"No! I don"t know what I may think, I don"t know what I may do, if you leave me by myself."
Father Benwell took a chair by Romayne"s side. "It has been my hard duty to grieve and humiliate you," he said. "Do you bear me no ill will?" He held out his hand.
Romayne took it--as an act of justice, if not as an act of grat.i.tude.
"Can I be of any use in advising you?" Father Benwell asked.
"Who can advise a man in my position?" Romayne bitterly rejoined.
"I can at least suggest that you should take time to think over your position."
"Time? take time? You talk as if my situation was endurable."
"Everything is endurable, Romayne!"
"It may be so to you, Father Benwell. Did you part with your humanity when you put on the black robe of the priest?"
"I parted, my son, with those weaknesses of _our_ humanity on which women practice. You talk of your position. I will put it before you at its worst."
"For what purpose?"
"To show you exactly what you have now to decide. Judged by the law of England, Mrs. Romayne is your wife. Judged by the principles held sacred among the religious community to which you belong, she is not Mrs.
Romayne--she is Mrs. Winterfield, living with you in adultery. If you regret your conversion--"
"I don"t regret it, Father Benwell."
"If you renounce the holy aspirations which you have yourself acknowledged to me, return to your domestic life. But don"t ask us, while you are living with that lady, to respect you as a member of our communion."
Romayne was silent. The more violent emotions aroused in him had, with time, subsided into calm. Tenderness, mercy, past affection, found their opportunity, and pleaded with him. The priest"s bold language had missed the object at which it aimed. It had revived in Romayne"s memory the image of Stella in the days when he had first seen her. How gently her influence had wrought on him for good! how tenderly, how truly, she had loved him. "Give me some more wine!" he cried. "I feel faint and giddy.
Don"t despise me, Father Benwell--I was once so fond of her!"
The priest poured out the wine. "I feel for you," he said. "Indeed, indeed, I feel for you."
It was not all a lie--there were grains of truth in that outburst of sympathy. Father Benwell was not wholly merciless. His far-seeing intellect, his daring duplicity, carried him straight on to his end in view. But, that end once gained--and, let it be remembered, not gained, in this case, wholly for himself--there were compa.s.sionate impulses left in him which sometimes forced their way to the surface. A man of high intelligence--however he may misuse it, however unworthy he may be of it--has a gift from Heaven. When you want to see unredeemed wickedness, look for it in a fool.
"Let me mention one circ.u.mstance," Father Benwell proceeded, "which may help to relieve you for the moment. In your present state of mind, you cannot return to The Retreat."
"Impossible!"
"I have had a room prepared for you in this house. Here, free from any disturbing influence, you can shape the future course of your life. If you wish to communicate with your residence at Highgate--"
"Don"t speak of it!"
Father Benwell sighed. "Ah, I understand!" he said, sadly. "The house a.s.sociated with Mr. Winterfield"s visit--"
Romayne again interrupted him--this time by gesture only. The hand that had made the sign clinched itself when it rested afterward on the table. His eyes looked downward, under frowning brows. At the name of Winterfield, remembrances that poisoned every better influence in him rose venomously in his mind. Once more he loathed the deceit that had been practiced on him. Once more the detestable doubt of that a.s.serted parting at the church door renewed its stealthy torment, and reasoned with him as if in words: She has deceived you in one thing; why not in another?
"Can I see my lawyer here?" he asked, suddenly.
"My dear Romayne, you can see any one whom you like to invite."
"I shall not trouble you by staying very long, Father Benwell."
"Do nothing in a hurry, my son. Pray do nothing in a hurry!"
Romayne paid no attention to this entreaty. Shrinking from the momentous decision that awaited him, his mind instinctively took refuge in the prospect of change of scene. "I shall leave England," he said, impatiently.
"Not alone!" Father Benwell remonstrated.
"Who will be my companion?"
"I will," the priest answered.
Romayne"s weary eyes brightened faintly. In his desolate position, Father Benwell was the one friend on whom he could rely. Penrose was far away; the Lorings had helped to keep him deceived; Major Hynd had openly pitied and despised him as a victim to priestcraft.
"Can you go with me at any time?" he asked. "Have you no duties that keep you in England?"
"My duties, Romayne, are already confided to other hands."
"Then you have foreseen this?"
"I have thought it possible. Your journey may be long, or it may be short--you shall not go away alone."
"I can think of nothing yet; my mind is a blank," Romayne confessed sadly. "I don"t know where I shall go."
"I know where you ought to go--and where you _will_ go," said Father Benwell, emphatically.
"Where?"
"To Rome."
Romayne understood the true meaning of that brief reply. A vague sense of dismay began to rise in his mind. While he was still tortured by doubt, it seemed as if Father Benwell had, by some inscrutable process of prevision, planned out his future beforehand. Had the priest foreseen events?
No--he had only foreseen possibilities, on the day when it first occurred to him that Romayne"s marriage was a.s.sailable, before the court of Romayne"s conscience, from the Roman Catholic point of view. By this means, the misfortune of Romayne"s marriage having preceded his conversion might be averted; and the one certain obstacle in the way of any change of purpose on his part--the obstacle of the priesthood--might still be set up, by the voluntary separation of the husband from the wife. Thus far the Jesuit had modestly described himself to his reverend colleagues, as regarding his position toward Romayne in a new light. His next letter might boldly explain to them what he had really meant. The triumph was won. Not a word more pa.s.sed between his guest and himself that morning.
Before post-time, on the same day, Father Benwell wrote his last report to the Secretary of the Society of Jesus, in these lines:
"Romayne is free from the domestic ties that bound him. He leaves it to me to restore Vange Abbey to the Church; and he acknowledges a vocation for the priesthood. Expect us at Rome in a fortnight"s time."
AFTER THE STORY.
EXTRACTS FROM BERNARD WINTERFIELD"S DIARY.
I.
WINTERFIELD DEFENDS HIMSELF.