that he had never heard of a person named Winterfield.
Having acknowledged his ignorance, in his own eloquent language,
he drifted away to the window-box in the next room, and gravely
contemplated Mrs. Eyrecourt, with her nose buried in flowers.

The doctor turned to me. "Am I wrong, Father Benwell, in
supposing that I had better have addressed myself to _you?"_

I admitted that I knew a gentleman named Winterfield.

Dr. Wybrow got up directly. "Have you a few minutes to spare?" he
asked. It is needless to say that I was at the doctor's disposal.
"My house is close by, and my carriage is at the door," he
resumed. "When you feel inclined to say good-by to our friend
Mrs. Eyrecourt, I have something to say to you which I think you
ought to know."

We took our departure at once. Mrs. Eyrecourt (leaving some of
the color of her nose among the flowers) patted me encouragingly
with her fan, and told the doctor that he was forgiven, on the
understanding that he would "never do it again." In five minutes
more we were in Dr. Wybrow's study.

My watch tells me that I cannot hope to finish this letter by
post time. Accept what I have written thus far--and be assured
that the conclusion of my report shall follow a day later.

II.

The doctor began cautiously. "Winterfield is not a very common
name," he said. "But it may not be amiss, Father Benwell, to
discover, if we can, whether _your_ Winterfield is the man of
whom I am in search. Do you only know him by name? or are you a
friend of his?"

I answered, of course, that I was a friend.

Dr. Wybrow went on. "Will you pardon me if I venture on an
indiscreet question? When you are acquainted with the
circumstances, I am sure you will understand and excuse me. Are
you aware of any--what shall I call it?--any romantic incident in
Mr. Winterfield's past life?"

This time--feeling myself, in all probability, on the brink of
discovery--I was careful to preserve my composure. I said,
quietly: "Some such incident as you describe has occurred in Mr.
Winterfield's past life." There I stopped discreetly, and looked
as if I knew all about it.

The doctor showed no curiosity to hear more. "My object," he went
on, "was merely to be reasonably sure that I was speaking to the
right person, in speaking to you. I may now tell you that I have
no personal interest in trying to discover Mr. Winterfield; I
only act as the representative of an old friend of mine. He is
the proprietor of a private asylum at Sandsworth--a man whose
integrity is beyond dispute, or he would not be my friend. You
understand my motive in saying this?"

Proprietors of private asylums are, in these days, the objects of
very general distrust in England. I understood the doctor's
motive perfectly.

He proceeded. "Yesterday evening, my friend called upon me, and
said that he had a remarkable case in his house, which he
believed would interest me. The person to whom he alluded was a
French boy, whose mental powers had been imperfectly developed
from his childhood. The mischief had been aggravated, when he was
about thirteen years old, by a serious fright. When he was placed
in my asylum, he was not idiotic, and not dangerously mad--it was
a case (not to use technical language) of deficient intelligence,
tending sometimes toward acts of unreasoning mischief and petty
theft, but never approaching to acts of downright violence. My
friend was especially interested in the lad--won his confidence
and affection by acts of kindness--and so improved his bodily
health as to justify some hope of also improving the state of his
mind, when a misfortune occurred which has altered the whole
prospect. The poor creature has fallen ill of a fever, and the
fever has developed to typhus. So far, there has been little to
interest you--I am coming to a remarkable event at last. At the
stage of the fever when delirium usually occurs in patients of
sound mind, this crazy French boy has become perfectly sane and
reasonable!"

I looked at him, when he made this amazing assertion, with a
momentary doubt of his being in earnest. Doctor Wybrow understood
me.

"Just what I thought, too, when I first heard it!" he said. "My
friend was neither offended nor surprised. After inviting me to
go to his house, and judge for myself, he referred me to a
similar case, publicly cited in the 'Cornhill Magazine,' for the
month of April, 1879, in an article entitled 'Bodily Illness as a
Mental Stimulant.' The article is published anonymously; but the
character of the periodical in which it appears is a sufficient
guarantee of the trustworthiness of the statement. I was so far
influenced by the testimony thus cited, that I drove to
Sandsworth and examined the case myself."

"Did the examination satisfy you?"

"Thoroughly. When I saw him last night, the poor boy was as sane
as I am. There is, however, a complication in this instance,
which is not mentioned in the case related in print. The boy
appears to have entirely forgotten every event in his past life,
reckoning from the time when the bodily illness brought with it
the strange mental recovery which I have mentioned to you."

This was a disappointment. I had begun to hope for some coming
result, obtained by the lad's confession.

"Is it quite correct to call him sane, when his memory is gone?"
I ventured to ask.

"In this case there is no necessity to enter into the question,"
the doctor answered. "The boy's lapse of memory refers, as I told
you, to his past life--that is to say, his life when his
intellect was deranged. During the extraordinary interval of
sanity that has now declared itself, he is putting his mental
powers to their first free use; and none of them fail him, so far
as I can see. His new memory (if I may call it so) preserves the
knowledge of what has happened since his illness. You may imagine
how this problem in brain disease interests me; and you will not
wonder that I am going back to Sandsworth tomorrow afternoon,
when I have done with my professional visits. But you may be
reasonably surprised at my troubling _you_ with details which are
mainly interesting to a medical man."

Was he about to ask me to go with him to the asylum? I replied
very briefly, merely saying that the details were interesting to
every student of human nature. If he could have felt my pulse at
that moment, I am afraid he might have thought I was in a fair
way of catching the fever too.

"Prepare yourself," he resumed, "for another surprising
circumstance. Mr. Winterfield is, by some incomprehensible
accident, associated with one of the mischievous tricks played by
the French boy, before he was placed under my friend's care.
There, at any rate, is the only explanation by which we can
account for the discovery of an envelope (with inclosures) found
sewn up in the lining of the lad's waistcoat, and directed to Mr.
Winterfield--without any place of address."

I leave you to imagine the effect which those words produced on
me.

"Now," said the doctor, "you will understand why I put such
strange questions to you. My friend and I are both hard-working
men. We go very little into society, as the phrase is; and
neither he nor I had ever heard the name of Winterfield. As a
certain proportion of my patients happen to be people with a
large experience of society, I undertook to make inquiries, so
that the packet might be delivered, if possible, to the right
person. You heard how Mrs. Eyrecourt (surely a likely lady to
assist me?) received my unlucky reference to the madhouse; and
you saw how I puzzled Sir John. I consider myself most fortunate,
Father Benwell, in having had the honor of meeting you? Will you
accompany me to the asylum to-morrow? And can you add to the
favor by bringing Mr. Winterfield with you?"

This last request it was out of my power--really out of my
power--to grant. Winterfield had left London that morning on his
visit to Paris. His address there was, thus far, not known to me.

"Well, you must represent your friend," the doctor said. "Time is
every way of importance in this case. Will you kindly call here
at five to-morrow afternoon?"

I was punctual to my appointment. We drove together to the
asylum.

There is no need for me to trouble you with a narrative of what I
saw--favored by Doctor Wybrow's introduction--at the French boy's
bedside. It was simply a repetition of what I had already heard.
There he lay, at the height of the fever, asking, in the
intervals of relief, intelligent questions relating to the
medicines administered to him; and perfectly understanding the
answers. He was only irritable when we asked him to take his
memory back to the time before his illness; and then he answered
in French, "I haven't got a memory."

But I have something else to tell you, which is deserving of your
best attention. The envelope and its inclosures (addressed to
"Bernard Winterfield, Esqre.") are in my possession. The
Christian name sufficiently identifies the inscription with the
Winterfield whom I know.

The circumstances under which the discovery was made were related
to me by the proprietor of the asylum.

When the boy was brought to the house, two French ladies (his
mother and sister) accompanied him. and mentioned what had been
their own domestic experience of the case. They described the
wandering propensities which took the lad away from home, and the
odd concealment of his waistcoat, on the last occasion when he
had returned from one of his vagrant outbreaks.

On his first night at the asylum, he became excited by finding
himself in a strange place. It was necessary to give  him a
composing draught. On goin g to bed, he was purposely not
prevented from hiding his waistcoat under the pillow, as usual.

When the sedative had produced its effect, the attendant easily
possessed himself of the hidden garment. It was the plain duty of
the master of the house to make sure that nothing likely to be
turned to evil uses was concealed by a patient. The seal which
had secured the envelope was found, on examination, to have been
broken.

"I would not have broken the seal myself," our host added. "But,
as things were, I thought it my duty to look at the inclosures.
They refer to private affairs of Mr. Winterfield, in which he is
deeply interested, and they ought to have been long since placed
in his possession. I need hardly say that I consider myself bound
to preserve the strictest silence as to what I have read. An
envelope, containing some blank sheets of paper, was put back in
the boy's waistcoat, so that he might feel it in its place under
the lining, when he woke. The original envelope and inclosures
(with a statement of circumstances signed by my assistant and
myself) have been secured under another cover, sealed with my own
seal. I have done my best to discover Mr. Bernard Winterfield. He
appears not to live in London. At least I failed to find his name
in the Directory. I wrote next, mentioning what had happened, to
the English gentleman to whom I send reports of the lad's health.
He couldn't help me. A second letter to the French ladies only
produced the same result. I own I should be glad to get rid of my
responsibility on honorable terms."

All this was said in the boy's presence. He lay listening to it
as if it had been a story told of some one else. I could not
resist the useless desire to question him. Not speaking French
myself (although I can read the language), I asked Doctor Wybrow
and his friend to interpret for me.

My questions led to nothing. The French boy knew no more about
the stolen envelope than I did.

There was no discoverable motive, mind, for suspecting him of
imposing on us. When I said, "Perhaps you stole it?" he answered
quite composedly, "Very likely; they tell me I have been mad; I
don't remember it myself; but mad people do strange things." I
tried him again. "Or, perhaps, you took it away out of mischief?"
"Yes." "And you broke the seal, and looked at the papers?" "I
dare say." "And then you kept them hidden, thinking they might be
of some use to you? Or perhaps feeling ashamed of what you had
done, and meaning to restore them if you got the opportunity?"
"You know best, sir." The same result followed when we tried to
find out where he had been, and what people had taken care of
him, during his last vagrant escape from home. It was a new
revelation to him that he had been anywhere. With evident
interest, he applied to us to tell him where he had wandered to,
and what people he had seen!

So our last attempts at enlightenment ended. We came to the final
question of how to place the papers, with the least possible loss
of time, in Mr. Winterfield's hands.

His absence in Paris having been mentioned, I stated plainly my
own position toward him at the present time.

"Mr. Winterfield has made an appointment with me to call at his
hotel, on his return to London," I said. "I shall probably be the
first friend who sees him. If you will trust me with your sealed
packet, in consideration of these circumstances, I will give you
a formal receipt for it in Doctor Wybrow's presence--and I will
add any written pledge that you may require on my part, acting as
Mr. Winterfield's representative and friend. Perhaps you would
like a reference as well?"

He made a courteous reply. "A friend of Dr. Wybrow's," he said,
"requires no other reference."

"Excuse me," I persisted. "I had the honor of meeting Doctor
Wybrow, for the first time, yesterday. Permit me to refer you to
Lord Loring, who has long known me as his spiritual director and
friend."

This account of myself settled the matter. I drew out the
necessary securities--and I have all the papers lying before me
on my desk at this moment.

You remember how seals were broken, and impressed again, at the
Roman post-office, in the revolutionary days when we were both
young men? Thanks to the knowledge then obtained, the
extraordinary events which once associated Mr. Winterfield and
Miss Eyrecourt are at last plainly revealed to me. Copies of the
papers are in my possession, and the originals are sealed again,
with the crest of the proprietor of the asylum, as if nothing had
happened. I make no attempt to excuse myself. You know our
motto:--THE END JUSTIFIES THE MEANS.

I don't propose to make any premature use of the information
which I have obtained. The first and foremost necessity, as I
have already reminded you, is to give Penrose the undisturbed
opportunity of completing the conversion of Romayne. During this
interval, my copies of the papers are at the disposal of my
reverend brethren at headquarters.

                                            ----

THE STOLEN PAPERS.--(COPIES.)

_Number One.--From Emma Winterfield to Bernard Winterfield._

4 Maidwell Buildings, Belhaven.

How shall I address you? Dear Bernard, or Sir? It doesn't matter.
I am going to do one of the few good actions of my life: and
familiarities or formalities matter nothing to a woman who lies
on her deathbed.

Yes--I have met with another accident. Shortly after the date of
our separation, you heard, I think, of the fall in the circus
that fractured my skull? On that occasion, a surgical operation,
and a bit of silver plate in place of the bone, put me right
again. This time it has been the kick of a horse, in the stables.
Some internal injury is the consequence. I may die to-morrow, or
live till next week. Anyway--the doctor has confessed it--my time
has come.

Mind one thing. The drink--that vile habit which lost me your
love and banished me from your house--the drink is not to blame
for this last misfortune. Only the day before it happened I had
taken the pledge, under persuasion of the good rector here, the
Reverend Mr. Fennick. It is he who has brought me to make this
confession, and who takes it down in writing at my bedside. Do
you remember how I once hated the very name of a parson--and when
you proposed, in joke, to marry me before the registrar, how I
took it in downright earnest, and kept you to your word? We poor
horse-riders and acrobats only knew clergymen as the worst
enemies we had--always using their influence to keep the people
out of our show, and the bread out of our mouths. If I had met
with Mr. Fennick in my younger days, what a different woman I
might have been!

Well, regrets of that kind are useless now. I am truly sorry,
Bernard, for the evil that I have done to you; and I ask your
pardon with a contrite heart.

You will at least allow it in my favor that your drunken wife
knew she was unworthy of you. I refused to accept the allowance
that you offered to me. I respected your name. For seven years
from the time of our separation I returned to my profession under
an assumed name and never troubled you. The one thing I could not
do was to forget you. If you were infatuated by my unlucky
beauty, I loved devotedly on my side. The well-born gentleman who
had sacrificed everything for my sake, was something more than
mortal in my estimation; he was--no! I won't shock the good man
who writes this by saying what he was. Besides, what do you care
for my thoughts of you now?

If you had only been content to remain as I left you--or if I had
not found out that you were in love with Miss Eyrecourt, and were
likely to marry her, in the belief that death had released you
from me--I should have lived and died, doing you no other injury
than the first great injury of consenting to be your wife.

But I made the discovery--it doesn't matter how. Our circus was
in Devonshire at the time. My jealous rage maddened me, and I had
a wicked admirer in a man who was old enough to be my father. I
let him suppose that the way to my favor lay through helping my
revenge on the woman who was about to take my place. He found the
money to have you watched at home and abroad; he put the false
announcement of my death in the daily newspapers, to complete
your delusion; he baffled the inquiries made through your lawyers
to obtain positive proof of my death. And last, and (in those
wicked days) best service of all he took me to Brussels and
posted me at the door of the English church, so that your lawful
wife (with her marriage certificate in her hand) was the first
person who met you and the mock Mrs. Winterfield on your way from
the altar to the wedding breakfast.

I own it, to my shame. I triumphed in the mischief I had done.

But I had deserved to suffer; and I did suffer, when I heard that
Miss Eyrecourt's mother and her two friends took her away from
you--with her own entire approval--at the church door, and
restored her to society, without a stain on her reputation. How
the Brussels marriage was kept a secret, I could not find out.
And when I threatened them with exposure, I got a lawyer's
letter, and was advised in my own interests to hold my tongue.
The rector has since told me that your marriage to Miss Eyrecourt
could be lawfully declared null and void, and that the
circumstances would excuse _you_, before any judge in England. I
can now well understand that people, with rank and money to help
them, can avoid exposure to which the poor, in their places, must
submit.

One more. duty (the last) still remains to be done.

I declare solemnly, on my deathbed, that you acted in perfect
good faith when you married Miss Eyrecourt. You have not only
been a man cruelly injured by me, but vilely insulted and
misjudged by the two Eyrecourts, and by the lord and lady who
encouraged them to set you down as a villain guilty of heartless
and shameless deceit.

It is my conviction that these people might have done more than
misinterpret your honorable submission to the circumstances in
which you were placed. They might have prosecuted you for
bigamy--if they could have got me to appear against you. I am
comforted when I remember that I did make some small amends. I
kept out of their way and yours, from that day to this.

I am told that I owe it to you to leave proof of my death behind
me.

When the doctor writes my certificate, he will mention the mark
by which I may be identified, if this reaches you (as I hope and
believe it will) between the time of my death and my burial. The
rector, who will close and seal these lines, as soon as the
breath is out of my body, will add what he can to identify me;
and the landlady of this house is ready to answer any questions
that may be put to her. This time you may be really assured that
you are free. When I am buried, and they show you my nameless
grave in the churchyard, I know your kind heart--I die, Bernard,
in the firm belief that you will forgive me.

There was one thing more that I had to ask of you, relating to a
poor lost creature who is in the room with us at this moment.
But, oh, I am so weary! Mr. Fennick will tell you what it is. Say
to yourself sometimes--perhaps when you have married some lady
who is worthy of you--There was good as well as bad in poor Emma.
Farewell.

_Number Two--From The Rev. Charles Fennick to Bernard
Winterfield._

The Rectory, Belhaven.

Sir--It is my sad duty to inform you that Mrs. Emma Winterfield
died this morning, a little before five o'clock. I will add no
comment of mine to the touching language in which she has
addressed you. God has, I most sincerely believe, accepted the
poor sinner's repentance. Her contrite spirit is at peace, among
the forgiven ones in the world beyond the grave.

In consideration of her wish that you should see her in death,
the coffin will be kept open until the last moment. The medical
man in attendance has kindly given me a copy of his certificate,
which I inclose. You will see that the remains are identified by
the description of a small silver plate on the right parietal
bone of the skull.

I need hardly add that all the information I can give you is
willingly at your service.

She mentions, poor soul, something which she had to ask of you. I
prefer the request which, in her exhausted state, she was unable
to address to you in her own words.

While the performances of the circus were taking place in the
next county to ours, a wandering lad, evidently of deficient
intelligence, was discovered, trying to creep under the tent to
see what was going on. He could give no intelligible account of
himself. The late Mrs. Winterfield (who was born and brought up,
as I understand, in France) discovered that the boy was French,
and felt interested in the unfortunate creature, from former
happy association with kind friends of his nation. She took care
of him from that time to the day of her death--and he appeared to
be gratefully attached to her.

