THE BLACK ROBE ...........................................................................................................................................1

Wilkie Collins..........................................................................................................................................1

BEFORE THE STORY..........................................................................................................................2

FIRST SCENE. BOULOGNESURMER.THE DUEL. ................................................................2

I...............................................................................................................................................................2

II. ..............................................................................................................................................................3

III. .............................................................................................................................................................5

IV.............................................................................................................................................................7

V. ..............................................................................................................................................................9

SECOND SCENE. VANGE ABBEY.THE FOREWARNINGS ...................................................12

VI...........................................................................................................................................................12

VII. .........................................................................................................................................................13

VIII. ........................................................................................................................................................17

IX...........................................................................................................................................................18

X. ............................................................................................................................................................19

BOOK THE FIRST. .............................................................................................................................21

CHAPTER I. THE CONFIDENCES. ...................................................................................................21

CHAPTER II. THE JESUITS. ..............................................................................................................25

CHAPTER III. THE INTRODUCTION TO ROMAYNE. ..................................................................29

CHAPTER IV. FATHER BENWELL HITS. .......................................................................................32

CHAPTER V. FATHER BENWELL MISSES. ...................................................................................35

CHAPTER VI. THE ORDER OF THE DISHES. ................................................................................39

CHAPTER VII. THE INFLUENCE OF STELLA. ..............................................................................43

CHAPTER VIII. THE PRIEST OR THE WOMAN?..........................................................................46

CHAPTER IX. THE PUBLIC AND THE PICTURES. .......................................................................52

CHAPTER X. FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE. ........................................................53

CHAPTER XI. STELLA ASSERTS HERSELF. .................................................................................57

CHAPTER XII. THE GENERAL'S FAMILY.....................................................................................60

CHAPTER XIII. FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE. ....................................................67

BOOK THE SECOND. ........................................................................................................................68

CHAPTER I. THE SANDWICH DANCE. ..........................................................................................68

CHAPTER II. THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE.............................................................................71

CHAPTER III. THE END OF THE BALL. .........................................................................................76

CHAPTER IV. IN THE SMALL HOURS. ..........................................................................................78

BOOK THE THIRD. ............................................................................................................................83

CHAPTER I. THE HONEYMOON. .....................................................................................................83

CHAPTER II. EVENTS AT TEN ACRES..........................................................................................85

CHAPTER III. FATHER BENWELL AND THE BOOK. ..................................................................89

CHAPTER IV. THE END OF THE HONEYMOON. .........................................................................93

CHAPTER V. FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE. ........................................................97

BOOK THE FOURTH. ......................................................................................................................110

CHAPTER I. THE BREACH IS WIDENED. ....................................................................................110

CHAPTER II. A CHRISTIAN JESUIT. .............................................................................................112

CHAPTER III. WINTERFIELD RETURNS.....................................................................................118

CHAPTER IV. FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE. .....................................................122

CHAPTER V. BERNARD WINTERFIELD'S CORRESPONDENCE. ...........................................124

CHAPTER VI. THE SADDEST OF ALL WORDS. .........................................................................126

CHAPTER VII. THE IMPULSIVE SEX...........................................................................................129

BOOK THE FIFTH. ...........................................................................................................................133

CHAPTER I. MRS. EYRECOURT'S DISCOVERY. ........................................................................133

CHAPTER II. THE SEED IS SOWN. ................................................................................................137

CHAPTER III. THE HARVEST IS REAPED. ..................................................................................140

CHAPTER IV. ON THE ROAD TO ROME.....................................................................................145

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

"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

"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

It was needless to ask any more questionsRomayne was plainly on his way to Boulogne. I gave him some

"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 booksand

what happens to me? I am brought to London in this season of fogs, to travel by the tidal train at seven

tomorrow morningand all for a woman with whom I have no sympathies in common. If I am not an

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 systemsorely tried by night study and strong teaof 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 travelingand 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

SHORTLY after noon, on the next day, we were established at Boulognenear 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 answerhe 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 today. 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,

The weather cleared toward evening, and we went out for a walk. We passed a churcha Roman Catholic

church, of coursethe 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

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

Christianitybut 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 fellowcreatures, 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

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

"She is seriously ill, poor soul," he said. "I am sorry I spoke so petulantly and so 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

extremebecame 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

"Yes. The fact is, I lost sight of Peterkin when I left Oxfordand 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 enlightenmentCaptain 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

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 saybut 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

"Yes. I happened to mention that wretched dinner yesterday at our hotel. He said, 'Come to my

boardinghouse. Out of Paris, there isn't such a table d'hote in France.' I tried to get off itnot caring, as you

know, to go among strangersI 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

