The Black Robe
by Wilkie Collins
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

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?"