I say "appeared," because an inveterate reserve marks one of the
peculiarities of the mental affliction from which he suffers.
Even his benefactress never could persuade him to take her into
his confidence. In other respects, her influence (so far as I can
learn) had been successfully exerted in restraining certain
mischievous propensities in him, which occasionally showed
themselves. The effect of her death has been to intensify that
reserve to which I have already alluded. He is sullen and
irritable--and the good landlady at the lodgings does not
disguise that she shrinks from taking care of him, even for a few
days. Until I hear from you, he will remain under the charge of
my housekeeper at the rectory.

You have, no doubt, anticipated the request which the poor
sufferer wished to address to you but a few hours before her
death. She hoped that you might be willing to place this
friendless and helpless creature under competent protection.
Failing your assistance, I shall have no alternative, however I
may regret it, but to send him to the workhouse of this town, on
his way, probably, to the public asylum.

Believe me, sir, your faithful servant,

                                            CHARLES FENNICK.

P.S.--I fear my letter and its inclosures may be delayed in
reaching you.

Yesterday evening, I had returned to my house, before it occurred
to me that Mrs. Winterfield had not mentioned your address. My
only excuse for this forgetfulness is, that I was very much
distressed while I was writing by her bedside. I at once went
back to the lodgings, but she had fallen asleep, and I dared not
disturb her. This morning, when I returned to the house, she was
dead. There is an allusion to Devonshire in her letter, which
suggests that your residence may be in that county; and I think
she once spoke of you as a person of rank and fortune. Having
failed to find your name in a London Directory, I am now about to
search our free library here for a county history of Devon, on
the chance that it may assist me. Let me add, for your own
satisfaction, that no eyes but mine will see these papers. For
security's sake, I shall seal them at once, and write your name
on the envelope.

_Added by Father Benwell._

How the boy contrived to possess himself of the sealed packet we
shall probably never discover. Anyhow, we know that he must have
escaped from the rectory, with the papers in his possession, and
that he did certainly get back to his mother and sister in
London.

With such complete information as I now have at my disposal, the
prospect is as clear again as we can desire. The separation of
Romayne from his wife, and the alteration of his will in favor of
the Church, seem to be now merely questions of time.

BOOK THE FOURTH.

CHAPTER I.

THE BREACH IS WIDENED.

A FORTNIGHT after Father Benwell's discovery, Stella followed her
husband one morning into his study. "Have you heard from Mr.
Penrose?" she inquired.

"Yes. He will be here to-morrow."

"To make a long visit?"

"I hope so. The longer the better."

She looked at him with a mingled expression of surprise and
reproach. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Why do you want him
so much--when you have got Me?"

Thus far, he had been sitting at his desk, resting his head on
his hand, with his downcast eyes fixed on an open book. When she
put her last question to him he suddenly looked up. Through the
large window at his side the morning light fell  on his face. The
haggard look of suffering, which Stella remembered on the day
when they met on the deck of the steamboat, was again
visible--not softened and chastened now by the touching
resignation of the bygone time, but intensified by the dogged and
despairing endurance of a man weary of himself and his life. Her
heart ached for him. She said, softly: "I don't mean to reproach
you."

"Are you jealous of Penrose?" he asked, with a bitter smile.

She desperately told him the truth. "I am afraid of Penrose," she
answered.

He eyed her with a strange expression of suspicious surprise.
"Why are you afraid of Penrose?"

It was no time to run the risk of irritating him. The torment of
the Voice had returned in the past night. The old gnawing remorse
of the fatal day of the duel had betrayed itself in the wild
words that had escaped him, when he sank into a broken slumber as
the morning dawned. Feeling the truest pity for him, she was
still resolute to assert herself against the coming interference
of Penrose. She tried her ground by a dangerous means--the means
of an indirect reply.

"I think you might have told me," she said, "that Mr. Penrose was
a Catholic priest."

He looked down again at his book. "How did you know Penrose was a
Catholic priest?"

"I had only to look at the direction on your letters to him."

"Well, and what is there to frighten you in his being a priest?
You told me at the Loring's ball that you took an interest in
Penrose because I liked him."

"I didn't know then, Lewis, that he had concealed his profession
from us. I can't help distrusting a man who does that."

He laughed--not very kindly. "You might as well say you distrust
a man who conceals that he is an author, by writing an anonymous
book. What Penrose did, he did under orders from his
superior--and, moreover, he frankly owned to me that he was a
priest. If you blame anybody, you had better blame me for
respecting his confidence."

She drew back from him, hurt by the tone in which he spoke to
her. "I remember the time, Lewis," she said, "when you would have
been more indulgent toward my errors--even if I am wrong."

That simple appeal touched his better nature. "I don't mean to be
hard on you, Stella," he answered. "It is a little irritating to
hear you say that you distrust the most devoted and most
affectionate friend that man ever had. Why can't I love my wife,
and love my friend, too? You don't know, when I am trying to get
on with my book, how I miss the help and sympathy of Penrose. The
very sound of his voice used to encourage me. Come, Stella, give
me a kiss--and let us, as the children say, make it up!"

He rose from his writing-table. She met him more than half way,
and pressed all her love--and perhaps a little of her fear--on
his lips. He returned the kiss as warmly as it was given; and
then, unhappily for both of them, he went back to the subject.

"My own love," he said, "try to like my friend for my sake; and
be tolerant of other forms of Christianity besides the form which
happens to be yours."

Her smiling lips closed; she turned from him. With the sensitive
selfishness of a woman's love, she looked on Penrose as a robber
who had stolen the sympathies which should have been wholly hers.
As she moved away, her quick observation noticed the open book on
the desk, with notes and lines in pencil on the margin of the
page. What had Romayne been reading which interested him in
_that_ way? If he had remained silent, she would have addressed
the inquiry to him openly. But he was hurt on his side by the
sudden manner of her withdrawal from him. He spoke--and his tone
was colder than ever.

"I won't attempt to combat your prejudices," he said. "But one
thing I must seriously ask of you. When my friend Penrose comes
here to-morrow, don't treat him as you treated Mr. Winterfield."

There was a momentary paleness in her face which looked like
fear, but it passed away again. She confronted him firmly with
steady eyes.

"Why do you refer again to that?" she asked. "Is--" (she
hesitated and recovered herself)--"Is Mr. Winterfield another
devoted friend of yours?"

He walked to the door, as if he could hardly trust his temper if
he answered her--stopped--and, thinking better of it, turned
toward her again.

"We won't quarrel, Stella," he rejoined; "I will only say I am
sorry you don't appreciate my forbearance. Your reception of Mr.
Winterfield has lost me the friendship of a man whom I sincerely
liked, and who might have assisted my literary labors. You were
ill at the time, and anxious about Mrs. Eyrecourt. I respected
your devotion to your mother. I remembered your telling me, when
you first went away to nurse her, that your conscience accused
you of having sometimes thoughtlessly neglected your mother in
her days of health and good spirits, and I admired the motive of
atonement which took you to her bedside. For those reasons I
shrank from saying a word that might wound you. But, because I
was silent, it is not the less true that you surprised and
disappointed me. Don't do it again! Whatever you may privately
think of Catholic priests, I once more seriously request you not
to let Penrose see it."

He left the room.

She stood, looking after him as he closed the door, like a woman
thunderstruck. Never yet had he looked at her as he looked when
he spoke his last warning words. With a heavy sigh she roused
herself. The vague dread with which his tone rather than his
words had inspired her, strangely associated itself with the
momentary curiosity which she had felt on noticing the annotated
book that lay on his desk.

She snatched up the volume and looked at the open page. It
contained the closing paragraphs of an eloquent attack on
Protestantism, from the Roman Catholic point of view. With
trembling hands she turned back to the title-page. It presented
this written inscription: "To Lewis Romayne from his attached
friend and servant, Arthur Penrose."

"God help me!" she said to herself; "the priest has got between
us already!"

CHAPTER II.

A CHRISTIAN JESUIT.

ON the next day Penrose arrived on his visit to Romayne.

The affectionate meeting between the two men tested Stella's
self-control as it had never been tried yet. She submitted to the
ordeal with the courage of a woman whose happiness depended on
her outward graciousness of manner toward her husband's friend.
Her reception of Penrose, viewed as an act of refined courtesy,
was beyond reproach. When she found her opportunity of leaving
the room, Romayne gratefully opened the door for her. "Thank
you!" he whispered, with a look which was intended to reward her.

She only bowed to him, and took refuge in her own room.

Even in trifles, a woman's nature is degraded by the falsities of
language and manner which the artificial condition of modern
society exacts from her. When she yields herself to more serious
deceptions, intended to protect her dearest domestic interests,
the mischief is increased in proportion. Deceit, which is the
natural weapon of defense used by the weak creature against the
strong, then ceases to be confined within the limits assigned by
the sense of self-respect and by the restraints of education. A
woman in this position will descend, self- blinded, to acts of
meanness which would be revolting to her if they were related of
another person.

Stella had already begun the process of self-degradation by
writing secretly to Winterfield. It was only to warn him of the
danger of trusting Father Benwell--but it was a letter, claiming
him as her accomplice in an act of deception. That morning she
had received Penrose with the outward cordialities of welcome
which are offered to an old and dear friend. And now, in the safe
solitude of her room, she had fallen to a lower depth still. She
was deliberately considering the safest means of acquainting
herself with the confidential conversation which Romayne and
Penrose would certainly hold when she left them together. "He
will try to set my husband against me; and I have a right to know
what means he uses, in my own defense." With that thought she
reconciled herself to an action which she would have despised if
she had heard of it as the action of another woman.

It was a beauti ful autumn day, brightened by clear sunshine,
enlivened by crisp air. Stella put on her hat and went out for a
stroll in the grounds.

While she was within view from the windows of the servants'
offices she walked away from the house. Turning the corner of a
shrubbery, she entered a winding path, on the other side, which
led back to the lawn under Romayne's study window. Garden chairs
were placed here and there. She took one of them, and seated
herself--after a last moment of honorable hesitation--where she
could hear the men's voices through the open window above her.

Penrose was speaking at the time.

"Yes. Father Benwell has granted me a holiday," he said; "but I
don't come here to be an idle man. You must allow me to employ my
term of leave in the pleasantest of all ways. I mean to be your
secretary again."

Romayne sighed. "Ah, if you knew how I have missed you!"

(Stella waited, in breathless expectation, for what Penrose would
say to this. Would he speak of _her?_ No. There was a natural
tact and delicacy in him which waited for the husband to
introduce the subject.)

Penrose only said, "How is the great work getting on?"

The answer was sternly spoken in one word--"Badly!"

"I am surprised to hear that, Romayne."

"Why? Were you as innocently hopeful as I was? Did you expect my
experience of married life to help me in writing my book?"

Penrose replied after a pause, speaking a little sadly. "I
expected your married life to encourage you in all your highest
aspirations," he said.

(Stella turned pale with suppressed anger. He had spoken with
perfect sincerity. The unhappy woman believed that he lied, for
the express purpose of rousing irritation against her, in her
husband's irritable mind. She listened anxiously for Romayne's
answer.)

He made no answer. Penrose changed the subject. "You are not
looking very well," he gently resumed. "I am afraid your health
has interfered with your work. Have you had any return--?"

It was still one of the characteristics of Romayne's nervous
irritability that he disliked to hear the terrible delusion of
the Voice referred to in words. "Yes," he interposed bitterly, "I
have heard it again and again. My right hand is as red as ever,
Penrose, with the blood of a fellow-creature. Another destruction
of my illusions when I married!"

"Romayne! I don't like to hear you speak of your marriage in that
way."

"Oh, very well. Let us go back to my book. Perhaps I shall get on
better with it now you are here to help me. My ambition to make a
name in the world has never taken so strong a hold on me (I don't
know why, unless other disappointments have had something to do
with it) as at this time, when I find I can't give my mind to my
work. We will make a last effort together, my friend! If it
fails, we will put my manuscripts into the fire, and I will try
some other career. Politics are open to me. Through politics, I
might make my mark in diplomacy. There is something in directing
the destinies of nations wonderfully attractive to me in my
present state of feeling. I hate the idea of being indebted for
my position in the world, like the veriest fool living, to the
accidents of birth and fortune. Are _you_ content with the
obscure life that you lead? Did you not envy that priest (he is
no older than I am) who was sent the other day as the Pope's
ambassador to Portugal?"

Penrose spoke out at last without hesitation. "You are in a
thoroughly unwholesome state of mind," he said.

Romayne laughed recklessly. "When was I ever in a healthy state
of mind?" he asked.

Penrose passed the interruption over without notice. "If I am to
do you any good," he resumed, "I must know what is really the
matter with you. The very last question that I ought to put, and
that I wish to put, is the question which you force me to ask."

"What is it?"

"When you speak of your married life," said Penrose, "your tone
is the tone of a disappointed man. Have you any serious reason to
complain of Mrs. Romayne?"

(Stella rose to her feet, in her eagerness to hear what her
husband's answer would be.)

"Serious reason?" Romayne repeated. "How can such an idea have
entered your head? I only complain of irritating trifles now and
then. Even the best of women is not perfect. It's hard to expect
it from any of them."

(The interpretation of this reply depended entirely on the tone
in which it was spoken. What was the animating spirit in this
case? Irony or Indulgence? Stella was ignorant of the indirect
methods of irritation, by means of which Father Benwell had
encouraged Romayne's doubts of his wife's motive for the
reception of Winterfield. Her husband's tone, expressing this
state of mind, was new to her. She sat down again, divided
between hope and fear, waiting to hear more. The next words,
spoken by Penrose, astounded her. The priest, the Jesuit, the
wily spiritual intruder between man and wife, actually took the
wife's side!)

"Romayne," he proceeded quietly, "I want you to be happy."

"How am I to be happy?"

"I will try and tell you. I believe your wife to be a good woman.
I believe she loves you. There is something in her face that
speaks for her--even to an inexperienced person like myself.
Don't be impatient with her! Put away from you that besetting
temptation to speak in irony--it is so easy to take that tone,
and sometimes so cruel. I am only a looker-on, I know. Domestic
happiness can never be the happiness of _my_ life. But I have
observed my fellow-creatures of all degrees--and this, I tell
you, is the result. The largest number of happy men are the
husbands and fathers. Yes; I admit that they have terrible
anxieties--but they are fortified by unfailing compensations and
encouragements. Only the other day I met with a man who had
suffered the loss of fortune and, worse still, the loss of
health. He endured those afflictions so calmly that he surprised
me. 'What is the secret of your philosophy?' I asked. He
answered, 'I can bear anything while I have my wife and my
children.' Think of that, and judge for yourself how much
happiness you may have left yet ungathered in your married life."

(Those words touched Stella's higher nature, as the dew touches
the thirsty ground. Surely they were nobly spoken! How would her
husband receive them?)

"I must think with your mind, Penrose, before I can do what you
ask of me. Is there any method of transformation by which I can
change natures with you?" That was all he said--and he said it
despondingly.

Penrose understood, and felt for him.

"If there is anything in my nature, worthy to be set as an
example to you," he replied, "you know to what blessed influence
I owe self-discipline and serenity of mind. Remember what I said
when I left you in London, to go back to my friendless life. I
told you that I found, in the Faith I held, the one sufficient
consolation which helped me to bear my lot. And--if there came a
time of sorrow in the future--I entreated you to remember what I
had said. Have you remembered it?"

"Look at the book here on my desk--look at the other books,
within easy reach, on that table--are you satisfied?"

"More than satisfied. Tell me--do you feel nearer to an
understanding of the Faith to which I have tried to convert you?"

There was a pause. "Say that I do feel nearer," Romayne
resumed--"say that some of my objections are removed--are you
really as eager as ever to make a Catholic of me, now that I am a
married man?"

"I am even more eager," Penrose answered. "I have always believed
that your one sure way to happiness lay through your conversion.
Now, when I know, from what I have seen and heard in this room,
that you are not reconciled, as you should be, to your new life,
I am doubly confined in my belief. As God is my witness, I speak
sincerely. Hesitate no longer! Be converted, and be happy."

"Have you not forgotten something, Penrose?"

"What have I forgotten?"

"A serious consideration, perhaps. I have a Protestant wife."

"I have borne that in mind, Romayne, throughout our
conversation."

"And you still say--what you have just said?"

"With my whole heart, I say it! Be converted, and be happy. Be
happy, and you will be a  good husband. I speak in your wife 's
interest as well as in yours. People who are happy in each
other's society, will yield a little on either side, even on
questions of religious belief. And perhaps there may follow a
more profitable result still. So far as I have observed, a good
husband's example is gladly followed by his wife. Don't think
that I am trying to persuade you against your will! I am only
telling you, in my own justification, from what motives of love
for yourself, and of true interest in your welfare, I speak. You
implied just now that you had still some objections left. If I
can remove them--well and good. If I fail--if you cannot act on
purely conscientious conviction--I not only advise, I entreat
you, to remain as you are. I shall be the first to acknowledge
that you have done right."

(This moderation of tone would appeal irresistibly, as Stella
well knew, to her husband's ready appreciation of those good
qualities in others which he did not himself possess. Once more
her suspicion wronged Penrose. Had he his own interested motives
for pleading her cause? At the bare thought of it, she left her
chair and, standing under the window, boldly interrupted the
conversation by calling to Romayne.)

"Lewis!" she cried, "why do you stay indoors on this beautiful
day? I am sure Mr. Penrose would like a walk in the grounds."

Penrose appeared alone at the window. "You are quite right, Mrs.
Romayne," he said; "we will join you directly."

In a few minutes he turned the corner of the house, and met
Stella on the lawn. Romayne was not with him. "Is my husband not
coming with us?" she asked. "He will follow us," Penrose
answered. "I believe he has some letters to write."

Stella looked at him, suspecting some underhand exercise of
influence on her husband.

If she had been able to estimate the noble qualities in the
nature of Penrose, she might have done him the justice to arrive
at a truer conclusion. It was he who had asked leave (when Stella
had interrupted them) to take the opportunity of speaking alone
with Mrs. Romayne. He had said to his friend, "If I am wrong in
my anticipation of the effect of your change of religion on your
wife, let me find it out from herself. My one object is to act
justly toward you and toward her. I should never forgive myself
if I made mischief between you, no matter how innocent of any
evil intention I might be." Romayne had understood him. It was
Stella's misfortune ignorantly to misinterpret everything that
Penrose said or did, for the all-sufficient reason that he was a
Catholic priest. She had drawn the conclusion that her husband
had deliberately left her alone with Penrose, to be persuaded or
deluded into giving her sanction to aid the influence of the
priest. "They shall find they are mistaken," she thought to
herself.

"Have I interrupted an interesting conversation?" she inquired
abruptly. "When I asked you to come out, were you talking to my
husband about his historical work?"