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

captainor, if we had met him, my presence would have prevented the confidential talk and the invitation

that followed. I felt I was to blameand yet, how could I help it? It was useless to remonstrate: the mischief

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 watchdogs. Was the proprietor

THE moment we were introduced to the drawingroom, my suspicions of the company we were likely to

"Cards, billiards, and betting"there was the inscription legibly written on the manner and appearance of

Captain Peterkin. The brighteyed yellow old lady who kept the boardinghouse 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 greasylooking 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 diningroom, 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 drawingroom. 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 innocentlooking table, with a surface of rosewood,

suddenly develop a substance of green cloth. At the same time, a neat little roulettetable made its

appearance from a hidingplace 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

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

Romayne was excited, but not stupefied, by the wine he had drunk. He answered, discreetly enough, "I must

The General suddenly looked grave. "You are speaking, sir, under a strange misapprehension," he said. "Our

game is lansquenetessentially a game of chance. With luck, the poorest player is a match for the whole

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.

The brokennosed Commander, hearing the question, immediately joined us, in the interests of

peacebearing 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 tableand, 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

"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

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 rascallylooking man in the

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

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

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 answeredand spat on him. In an instant

The blow was dealt straight between his eyes: he was a gross bigboned 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 tomorrow 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

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 tomorrow."

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

It was now quite plain to me that the General's peculiar method of cardplaying 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, formallyspeaking, 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

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),

The secondsevidently prepared for this circumstance by their principaldeclined 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

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

"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

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

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 elsewhereand our

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

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, welldressed 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 fitthe 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

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 seafog 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 sonhe 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

"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 didhe means

to kill you. Defend your life, sir!" I spoke quite as strongly, to the same purpose, when my turn came.

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 sideand fire." We could do no

more for him. As we drew asideI own itmy tongue was like a cinder in my mouth, and a horrid inner

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 hairbreadth.

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 backwe neither of us

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 terrorstricken 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 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 nostrilhad penetrated to the back of his neckand had

communicated a fatal shock to the spinal marrow. He was a dead man before they could take him back to his

So far, our fears were confirmed. But there was something else to tell, for which our worst presentiments had

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 househad hidden himselfand 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

"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

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

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 him 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 daywe 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

There were very few passengers. After we had left the harbor, my attention was attracted by a young English

ladytraveling, 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

"No," he replied, with the weariest indifference. "I never saw her before. I'm tiredtiredtired! Don't speak

I left him. His rare personal attractionsof which, let me add, he never appeared to be conscioushad

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 sexas I myself well knewto be the object,

not of admiration only, but of true and ardent love. He had never reciprocated the passionhad 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

She spoke with the modesty and selfpossession of a highlybred 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 animationthere was a wild

look of terror in them. He seized me roughly by the arm and pointed down to the engineroom.

As we approached the harbor at Folkestone, Romayne's agitation appeared to subside. His head drooped; his

On leaving the steamboat, I ventured to ask our charming fellowpassenger 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 ithe 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

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

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 seaside. 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

"We were looking into the engineroom," I said; "and you asked me what I heard there. You promised to tell

"I begin to think it was a delusion," he answered. "You ought not to interpret too literally what a person in my

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

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

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

"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

"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

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

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 suppressed 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 dwellinghouse, 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

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 Northcountry 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 wellremembered bedroom was waiting for me; and the matchless

old Madeira welcomed us when my host and I met in the innerhall, which was the ordinary diningroom of

As we faced each other at the wellspread 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

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 glasswhen 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

oldfashioned handbell which stood by him on the table. The servant was directed to close the door.

"No." He reconsidered that brief answer, and contradicted himself. "Yesthe library fire has burned low, I

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

He pushed away his glass of wine, and still kept his eyes fixed on the closed door. His attitude and expression

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 droppedand even the fire doesn't crackle. Perfect

"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

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,

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.

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

The houseextending round three sides of a squarewas 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 laughterthat saddest false laughter

"Here's something to amuse you!" he cried. "I believe old Garthwaite thinks I am drunkhe won't leave me

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

Romayne took my arm when we were alonewe 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 armand 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

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

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 nightbirds

were away, or were silent at the time. But one sound was audible, when we stood still and listenedthe cool

"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

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

He repeated the horrid wordsmarking the pauses in the utterance of them with his finger, as if they were

"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 seafog. 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

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

resignationhe 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

"I see nothing," he said; "I only hear. Look yourself. It is in the last degree improbablebut let us make sure

We made the circuit of the Belvidere. On its eastward side the house wall was built against one of the towers

of the old Abbey. 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

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

"Yes, I heard it for the first timedown in the engineroom; rising and falling, rising and falling, like the

"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 methat 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 againbehind 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

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.

