Romayne"s prejudices. If I ever felt the smallest consideration for _her_ (and I cannot call to mind any amiable emotion of that sort), her letter to Winterfield would have effectually extinguished it. There is something quite revolting to me in a deceitful woman.
In closing this letter, I may quiet the minds of our reverend brethren, if I a.s.sure them that my former objection to a.s.sociating myself directly with the conversion of Romayne no longer exists.
Yes! even at my age, and with my habits, I am now resigned to hearing, and confuting, the trivial arguments of a man who is young enough to be my son. I shall write a carefully-guarded letter to Romayne, on the departure of Penrose; and I shall send him a book to read, from the influence of which I expect gratifying results. It is not a controversial work (Arthur has been beforehand with me there)--it is Wiseman"s "Recollections of the Popes." I look to that essentially readable book to excite Romayne"s imagination, by vivid descriptions of the splendors of the Church, and the vast influence and power of the higher priesthood. Does this sudden enthusiasm of mine surprise you? And are you altogether at a loss to know what it means?
It means, my friend, that I see our position toward Romayne in a new light. Forgive me, if I say no more for the present. I prefer to be silent, until my audacity is justified by events.
* Father Benwell"s experience had, in this case, not misled him. If Stella had remained unmarried, Winterfield might have justified himself. But he was honorably unwilling to disturb her relations with her husband, by satisfying her that he had never been unworthy of the affection which had once united them.
CHAPTER V.
BERNARD WINTERFIELD"S CORRESPONDENCE.
I.
_From Mrs. Romayne to Mr. Winterfield._
HAS my letter failed to reach you? I directed it (as I direct this) to Beaupark, not knowing your London address.
Yesterday, Father Benwell called at Ten Acres Lodge. He first saw my mother and myself and he contrived to mention your name. It was done with his usual adroitness, and I might perhaps have pa.s.sed it over if he had not looked at me. I hope and pray it may be only my fancy--but I thought I saw, in his eyes, that he was conscious of having me in his power, and that he might betray me to my husband at any moment.
I have no sort of claim on you. And, Heaven knows, I have little reason to trust you. But I thought you meant fairly by me when we spoke together at this house. In that belief, I entreat you to tell me if Father Benwell has intruded himself into your confidence--or even if you have hinted anything to him which gives him a hold over me.
II.
_From Mr. Winterfield to Mrs. Romayne._
Both your letters have reached me.
I have good reason for believing that you are entirely mistaken in your estimate of Father Benwell"s character. But I know, by sad experience, how you hold to your opinions when they are once formed; and I am eager to relieve you of all anxiety, so far as I am concerned. I have not said one word--I have not even let slip the slightest hint--which could inform Father Benwell of that past event in our lives to which your letter alludes. Your secret is a sacred secret to me; and it has been, and shall be, sacredly kept.
There is a sentence in your letter which has given me great pain. You reiterate the cruel language of the bygone time. You say, "Heaven knows I have little reason to trust you."
I have reasons, on my side, for not justifying myself--except under certain conditions. I mean under conditions which might place me in a position to serve and advise you as a friend or brother. In that case, I undertake to prove, even to you, that it was a cruel injustice ever to have doubted me, and that there is no man living whom you can more implicitly trust than myself.
My address, when I am in London, is at the head of this page.
III.
_From Dr. Wybrow to Mr. Winterfield._
Dear Sir--I have received your letter, mentioning that you wish to accompany me, at my next visit to the asylum, to see the French boy, so strangely a.s.sociated with the papers delivered to you by Father Benwell.
Your proposal reaches me too late. The poor creature"s troubled life has come to an end. He never rallied from the exhausting effect of the fever. To the last he was attended by his mother.
I write with true sympathy for that excellent lady--but I cannot conceal from you or from myself that this death is not to be regretted. In a case of the same extraordinary kind, recorded in print, the patient recovered from the fever, and his insanity returned with his returning health.
Faithfully yours, JOSEPH WYBROW.
CHAPTER VI.
THE SADDEST OF ALL WORDS.
ON the tenth morning, dating from the dispatch of Father Benwell"s last letter to Rome, Penrose was writing in the study at Ten Acres Lodge, while Romayne sat at the other end of the room, looking listlessly at a blank sheet of paper, with the pen lying idle beside it. On a sudden he rose, and, s.n.a.t.c.hing up paper and pen, threw them irritably into the fire.
"Don"t trouble yourself to write any longer," he said to Penrose. "My dream is over. Throw my ma.n.u.scripts into the waste paper basket, and never speak to me of literary work again."
"Every man devoted to literature has these fits of despondency," Penrose answered. "Don"t think of your work. Send for your horse, and trust to fresh air and exercise to relieve your mind."
Romayne barely listened. He turned round at the fireplace and studied the reflection of his face in the gla.s.s.
"I look worse and worse," he said thoughtfully to himself.
It was true. His flesh had fallen away; his face had withered and whitened; he stooped like an old man. The change for the worse had been steadily proceeding from the time when he left Vange Abbey.
"It"s useless to conceal it from me!" he burst out, turning toward Penrose. "I believe I am in some way answerable--though you all deny it--for the French boy"s death. Why not? His voice is still in my ears, and the stain of his brother"s blood is on me. I am under a spell! Do you believe in the witches--the merciless old women who made wax images of the people who injured them, and stuck pins in their mock likenesses, to register the slow wasting away of their victims day after day? People disbelieve it in these times, but it has never been disproved." He stopped, looked at Penrose, and suddenly changed his tone. "Arthur!
what is the matter with you? Have you had a bad night? Has anything happened?"
For the first time in Romayne"s experience of him, Penrose answered evasively.
"Is there nothing to make me anxious," he said, "when I hear you talk as you are talking now? The poor French boy died of a fever. Must I remind you again that he owed the happiest days of his life to you and your good wife?"
Romayne still looked at him without attending to what he said.
"Surely you don"t think I am deceiving you?" Penrose remonstrated.
"No; I was thinking of something else. I was wondering whether I really know you as well as I thought I did. Am I mistaken in supposing that you are not an ambitious man?"
"My only ambition is to lead a worthy life, and to be as useful to my fellow-creatures as I can. Does that satisfy you?"
Romayne hesitated. "It seems strange--" he began.
"What seems strange?"
"I don"t say it seems strange that you should be a priest," Romayne explained. "I am only surprised that a man of your simple way of thinking should have attached himself to the Order of the Jesuits."
"I can quite understand that," said Penrose. "But you should remember that circ.u.mstances often influence a man in his choice of a vocation. It has been so with me. I am a member of a Roman Catholic family. A Jesuit College was near our place of abode, and a near relative of mine--since dead--was one of the resident priests." He paused, and added in a lower tone: "When I was little more than a lad I suffered a disappointment, which altered my character for life. I took refuge in the College, and I have found patience and peace of mind since that time. Oh, my friend, you might have been a more contented man--" He stopped again. His interest in the husband had all but deceived him into forgetting his promise to the wife.
Romayne held out his hand. "I hope I have not thoughtlessly hurt you?"
he said.
Penrose took the offered hand, and pressed it fervently. He tried to speak--and suddenly shuddered, like a man in pain. "I am not very well this morning," he stammered; "a turn in the garden will do me good."