"No, Mrs. Romayne; we were not speaking at that time of the
book."

"May I ask an odd question, Mr. Penrose?"

"Certainly!"

"Are you a very zealous Catholic?"

"Pardon me. I am a priest. Surely my profession speaks for me?"

"I hope you are not trying to convert my husband?"

Penrose stopped and looked at her attentively.

"Are you strongly opposed to your husband's conversion?" he
asked.

"As strongly," she answered, "as a woman can be."

"By religious conviction, Mrs. Romayne?"

"No. By experience."

Penrose started. "Is it indiscreet," he said gently, "to inquire
what your experience may have been?"

"I will tell you what my experience has been," Stella replied. "I
am ignorant of theological subtleties, and questions of doctrine
are quite beyond me. But this I do know. A well-meaning and
zealous Catholic shortened my father's life, and separated me
from an only sister whom I dearly loved. I see I shock you--and I
daresay you think I am exaggerating?"

"I hear what you say, Mrs. Romayne, with very great pain--I don't
presume to form any opinion thus far."

"My sad story can be told in a few words," Stella proceeded.
"When my elder sister was still a young girl, an aunt of ours (my
mother's sister) came to stay with us. She had married abroad,
and she was, as I have said, a zealous Catholic. Unknown to the
rest of us, she held conversations on religion with my
sister--worked on the enthusiasm which was part of the girl's
nature--and accomplished her conversion. Other influences, of
which I know nothing, were afterward brought to bear on my
sister. She declared her intention of entering a convent. As she
was under age, my father had only to interpose his authority to
prevent this. She was his favorite child. He had no heart to
restrain her by force--he could only try all that the kindest and
best of fathers could do to persuade her to remain at home. Even
after the years that have passed, I cannot trust myself to speak
of it composedly. She persisted; she was as hard as stone. My
aunt, when she was entreated to interfere, called her heartless
obstinacy 'a vocation.' My poor father's loving resistance was
worn out; he slowly drew nearer and nearer to death, from the day
when she left us. Let me do her justice, if I can. She has not
only never regretted entering the convent--she is so happily
absorbed in her religious duties that she has not the slightest
wish to see her mother or me. My mother's patience was soon worn
out. The last time I went to the convent, I went by myself. I
shall never go there again. She could not conceal her sense of
relief when I took my leave of her. I need say no more. Arguments
are thrown away on me, Mr. Penrose, after what I have seen and
felt. I have no right to expect that the consideration of my
happiness will influence you--but I may perhaps ask you, as a
gentleman, to tell me the truth. Do you come here with the
purpose of converting my husband?"

Penrose owned the truth, without an instant's hesitation.

"I cannot take your view of your sister's pious devotion of
herself to a religious life," he said. "But I can, and will,
answer you truly. From the time when I first knew him, my dearest
object has been to convert your husband to the Catholic Faith."

Stella drew back from him, as if he had stung her, and clasped
her hands in silent despair.

"But I am bound as a Christian," he went on, "to do to others as
I would they should do to me."

She turned on him suddenly, her beautiful face radiant with hope,
her hand trembling as it caught him by the arm.

"Speak plainly!" she cried.

He obeyed her to the letter.

"The happiness of my friend's wife, Mrs. Romayne, is sacred to me
for his sake. Be the good angel of your husband's life. I abandon
the purpose of converting him."

He lifted her hand from his arm and raised it respectfully to his
lips. Then, when he had bound himself by a promise that was
sacred to him, the terrible influence of the priesthood shook
even that brave and lofty soul. He said to himself, as he left
her, "God forgive me if I have done wrong!"

CHAPTER III.

WINTERFIELD RETURNS.

TWICE Father Benwell called at Derwent's Hotel, and twice he was
informed that no news had been received there of Mr. Winterfield.
At the third attempt, his constancy was rewarded. Mr. Winterfield
had written, and was expected to arrive at the hotel by five
o'clock.

It was then half-past four. Father Benwell decided to await the
return of his friend.

He was as anxious to deliver the papers which the proprietor of
the asylum had confided to him, as if he had never broken a seal
or used a counterfeit to hide the betrayal of a trust. The
re-sealed packet was safe in the pocket of his long black
frockcoat. His own future proceedings depended, in some degree,
on the course which Winterfield might take, when he had read the
confession of the unhappy woman who had once been his wife.

Would he show the letter to Stella, at a private interview, as an
unanswerable proof that she had cruelly wronged him? And would it
in this case be desirable--if the thing could be done--so to
handle circumstances as that Romayne might be present, unseen,
and might discover the truth for himself? In the other
event--that is to say, if Winterfield abstained from
communicating the confession to Stella--the responsibility of
making the necessary disclosure must remain with the priest.

Father Benwell walked softly up and down the room, looking about
him with quietly-observant eye. A side table in a corner was
covered with letters, waiting Winterfield's return. Always ready
for information of any sort, he even looked at the addresses on
the letters.

The handwritings presented the customary variety of character.
All but three of the envelopes showed the London district
postmarks. Two of the other letters (addressed to Winterfield at
his club) bore foreign postmarks; and one, as the altered
direction showed, had been forward from Beaupark House to the
hotel.

This last letter especially attracted the priest's attention.

The address was apparently in a woman's handwriting. And it was
worthy of remark that she appeared to be the only person among
Winterfield's correspondents who was not acquainted with the
address of his hotel or of his club. Who could the person be? The
subtly inquiring intellect of Father Benwell amused itself by
speculating even on such a trifling problem as this. He little
thought that he had a personal interest in the letter. The
envelope contained Stella's warning to Winterfield to distrust no
less a person than Father Benwell himself!

It was nearly half-past five before quick footsteps were audible
outside. Winterfield entered the room.

"This is friendly indeed!" he said. "I expected to return to the
worst of all solitudes--solitude in a hotel. You will stay and
dine with me? That's right. You must have thought I was going to
settle in Paris. Do you know what has kept me so long? The most
delightful theater in the world--the Opera Comique. I am so fond
of the bygone school of music, Father Benwell--the flowing
graceful delicious melodies of the composers who followed Mozart.
One can only enjoy that music in Paris. Would you believe that I
waited a week to hear Nicolo's delightful Joconde for the second
time. I was almost the only young man in the stalls. All round me
were the old men who remembered the first performances of the
opera, beating time with their wrinkled hands to the tunes which
were associated with the happiest days of their lives. What's
that I hear? My dog! I was obliged to leave him here, and he
knows I have come back!"

He flew to the door and called down the stairs to have the dog
set free. The spaniel rushed into the room and leaped into his
master's outstretched arms. Winterfield returned his caresses,
and kisses him as tenderly as a woman might have kissed her pet.

"Dear old fellow! it's a shame to have left you--I won't do it
again. Father Benwell, have you many friends who would be as glad
to see you as _this_ friend? I haven't one. And there are fools
who talk of a dog as an inferior being to ourselves! _This_
creature's faithful love is mine, do what I may. I might be
disgraced in the estimation of every human creature I know, and
he would be as true to me as ever. And look at his physical
qualities. What an ugly thing, for instance--I won't say your
ear--I will say, my ear is; crumpled and wrinkled and naked. Look
at the beautiful silky covering of _his_ ear! What are our senses
of smelling and hearing compared to his? We are proud of our
reason. Could we find our way back, if they shut us up in a
basket, and took us to a strange place away from home? If we both
want to run downstairs in a hurry, which of us is securest
against breaking his neck--I on my poor two legs, or he on his
four? Who is the happy mortal who goes to bed without
unbuttoning, and gets up again without buttoning? Here he is, on
my lap, knowing I am talking about him, and too fond of me to say
to himself, 'What a fool my master is!' "

Father Benwell listened to this rhapsody--so characteristic of
the childish simplicity of the man--with an inward sense of
impatience, which never once showed itself on the smiling surface
of his face.

He had decided not to mention the papers in his pocket until some
circumstance occurred which might appear to remind him naturally
that he had such things about him. If he showed any anxiety to
produce the envelope, he might expose himself to the suspicion of
having some knowledge of the contents. When would Winterfield
notice the side table, and open his letters?

The tick-tick of the clock on the mantel-piece steadily
registered the progress of time, and Winterfield's fantastic
attentions were still lavished on his dog.

Even Father Benwell's patience was sorely tried when the good
country gentleman proceeded to mention not only the spaniel's
name, but the occasion which had suggested it. "We call him
Traveler, and I will tell you why. When he was only a puppy he
strayed into the garden at Beaupark, so weary and footsore that
we concluded he had come to us from a great distance. We
advertised him, but he was never claimed--and here he is! If you
don't object, we will give Traveler a treat to-day. He shall have
dinner with us."

Perfectly understanding those last words, the dog jumped off his
master's lap, and actually forwarded the views of Father Benwell
in less than a minute more. Scampering round and round the room,
as an appropriate expression of happiness, he came into collision
with the side table and directed Winterfield's attention to the
letters by scattering them on the floor.

Father Benwell rose politely, to assist in picking up the
prostrate correspondence. But Traveler was beforehand with him.
Warning the priest, with a low growl, not to interfere with
another person's business, the dog picked up the letters in his
mouth, and carried them by installments to his master's feet.
Even then, the exasperating Winterfield went no further than
patting Traveler. Father Benwell's endurance reached its limits.
"Pray don't stand on ceremony with me," he said. "I will look at
the newspaper while you read your letters."

Winterfield carelessly gathered the letters together, tossed them
on the dining table at his side, and took the uppermost one of
the little heap.

Fate was certainly against the priest on that evening. The first
letter that Winterfield opened led him off to another subject of
conversation before he had read it to the end. Father Benwell's
hand, already in his coat pocket, appeared again--empty.

"Here's a proposal to me to go into Parliament," said the Squire.
"What do you think of representative institutions, Father
Benwell? To my mind, representative institutions are on their
last legs. Honorable Members vote away more of our money every
year. They have no alternative between suspending liberty of
speech, or sitting helpless while half a dozen impudent idiots
stop the progress of legislation from motives of the meanest
kind. And they are not even sensitive enough to the national
honor to pass a social law among themselves which makes it as
disgraceful in a gentleman to buy a seat by bribery as to cheat
at cards. I declare I think the card-sharper the least degraded
person of the two. _He_ doesn't encourage his inferiors to be
false to a public trust. In short, my dear sir, everything wears
out in this world--and why should the House of Commons be an
exception to the rule?"

He picked up the next letter from the heap. As he looked at the
address, his face changed. The smile left his lips, the gayety
died out of his eyes. Traveler, entreating for more notice with
impatient forepaws applied to his master's knees, saw the
alteration, and dropped into a respectfully recumbent position.
Father Benwell glanced sidelong off the columns of the newspaper,
and waited for events with all the discretion, and none of the
good faith, of the dog.

"Forwarded from Beaupark," Winterfield said to himself. He opened
the letter--read it carefully to the end--thought over it--and
read it again.

"Father Benwell!" he said suddenly.

The priest put down the newspaper. For a few moments more nothing
was audible but the steady tick-tick of the clock.

"We have not been very long acquainted," Winterfield resumed.
"But our association has been a pleasant one, and I think I owe
to you the duty of a friend. I don't belong to your Church; bu t
I hope you will believe me when I say that ignorant prejudice
against the Catholic priesthood is not one of _my_ prejudices."

Father Benwell bowed, in silence.

"You are mentioned," Winterfield proceeded, "in the letter which
I have just read."

"Are you at liberty to tell me the name of your correspondent?"
Father Benwell asked.

"I am not at liberty to do that. But I think it due to you, and
to myself, to tell you what the substance of the letter is. The
writer warns me to be careful in my intercourse with you. Your
object (I am told) is to make yourself acquainted with events in
my past life, and you have some motive which my correspondent has
thus far failed to discover. I speak plainly, but I beg you to
understand that I also speak impartially. I condemn no man
unheard--least of all, a man whom I have had the honor of
receiving under my own roof."

He spoke with a certain simple dignity. With equal dignity,
Father Benwell answered. It is needless to say that he now knew
Winterfield's correspondent to be Romayne's wife.

"Let me sincerely thank you, Mr. Winterfield, for a candor which
does honor to us both," he said. "You will hardly expect me--if I
may use such an expression--to condescend to justify myself
against an accusation which is an anonymous accusation so far as
I am concerned. I prefer to meet that letter by a plain proof;
and I leave you to judge whether I am still worthy of the
friendship to which you have so kindly alluded."

With this preface he briefly related the circumstances under
which he had become possessed of the packet, and then handed it
to Winterfield--with the seal uppermost.

"Decide for yourself," he concluded, "whether a man bent on
prying into your private affairs, with that letter entirely at
his mercy, would have been true to the trust reposed in him."

He rose and took his hat, ready to leave the room, if his honor
was profaned by the slightest expression of distrust.
Winterfield's genial and unsuspicious nature instantly accepted
the offered proof as conclusive. "Before I break the seal," he
said, "let me do you justice. Sit down again, Father Benwell, and
forgive me if my sense of duty has hurried me into hurting your
feelings. No man ought to know better than I do how often people
misjudge and wrong each other."

They shook hands cordially. No moral relief is more eagerly
sought than relief from the pressure of a serious explanation. By
common consent, they now spoke as lightly as if nothing had
happened. Father Benwell set the example.

"You actually believe in a priest!" he said gayly. "We shall make
a good Catholic of you yet."

"Don't be too sure of that," Winterfield replied, with a touch of
his quaint humor. "I respect the men who have given to humanity
the inestimable blessing of quinine--to say nothing of preserving
learning and civilization--but I respect still more my own
liberty as a free Christian."

"Perhaps a free thinker, Mr. Winterfield?"

"Anything you like to call it, Father Benwell, so long as it _is_
free."

They both laughed. Father Benwell went back to his newspaper.
Winterfield broke the seal of the envelope and took out the
inclosures.

The confession was the first of the papers at which he happened
to look. At the opening lines he turned pale. He read more, and
his eyes filled with tears. In low broken tones he said to the
priest, "You have innocently brought me most distressing news. I
entreat your pardon if I ask to be left alone."

Father Benwell said a few well-chosen words of sympathy, and
immediately withdrew. The dog licked his master's hand, hanging
listlessly over the arm of the chair.

Later in the evening, a note from Winterfield was left by
messenger at the priest's lodgings. The writer announced, with
renewed expressions of regret, that he would be again absent from
London on the next day, but that he hoped to return to the hotel
and receive his guest on the evening of the day after.

Father Benwell rightly conjectured that Winterfield's destination
was the town in which his wife had died.

His object in taking the journey was not, as the priest supposed,
to address inquiries to the rector and the landlady, who had been
present at the fatal illness and the death--but to justify his
wife's last expression of belief in the mercy and compassion of
the man whom she had injured. On that "nameless grave," so sadly
and so humbly referred to in the confession, he had resolved to
place a simple stone cross, giving to her memory the name which
she had shrunk from profaning in her lifetime. When he had
written the brief inscription which recorded the death of "Emma,
wife of Bernard Winterfield," and when he had knelt for a while
by the low turf mound, his errand had come to its end. He thanked
the good rector; he left gifts with the landlady and her
children, by which he was gratefully remembered for many a year
afterward; and then, with a heart relieved, he went back to
London.

Other men might have made their sad little pilgrimage alone.
Winterfield took his dog with him. "I must have something to
love," he said to the rector, "at such a time as this."

CHAPTER IV.

FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE.

_To the Secretary, S. J., Rome._

WHEN I wrote last, I hardly thought I should trouble you again so
soon. The necessity has, however, arisen. I must ask for
instructions, from our Most Reverend General, on the subject of
Arthur Penrose.

I believe that I informed you that I decided to defer my next
visit to Ten Acres Lodge for two or three days, in order that
Winterfield (if he intended to do so) might have time to
communicate with Mrs. Romayne, after his return from the country.
Naturally enough, perhaps, considering the delicacy of the
subject, he has not taken me into his confidence. I can only
guess that he has maintained the same reserve with Mrs. Romayne.

My visit to the Lodge was duly paid this afternoon.

I asked first, of course, for the lady of the house, and hearing
she was in the grounds, joined her there. She looked ill and
anxious, and she received me with rigid politeness. Fortunately,
Mrs. Eyrecourt (now convalescent) was staying at Ten Acres, and
was then taking the air in her chair on wheels. The good lady's
nimble and discursive tongue offered me an opportunity of
referring, in the most innocent manner possible, to Winterfield's
favorable opinion of Romayne's pictures. I need hardly say that I
looked at Romayne's wife when I mentioned the name. She turned
pale--probably fearing that I had some knowledge of her letter
warning Winterfield not to trust me. If she had already been
informed that he was not to be blamed, but to be pitied, in the
matter of the marriage at Brussels, she would have turned red.
Such, at least, is my experience, drawn from recollections of
other days. *

The ladies having served my purpose, I ventured into the house,
to pay my respects to Romayne.

He was in the study, and his excellent friend and secretary was
with him. After the first greetings Penrose left us. His manner
told me plainly that there was something wrong. I asked no
questions--waiting on the chance that Romayne might enlighten me.

"I hope you are in better spirits, now that you have your old
companion with you," I said.

"I am very glad to have Penrose with me," he answered. And then
he frowned and looked out of the window at the two ladies in the
grounds.

It occurred to me that Mrs. Eyrecourt might be occupying the
customary false position of a mother-in-law. I was mistaken. He
was not thinking of his wife's mother--he was thinking of his
wife.

"I suppose you know that Penrose had an idea of converting me?"
he said, suddenly.

I was perfectly candid with him--I said I knew it, and approved
of it. "May I hope that Arthur has succeeded in convincing you?"
I ventured to add.

"He might have succeeded, Father Benwell, if he had chosen to go
on."

This reply, as you may easily imagine, took me by surprise.

"Are you really so obdurate that Arthur despairs of your
conversion?" I asked.

"Nothing of the sort! I have thought and thought of it--and I can
tell you I was more than ready to meet him half way."

"Then where is the obstacle?" I exclaimed.

He pointed thro ugh the window to his wife. "There is the
obstacle," he said, in a tone of ironical resignation.

Knowing Arthur's character as I knew it, I at last understood
what had happened. For a moment I felt really angry. Under these
circumstances, the wise course was to say nothing, until I could
be sure of speaking with exemplary moderation. It doesn't do for
a man in my position to show anger.

Romayne went on.