"I make no complaint," he said sadly. "You can see for yourselfI patiently suffer the punishment that I

I contradicted him at once. "It is nothing of the sort! It's a nervous malady, which medical science can control

"I have taken the life of a fellowcreature," 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 endureand

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

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 ponychaise 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 apologizedwith 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

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

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

flowerbeds, 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 notI can only report that he took the path which led him, by the shortest way, to the

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

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

"Excuse my curiosity. The owner of Vange Abbey is an interesting person to all good antiquaries like myself.

His ponychaise took him away. His last look restednot on mebut on the old Abbey.

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

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 anxietyon my partwas 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 himthe 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 publiclyexpressed opinion of the illustrious Berryer himself.

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 muchbejeweled old landlady had been sent to prison for

the offense of keeping a gamblinghouse. 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

He and his wife and family had left Boulogne, and had gone away in debt. No investigation had thus far

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."

"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 anxietyanonymously, of course. Give

me the surgeon's address. I shall write instructions for tracing them at my expensemerely announcing that

This appeared to me to be a most imprudent thing to do. I said so plainlyand quite in vain. With his

customary impetuosity, he wrote the letter at once, and sent it to the post that night.

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

visitof no great importance in itselfled, 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 Loringwell known in society as the head of an old English Catholic family, and the possessor of a

magnificent gallery of pictureswas 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

"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 estateand with the fortune which he has now inherited from his auntit is his duty to

"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

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

"Romayne is, as you say, a difficult subject to deal with," he resumed. "If I commit the slightest imprudence,

I shall excite his suspicionand 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 galleryisn'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 friendand 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,

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

To return to the serious interests of the present narrative, I may now announce that my evidence as an

eyewitness 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

IN an upper room of one of the palatial houses which are situated on the north side of Hyde Park, two ladies

The elder of the two was Lady Loringstill in the prime of life; possessed of the golden hair and the clear

blue eyes, the delicatelyflorid 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 strengthshe presented an almost complete

contrast to Lady Loring. Two more opposite types of beauty it would have been hardly possible to place at

The servant brought in the letters of the morning. Lady Loring ran through her correspondence rapidly,

"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 housetwentyseven at dinner every day, without

including the neighborsa little carpet dance every eveningwe play billiards, and go into the smoking

roomthe hounds meet three times a weekall sorts of celebrities among the company, famous beauties

includedsuch dresses! such conversation!and serious duties, my dear, not neglectedhigh church and

choral service in the town on Sundaysrecitations in the evening from Paradise Lost, by an amateur

elocutionistoh, 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 Loringand of

course, if you are ill, you must have medical advicethey ask after you so kindly herethe first dinner bell

is ringing, before I have half done my letterwhat am I to wear?why is my daughter not here to advise

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

"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

"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 schooland, 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 noticedand 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

"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 selfcontained 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

Lady Loring returned to the chair that she had lefthesitated for a momentand then drew it nearer to

"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 youngestand 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 homesick 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

She was now the calmest of the two. The elder woman turned a little pale, and looked down in silent anxiety

"After such an experience as mine has been," said Stella, "would you think it possible that I could ever again

"My dear! I think it quite possible. You are only now in your twentythird year. You were innocent of all

blame at that wretched bygone time which you ought never to speak of again. Love and be happy, Stellaif

you can only find the man who is worthy of you. But you frighten me when you speak of a stranger. Where

"Noit was in crossing the Channel. There were few travelers in the steamboat, or I might never have

"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 facesuch 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 feelsoh, 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 doneI 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

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

"Neither tall nor shortrather thinquiet and graceful in all his movementsdressed 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 faceso

divinely tender and sadand the color of them that dark violet blue, so uncommon and so beautifultoo

beautiful for a man. I may say the same of his hair. I saw it completely. For a minute or two he removed his

hathis head was fevered, I thinkand 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 againand 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 getting 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 brightenedshe looked her

"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

"I thought of showing you something," Stella continued, "which might help you to see him as I saw him. It's

Stella left the room and returned with a little drawing in pencil. The instant Lady Loring looked at it, she

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 bounddoubly bound, after what she had now

discoveredto 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

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

"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 oncehe may even remember the name. Of course, if you like to be kept in suspense, you

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 itnot 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 creaturesmembers, as it were, of

his family, to a lonely old priest like myself. Can I be of any service to your ladyship?"

