"Do you pa.s.s most of your evenings alone, Mr. Romayne?"
"Not quite alone. I have the company of my books."
"Are your books the companions that you like best?"
"I have been true to those companions, Miss Eyrecourt, for many years.
If the doctors are to be believed, my books have not treated me very well in return. They have broken down my health, and have made me, I am afraid, a very unsocial man." He seemed about to say more, and suddenly checked the impulse. "Why am I talking of myself?" he resumed with a smile. "I never do it at other times. Is this another result of your influence over me?"
He put the question with an a.s.sumed 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 circ.u.mstances."
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 pa.s.s 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?"