"We talked of my wife, Father Benwell, the last time you were
here. You only knew, then, that her reception of Mr. Winterfield
had determined him never to enter my house again. By way of
adding to your information on the subject of 'petticoat
government,' I may now tell you that Mrs. Romayne has forbidden
Penrose to proceed with the attempt to convert me. By common
consent, the subject is never mentioned between us." The bitter
irony of his tone, thus far, suddenly disappeared. He spoke
eagerly and anxiously. "I hope you are not angry with Arthur?" he
said.

By this time my little fit of ill-temper was at an end. I
answered--and it was really in a certain sense true--"I know
Arthur too well to be angry with him."

Romayne seemed to be relieved. "I only troubled you with this
last domestic incident," he resumed, "to bespeak your indulgence
for Penrose. I am getting learned in the hierarchy of the Church,
Father Benwell! You are the superior of my dear little friend,
and you exercise authority over him. Oh, he is the kindest and
best of men! It is not his fault. He submits to Mrs.
Romayne--against his own better conviction--in the honest belief
that he consults the interests of our married life."

I don't think I misinterpret the state of Romayne's mind, and
mislead you, when I express my belief that this second indiscreet
interference of his wife between his friend and himself will
produce the very result which she dreads. Mark my words, written
after the closest observation of him--this new irritation of
Romayne's sensitive self-respect will hasten his conversion.

You will understand that the one alternative before me, after
what has happened, is to fill the place from which Penrose has
withdrawn. I abstained from breathing a word of this to Romayne.
It is he, if I can manage it, who must invite me to complete the
work of conversion--and, besides, nothing can be done until the
visit of Penrose has come to an end. Romayne's secret sense of
irritation may be safely left to develop itself, with time to
help it.

I changed the conversation to the subject of his literary labors.

The present state of his mind is not favorable to work of that
exacting kind. Even with the help of Penrose to encourage him, he
does not get on to his satisfaction--and yet, as I could plainly
perceive, the ambition to make a name in the world exercises a
stronger influence over him than ever. All in our favor, my
reverend friend--all in our favor!

I took the liberty of asking to see Penrose alone for a moment;
and, this request granted, Romayne and I parted cordially. I can
make most people like me, when I choose to try. The master of
Vange Abbey is no exception to the rule. Did I tell you,
by-the-by, that the property has a little declined of late in
value? It is now not worth more than six thousand a year. _We_
will improve it when it returns to the Church.

My interview with Penrose was over in two minutes. Dispensing
with formality, I took his arm, and led him into the front
garden.

"I have heard all about it," I said; "and I must not deny that
you have disappointed me. But I know your disposition, and I make
allowances. You have qualities, dear Arthur, which perhaps put
you a little out of place among us. I shall be obliged to report
what you have done--but you may trust me to put it favorably.
Shake hands, my son, and, while we are still together, let us be
as good friends as ever."

You may think that I spoke in this way with a view to my
indulgent language being repeated to Romayne, and so improving
the position which I have already gained in his estimation. Do
you know, I really believe I meant it at the time! The poor
fellow gratefully kissed my hand when I offered it to him--he was
not able to speak. I wonder whether I am weak about Arthur? Say a
kind word for him, when his conduct comes under notice--but pray
don't mention this little frailty of mine; and don't suppose I
have any sympathy with his weak-minded submission to Mrs.
Romayne's prejudices. If I ever felt the smallest consideration
for _her_ (and I cannot call to mind any amiable emotion of that
sort), her letter to Winterfield would have effectually
extinguished it. There is something quite revolting to me in a
deceitful woman.

In closing this letter, I may quiet the minds of our reverend
brethren, if I assure them that my former objection to
associating myself directly with the conversion of Romayne no
longer exists.

Yes! even at my age, and with my habits, I am now resigned to
hearing, and confuting, the trivial arguments of a man who is
young enough to be my son. I shall write a carefully-guarded
letter to Romayne, on the departure of Penrose; and I shall send
him a book to read, from the influence of which I expect
gratifying results. It is not a controversial work (Arthur has
been beforehand with me there)--it is Wiseman's "Recollections of
the Popes." I look to that essentially readable book to excite
Romayne's imagination, by vivid descriptions of the splendors of
the Church, and the vast influence and power of the higher
priesthood. Does this sudden enthusiasm of mine surprise you? And
are you altogether at a loss to know what it means?

It means, my friend, that I see our position toward Romayne in a
new light. Forgive me, if I say no more for the present. I prefer
to be silent, until my audacity is justified by events.

--- * Father Benwell's experience had, in this case, not misled
him. If Stella had remained unmarried, Winterfield might have
justified himself. But he was honorably unwilling to disturb her
relations with her husband, by satisfying her that he had never
been unworthy of the affection which had once united them.

CHAPTER V.

BERNARD WINTERFIELD'S CORRESPONDENCE.

I.

_From Mrs. Romayne to Mr. Winterfield._

HAS my letter failed to reach you? I directed it (as I direct
this) to Beaupark, not knowing your London address.

Yesterday, Father Benwell called at Ten Acres Lodge. He first saw
my mother and myself and he contrived to mention your name. It
was done with his usual adroitness, and I might perhaps have
passed it over if he had not looked at me. I hope and pray it may
be only my fancy--but I thought I saw, in his eyes, that he was
conscious of having me in his power, and that he might betray me
to my husband at any moment.

I have no sort of claim on you. And, Heaven knows, I have little
reason to trust you. But I thought you meant fairly by me when we
spoke together at this house. In that belief, I entreat you to
tell me if Father Benwell has intruded himself into your
confidence--or even if you have hinted anything to him which
gives him a hold over me.

II.

_From Mr. Winterfield to Mrs. Romayne._

Both your letters have reached me.

I have good reason for believing that you are entirely mistaken
in your estimate of Father Benwell's character. But I know, by
sad experience, how you hold to your opinions when they are once
formed; and I am eager to relieve you of all anxiety, so far as I
am concerned. I have not said one word--I have not even let slip
the slightest hint--which could inform Father Benwell of that
past event in our lives to which your letter alludes. Your secret
is a sacred secret to me; and it has been, and shall be, sacredly
kept.

There is a sentence in your letter which has given me great pain.
You reiterate the cruel language of the bygone time. You say,
"Heaven knows I have little reason to trust you."

I have reasons, on my side, for not justifying myself--except
under certain conditions. I mean under conditions which might
place me in a position to serve and advise you as a friend or
brother. In that case, I undertake to prove, even to you, that it
was a cruel injustice ever to have doubted me, and that there is
no man living whom y ou 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 spok en 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 chi n. 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 volu me 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. A t 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 t hat
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, whol ly 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 tho se 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 no t only her divine consolation, but
the honor, above all earthly distinctions, of serving the cause
of religion in the sacred ranks of the priesthood. Before his
departure for Rome he bade her a last farewell in this world, and
forgave her the injuries that she had inflicted on him. For her
sake he asked leave to say some few words more. In the first
place, he desired to do her every justice, in a worldly sense.
Ten Acres Lodge was offered to her as a free gift for her
lifetime, with a sufficient income for all her wants. In the
second place, he was anxious that she should not misinterpret his
motives. Whatever his opinion of her conduct might be, he did not
rely on it as affording his only justification for leaving her.
Setting personal feeling aside, he felt religious scruples
(connected with his marriage) which left him no other alternative
than the separation on which he had resolved. He would briefly
explain those scruples, and mention his authority for
entertaining them, before he closed his letter."

There the page was turned down, and the explanation was concealed
from me.

A faint color stole over her face as I handed the letter back to
her.

"It is needless for you to read the end," she said. "You know,
under his own hand, that he has left me; and (if such a thing
pleads with you in his favor) you also know that he is liberal in
providing for his deserted wife."

I attempted to speak. She saw in my face how I despised him, and
stopped me.

"Whatever you may think of his conduct," she continued, "I beg
that you will not speak of it to me. May I ask your opinion (now
you have read his letter) on another matter, in which my own
conduct is concerned? In former days--"

She paused, poor soul, in evident confusion and distress.

"Why speak of those days?" I ventured to say.

"I must speak of them. In former days, I think you were told that
my father's will provided for my mother and for me. You know that
we have enough to live on?"

I had heard of it, at the time of our betrothal--when the
marriage settlement was in preparation. The mother and daughter
had each a little income of a few hundreds a year. The exact
amount had escaped my memory.

After answering her to this effect, I waited to hear more.

She suddenly became silent; the most painful embarrassment showed
itself in her face and manner. "Never mind the rest," she said,
mastering her confusion after an interval. "I have had some hard
trials to bear; I forget things--" she made an effort to finish
the sentence, and gave it up, and called to the dog to come to
her. The tears were in her eyes, and that was the way she took to
hide them from me.

In general, I am not quick at reading the minds of others--but I
thought I understood Stella. Now that we were face to face, the
impulse to trust me had, for the moment, got the better of her
caution and her pride; she was half ashamed of it, half inclined
to follow it. I hesitated no longer. The time for which I had
waited--the time to prove, without any indelicacy on my side,
that I had never been unworthy of her--had surely come at last.

"Do you remember my reply to your letter about Father Benwell?" I
asked.

"Yes--every word of it."

"I promised, if you ever had need of me, to prove that I had
never been unworthy of your confidence. In your present
situation, I can honorably keep my promise. Shall I wait till you
are calmer? or shall I go on at once?"

"At once!"

"When your mother and your friends took you from me," I resumed,
"if you had shown any hesitation--"

She shuddered. The image of my unhappy wife, vindictively
confronting us on the church steps, seemed to be recalled to her
memory. "Don't go back to it!" she cried. "Spare me, I entreat
you."

I opened the writing-case in which I keep the papers sent to me
by the Rector of Belhaven, and placed them on the table by which
she was sitting.. The more plainly and briefly I spoke now, the
better I thought it might be for both of us.

"Since we parted at Brussels," I said, "my wife has died. Here is
a copy of the medical certificate of her death."

Stella refused to look at it. "I don't understand such things,"
she answered faintly. "What is this?"

She took up my wife's death-bed confession.

"Read it," I said.

She looked frightened. "What will it tell me?" she asked.

"It will tell you, Stella, that false appearances once led you
into wronging an innocent man."

Having said this, I walked away to a window behind her, at the
further end of the room, so that she might not see me while she
read.

After a time--how much longer it seemed to be than it really
was!--I heard her move. As I turned from the window, she ran to
me, and fell on her knees at my feet. I tried to raise her; I
entreated her to believe that she was forgiven. She seized my
hands, and held them over her face--they were wet with her tears.
"I am ashamed to look at you," she said. "Oh, Bernard, what a
wretch I have been!"

I never was so distressed in my life. I don't know what I should
have said, what I should have done, if my dear old dog had not
helped me out of it. He, too, ran up to me, with the loving
jealousy of his race, and tried to lick my hands, still fast in
Stella's hold. His paws were on her shoulder; he attempted to
push himself between us. I think I successfully assumed a
tranquillity which I was far from really feeling. "Come, come!" I
said, "you mustn't make Traveler jealous." She let me raise her.
Ah, if she could have kissed _me_--but that was not to be done;
she kissed the dog's head, and then she spoke to me. I shall not
set down what she said in these pages. While I live, there is no
fear of my forgetting those words.

I led her back to her chair. The letter addressed to me by the
Rector of Belhaven still lay on the table, unread. It was of some
importance to Stella's complete enlightenment, as containing
evidence that the confession was genuine. But I hesitated, for
her sake, to speak of it just yet.

"Now you know that you have a friend to help and advise you--" I
began.

"No," she interposed; "more than a friend; say a brother."

I said it. "You had something to ask of me," I resumed, "and you
never put the question."

She understood me.

"I meant to tell you," she said, "that I had written a letter of
refusal to Mr. Romayne's lawyers. I have left Ten Acres, never to
return; and I refuse to accept a farthing of Mr. Romayne's money.
My mother--though she knows that we have enough to live on--tells
me I have acted with inexcusable pride and folly. I wanted to ask
if you blame me, Bernard, as she does?"

I daresay I was inexcusably proud and foolish too. It was the
second time she had called me by my Christian name since the
happy bygone time, never to come again. Under whatever influence
I acted, I respected and admired her for that refusal, and I
owned it in so many words. This little encouragement seemed to
relieve her. She was so much calmer that I ventured to speak of
the Rector's letter.

She wouldn't hear of it. "Oh, Bernard, have I not learned to
trust you yet? Put away those papers. There is only one thing I
want to know. Who gave them to you? The Rector?"

"No."

"How did they reach you, then?"

"Through Father Benwell."

She started at that name like a woman electrified.

"I knew it!" she cried. "It _is_ the priest who has wrecked my
married life--and he got his information from those letters,
before he put them into your hands." She waited a while, and
recovered herself. "That was the first of the questions I wanted
to put to you," she said. "I am answered. I ask no more."

She was surely wrong about Father Benwell? I tried to show her
why.

I told her that my reverend friend had put the letters into my
hand, with the seal which protected them unbroken. She laughed
disdainfully. Did I know him so little as to doubt for a moment
that he could break a seal and replace it again? This view was
entirely new to me; I was startled, but not convinced. I never
desert my friends--even when they are friends of no very long
standing--and I still tried to defend Father Benwell. The only
result was to make her alter her intention of asking me no more
questions. I innocently roused in her a ne w curiosity. She was
eager to know how I had first become acquainted with the priest,
and how he had contrived to possess himself of papers which were
intended for my reading only.

There was but one way of answering her.

It was far from easy to a man like myself, unaccustomed to state
circumstances in their proper order--but I had no other choice
than to reply, by telling the long story of the theft and
discovery of the Rector's papers. So far as Father Benwell was
concerned, the narrative only confirmed her suspicions. For the
rest, the circumstances which most interested her were the
circumstances associated with the French boy.

"Anything connected with that poor creature, " she said, "has a
dreadful interest for me now."

"Did you know him?" I asked, with some surprise.

"I knew him and his mother--you shall hear how, at another time.
I suppose I felt a presentiment that the boy would have some evil
influence over me. At any rate, when I accidentally touched him,
I trembled as if I had touched a serpent. You will think me
superstitious--but, after what you have said, it is certainly
true that he has been the indirect cause of the misfortune that
has fallen on me. How came he to steal the papers? Did you ask
the Rector, when you went to Belhaven?"

"I asked the Rector nothing. But he thought it his duty to tell
me all that he knew of the theft."

She drew her chair nearer to me. "Let me hear every word of it!"
she pleaded eagerly.

I felt some reluctance to comply with the request.

"Is it not fit for me to hear?" she asked.

This forced me to be plain with her. "If I repeat what the Rector
told me," I said, "I must speak of my wife."

She took my hand. "You have pitied and forgiven her," she
answered. "Speak of her, Bernard--and don't, for God's sake,
think that my heart is harder than yours."

I kissed the hand that she had given to me--even her "brother"
might do that!

"It began," I said, "in the grateful attachment which the boy
felt for my wife. He refused to leave her bedside on the day when
she dictated her confession to the Rector. As he was entirely
ignorant of the English language, there seemed to be no objection
to letting him have his own way. He became inquisitive as the
writing went on. His questions annoyed the Rector--and as the
easiest way of satisfying his curiosity, my wife told him that
she was making her will. He knew just enough, from what he had
heard at various times, to associate making a will with gifts of
money--and the pretended explanation silenced and satisfied him."

"Did the Rector understand it?" Stella asked.

"Yes. Like many other Englishmen in his position, although he was
not ready at speaking French, he could read the language, and
could fairly well understand it, when it was spoken. After my
wife's death, he kindly placed the boy, for a few days, under the
care of his housekeeper. Her early life had been passed in the
island of Martinique, and she was able to communicate with the
friendless foreigner in his own language. When he disappeared,
she was the only person who could throw any light on his motive
for stealing the papers. On the day when he entered the house,
she caught him peeping through the keyhole of the study door. He
must have seen where the confession was placed, and the color of
the old-fashioned blue paper, on which it was written, would help
him to identify it. The next morning, during the Rector's
absence, he brought the manuscript to the housekeeper, and asked
her to translate it into French, so that he might know how much
money was left to him in "the will." She severely reproved him,
made him replace the paper in the desk from which he had taken
it, and threatened to tell the Rector if his misconduct was
repeated. He promised amendment, and the good-natured woman
believed him. On that evening the papers were sealed, and locked
up. In the morning the lock was found broken, and the papers and
the boy were both missing together."

"Do you think he showed the confession to any other person?"
Stella asked. "I happen to know that he concealed it from his
mother."

"After the housekeeper's reproof," I replied, "he would be
cunning enough, in my opinion, not to run the risk of showing it
to strangers. It is far more likely that he thought he might
learn English enough to read it himself."

There the subject dropped. We were silent for a while. She was
thinking, and I was looking at her. On a sudden, she raised her
head. Her eyes rested on me gravely.

"It is very strange!" she said

"What is strange?"

"I have been thinking of the Lorings. They encouraged me to doubt
you. They advised me to be silent about what happened at
Brussels. And they too are concerned in my husband's desertion of
me. He first met Father Benwell at their house." Her head drooped
again; her next words were murmured to herself. "I am still a
young woman," she said. "Oh, God, what is my future to be?"

This morbid way of thinking distressed me. I reminded her that
she had dear and devoted friends.

"Not one," she answered, "but you."

"Have you not seen Lady Loring?" I asked.

"She and her husband have written most kindly, inviting me to
make their house my home. I have no right to blame them--they
meant well. But after what has happened, I can't go back to
them."

"I am sorry to hear it," I said.

"Are you thinking of the Lorings?" she asked.

"I don't even know the Lorings. I can think of nobody but you."

I was still looking at her--and I am afraid my eyes said more
than my words. If she had doubted it before, she must have now
known that I was as fond of her as ever. She looked distressed
rather than confused. I made an awkward attempt to set myself
right.

"Surely your brother may speak plainly," I pleaded.

She agreed to this. But nevertheless she rose to go--with a
friendly word, intended (as I hoped) to show me that I had got my
pardon for that time. "Will you come and see us to-morrow?" she
said. "Can you forgive my mother as generously as you have
forgiven me? I will take care, Bernard, that she does you justice
at last."

She held out her hand to take leave. How could I reply? If I had
been a resolute man, I might have remembered that it would be
best for me not to see too much of her. But I am a poor weak
creature--I accepted her invitation for the next day.

January 30.--I have just returned from my visit.

My thoughts are in a state of indescribable conflict and
confusion--and her mother is the cause of it. I wish I had not
gone to the house. Am I a bad man, I wonder? and have I only
found it out now?

Mrs. Eyrecourt was alone in the drawing-room when I went in.
Judging by the easy manner in which she got up to receive me, the
misfortune that has befallen her daughter seemed to have produced
no sobering change in this frivolous woman.