"To be sure! His lordship was here five minutes sincehe 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

"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

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

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 youngbut we have to

set against the drawback of his youth, the countermerits of his incorruptible honesty and his true religious

zeal. No better man is just now within my reachand there is no time to lose. Romayne has recently

inherited a large increase of fortune. He will be the object of the basest conspiraciesconspiracies 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

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

FATHER BENWELL rose, and welcomed the visitor with his paternal smile. "I am heartily glad to see you,"

he saidand 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."

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 cultivatedI 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

He was a very young man. His large, thoughtful, wellopened 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 sincereso suggestive, even where he might be wrong, of a

purely conscientious belief in his own errorsthat he attached people to him without 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, selfdistrustful, melancholy man, might, in its very innocence of suspicion and

selfseeking, 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

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

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

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 oflet me say, an

independent observer. However, if it will contribute to your ease of mind, I see no objection to informing 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

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,

"Compose yourself, Arthur," said Father Benwell, smiling pleasantly. "We don't mean to allow Henry the

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

"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 Abbeyfamous 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 titledeeds 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 hopea vain hope, I need hardly saythat 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 nightin the

absence of the present proprietor, or, I should rather say, the present usurper, of the estatethe 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 titledeeds. "Any doubt on your mind?" he asked,

"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

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

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

"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,

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

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

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 isin your

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

"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 treated 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

"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! Bytheway, 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 houseI 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

"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 thinkingavoids 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

"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

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

"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 remorseLord Loring did not mention

what it washas 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 Abbeythe very place, as I should have

"I made a little excursion to that part of Yorkshire, Arthur, not long since. A very pleasant tripapart 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

"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 himhe 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,

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

"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 brotherthen, indeed, I can promise that his conversion shall be the dearest object of

my life. But if there is not this intimate sympathy between usforgive me if I say it plainlyI implore you

His voice trembled; his eyes moistened. Father Benwell handled his young friend's rising emotion with the

"Good Arthur!" he said. "I see muchtoo much, dear boyof selfseeking 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, unless 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

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

He looked quickly round himapparently 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

"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 todayhe is now

The priests looked at each other. Lord Loring left them as he spoke. He walked to the opposite door of the

libraryopened itglanced round the hall, and at the stairsand returned again, with the passing

expression of annoyance visible once more. "Come with me to the gallery, gentlemen," he said; "I shall be

Penrose accepted the proposal. Father Benwell pointed with a smile to the books scattered about him. "With

"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

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,"

"Yes. I shall say I particularly wish to consult him about a picture. Are we to prepare Stella to see him? or

"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

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 preferespecially if she was not aware of

the priest's presence in the roomto 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

Having gathered his papers together, Father Benwell crossed the library to the deep bowwindow which

lighted the room, and opened his dispatchbox, 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

dispatchbox, 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

The priest observed with cold attention her darklybeautiful eyes and hair, her quicklychanging color, her

modest grace of movement. Slowly, and in evident agitation, she advanced to the door of the picture

galleryand 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 lookingglass over the fireplace. 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, Stellacome in! Here is a new picture for you to see; and a friend whom I want to present to you,

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

He addressed this letter to Rome, as he had addressed the letter preceding it. "Now for the woman!" he said to

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

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 secretaryand then he had turned to the picture, as if Stella and Penrose had ceased from

"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 manufactureshe 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 Penrosethus far, a silent listener

"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 picturewhich had the additional merit,

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

"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

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 shyand I am afraid that is against me. I wish I possessed

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 likeand dangerous as well."

"This is for your private ear, Arthur. She is in love with Romayne. Wait a minute! And Lady Loringunless

I am entirely mistaken in what I observedknows it and favors it. The beautiful Stella may be the

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.

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

"Very well. You must use your influence (when you are quite sure that it is an influence) to keep Mr.

Penrose looked embarrassed. "I am afraid I should hardly know how to do that," he said "But I should

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 wantthis is strictly

"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 twentyfive, 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?"

"A lady is not in love for the first time when she is between twenty and twentyfive 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."

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

"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

"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 ordealbut 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.

"No; something I don't quite understand. One doesn't expect to find any embarrassment in the manner of a

wellbred woman. And yet she seemed to be embarrassed when she spoke to me. Perhaps I produced an

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

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

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.