"My dear Winterfield," she began, "I have behaved infamously. I
won't say that appearances were against you at Brussels--I will
only say I ought not to have trusted to appearances. You are the
injured person; please forgive me. Shall we go on with the
subject? or shall we shake hands, and say no more about it?"

I shook hands, of course. Mrs. Eyrecourt perceived that I was
looking for Stella.

"Sit down," she said; "and be good enough to put up with no more
attractive society than mine. Unless I set things straight, my
good friend, you and my daughter--oh, with the best
intentions!--will drift into a false position. You won't see
Stella to-day. Quite impossible--and I will tell you why. I am
the worldly old mother; I don't mind what I say. My innocent
daughter would die before she would confess what I am going to
tell you. Can I offer you anything? Have you had lunch?"

I begged her to continue. She perplexed--I am not sure that she
did not even alarm me.

"Very well," she proceeded. "You may be surprised to hear it--but
I don't mean to allow things to go on in this way. My
contemptible son-in-law shall return to his wife."

This startled me, and I suppose I showed it.

"Wait a little," said Mrs. Eyrecourt. "There is nothing to be
alarmed about. Romayne is a weak fool; and Father Benwell's
greedy hands are (of course)  in both his pockets. But he has,
unless I am e ntirely mistaken, some small sense of shame, and
some little human feeling still left. After the manner in which
he has behaved, these are the merest possibilities, you will say.
Very likely. I have boldly appealed to those possibilities
nevertheless. He has already gone away to Rome; and I need hardly
add--Father Benwell would take good care of that--he has left us
no address. It doesn't in the least matter. One of the advantages
of being so much in society as I am is that I have nice
acquaintances everywhere, always ready to oblige me, provided I
don't borrow money of them. I have written to Romayne, under
cover to one of my friends living in Rome. Wherever he may be,
there my letter will find him."

So far, I listened quietly enough, naturally supposing that Mrs.
Eyrecourt trusted to her own arguments and persuasions. I confess
it even to myself, with shame. It was a relief to me to feel that
the chances (with such a fanatic as Romayne) were a hundred to
one against her.

This unworthy way of thinking was instantly checked by Mrs.
Eyrecourt's next words.

"Don't suppose that I am foolish enough to attempt to reason with
him," she went on. "My letter begins and ends on the first page.
His wife has a claim on him, which no newly-married man can
resist. Let me do him justice. He knew nothing of it before he
went away. My letter--my daughter has no suspicion that I have
written it--tells him plainly what the claim is."

She paused. Her eyes softened, her voice sank low--she became
quite unlike the Mrs. Eyrecourt whom I knew.

"In a few months more, Winterfield," she said, "my poor Stella
will be a mother. My letter calls Romayne back to his wife--_and
his child."_

Mrs. Eyrecourt paused, evidently expecting me to offer an opinion
of some sort. For the moment I was really unable to speak.
Stella's mother never had a very high opinion of my abilities.
She now appeared to consider me the stupidest person in the
circle of her acquaintance.

"Are you a little deaf, Winterfield?" she asked.

"Not that I know of."

"Do you understand me?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then why can't you say something? I want a man's opinion of our
prospects. Good gracious, how you fidget! Put yourself in
Romayne's place, and tell me this. If _you_ had left Stella--"

"I should never have left her, Mrs. Eyrecourt."

"Be quiet. You don't know what you would have done. I insist on
your supposing yourself to be a weak, superstitious, conceited,
fanatical fool. You understand? Now, tell me, then. Could you
keep away from your wife, when you were called back to her in the
name of your firstborn child? Could you resist that?"

"Most assuredly not!"

I contrived to reply with an appearance of tranquillity. It was
not very easy to speak with composure. Envious, selfish,
contemptible--no language is too strong to describe the turn my
thoughts now took. I never hated any human being as I hated
Romayne at that moment.
 "Damn him, he will come back!" There was my inmost feeling
expressed in words.

In the meantime, Mrs. Eyrecourt was satisfied.
 She dashed at the next subject as fluent and as confident as
ever.

"Now, Winterfield, it is surely plain to your mind that you must
not see Stella again--except when I am present to tie the tongue
of scandal. My daughter's conduct must not allow her husband--if
you only knew how I detest that man!--must not, I say, allow her
husband the slightest excuse for keeping away from her. If we
give that odious old Jesuit the chance, he will make a priest of
Romayne before we know where we are. The audacity of these
Papists is really beyond belief. You remember how they made
Bishops and Archbishops here, in flat defiance of our laws?
Father Benwell follows that example, and sets our other laws at
defiance--I mean our marriage laws. I am so indignant I can't
express myself as clearly as usual. Did Stella tell you that he
actually shook Romayne's belief in his own marriage? Ah, I
understand--she kept that to herself, poor dear, and with good
reason, too. "

I thought of the turned-down page in the letter. Mrs. Eyrecourt
readily revealed what her daughter's delicacy had forbidden me to
read--including the monstrous assumption which connected my
marriage before the registrar with her son-in-law's scruples.

"Yes," she proceeded, "these Catholics are all alike. My
daughter--I don't mean my sweet Stella; I mean the unnatural
creature in the nunnery--sets herself above her own mother. Did I
ever tell you she was impudent enough to say she would pray for
me? Father Benwell and the Papal Aggression over again! Now tell
me, Winterfield, don't you think, taking the circumstances into
consideration--that you will act like a thoroughly sensible man
if you go back to Devonshire while we are in our present
situation? What with foot-warmers in the carriage, and newspapers
and magazines to amuse you, it isn't such a very long journey.
And then Beaupark--dear Beaupark--is such a remarkably
comfortable house in the winter; and you, you enviable creature,
are such a popular man in the neighborhood. Oh, go back! go
back!"

I got up and took my hat. She patted me on the shoulder. I could
have throttled her at that moment. And yet she was right.

"You will make my excuses to Stella?" I said.

"You dear, good fellow, I will do more than make your excuses; I
will sing your praises--as the poet says." In her ungovernable
exultation at having got rid of me, she burst into extravagant
language. "I feel like a mother to you," she went on, as we shook
hands at parting. "I declare I could almost let you kiss me."

There was not a single kissable place about Mrs. Eyrecourt,
unpainted, undyed, or unpowdered. I resisted temptation and
opened the door. There was still one last request that I could
not help making.

"Will you let me know," I said, "when you hear from Rome?"

"With the greatest pleasure," Mrs. Eyrecourt answered, briskly.
"Good-by, you best of friends--good-by."

I write these lines while the servant is packing my portmanteau.
Traveler knows what that means. My dog is glad, at any rate, to
get away from London. I think I shall hire a yacht, and try what
a voyage round the world will do for me. I wish to God I had
never seen Stella!

Second Extract.

Beaupark, February 10.--News at last from Mrs. Eyrecourt.

Romayne has not even read the letter that she addressed to
him--it has actually been returned to her by Father Benwell. Mrs.
Eyrecourt writes, naturally enough, in a state of fury. Her one
consolation, under this insulting treatment, is that her daughter
knows nothing of the circumstances. She warns me (quite
needlessly) to keep the secret--and sends me a copy of Father
Benwell's letter:

"Dear Madam--Mr. Romayne can read nothing that diverts his
attention from his preparation for the priesthood, or that
recalls past associations with errors which he has renounced
forever. When a letter reaches him, it is his wise custom to look
at the signature first. He has handed your letter to me,
_unread_--with a request that I will return it to you. In his
presence, I instantly sealed it up. Neither he nor I know, or
wish to know, on what subject you have addressed him. We
respectfully advise you not to write again."

This is really too bad; but it has one advantage, so far as I am
concerned. It sets my own unworthy doubts and jealousies before
me in a baser light than ever. How honestly I defended Father
Benwell! and how completely he has deceived me! I wonder whether
I shall live long enough to see the Jesuit caught in one of his
own traps?

11th.--I was disappointed at not hearing from Stella, yesterday.
This morning has made amends; it has brought me a letter from
her.

She is not well; and her mother's conduct sadly perplexes her. At
one time, Mrs. Eyrecourt's sense of injury urges her to indulge
in violent measures--she is eager to place her deserted daughter
under the protection of the law; to insist on a restitution of
conjugal rights or on a judicial separation. At another time she
sinks into a state of abject depression; declares that it is
impossible for her, in Stella's deplorable situation, to face
society; and recommends immediate retirement to some place on the
Contin ent in which they can live cheaply. This latter suggestion
Stella is not only ready, but eager, to adopt. She proves it by
asking for my advice, in a postscript; no doubt remembering the
happy days when I courted her in Paris, and the many foreign
friends of mine who called at our hotel.

The postscript gave me the excuse that I wanted. I knew perfectly
well that it would be better for me not to see her--and I went to
London, for the sole purpose of seeing her, by the first train.

London, February 12.--I found mother and daughter together in the
drawing-room. It was one of Mrs. Eyrecourt's days of depression.
Her little twinkling eyes tried to cast on me a look of tragic
reproach; she shook her dyed head and said, "Oh. Winterfield, I
didn't think you would have done this!--Stella, fetch me my
smelling bottle.

But Stella refused to take the hint. She almost brought the tears
into my eyes, she received me so kindly. If her mother had not
been in the room--but her mother _was_ in the room; I had no
other choice than to enter on my business, as if I had been the
family lawyer

Mrs. Eyrecourt began by reproving Stella for asking my advice,
and then assured me that she had no intention of leaving London.
"How am I to get rid of my house?" she asked, irritably enough. I
knew that "her house" (as she called it) was the furnished upper
part of a house belonging to another person, and that she could
leave it at a short notice. But I said nothing. I addressed
myself to Stella.

"I have been thinking of two or three places which you might
like," I went on. "The nearest place belongs to an old French
gentleman and his wife. They have no children, and they don't let
lodgings; but I believe they would be glad to receive friends of
mine, if their spare rooms are not already occupied. They live at
St. Germain--close to Paris."

I looked at Mrs. Eyrecourt as I said those last words--I was as
sly as Father Benwell himself. Paris justified my confidence: the
temptation was too much for her. She not only gave way, but
actually mentioned the amount of rent which she could afford to
pay. Stella whispered her thanks to me as I went out. "My name is
not mentioned, but my misfortune is alluded to in the
newspapers," she said. "Well-meaning friends are calling and
condoling with me already. I shall die, if you don't help me to
get away among strangers!"

I start for Paris by the mail train, to-night.

Paris, February 13.--It is evening. I have just returned from St.
Germain. Everything is settled--with more slyness on my part. I
begin to think I am a born Jesuit; there must have been some
detestable sympathy between Father Benwell and me.

My good friends, Monsieur and Madame Villeray, will be only too
glad to receive English ladies, known to me for many years. The
spacious and handsome first floor of their house (inherited from
once wealthy ancestors by Madame Villeray) can be got ready to
receive Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter in a week's time. Our one
difficulty related to the question of money. Monsieur Villeray,
living on a Government pension, was modestly unwilling to ask
terms; and I was too absolutely ignorant of the subject to be of
the slightest assistance to him. It ended in our appealing to a
house-agent at St. Germain. His estimate appeared to me to be
quite reasonable. But it exceeded the pecuniary limit mentioned
by Mrs. Eyrecourt. I had known the Villerays long enough to be in
no danger of offending them by proposing a secret arrangement
which permitted me to pay the difference. So that difficulty was
got over in due course of time.

We went into the large garden at the back of the house, and there
I committed another act of duplicity.

In a nice sheltered corner I discovered one of those essentially
French buildings called a "pavilion," a delightful little toy
house of three rooms. Another private arrangement made me the
tenant of this place. Madame Villeray smiled. "I bet you," she
said to me in her very best English, "one of these ladies is in
her fascinating first youth." The good lady little knows what a
hopeless love affair mine is. I must see Stella sometimes--I ask,
and hope for, no more. Never have I felt how lonely my life is,
as I feel it now.

Third Extract.

London, March 1.--Stella and her mother have set forth on their
journey to St. Germain this morning, without allowing me, as I
had hoped and planned, to be their escort.

Mrs. Eyrecourt set up the old objection of the claims of
propriety. If that were the only obstacle in my way, I should
have set it aside by following them to France. Where is the
impropriety of my seeing Stella, as her friend and
brother--especially when I don't live in the same house with her,
and when she has her mother, on one side, and Madame Villeray, on
the other, to take care of her?

No! the influence that keeps me away from St. Germain is the
influence of Stella herself.

"I will write to you often," she said; "but I beg you, for my
sake, not to accompany us to France." Her look and tone reduced
me to obedience. Stupid as I am I think (after what passed
between me and her mother) I can guess what she meant.

"Am I never to see you again?" I asked.

"Do you think I am hard and ungrateful?" she answered. "Do you
doubt that I shall be glad, more than glad, to see you, when--?"

She turned away from me and said no more.

It was time to take leave. We were under her mother's
superintendence; we shook hands and that was all.

Matilda (Mrs. Eyrecourt's maid) followed me downstairs to open
the door. I suppose I looked, as I felt, wretchedly enough. The
good creature tried to cheer me. "Don't be anxious about them,"
she said; "I am used to traveling, sir--and I'll take care of
them." She is a woman to be thoroughly depended on, a faithful
and attached servant. I made her a little present at parting, and
I asked her if she would write to me from time to time.

Some people might consider this to be rather an undignified
proceeding on my part. I can only say it came naturally to me. I
am not a dignified man; and, when a person means kindly toward
me, I don't ask myself whether that person is higher or lower,
richer or poorer, than I am. We are, to my mind, on the same
level when the same sympathy unites us. Matilda was sufficiently
acquainted with all that had passed to foresee, as I did, that
there would be certain reservations in Stella's letters to me.
"You shall have the whole truth from Me, sir, don't doubt it,"
she whispered. I believed her. When my heart is sore, give me a
woman for my friend. Whether she is lady or lady's-maid, she is
equally precious to me.

Cowes, March 2.--I am in treaty with an agent for the hire of a
yacht.

I must do something, and go somewhere. Returning to Beaupark is
out of the question. People with tranquil minds can find pleasure
in the society of their country neighbors. I am a miserable
creature, with a mind in a state of incessant disturbance.
Excellent fathers of families talking politics to me; exemplary
mothers of families offering me matrimonial opportunities with
their daughters--that is what society means, if I go back to
Devonshire. No. I will go for a cruise in the Mediterranean; and
I will take one friend with me whose company I never weary of--my
dog.

The vessel is discovered--a fine schooner of three hundred tons,
just returned from a cruise to Madeira. The sailing-master and
crew only ask for a few days on shore. In that time the surveyor
will have examined the vessel, and the stores will be on board.

March 3.--I have written to Stella, with a list of addresses at
which letters will reach me; and I have sent another list to my
faithful ally the maid. When we leave Gibraltar, our course will
be to Naples--thence to Civita Vecchia, Leghorn, Genoa,
Marseilles. From any of those places, I am within easy traveling
distance of St. Germain.

March 7. At Sea.--It is half-past six in the evening. We have
just passed the Eddystone Lighthouse, with the wind abeam. The
log registers ten knots an hour.

Fourth Extract.

_Naples, May_ 10.--The fair promise at the beginning of my voyage
has not been fulfilled. Owing to contrary winds, storms, and
delays at Cadiz in repairing damages, we have only arrived at
Naples this evening. Under trying circumstances of all sorts, the
yacht has behaved admirably. A stouter and finer sea-boat never
was built.

We are too late to find the post-office open. I shall send ashore
for letters the first thing tomorrow morning. My next movements
will depend entirely on the news I get from St. Germain. If I
remain for any length of time in these regions, I shall give my
crew the holiday they have well earned at Civita Vecchia. I am
never weary of Rome--but I always did, and always shall, dislike
Naples.

May 11--. My plans are completely changed. I am annoyed and
angry; the further I get away from France, the better I shall be
pleased.

I have heard from Stella, and heard from the maid. Both letters
inform me that the child is born, and that it is a boy. Do they
expect me to feel any interest in the boy? He is my worst enemy
before he is out of his long-clothes.

Stella writes kindly enough. Not a line in her letter, however,
invites me, or holds out the prospect of inviting me, to St.
Germain. She refers to her mother very briefly, merely informing
me that Mrs. Eyrecourt is well, and is already enjoying the
gayeties of Paris. Three-fourths of the letter are occupied with
the baby. When I wrote to her I signed myself "yours
affectionately." Stella signs "yours sincerely." It is a trifle,
I daresay--but I feel it, for all that.

Matilda is faithful to her engagement; Matilda's letter tells me
the truth.

"Since the birth of the baby," she writes, "Mrs. Romayne has
never once mentioned your name; she can talk of nothing, and
think of nothing, but her child. I make every allowance, I hope,
for a lady in her melancholy situation. But I do think it is not
very grateful to have quite forgotten Mr. Winterfield, who has
done so much for her, and who only asks to pass a few hours of
his day innocently in her society. Perhaps, being a single woman,
I write ignorantly about mothers and babies. But I have my
feelings; and (though I never liked Mr. Romayne) I feel for
_you,_ sir--if you will forgive the familiarity. In my opinion
this new craze about the baby will wear out. He is already a
cause of difference of opinion. My good mistress, who possesses
knowledge of the world, and a kind heart as well, advises that
Mr. Romayne should be informed of the birth of a son and heir.
Mrs. Eyrecourt says, most truly, that the hateful old priest will
get possession of Mr. Romayne's property, to the prejudice of the
child, unless steps are taken to shame him into doing justice to
his own son. But Mrs. Romayne is as proud as Lucifer; she will
not hear of making the first advances, as she calls it. 'The man
who has deserted me,' she says, 'has no heart to be touched
either by wife or child.' My mistress does not agree with her.
There have been hard words already, and the nice old French
gentleman and his wife try to make peace. You will smile when I
tell you that they offer sugar-plums as a sort of composing gift.
My mistress accepts the gift, and has been to the theater at
Paris, with Monsieur and Madame Villeray more than once already.
To conclude, sir, if I might venture to advise you, I should
recommend trying the effect on Mrs. R. of absence and silence."

A most sensibly written letter. I shall certainly take Matilda's
advice. My name is never mentioned by Stella--and not a day has
passed without my thinking of her!

Well, I suppose a man can harden his heart if he likes. Let me
harden _my_ heart, and forget her.

The crew shall have three days ashore at Naples, and then we sail
for Alexandria. In that port the yacht will wait my return. I
have not yet visited the cataracts of the Nile; I have not yet
seen the magnificent mouse-colored women of Nubia. A tent in the
desert, and a dusky daughter of Nature to keep house for
me--there is a new life for a man who is weary of the vapid
civilization of Europe! I shall begin by letting my beard grow.

Fifth Extract.

Civita Vecchia, February 28, 1863.--Back again on the coast of
Italy--after an absence, at sea and ashore, of nine months!

What have my travels done for me? They have made me browner and
thinner; they have given me a more patient mind, and a taste for
mild tobacco. Have they helped me to forget Stella? Not the least
in the world--I am more eager than ever to see her again. When I
look back at my diary I am really ashamed of my own fretfulness
and impatience. What miserable vanity on my part to expect her to
think of me, when she was absorbed in the first cares and joys of
maternity; especially sacred to her, poor soul, as the one
consolation of her melancholy life! I withdraw all that I wrote
about her--and from the bottom of my heart I forgive the baby.

Rome, March 1.--I have found my letters waiting for me at the
office of my banker.

The latest news from St. Germain is all that I could wish. In
acknowledging the receipt of my last letter from Cairo (I broke
my rash vow of silence when we got into port, after leaving
Naples) Stella sends me the long desired invitation. "Pray take
care to return to us, dear Bernard, before the first anniversary
of my boy's birthday, on the twenty-seventh of March." After
those words she need feel no apprehension of my being late at my
appointment. Traveler--the dog has well merited his name by this
time--will have to bid good-by to the yacht (which he loves), and
journey homeward by the railway (which he hates). No more risk of
storms and delays for me. Good-by to the sea for one while.

I have sent the news of my safe return from the East, by
telegraph. But I must not be in too great a hurry to leave Rome,
or I shall commit a serious error--I shall disappoint Stella's
mother.

Mrs. Eyrecourt writes to me earnestly, requesting, if I return by
way of Italy, that I will get her some information about Romayne.
She is eager to know whether they have made him a priest yet. I
am also to discover, if I can, what are his prospects--whether he
is as miserable as he deserves to be--whether he has been
disappointed in his expectations, and is likely to be brought
back to his senses in that way--and, above all, whether Father
Benwell is still at Rome with him. My idea is that Mrs. Eyrecourt
has not given up her design of making Romayne acquainted with the
birth of his son.

The right person to apply to for information is evidently my
banker. He has been a resident in Rome for twenty years--but he
is too busy a man to be approached, by an idler like myself, in
business hours. I have asked him to dine with me to-morrow.

March 2.--My guest has just left me. I am afraid Mrs. Eyrecourt
will be sadly disappointed when she hears what I have to tell her

The moment I mentioned Romayne's name, the banker looked at me
with an expression of surprise. "'The man most talked about in
Rome," he said; "I wonder you have not heard of him already."

"Is he a priest?"

"Certainly! And, what is more, the ordinary preparations for the
priesthood were expressly shortened by high authority on his
account. The Pope takes the greatest interest in him; and as for
the people, the Italians have already nicknamed him 'the young
cardinal.' Don't suppose, as some of our countrymen do, that he
is indebted to his wealth for the high position which he has
already attained. His wealth is only one of the minor influences
in his favor. The truth is, he unites in himself two opposite
qualities, both of the greatest value to the Church, which are
very rarely found combined in the same man. He has already made a
popular reputation here, as a most eloquent and convincing
preacher--"

"A preacher!" I exclaimed. "And a popular reputation! How do the
Italians understand him?"

The banker looked puzzled.

"Why shouldn't they understand a man who addresses them in their
own language?" he said. "Romayne could speak Italian when he came
here--and since that time he has learned by constant practice to
think in Italian. While our Roman season lasts, he preaches
alternately in Italian and in English. But I was speaking of the
two opposite accomplishments which this remarkable man possesses.
Out of the pulpit, he is capable of applying his mind
successfully to the polit ical necessities of the Church. As I am
told, his intellect has had severe practical training, by means
of historical studies, in the past years of his life. Anyhow, in
one of the diplomatic difficulties here between the Church and
the State, he wrote a memorial on the subject, which the
Cardinal-Secretary declared to be a model of ability in applying
the experience of the past to the need of the present time. If he
doesn't wear himself out, his Italian nickname may prove
prophetically true. We may live to see the new convert, Cardinal
Romayne."

"Are you acquainted with him yourself?" I asked.

"No Englishman is acquainted with him," the banker answered.
"There is a report of some romantic event in his life which has
led to his leaving England, and which makes him recoil from
intercourse with his own nation. Whether this is true or false,
it is certain that the English in Rome find him unapproachable. I
have even heard that he refuses to receive letters from England.
If you wish to see him, you must do what I have done--you must go
to church and look at him in the pulpit. He preaches in
English--I think for the last time this season--on Thursday
evening next. Shall I call here and take you to the church?"

If I had followed my inclinations, I should have refused. I feel
no sort of interest in Romayne--I might even say I feel a
downright antipathy toward him. But I have no wish to appear
insensible to the banker's kindness, and my reception at St.
Germain depends greatly on the attention I show to Mrs.
Eyrecourt's request. So it was arranged that I should hear the
great preacher--with a mental reservation on my part, which
contemplated my departure from the church before the end of his
sermon.

But, before I see him, I feel assured of one thing--especially
after what the banker has told me. Stella's view of his character
is the right one. The man who has deserted her has no heart to be
touched by wife or child. They are separated forever.

March 3.--I have just seen the landlord of the hotel; he can help
me to answer one of Mrs. Eyrecourt's questions. A nephew of his
holds some employment at the Jesuit headquarters here, adjoining
their famous church _Il Gesu_. I have requested the young man to
ascertain if Father Benwell is still in Rome--without mentioning
me. It would be no small trial to my self-control if we met in
the street.

March 4.--Good news this time for Mrs. Eyrecourt, as far as it
goes. Father Benwell has long since left Rome, and has returned
to his regular duties in England. If he exercises any further
influence over Romayne, it must be done by letter.

March 5.--I have returned from Romayne's sermon. This double
renegade--has he not deserted his religion and his wife?--has
failed to convince my reason. But he has so completely upset my
nerves that I ordered a bottle of champagne (to the great
amusement of my friend the banker) the moment we got back to the
hotel.

We drove through the scantily lighted streets of Rome to a small
church in the neighborhood of the Piazza Navona. To a more
imaginative man than myself, the scene when we entered the
building would have been too impressive to be described in
words--though it might perhaps have been painted. The one light
in the place glimmered mysteriously from a great wax candle,
burning in front of a drapery of black cloth, and illuminating
dimly a sculptured representation, in white marble, of the
crucified Christ, wrought to the size of life. In front of this
ghastly emblem a platform projected, also covered with black
cloth. We could penetrate no further than to the space just
inside the door of the church. Everywhere else the building was
filled with standing, sitting and kneeling figures, shadowy and
mysterious, fading away in far corners into impenetrable gloom.
The only sounds were the low, wailing notes of the organ,
accompanied at intervals by the muffled thump of fanatic
worshipers penitentially beating their breasts. On a sudden the
organ ceased; the self-inflicted blows of the penitents were
heard no more. In the breathless silence that followed, a man
robed in black mounted the black platform, and faced the
congregation. His hair had become prematurely gray; his face was
of the ghastly paleness of the great crucifix at his side. The
light of the candle, falling on him as he slowly turned his head,
cast shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, and glittered in his
gleaming eyes. In tones low and trembling at first, he stated the
subject of his address. A week since, two noteworthy persons had
died in Rome on the same day. One of them was a woman of
exemplary piety, whose funeral obsequies had been celebrated in
that church. The other was a criminal charged with homicide under
provocation, who had died in prison, refusing the services of the
priest--impenitent to the last. The sermon followed the spirit of
the absolved woman to its eternal reward in heaven, and described
the meeting with dear ones who had gone before, in terms so
devout and so touching that the women near us, and even some of
the men, burst into tears. Far different was the effect produced
when the preacher, filled with the same overpowering sincerity of
belief which had inspired his description of the joys of heaven,
traced the downward progress of the lost man, from his impenitent
death-bed to his doom in hell. The dreadful superstition of
everlasting torment became doubly dreadful in the priest's
fervent words. He described the retributive voices of the mother
and the brother of the murdered man ringing incessantly in the
ears of the homicide. "I, who speak to you, hear the voices," he
cried. "Assassin! assassin! where are you? I see him--I see the
assassin hurled into his place in the sleepless ranks of the
damned--I see him, dripping with the flames that burn forever,
writhing under the torments that are without respite and without
end." The climax of this terrible effort of imagination was
reached when he fell on his knees and prayed with sobs and cries
of entreaty--prayed, pointing to the crucifix at his side--that
he and all who heard him might die the death of penitent sinners,
absolved in the divinely atoning name of Christ. The hysterical
shrieks of women rang through the church. I could endure it no
longer. I hurried into the street, and breathed again freely,
when I looked up at the cloudless beauty of the night sky, bright
with the peaceful radiance of the stars.

And this man was Romayne! I had last met with him among his
delightful works of art; an enthusiast in literature; the
hospitable master of a house filled with comforts and luxuries to
its remotest corner. And now I had seen what Rome had made of
him.

"Yes," said my companion, "the Ancient Church not only finds out
the men who can best serve it, but develops qualities in those
men of which they have been themselves unconscious. The advance
which Roman Catholic Christianity has been, and is still, making
has its intelligible reason. Thanks to the great Reformation, the
papal scandals of past centuries have been atoned for by the
exemplary lives of servants of the Church, in high places and low
places alike. If a new Luther arose among us, where would he now
find abuses sufficiently wicked and widely spread to shock the
sense of decency in Christendom? He would find them nowhere--and
he would probably return to the respectable shelter of the Roman
sheepfold."

I listened, without making any remark. To tell the truth, I was
thinking of Stella.

March 6.--I have been to Civita Vecchia, to give a little
farewell entertainment to the officers and crew before they take
the yacht back to England.

In a few words I said at parting, I mentioned that it was my
purpose to make an offer for the purchase of the vessel, and that
my guests should hear from me again on the subject. This
announcement was received with enthusiasm. I really like my
crew--and I don't think it is vain in me to believe that they
return the feeling, from the sailing-master to the cabin-boy. My
future life, after all that has passed, is likely to be a roving
life, unless--No! I may think sometimes of that happier prospect,
but I had better not put my thoughts into w ords. I have a fine
vessel; I have plenty of money; and I like the sea. There are
three good reasons for buying the yacht.

Returning to Rome in the evening, I found waiting for me a letter
from Stella.

She writes (immediately on the receipt of my telegram) to make a
similar request to the request addressed to me by her mother. Now
that I am at Rome, she too wants to hear news of a Jesuit priest.
He is absent on a foreign mission, and his name is Penrose. "You
shall hear what obligations I owe to his kindness," she writes,
"when we meet. In the meantime, I will only say that he is the
exact opposite of Father Benwell, and that I should be the most
ungrateful of women if I did not feel the truest interest in his
welfare."

This is strange, and, to my mind, not satisfactory. Who is
Penrose? and what has he done to deserve such strong expressions
of gratitude? If anybody had told me that Stella could make a
friend of a Jesuit, I am afraid I should have returned a rude
answer. Well, I must wait for further enlightenment, and apply to
the landlord's nephew once more.

March 7.--There is small prospect, I fear, of my being able to
appreciate the merits of Mr. Penrose by personal experience. He
is thousands of miles away from Europe, and he is in a situation
of peril, which makes the chance of his safe return doubtful in
the last degree.

The Mission to which he is attached was originally destined to
find its field of work in Central America. Rumors of more
fighting to come, in that revolutionary part of the world,
reached Rome before the missionaries had sailed from the port of
Leghorn. Under these discouraging circumstances, the priestly
authorities changed the destination of the Mission to the
territory of Arizona, bordering on New Mexico, and recently
purchased by the United States. Here, in the valley of Santa
Cruz, the Jesuits had first attempted the conversion of the
Indian tribes two hundred years since, and had failed. Their
mission-house and chapel are now a heap of ruins, and the
ferocious Apache Indians keep the fertile valley a solitude by
the mere terror of their name. To this ill-omened place Penrose
and his companions have made their daring pilgrimage; and they
are now risking their lives in the attempt to open the hearts of
these bloodthirsty savages to the influence of Christianity.
Nothing has been yet heard of them. At the best, no trustworthy
news is expected for months to come.

What will Stella say to this? Anyhow, I begin to understand her
interest in Penrose now. He is one of a company of heroes. I am
already anxious to hear more of him.

To-morrow will be a memorable day in my calendar. To-morrow I
leave Rome for St. Germain.

If any further information is to be gained for Mrs. Eyrecourt and
her daughter, I have made the necessary arrangements for
receiving it. The banker has promised to write to me, if there is
a change in Romayne's life and prospects. And my landlord will
take care that I hear of it, in the event of news reaching Rome
from the Mission at Arizona.

Sixth Extract.

St. Germain, March 14.--I arrived yesterday. Between the fatigue
of the journey and the pleasurable agitation caused by seeing
Stella again, I was unfit to make the customary entry in my diary
when I retired for the night.

She is more irresistibly beautiful than ever. Her figure (a
little too slender as I remember it) has filled out. Her lovely
face has lost its haggard, careworn look; her complexion has
recovered its delicacy; I see again in her eyes the pure serenity
of expression which first fascinated me, years since. It may be
due to the consoling influence of the child--assisted, perhaps,
by the lapse of time and the peaceful life which she now
leads--but this at least is certain, such a change for the better
I never could have imagined as the change I find in Stella after
a year's absence.

As for the baby, he is a bright, good-humored little fellow; and
he has one great merit in my estimation--he bears no resemblance
to his father. I saw his mother's features when I first took him
on my knee, and looked at his face, lifted to mine in grave
surprise. The baby and I are certain to get on well together.

Even Mrs. Eyrecourt seems to have improved in the French air, and
under the French diet. She has a better surface to lay the paint
on; her nimble tongue runs faster than ever; and she has so
completely recovered her good spirits, that Monsieur and Madame
Villeray declare she must have French blood in her veins. They
were all so unaffectedly glad to see me (Matilda included), that
it was really like returning to one's home. As for Traveler, I
must interfere (in the interests of his figure and his health) to
prevent everybody in the house from feeding him with every
eatable thing, from plain bread to _pate de foie gras._

My experience of to-day will, as Stella tells me, be my general
experience of the family life at St. Germain.

We begin the morning with the customary cup of coffee. At eleven
o'clock I am summoned from my "pavilion" of three rooms to one of
those delicious and artfully varied breakfasts which are only to
be found in France and in Scotland. An interval of about three
hours follows, during which the child takes his airing and his
siesta, and his elders occupy themselves as they please. At three
o'clock we all go out--with a pony chaise which carries the
weaker members of the household--for a ramble in the forest. At
six o'clock we assemble at the dinner-table. At coffee time, some
of the neighbors drop in for a game at cards. At ten, we all wish
each other good-night.

Such is the domestic programme, varied by excursions in the
country and by occasional visits to Paris. I am naturally a man
of quiet stay-at-home habits. It is only when my mind is
disturbed that I get restless and feel longings for change.
Surely the quiet routine at St. Germain ought to be welcome to me
now? I have been looking forward to this life through a long year
of travel. What more can I wish for?

Nothing more, of course.

And yet--and yet--Stella has innocently made it harder than ever
to play the part of her "brother." The recovery of her beauty is
a subject for congratulation to her mother and her friends. How
does it affect Me?

I had better not think of my hard fate. Can I help thinking of
it? Can I dismiss from memory the unmerited misfortunes which
have taken from me, in the prime of her charms, the woman whom I
love? At least I can try.

The good old moral must be _my_ moral: "Be content with such
things as ye have."

March 15.--It is eight in the morning--and I hardly know how to
employ myself. Having finished my coffee, I have just looked
again at my diary.

It strikes me that I am falling into a bad habit of writing too
much about myself. The custom of keeping a journal certainly has
this drawback--it encourages egotism. Well, the remedy is easy.
From this date, I lock up my book--only to open it again when
some event has happened which has a claim to be recorded for its
own sake. As for myself and my feelings, they have made their
last appearance in these pages.

Seventh Extract.

June 7.--The occasion for opening my diary once more has
presented itself this morning.

News has reached me of Romayne, which is too important to be
passed over without notice. He has been appointed one of the
Pope's Chamberlains. It is also reported, on good authority, that
he will be attached to a Papal embassy when a vacancy occurs.
These honors, present and to come, seem to remove him further
than ever from the possibility of a return to his wife and child.

June 8.--In regard to Romayne, Mrs. Eyrecourt seems to be of my
opinion.

Being in Paris to-day, at a morning concert, she there met with
her old friend, Doctor Wybrow. The famous physician is suffering
from overwork, and is on his way to Italy for a few months of
rest and recreation. They took a drive together, after the
performance, in the Bois de Boulogne; and Mrs. Eyrecourt opened
her mind to the doctor, as freely as usual, on the subject of
Stella and the child. He entirely agreed (speaking in the future
interests of the boy) that precious time has been lost in
informing Romayne of the birth of an heir; and he has promised,
no matter what obstacles may be placed in his way, to make the
announcement himself, when he reaches Rome.

June 9.--Madame Villeray has been speaking to me confidentially
on a very delicate subject.

I am pledged to discontinue writing about myself. But in these
private pages I may note the substance of what my good friend
said to me. If I only look back often enough at this little
record, I may gather the resolution to profit by her advice. In
brief, these were her words:

"Stella has spoken to me in confidence, since she met you
accidentally in the garden yesterday. She cannot be guilty of the
poor affectation of concealing what you must have already
discovered for yourself. But she prefers to say the words that
must be said to you, through me. Her husband's conduct to her is
an outrage that she can never forget. She now looks back with
sentiments of repulsion, which she dare not describe, to that
'love at first sight' (as you call it in England), conceived on
the day when they first met--and she remembers regretfully that
other love, of years since, which was love of steadier and slower
growth. To her shame she confesses that she failed to set you the
example of duty and self-restraint when you two happened to be
alone yesterday. She leaves it to my discretion to tell you that
you must see her for the future, always in the presence of some
other person. Make no reference to this when you next meet; and
understand that she has only spoken to me instead of to her
mother, because she fears that Mrs. Eyrecourt might use harsh
words, and distress you again, as she once distressed you in
England. If you will take my advice, you will ask permission to
go away again on your travels."

It matters nothing what I said in reply. Let me only relate that
we were interrupted by the appearance of the nursemaid at the
pavilion door.