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

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

As he moved down the gallery, the two priests met him. Father Benwell saw his opportunity of helping

"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 changedthere 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

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

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

"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

Father Benwell was a man possessed of extraordinary power of foresightbut 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 libraryand 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

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

"Well, then, come and dine with usno party; only ourselves. Tomorrow, and next day, we are disengaged.

Romayne still resisted. "You are very kind. In my state of health, I am unwilling to make engagements which

Lady Loring was just as resolute on her side. She appealed to Stella. "Mr. Romayne persists, my dear, in

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

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

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

"Perhaps we have begun, Miss Eyrecourt, by misinterpreting one another," he said. "We may arrive at a better

He hesitated and looked at Lady Loring. She was not the woman to let a fair opportunity escape her. "We will

"Tomorrow," 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 cameand, with its coming, the prospects of the conversion brightened in their turn.

Let Father Benwell himself relate how it happenedin an extract from his report to Rome, written the same

" .... I had arranged with Penrose that he should call at my lodgings, and tell me how he had prospered at the

"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

" '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 kindnessesdon't command me to speak, when it is my

"It is needless to say that I abstained from directly answering this strange appeal. 'Let me hear what you can

"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

"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

confidenceand 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 conversionand, in my inmost soul, I feel the

"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

Having completed his report in these terms, Father Benwell reverted to the consideration of his proposed

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 surpriseand surprise

There was but one other person under Lord Loring's roof to whom he could address himselfand 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

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

At five o'clock, on the day which followed his introduction to Romayne, Father Benwell sat drinking his

coffee in the housekeeper's roomto 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 titlepage.

Miss Notman was proud of her hand, viewed as one of the meritorious details of her figure. She took up the

sugartongs 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 saidwith the appearance of sixteen superinduced 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

"I generally enjoy my duties," Miss Notman answered. "Today, 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

"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 opinionI 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

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

"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, threeoh! perhaps I am mistaken? Perhaps Miss Eyrecourt makes a fourth?"

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

"Much better, indeedif 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 contrast 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

"I see, Miss Notman, that you are a consummate mistress of an art which is quite beyond poor me. Was Miss

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

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

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

"Oh, dear, no! At this time of year she lives entirely in other people's housesgoes 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 oppositionwell!

well! I won't dwell on that. I will only ask you, Father, at what part of a dinner an oysteromelet ought to be

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 inexpensivelyas seen in other

people's houses, from the point of view of a welcome guest. I wonder whether she is staying at any country

"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 icepudding, could you even look at an oysteromelet 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

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.

"I speak from inward conviction, Miss Notman. To a lookeron, 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 itand then proved unable to advance a step

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

"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 oysteromelet 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 cheeseomelette might be in its proper place if it followed the sweets. 'An oysteromelet,'

I suggested, 'surely comes after the birds?' I should be sorry to say that her ladyship lost her temperI 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 oysteromelet to

come in with the cheese.' There was not only irritability, there was contemptoh, 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

Miss Notman laid herself back in her easy chairshe 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

"Time flies fast in your society, dear Miss Notman. I have an engagementand 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

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

He pressed her hand; he shed on her the light of his fatherly smile; he sighed, and took his leave. Miss

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

ENTERING the hall, Father Benwell heard a knock at the house door. The servants appeared to recognize the

Father Benwell advanced and made his bow. It was a perfect obeisance of its kindrespect for Lord Loring,

unobtrusively accompanied by respect for himself. "Has your lordship been walking in the park?" he

"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 importancethe subject of opening

"Yes. I have decided (as the phrase is) to 'go with the times,' and follow the example of other owners of

picture galleries. 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

"A wise decision, undoubtedly," said Father Benwell. "In such a city as this, you could hardly open your

"I am glad you agree with me, Father. The gallery will be open for the first time on Monday. Any

respectablydressed 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

"I am very anxious about the success of this experiment," said Lord Loring. "Do look in at the gallery once or

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 dinnertable. Lord Loring only looked at the clock on the mantelpiece: 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

"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

Even goodnatured 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

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 ithe must accept his responsibility, and be the bearer

He was on the point of leaving the library, when a visitor appeared. The visitor was no less a person than

"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

"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,

"The substance of what he said," Lord Loring replied, "and the substance of his prescriptionswhich, I

"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,

Lord Loring remarked that this was not a very respectful way of describing the conclusion of the medical

"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?"

"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

"Which led me," Romayne continued, finishing the sentence for his friend, "to feel that I never shall forgive

"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 selfaccusing 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

thoughtor perhaps some influence exercised over you by a person previously unknown, appearing under

"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 spokethe influence of a

If he had said this to Lady Loring, instead of to her husband, she would have understood him at once. Lord

"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

meand 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 influence 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 mantelpiece. The hands pointed to the dinner hour.