She led the child by the hand. Among his first efforts at
speaking, under his mother's instruction, had been the effort to
call me Uncle Bernard. He had now got as far as the first
syllable of my Christian name, and he had come to me to repeat
his lesson. Resting his little hands on my knees, he looked up at
me with his mother's eyes, and said, "Uncle Ber'." A trifling
incident, but, at that moment, it cut me to the heart. I could
only take the boy in my arms, and look at Madame Villeray. The
good woman felt for me. I saw tears in her eyes.

No! no more writing about myself. I close the book again.

Eighth Extract.

July 3.--A letter has reached Mrs. Eyrecourt this morning, from
Doctor Wybrow. It is dated, "Castel Gandolpho, near Rome." Here
the doctor is established during the hot months--and here he has
seen Romayne, in attendance on the "Holy Father," in the famous
summer palace of the Popes. How he obtained the interview Mrs.
Eyrecourt is not informed. To a man of his celebrity, doors are
no doubt opened which remain closed to persons less widely known.

"I have performed my promise," he writes "and I may say for
myself that I spoke with every needful precaution. The result a
little startled me. Romayne was not merely unprepared to hear of
the birth of his child--he was physically and morally incapable
of sustaining the shock of the disclosure. For the moment, I
thought he had been seized with a fit of catalepsy. He moved,
however, when I tried to take his hand to feel the
pulse--shrinking back in his chair, and feebly signing to me to
leave him. I committed him to the care of his servant. The next
day I received a letter from one of his priestly colleagues,
informing me that he was slowly recovering after the shock that I
had inflicted, and requesting me to hold no further communication
with him, either personally or by letter. I wish I could have
sent you a more favorable report of my interference in this
painful matter. Perhaps you or your daughter may hear from him."

July 4-9.--No letter has been received. Mrs. Eyrecourt is uneasy.
Stella, on the contrary, seems to be relieved.

July 10.--A letter has arrived from London, addressed to Stella
by Romayne's English lawyers. The income which Mrs. Romayne has
refused for herself is to be legally settled on her child.
Technical particulars follow, which it is needless to repeat
here.

By return of post, Stella has answered the lawyers, declaring
that, so long as she lives, and has any influence over her son,
he shall not touch the offered income. Mrs. Eyrecourt, Monsieur
and Madame Villeray--and even Matilda--entreated her not to send
the letter. To my thinking, Stella acted with becoming spirit.
Though there is no entail, still Vange Abbey is morally the boy's
birthright--it is a cruel wrong to offer him anything else.

July 11.--For the second time I have proposed to leave St.
Germain. The presence of the third person, whenever I am in her
company, is becoming unendurable to me. She still uses her
influence to defer my departure. "Nobody sympathizes with me,"
she said, "but you."

I am failing to keep my promise to myself, not to write about
myself. But there is some little excuse this time. For the relief
of my own conscience, I may surely place it on record that I have
tried to do what is right. It is not my fault if I remain at St.
Germain, insensible to Madame Villeray's warning.

Ninth Extract.

September 13.--Terrible news from Rome of the Jesuit Mission to
Arizona.

The Indians have made a night attack on the new mission-house.
The building is burned to the ground, and the missionaries have
been massacred--with the exception of two priests, carried away
captive. The names of the priests are not known. News of the
atrocity has been delayed four months on its way to Europe, owing
partly to the civil war in the United States, and partly to
disturbances in Central America.

Looking at the _Times_ (which we receive regularly at St.
Germain), I found this statement confirmed in a short
paragraph--but here also the names of the two prisoners failed to
appear.

Our one present hope of getting any further information seems to
me to depend on our English newspaper. The _Times_ stands alone
as the one public journal which has the whole English nation for
volunteer contributors. In their troubles at home, they appeal to
the Editor. In their travels abroad, over civilized and savage
regions alike, if they meet with an adventure worth mentioning
they tell it to the Editor. If any one of our countrymen knows
anything of this dreadful massacre, I foresee with certainty
where we shall find the information in print.

Soon after my arrival here, Stella had told me of her memorable
conversation with Penrose in the garden at Ten Acres Lodge. I was
well acquainted with the nature of her obligation to the young
priest, but I was not prepared for the outbreak of grief which
escaped her when she had read the telegram from Rome. She
actually went the length of saying, "I shall never enjoy another
happy moment till I know whether Penrose is one of the two living
priests!"

The inevitable third person with us, this morning, was Monsieur
Villeray. Sitting at the window with a book in his
hand--sometimes reading, sometimes looking at the garden with the
eye of a fond horticulturist--he discovered a strange cat among
his flower beds. Forgetful of every other consideration, the old
gentleman hobbled out to drive away the intruder, and left us
together.

I spoke to Stella, in words which I would now give everything I
possess to recall. A detestable jealousy took possession of me. I
meanly hinted that Penrose could claim no great merit (in the
matter of Romayne's conversion) for yielding to the entreaties of
a beautiful woman who had fascinated him, though he might be
afraid to own it. She protested against my unworthy
insinuation--but she failed to make me ashamed of myself. Is a
woman ever ignorant of the influence which her beauty exercises
over a man? I went on, like the miserable creature that I was,
from bad to worse.

"Excuse me," I said, "if I have unintentionally made you angry. I
ought to have known that I was treading on delicate ground. Your
interest in Penrose may be due to a warmer motive than a sense of
obligation."

She turned away from me--sa dly, not angrily--intending, as it
appeared, to leave the room in silence. Arrived at the door, she
altered her mind, and came back.

"Even if you insult me, Bernard, I am not able to resent it," she
said, very gently. _I_ once wronged _you_--I have no right to
complain of your now wronging me. I will try to forget it."

She held out her hand. She raised her eyes--and looked at me.

It was not her fault; I alone am to blame. In another moment she
was in my arms. I held her to my breast--I felt the quick beating
of her heart on me--I poured out the wild confession of my
sorrow, my shame, my love--I tasted again and again and again the
sweetness of her lips. She put her arms round my neck and drew
her head back with a long sigh. "Be merciful to my weakness," she
whispered. "We must meet no more."

She pushed me back from her, with a trembling hand, and left the
room.

I have broken my resolution not to write about myself--but there
is no egotism, there is a sincere sense of humiliation in me,
when I record this confession of misconduct. I can make but one
atonement--I must at once leave St. Germain. Now, when it is too
late, I feel how hard for me this life of constant repression has
been.

Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a little
note, addressed in pencil. No answer was required.

The few lines were in Stella's handwriting: "You must not leave
us too suddenly, or you may excite my mother's suspicions. Wait
until you receive letters from England, and make them the pretext
for your departure.--S."

I never thought of her mother. She is right. Even if she were
wrong, I must obey her.

September 14.--The letters from England have arrived. One of them
presents me with the necessary excuse for my departure, ready
made. My proposal for the purchase of the yacht is accepted. The
sailing-master and crew have refused all offers of engagement,
and are waiting at Cowes for my orders. Here is an absolute
necessity for my return to England.

The newspaper arrived with the letters. My anticipations have
been realized. Yesterday's paragraph has produced another
volunteer contributor. An Englishman just returned from Central
America, after traveling in Arizona, writes to the _Times._ He
publishes his name and address--and he declares that he has
himself seen the two captive priests.

The name of this correspondent carries its own guarantee with it.
He is no less a person than Mr. Murthwaite--the well-known
traveler in India, who discovered the lost diamond called "the
Moonstone," set in the forehead of a Hindoo idol. He writes to
the editor as follows:

"Sir--I can tell you something of the two Jesuit priests who were
the sole survivors of the massacre in the Santa Cruz Valley four
months since.

"I was traveling at the time in Arizona, under the protection of
an Apache chief, bribed to show me his country and his nation
(instead of cutting my throat and tearing off my scalp) by a
present tribute of whisky and gunpowder, and by the promise of
more when our association came to an end.

"About twelve miles northward of the little silver-mining town of
Tubac we came upon an Apache encampment. I at once discovered two
white men among the Indians These were the captive priests.

"One of them was a Frenchman, named L'Herbier. The other was an
Englishman, named Penrose. They owed their lives to the influence
of two powerful considerations among the Indians. Unhappy
L'Herbier lost his senses under the horror of the night massacre.
Insanity, as you may have heard, is a sacred thing in the
estimation of the American savages; they regard this poor madman
as a mysteriously inspired person The other priest, Penrose, had
been in charge of the mission medicine-chest, and had
successfully treated cases of illness among the Apaches. As a
'great medicine-man,' he too is a privileged person--under the
strong protection of their interest in their own health. The
lives of the prisoners are in no danger, provided they can endure
the hardship of their wandering existence among the Indians.
Penrose spoke to me with the resignation of a true hero. 'I am in
the hands of God,' he said; 'and if I die, I die in God's
service.'

"I was entirely unprovided with the means of ransoming the
missionaries--and nothing that I could say, or that I could
promise, had the smallest effect on the savages. But for severe
and tedious illness, I should long since have been on my way back
to Arizona with the necessary ransom. As it is, I am barely
strong enough to write this letter. But I can head a subscription
to pay expenses; and I can give instructions to any person who is
willing to attempt the deliverance of the priests."

So the letter ended.

Before I had read it, I was at a loss to know where to go, or
what to do, when I leave St. Germain. I am now at no loss. I have
found an object in life, and a means of making atonement to
Stella for my own ungracious and unworthy words. Already I have
communicated by telegraph with Mr. Murthwaite and with my
sailing-master. The first is informed that I hope to be with him,
in London, to-morrow morning. The second is instructed to have
the yacht fitted out immediately for a long voyage. If I can save
these men--especially Penrose--I shall not have lived in vain.

London, September 15.--No. I have resolution enough to go to
Arizona, but I have no courage to record the parting scene when
it was time to say good-by.

I had intended to keep the coming enterprise a secret, and only
to make the disclosure in writing when the vessel was ready to
sail. But, after reading the letter to the _Times,_ Stella saw
something in my face (as I suppose) that betrayed me. Well, it's
over now. I do my best to keep myself from thinking of it--and,
for this reason, I abstain from dwelling on the subject here.

Mr. Murthwaite has not only given me valuable instructions--he
has provided me with letters of introduction to persons in
office, and to the _padres_ (or priests) in Mexico, which will be
of incalculable use in such an expedition as mine. In the present
disturbed condition of the United States, he recommends me to
sail for a port on the eastern coast of Mexico, and then to
travel northward overland, and make my first inquiries in Arizona
at the town of Tubac. Time is of such importance, in his opinion,
that he suggests making inquiries in London and Liverpool for a
merchant vessel under immediate sailing orders for Vera Cruz or
Tampico. The fitting out of the yacht cannot be accomplished, I
find, in less than a fortnight or three weeks. I have therefore
taken Mr. Murthwaite's advice.

September 16.--No favorable answer, so far as the port of London
is concerned. Very little commerce with Mexico, and bad harbors
in that country when you do trade. Such is the report.

September 17.--A Mexican brig has been discovered at Liverpool,
under orders for Vera Cruz. But the vessel is in debt, and the
date of departure depends on expected remittances! In this state
of things I may wait, with my conscience at ease, to sail in
comfort on board my own schooner.

September 18-30.--I have settled my affairs; I have taken leave
of my friends (good. Mr. Murthwaite included); I have written
cheerfully to Stella; and I sail from Portsmouth to-morrow, well
provided with the jars of whisky and the kegs of gunpowder which
will effect the release of the captives.

It is strange, considering the serious matters I have to think
of, but it is also true, that I feel out of spirits at the
prospect of leaving England without my traveling companion, the
dog. I am afraid to take the dear old fellow with me, on such a
perilous expedition as mine may be. Stella takes care of
him--and, if I don't live to return, she will never part with
him, for his master's sake. It implies a childish sort of mind, I
suppose--but it is a comfort to me to remember that I have never
said a hard word to Traveler, and never lifted my hand on him in
anger.

All this about a dog! And not a word about Stella? Not a word.
_Those_ thoughts are not to be written.

I have reached the last page of my diary. I shall lock it, and
leave it in charge of my bankers, on my way to the Portsmouth
train. Shall I ever w ant a new diary? Superstitious people might
associate this coming to the end of the book with coming to an
end of another kind. I have no imagination, and I take my leap in
the dark hopefully--with Byron's glorious lines in my mind:


          "Here's a sigh to those who love me,
             And a smile to those that bate;
           And whatever sky's above met
             Here's heart for every fated


                                            ----

(An inclosure is inserted here, marking a lapse of seven months,
before the entries in the diary are resumed. It consists of two
telegrams, dispatched respectively on the 1st and 2d of May,
1864.)

1. "From Bernard Winterfield, Portsmouth, England. To Mrs.
Romayne care of M. Villeray, St. Germain, near Paris. --Penrose
is safe on board my yacht. His unfortunate companion has died of
exhaustion, and he is himself in a feeble state of health. I at
once take him with me to London for medical advice. We are eager
for news of you. Telegraph to Derwent's Hotel."

2. "From Mrs. Eyrecourt, St. Germain. To Bernard Winterfield,
Derwent's Hotel, London. --Your telegram received with joy, and
sent on to Stella in Paris. All well. But strange events have
happened. If you cannot come here at once, go to Lord Loring. He
will tell you everything."

Tenth Extract.

London, 2d May, 1864.--Mrs. Eyrecourt's telegram reached me just
after Doctor Wybrow had paid his first professional visit to
Penrose, at the hotel. I had hardly time to feel relieved by the
opinion of the case which he expressed, before my mind was upset
by Mrs. Eyrecourt. Leaving Penrose under the charge of our
excellent landlady, I hurried away to Lord Loring.

It was still early in the day: his lordship was at home. He
maddened me with impatience by apologizing at full length for
"the inexcusable manner in which he had misinterpreted my conduct
on the deplorable occasion of the marriage ceremony at Brussels."
I stopped his flow of words (very earnestly spoken, it is only
right to add), and entreated him to tell me, in the first place,
what Stella was doing in Paris.

"Stella is with her husband," Lord Loring replied.

My head turned giddy, my heart beat furiously. Lord Loring looked
at me--ran to the luncheon table in the next room--and returned
with a glass of wine. I really don't know whether I drank the
wine or not. I know I stammered out another inquiry in one word.

"Reconciled?" I said.

"Yes, Mr. Winterfield--reconciled, before he dies."

We were both silent for a while.

What was he thinking of? I don't know. What was I thinking of? I
daren't write it down.

Lord Loring resumed by expressing some anxiety on the subject of
my health. I made the best excuse for myself that I could, and
told him of the rescue of Penrose. He had heard of my object in
leaving England, and heartily congratulated me. "This will be
welcome news indeed," he said, "to Father Benwell."

Even the name of Father Benwell now excites my distrust. "Is _he_
in Paris too?" I inquired.

"He left Paris last night," Lord Loring answered; "and he is now
in London, on important business (as I understand) connected with
Romayne's affairs."

I instantly thought of the boy.

"Is Romayne in possession of his faculties?" I asked.

"In complete possession."

"While justice is in his power, has he done justice to his son?"

Lord Loring looked a little confused. "I have not heard," was all
he said in reply.

I was far from satisfied. "You are one of Romayne's oldest
friends," I persisted. "Have you not seen him yourself?"

"I have seen him more than once. But he has never referred to his
affairs." Having said this he hastily changed the subject. "Is
there any other information that I can give you?" he suggested.

I had still to learn under what circumstances Romayne had left
Italy for France, and how the event of his illness in Paris had
been communicated to his wife. Lord Loring had only to draw on
his own recollections to enlighten me.

"Lady Loring and I passed the last winter in Rome," he said.
"And, there, we saw Romayne. You look surprised. Perhaps you are
aware that we had offended him, by advice which we thought it our
duty to offer to Stella before her marriage?"

I was certainly thinking of what Stella had said of the Lorings
on the memorable day when she visited me at the hotel.

"Romayne would probably have refused to receive us," Lord Loring
resumed, "but for the gratifying circumstance of my having been
admitted to an interview with the Pope. The Holy Father spoke of
him with the most condescending kindness; and, hearing that I had
not yet seen him, gave instructions, commanding Romayne to
present himself. Under these circumstances it was impossible for
him to refuse to receive Lady Loring and myself on a later
occasion. I cannot tell you how distressed we were at the sad
change for the worse in his personal appearance. The Italian
physician, whom he occasionally consulted, told me that there was
a weakness in the action of his heart, produced, in the first
instance, by excessive study and the excitement of preaching, and
aggravated by the further drain on his strength due to
insufficient nourishment. He would eat and drink just enough to
keep him alive, and no more; and he persistently refused to try
the good influence of rest and change of scene. My wife, at a
later interview with him, when they were alone, induced him to
throw aside the reserve which he had maintained with me, and
discovered another cause for the deterioration in his health. I
don't refer to the return of a nervous misery, from which he has
suffered at intervals for years past; I speak of the effect
produced on his mind by the announcement--made no doubt with best
intentions by Doctor Wybrow--of the birth of his child. This
disclosure (he was entirely ignorant of his wife's situation when
he left her) appears to have affected him far more seriously than
the English doctor supposed. Lady Loring was so shocked at what
he said to her on the subject, that she has only repeated it to
me with a certain reserve. 'If I could believe I did wrong,' he
said, 'in dedicating myself to the service of the Church, after
the overthrow of my domestic happiness, I should also believe
that the birth of this child was the retributive punishment of my
sin, and the warning of my approaching death. I dare not take
this view. And yet I have it not in me, after the solemn vows by
which I am bound, to place any more consoling interpretation on
an event which, as a priest, it disturbs and humiliates me even
to think of.' That one revelation of his tone of thought will
tell you what is the mental state of this unhappy man. He gave us
little encouragement to continue our friendly intercourse with
him. It was only when we were thinking of our return to England
that we heard of his appointment to the vacant place of first
attache to the Embassy at Paris. The Pope's paternal anxiety on
the subject of Romayne's health had chosen this wise and generous
method of obliging him to try a salutary change of air as well as
a relaxation from his incessant employments in Rome. On the
occasion of his departure we met again. He looked like a worn-out
old man. We could now only remember his double claim on us--as a
priest of our religion, and as a once dear friend--and we
arranged to travel with him. The weather at the time was mild;
our progress was made by easy stages. We left him at Paris,
apparently the better for his journey."

I asked if they had seen Stella on that occasion.