LORD LORING hurried away to his dressing room. "I won't be more than ten minutes," he saidand left

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

It may be that women have no positive appreciation of what is beautiful in form and coloror 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 herselfshe began turning over

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?"

She smiled and turned over another photograph. But when did sunpictures 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

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 truthunder certain reserves. "Indeed you are wrong,"

he said. "We were talking of the influence of a tone or a look on a sensitive person."

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

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

"You speak positively, Mr. Romayne. Almost as positivelyonly that can hardly beas if you were

He might still have evaded a direct reply, if she had been content with merely saying this. But she looked at

"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

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

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?"

"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 invitationif I could own to you the new hope for myself that has brought me

hereyou 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

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 oysteromelet (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

Ascending from the housekeeper's room to the drawingroom, 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 afterdinner hours, was stopped when he reached the neighborhood of the

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

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

"I should think notwhen you are walking about and disturbing them! Sit down there behind me."

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.

"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

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

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

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

"Penrose?" she repeated. "He is the friendis he notof the priest here, whom they call Father Benwell?"

"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 attacksto 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

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

"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 workyou are sure you won't think the worse of me, if I tell it?"

"Your face frightened meI can't describe itI went to your friend and took it on myself to say that you

"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 Folkestoneand, even if I had thought it right to say more, there

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

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

"He reminds melive as long as I maythat 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

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

Returning to report this extraordinary reply to his wife and Stella, Lord Loring found the drawingroom

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.

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

"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

"All the more because he doesn't. I should be ashamed to make the confession to any one but you. It is

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

"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 personI 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."

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 battleground the two were now to meet in unconscious

ON the memorable Monday, when the picture gallery was opened to the public for the first time, Lord Loring

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

"All the tickets were disposed of in three hours," Lord Loring answered. "Everybody (the librarians tell me) is

"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."

"Of courseto 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

"Do the ladies drive out today at their usual hour?" he inquired, when the servant appeared. The man

At halfpast 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 itand

Father Benwell felt a just confidence in his capacity to make the young lady serviceable, in this respect, to the

After an interval of a quarter of an hour, Lady Loring and Stella entered the gallery by the library door.

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 visitorsand 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

The movement disturbed Stella. She turned sharplynoticed one of the gentlemen, the taller of the

twobecame deadly paleand 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 gentlemanwith light hair and complexionwith a bright benevolent face and keen

intelligent blue eyesapparently 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.

"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

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

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!"

SIRI 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

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 yearscertainly 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 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

I beg your acceptanceas time is of importanceof a check for preliminary expenses, and remain, sir, your

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

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

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

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 diningroom and two bedrooms beyondthe 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

I returned to the waitingroom, 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, Penroseand

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 togetherat a

time, probably, when the servant who had admitted me was out of the way. However it may have happened,

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

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

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 opinionand 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

His lordship remonstrated, naturally enough. "Then why remain away from the good influence? Whyif it

"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 friendof two evils, choose the least. I bear my sufferings as one of two

Lord Loring appeared to feel the necessity of touching a delicate subject with a light hand. He said, in his

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

EyrecourtI believe her to be a woman in a thousanddon't ask me to see her again! Where is Penrose? Let

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

Romayne answered: "God knows I want a friendand I have no friend near me but you! Major Hynd is

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 endI

ask your pardon for repeating the ridiculous expressionin his "falling in love with her." In this condition of

mind or body, whichever it may be, he would probably be incapable of the selfcontrol 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 sakeno 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 selfexposure 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 Romayneand 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

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

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 confidenceyou have been so considerate and so kind toward methat 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 matterso

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 lifea 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

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

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 convictionusing

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

Having heard enough to satisfy me that Penrose had really begun the good work, I quietly slipped out of the

Today being Sunday, I shall not lose a post if I keep my letter open until tomorrow. 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

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

But my news is not at an end yet. Romayne is actually playing our gamehe 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

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,

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 weaknesswe must not forget that. The day may yet come when nothing will interpose between us and

Two days after Father Benwell had posted his letter to Rome, Lady Loring entered her husband's study, and

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

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

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

"Certainly notunless you wish to drive me into committing an act of the most revolting meanness! If you

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

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 husbandand I am very anxious about him."

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

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

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.

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

"SIRI 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

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

"I was acquainted with the late Generalas you knowat 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

householdor whether poverty and bad example combined have hopelessly degraded themI 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

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 today," the Major replied; "but on my return I will certainly follow

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

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.

"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

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

This assertion of patience seemed to irritate Lady Loring "What is the matter with you this morning?" she

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

"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

detailincluding, 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."

"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 themRomayne is to be their unknown friend. It is he, not they, whom we have to think ofhis

peace of mind is everything; their merit is nothing. I say it's cruel to him to keep him in ignorance of what has

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

"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 againit was somewhere in

"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

It was spoken sharply. Lady Loring's reply betrayed a certain loss of temper on her side. "Manage your own

affairs, StellaI have done meddling with them." Her unlucky visit to Romayne at the hotel had been a

subject of dispute between the two friendsand 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.

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 menservants with her,

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

The tangled gray hair and grimy face of a hideous old woman showed themselves slowly at the end of the

passage, rising from the strongsmelling obscurity of the kitchen regions. "What do you want?" said the

halfseen 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 betterhere, 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 trucklebed, 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 partsher 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

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 wretchand my mother is an angel!" She dashed

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 Marillacif you will not be offended with me, for plainly owning itto offer you some little

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

The quiet longsuffering 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

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

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

The wan face of the widow suddenly brightened. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "has my brother heard of the

"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

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

"You know the person's family connections, in that case? and you can say for certain whether they are French

"I can say for certain," Stella answered, "that they are English connections. I represent a friend who feels

"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 usyou cannot have

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

Blanche took up her needle again, with dogged submission. "If we are to accept charity, mother, I should like

"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

"Your life has been a martyrdom!" said the girl, breaking out again in spite of herself. "Oh, my father! my

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 youI 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 tablecloth.

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 saidand closed the cupboard door again as patiently as

Stella opened her pocketbook when Blanche had left the room. "For God's sake, take something!" she cried. "

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 workand my

daughter knows it. If you can tell me nothing else, my dear, will you tell me your Christian name? It is

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 Franceit 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 elderthe most lovable, the most affectionate of my

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

"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

"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 sincesince 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 selfcontrol, Stella tried to reassure Madame Marillac by a gesture. The voice

which she had heard in the next room wasas she now knewthe voice that haunted Romayne. Not the

words that had pleaded hunger and called for breadbut 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

"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 violentand he is the most

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

"For weeks together, StellaI 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

"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

speak 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

"Never! He seems to have lost all memory of it. We only heard, this morning, one or two unconnected

wordssomething 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 waistcoatand 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 himI mean to placing

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

Stella understood her. "I feel for you with all my heart," she said. "Place him privately, dear Madame

Marillac, under skillful and kind controland 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

"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 sumnever!"

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

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 banknotes with which she had provided

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 facehis 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 saidand 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 banknotes 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 muchbut 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

She was frightened. The mere sense of touching him had made her shudder. Did she feel a vague

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 carefullyworded 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

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

"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."

Lady Loring looked at Stella with a malicious smile. "Are you equally indifferent," she said, "to what

Stella's color rose. "Try to be serious, Adelaide, when you speak to me of Romayne," she answered, gravely.

An hour later, the important letter to Romayne was written. Stella scrupulously informed him of all that had

happenedwith 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.

"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 compromise 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 meI 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 matterand I shall

gratefully remember the day when I took it on myself to be Mr. Romayne's almoner."

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

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

REVEREND AND DEAR FATHERWhen 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

tranquillityin other and worthier words, of effecting his conversionthan I can tell you in any words of

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

SIRThe 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

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

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

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

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 oysteromelet, 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 somewhereand 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,

On the appointed evening, the guests made one agreeable discovery when they entered the reception rooms.

The drawingrooms were given up to dancing; the picture gallery was devoted to chamber music.

Chessplayers and cardplayers 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 dimlylighted conservatory with many recesses, that ideal of

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

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 p�t 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 thirstafter 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 allpervading 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 "I think we have met before, Major Hynd," said

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 Folkestoneand 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

"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

peopleand your powers of persuasion have succeeded, where mine might have failed. Has Romayne been

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

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

"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 wayand 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

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

She smiled brightly, and looked away. The Major's curiosity was excitedhe looked in the same direction.

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 selfrevealed 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

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

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 tonight. I wish

"Hynd! When a young man talks nonsense, his youth is his excuse. At your time of life, you have passed the

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,

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, sadlooking little man, and

"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

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

"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 thisbut 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

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

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

The smile suddenly left her face. She put another questionwithout quite concealing the effort that it cost

"I know something of the neighborhood of Clovelly," she said. "I wonder whether Father Benwell is visiting

"I am not able to say, Miss Eyrecourt. The reverend Father's letters are forwarded to the hotelI know no

With a gentle inclination of her head, she turned toward other guestslooked backand with a last little

courteous attention offered to him, said, "If you like music, Mr. Penrose, I advise you to go to the picture

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

"If Father Benwell comes here tonight," 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?"