"No," said Lord Loring. "We had reason to doubt whether Stella
would be pleased to see us, and we felt reluctant to meddle,
unasked, with a matter of extreme delicacy. I arranged with the
Nuncio (whom I have the honor to know) that we should receive
written information of Romayne's state of health, and on that
understanding we returned to England. A week since, our news from
the Embassy was so alarming that Lady Loring at once returned to
Paris. Her first letter informed me that she had felt it her duty
to tell Stella of the critical condition of Romayne's health. She
expressed her sense of my wife's kindness most gratefully and
feelingly and at once removed to Paris, to be on the spot if her
husband expressed a wish to see her. The two ladies are now
staying at the same hotel. I have thus far been detained in
London by family affairs. But, unless I hear of a change for the
better before evening, I follow Lady Loring to Paris by the mail
train."

It was needless to trespass further on Lord Loring's time. I
thanked him, and returned to Penrose. He was sleeping when I got
to the hotel.

On the table in the sitting-room I found a telegram waiting for
me. It had been sent by Stella, and it contained these lines:

"I have just returned from his bedside, after telling him of the
rescue of Penrose. He desires to see you. There is no positive
suffering--he is sinking under a complete prostration of the
forces of life. That is what the doctors tell me. They said, when
I spoke of writing to you, 'Send a telegram; there is no time to
lose.' "

Toward evening Penrose awoke. I showed him the telegram.
Throughout our voyage, the prospect of seeing Romayne again had
been the uppermost subject in his thoughts. In the extremity of
his distress, he declared that he would accompany me to Paris by
the night train. Remembering how severely he had felt the fatigue
of the short railway journey from Portsmouth, I entreated him to
let me go alone. His devotion to Romayne was not to be reasoned
with. While we were still vainly trying to convince each other,
Doctor Wybrow came in.

To my amazement he sided with Penrose.

"Oh, get up by all means," he said; "we will help you to dress."
We took him out of bed and put on his dressing-gown. He thanked
us; and saying he would complete his toilet by himself, sat down
in an easy chair. In another moment he was asleep again, so
soundly asleep that we put him back in his bed without waking
him. Doctor Wybrow had foreseen this result: he looked at the
poor fellow's pale peaceful face with a kindly smile.

"There is the treatment," he said, "that will set our patient on
his legs again. Sleeping, eating, and drinking--let that be his
life for some weeks to come, and he will be as good a man as
ever. If your homeward journey had been by land, Penrose would
have died on the way. I will take care of him while you are in
Paris."

At the station I met Lord Loring. He understood that I too had
received bad news, and gave me a place in the _coupe_ carriage
which had been reserved for him. We had hardly taken our seats
when we saw Father Benwell among the travelers on the platform,
accompanied by a gray-haired gentleman who was a stranger to both
of us. Lord Loring dislikes strangers. Otherwise, I might have
found myself traveling to Paris with that detestable Jesuit for a
companion.

Paris, May 3.--On our arrival at the hotel I was informed that no
message had yet been received from the Embassy.

We found Lady Loring alone at the breakfast-table, when we had
rested after our night journey.

"Romayne still lives," she said. "But his voice has sunk to a
whisper, and he is unable to breathe if he tries to rest in bed.
Stella has gone to the Embassy; she hopes to see him to-day for
the second time."

"Only for the second time!" I exclaimed.

"You forget, Mr. Winterfield, that Romayne is a priest. He was
only consecrated on the customary condition of an absolute
separation from his wife. On her side--never let her know that I
told you this--Stella signed a formal document, sent from Rome,
asserting that she consented of her own free will to the
separation. She was relieved from the performance of another
formality (which I need not mention more particularly) by a
special dispensation. Under these circumstances--communicated to
me while Stella and I have been together in this house--the
wife's presence at the bedside of her dying husband is regarded
by the other priests at the Embassy as a scandal and a
profanation. The kind-hearted Nuncio is blamed for having
exceeded his powers in yielding (even under protest) to the last
wishes of a dying man. He is now in communication with Rome,
waiting for the final instructions which are to guide him."

"Has Romayne seen his child?" I asked.

"Stella has taken the child with her to-day. It is doubtful in
the last degree whether the poor little boy will be allowed to
enter his father's room. _That_ complication is even more serious
than the other. The dying Romayne persists in his resolution to
see the child. So completely has his way of thinking been altered
by the approach of death, and by the closing of the brilliant
prospect which was before him, that he even threatens to recant,
with his last breath, if his wishes are not complied with. How it
will end I cannot even venture to guess.

"Unless the merciful course taken by the Nuncio is confirmed,"
said Lord Loring, "it may end in a revival of the protest of the
Catholic priests in Germany against the prohibition of marriage
to the clergy. The movement began in Silesia in 1826, and was
followed by unions (or Leagues, as we should call them now) in
Baden, Wurtemburg, Bavaria, and Rhenish Prussia. Later still, the
agitation spread to France and Austria. It was only checked by a
papal bull issued in 1847, reiterating the final decision of the
famous Council of Trent in favor of the celibacy of the
priesthood. Few people are aware that this rule has been an
institution of slow growth among the clergy of the Church of
Rome. Even as late as the twelfth century, there were still
priests who set the prohibition of marriage at defiance."

I listened, as one of the many ignorant persons alluded to by
Lord Loring. It was with difficulty that I fixed my attention on
what he was saying. My thoughts wandered to Stella and to the
dying man. I looked at the clock.

Lady Loring evidently shared the feeling of suspense that had got
possession of me. She rose and walked to the window.

"Here is the message!" she said, recognizing her traveling
servant as he entered the hotel door.

The man appeared, with a line written on a card. I was requested
to present the card at the Embassy, without delay.

May 4.--I am only now able to continue my record of the events of
yesterday.

A silent servant received me at the Embassy, looked at the card,
and led the way to an upper floor of the house. Arrived at the
end of a long passage, he opened a door, and retired.

As I crossed the threshold Stella met me. She took both my hands
in hers and looked at me in silence. All that was true and good
and noble expressed itself in that look.

The interval passed, and she spoke--very sadly, very quietly.

"One more work of mercy, Bernard. Help him to die with a heart at
rest."

She drew back--and I approached him.

He reclined, propped up with pillows, in a large easy-chair; it
was the one position in which he could still breathe with
freedom. The ashy shades of death were on his wasted face. In the
eyes alone, as they slowly turned on me, there still glimmered
the waning light of life. One of his arms hung down over the
chair; the other was clasped round his child, sitting on his
knee. The boy looked at me wonderingly, as I stood by his father.
Romayne signed to me to stoop, so that I might hear him.

"Penrose?" he asked, faintly whispering. "Dear Arthur! Not dying,
like me?"

I quieted _that_ anxiety. For a moment there was even the shadow
of a smile on his face, as I told him of the effort that Penrose
had vainly made to be the companion of my journey. He asked me,
by another gesture, to bend my ear to him once more.

"My last grateful blessing to Penrose. And to you. May I not say
it? You have saved Arthur"--his eyes turned toward Stella--"you
have been _her_ best friend." He paused to recover his feeble
breath; looking round the large room, without a creature in it
but ourselves. Once more the melancholy shadow of a smile passed
over his face--and vanished. I listened, nearer to him still.

"Christ took a child on His knee. The priests call themselves
ministers of Christ. They have left me, because of _this_ child,
here on my knee. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Winterfield, Death is a
great teacher. I know how I have erred--what I have lost. Wife
and child. How poor and barren all the rest of it looks now!"

He was silent for a while. Was he thi nking? No: he seemed to be
listening--and yet there was no sound in the room. Stella,
anxiously watching him, saw the listening expression as I did.
Her face showed anxiety, but no surprise.

"Does it torture you still?" she asked.

"No," he said; "I have never heard it plainly, since I left Rome.
It has grown fainter and fainter from that time. It is not a
Voice now. It is hardly a whisper: my repentance is accepted, my
release is coming. --Where is Winterfield?"

She pointed to me.

"I spoke of Rome just now. What did Rome remind me of?" He slowly
recovered the lost recollection. "Tell Winterfield," he whispered
to Stella, "what the Nuncio said when he knew that I was going to
die. The great man reckoned up the dignities that might have been
mine if I had lived. From my place here in the Embassy--"

"Let me say it," she gently interposed, "and spare your strength
for better things. From your place in the Embassy you would have
mounted a step higher to the office of Vice-Legate. Those duties
wisely performed, another rise to the Auditorship of the
Apostolic Chamber. That office filled, a last step upward to the
highest rank left, the rank of a Prince of the Church."

"All vanity!" said the dying Romayne. He looked at his wife and
his child. "The true happiness was waiting for me here. And I
only know it now. Too late. Too late."

He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his weary eyes. We
thought he was composing himself to sleep. Stella tried to
relieve him of the boy. "No," he whispered; "I am only resting my
eyes to look at him again." We waited. The child stared at me, in
infantine curiosity. His mother knelt at his side, and whispered
in his ear. A bright smile irradiated his face; his clear brown
eyes sparkled; he repeated the forgotten lesson of the bygone
time, and called me once more, "Uncle Ber'."

Romayne heard it. His heavy eyelids opened again. "No," he said.
"Not uncle. Something better and dearer. Stella, give me your
hand."

Still kneeling, she obeyed him. He slowly raised himself on the
chair. "Take her hand," he said to me. I too knelt. Her hand lay
cold in mine. After a long interval he spoke to me. "Bernard
Winterfield," he said, "love them, and help them, when I am
gone." He laid his weak hand on our hands, clasped together. "May
God protect you! may God bless you!" he murmured. "Kiss me,
Stella."

I remember no more. As a man, I ought to have set a better
example; I ought to have preserved my self-control. It was not to
be done. I turned away from them--and burst out crying.

The minutes passed. Many minutes or few minutes, I don't know
which.

A soft knock at the door aroused me. I dashed away the useless
tears. Stella had retired to the further end of the room. She was
sitting by the fireside, with the child in her arms. I withdrew
to the same part of the room, keeping far enough away not to
disturb them.

Two strangers came in and placed themselves on either side of
Romayne's chair. He seemed to recognize them unwillingly. From
the manner in which they examined him, I inferred that they were
medical men. After a consultation in low tones, one of them went
out.

He returned again almost immediately, followed by the gray-headed
gentleman whom I had noticed on the journey to Paris--and by
Father Benwell.

The Jesuit's vigilant eyes discovered us instantly, in our place
near the fireside. I thought I saw suspicion as well as surprise
in his face. But he recovered himself so rapidly that I could not
feel sure. He bowed to Stella. She made no return; she looked as
if she had not even seen him.

One of the doctors was an Englishman. He said to Father Benwell:
"Whatever your business may be with Mr. Romayne, we advise you to
enter on it without delay. Shall we leave the room?"

"Certainly not," Father Benwell answered. "The more witnesses are
present, the more relieved I shall feel." He turned to his
traveling companion. "Let Mr. Romayne's lawyer," he resumed,
"state what our business is."

The gray-headed gentleman stepped forward.

"Are you able to attend to me, sir?" he asked.

Romayne, reclining in his chair, apparently lost to all interest
in what was going on, heard and answered. The weak tones of his
voice failed to reach my ear at the other end of the room. The
lawyer, seeming to be satisfied so far, put a formal question to
the doctors next. He inquired if Mr. Romayne was in full
possession of his faculties.

Both the physicians answered without hesitation in the
affirmative. Father Benwell added _his_ attestation. "Throughout
Mr. Romayne's illness," he said firmly, "his mind has been as
clear as mine is."

While this was going on, the child had slipped off his mother's
lap, with the natural restlessness of his age. He walked to the
fireplace and stopped--fascinated by the bright red glow of the
embers of burning wood. In one corner of the low fender lay a
loose little bundle of sticks, left there in case the fire might
need relighting. The boy, noticing the bundle, took out one of
the sticks and threw it experimentally into the grate. The flash
of flame, as the stick caught fire, delighted him. He went on
burning stick after stick. The new game kept him quiet: his
mother was content to be on the watch, to see that no harm was
done.

In the meantime, the lawyer briefly stated his case.

"You remember, Mr. Romayne, that your will was placed, for safe
keeping, in our office," he began. "Father Benwell called upon
us, and presented an order, signed by yourself, authorizing him
to convey the will from London to Paris. The object was to obtain
your signature to a codicil, which had been considered a
necessary addition to secure the validity of the will.--Are you
favoring me with your attention, sir?"

Romayne answered by a slight bending of his head. His eyes were
fixed on the boy--still absorbed in throwing his sticks, one by
one, into the fire.

"At the time when your will was executed," the lawyer went on,
"Father Benwell obtained your permission to take a copy of it.
Hearing of your illness, he submitted the copy to a high legal
authority. The written opinion of this competent person declares
the clause, bequeathing the Vange estate to Father Benwell, to be
so imperfectly expressed, that the will might be made a subject
of litigation after the testator's death. He has accordingly
appended a form of codicil amending the defect, and we have added
it to the will. I thought it my duty, as one of your legal
advisers, to accompany Father Benwell on his return to Paris in
charge of the will--in case you might feel disposed to make any
alteration." He looked toward Stella and the child as he
completed that sentence. The Jesuit's keen eyes took the same
direction. "Shall I read the will, sir?" the lawyer resumed; "or
would you prefer to look at it yourself?"

Romayne held out his hand for the will, in silence. He was still
watching his son. There were but few more sticks now left to be
thrown in the fire.

Father Benwell interfered, for the first time.

"One word, Mr. Romayne, before you examine that document," he
said. "The Church receives back from you (through me) the
property which was once its own. Beyond that it authorizes and
even desires you to make any changes which you or your trusted
legal adviser may think right. I refer to the clauses of the will
which relate to the property you have inherited from the late
Lady Berrick--and I beg the persons present to bear in memory the
few plain words that I have now spoken."

He bowed with dignity and drew back. Even the lawyer was
favorably impressed. The doctors looked at each other with silent
approval. For the first time, the sad repose of Stella's face was
disturbed--I could see that it cost her an effort to repress her
indignation. The one unmoved person was Romayne. The sheet of
paper on which the will was written lay unregarded upon his lap;
his eyes were still riveted on the little figure at the
fireplace.

The child had thrown his last stick into the glowing red embers.
He looked about him for a fresh supply, and found nothing. His
fresh young voice rose high through the silence of the room.

"More!" he cried. "More!"

His mother held up a warning finger . "Hush!" she whispered. He
shrank away from her as she tried to take him on her knee, and
looked across the room at his father. "More!" he burst out louder
than ever. Romayne beckoned to me, and pointed to the boy.

I led him across the room. He was quite willing to go with me--he
reiterated his petition, standing at his father's knees.

"Lift him to me," said Romayne.

I could barely hear the words: even his strength to whisper
seemed to be fast leaving him. He kissed his son--with a panting
fatigue under that trifling exertion, pitiable to see. As I
placed the boy on his feet again, he looked up at his dying
father, with the one idea still in his mind.

"More, papa! More!"

Romayne put the will into his hand.

The child's eyes sparkled. "Burn?" he asked, eagerly.

"Yes!"

Father Benwell sprang forward with outstretched hands. I stopped
him. He struggled with me. I forgot the privilege of the black
robe. I took him by the throat.

The boy threw the will into the fire. "Oh!" he shouted, in high
delight, and clapped his chubby hands as the bright little blaze
flew up the chimney. I released the priest.

In a frenzy of rage and despair, he looked round at the persons
in the room. "I take you all to witness," he cried; "this is an
act of madness!"

"You yourself declared just now," said the lawyer, "that Mr.
Romayne was in perfect possession of his faculties."

The baffled Jesuit turned furiously on the dying man. They looked
at each other.

For one awful moment Romayne's eyes brightened, Romayne's voice
rallied its power, as if life was returning to him. Frowning
darkly, the priest put his question.

"What did you do it for?"

Quietly and firmly the answer came:

"Wife and child."

The last long-drawn sigh rose and fell. With those sacred words
on his lips, Romayne died.

London, 6th May.--At Stella's request, I have returned to
Penrose--with but one fellow-traveler. My dear old companion, the
dog, is coiled up, fast asleep at my feet, while I write these
lines. Penrose has gained strength enough to keep me company in
the sitting-room. In a few days more he will see Stella again.

What instructions reached the Embassy from Rome--whether Romayne
received the last sacrament at the earlier period of his
illness--we never heard. No objection was made, when Lord Loring
proposed to remove the body to England, to be buried in the
family vault at Vange Abbey.

I had undertaken to give the necessary directions for the
funeral, on my arrival in London. Returning to the hotel, I met
Father Benwell in the street. I tried to pass on. He deliberately
stopped me.

"How is Mrs. Romayne?" he asked, with that infernal suavity which
he seems always to have at command. "Fairly well I hope? And the
boy? Ah, he little thought how he was changing his prospects for
the better, when he made that blaze in the fire! Pardon me, Mr.
Winterfield, you don't seem to be quite so cordial as usual.
Perhaps you are thinking of your inconsiderate assault on my
throat? Let us forgive and forget. Or, perhaps, you object to my
having converted poor Romayne, and to my being ready to accept
from him the restoration of the property of the Church. In both
cases I only did my duty as a priest. You are a liberal-minded
man. Surely I deserve a favorable construction of my conduct?"

I really could not endure this. "I have my own opinion of what
you deserve," I answered. "Don't provoke me to mention it."

He eyed me with a sinister smile.

"I am not so old as I look," he said; "I may live another twenty
years!"

"Well?" I asked.

"Well," he answered, "much may happen in twenty years!"

With that he left me. If he means any further mischief, I can
tell him this--he will find Me in his way.

To turn to a more pleasant subject. Reflecting on all that had
passed at my memorable interview with Romayne, I felt some
surprise that one of the persons present had made no effort to
prevent the burning of the will. It was not to be expected of
Stella--or of the doctors, who had no interest in the matter--but
I was unable to understand the passive position maintained by the
lawyer. He enlightened my ignorance in two words.

"The Vange property and the Berrick property were both absolutely
at the disposal of Mr. Romayne," he said. "If he died without
leaving a will, he knew enough of the law to foresee that houses,
lands, and money would go to his 'nearest of kin.' In plainer
words, his widow and his son."

When Penrose can travel, he accompanies me to Beaupark. Stella
and her little son and Mrs. Eyrecourt will be the only other
guests in my house. Time must pass, and the boy will be older,
before I may remind Stella of Romayne's last wishes on that sad
morning when we two knelt on either side of him. In the
meanwhile, it is almost happiness enough for me to look forward
to the day--



NOTE.--The next leaf of the Diary is missing. By some accident, a
manuscript page has got into its place, bearing a later date, and
containing elaborate instructions for executing a design for a
wedding dress. The handwriting has since been acknowledged as her
own, by no less a person than--Mrs. Eyrecourt.