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 liberally 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 picturebook. 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

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

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 personand 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 otherare 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

"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 daughteron 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 lacethere; 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 bea broad

hint, isn't it, dear Lady Loring?what a house for a wedding, with the drawingroom 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

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

He stopped her there. "She is your mother," he interposed, kindly. "Don't think that I am ungrateful enough to

She took his arm, and looked at him with all her heart in her eyes. "Come into a quieter room," she

He had not moved since Stella had spoken to him. There he remained in his corner, absorbed in

thoughtand 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 receptionroom, and

Romayne and Stella passed through the cardroom and the chessroom, turned into a corridor, and entered

For the first time the place was a solitude. The air of a newlyinvented 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

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

"I wonder," said Stella, "whether you know how I feel those kind words of yours when you spoke of my

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 selfpossession 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.

"Yeslooking sadly out of his element, poor man. I did my best to set him at his easebecause I know you

"No, not again! I am speaking seriously now. Mr. Penrose looked at me with a strange kind of interestI

"He is so devotedhe 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 saidand that

"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 selftormentor 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

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 moreI 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 promiseunresisted this timewith a kiss. "When are we to be

She lifted her head from his shoulder with a sigh. "If I am to answer you honestly," she replied, "I must speak

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 yoursI am very ignorant

in these mattersto consult her wishes? My own idea is, that I ought to ask her if she approves of me as her

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

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

There was but one way of definitely answering that question. Stella boldly described her mother's idea of a

weddingincluding 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

"If you think as your mother does," Romayne began, as soon as he had recovered his selfpossession, "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

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 possiblethe 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 havebut 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

An idea of a compromise occurred to Romayne. "What do you say," he proposed, "to arranging for the

marriage privatelyand then telling Mrs. Eyrecourt only a day or two beforehand, when it would be too late

"Very welllay 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?"

"Then I sayno one else. My own love, when may it be? My lawyers can get the settlements ready in a

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 first person she encountered, on returning to the receptionroom, was Father Benwell.

THE priest's long journey did not appear to have fatigued him. He was as cheerful and as polite as everand

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

The tone of her replies warned Father Benwell to let Romayne be. He tried another name.

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,

"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

"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 holidayexcursions by sea and excursions by land you

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 selfrestraint 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 appearedeager for news of the conquest of Romayne.

"My dear child, how pale you look!" said Mrs. Eyrecourt. "Come with me directlyyou must have a glass of

This dexterous device for entrapping Stella into a private conversation failed. "Not now, mamma, thank you,"

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

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 followbut she had her own reasons for waiting near

In the meanwhile, Mrs. Eyrecourt turned on her inexhaustible flow of smalltalk 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 manif one may speak so

familiarly of a Prince of the Church. How charmingly he bears his new honors. Such patriarchal simplicity, as

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

"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 struckyou 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

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Eyrecourt. "I know Beaupark House; butmay I make a confession?" she added, with

Father Benwell caught her tone, with his customary tact. "A confession at a ball is a novelty, even in my

"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 longand I really must give that poor pale daughter of mine a glass of wine. A

student of human nature like youthey say all priests are students of human nature; accustomed of course to

be consulted in difficulties, and to hear real confessionsmust 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

"I should like it of all things," said Father Benwell. "Only I don't speak French. Allow me to get Miss

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.

"May I have the honor of calling on youand 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

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?"

"Oh, hush ! hush! Hate him as much as you like; but always be civil to him. Tell mehave you been in the

"My sweet child! Dear, dear me, the wine has done you no good; you're as pale as ever. Is it that priest? Oh,

WHEN Stella left the conservatory, the attraction of the ball for Romayne was at an end. He went back to his

Penrose was waiting to speak to him. Romayne noticed signs of suppressed agitation in his secretary's face.

"Nothing of any importance," Penrose answered, in sad subdued tones. "I only wanted to ask you for leave of

Penrose hesitated. "You have a new life opening before you," he said. "If your experience of that life isas I

hope and pray it may bea happy one, you will need me no longer; we may not meet again." His voice

"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

"Not a word!" he said, eagerly. "Do me one more kindnessleave 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 saidI cannot mention what they areI can only tell

you they are serious reasons. You have spoken of my devotion to you. If you wish to reward me a

hundredfold 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

goodby 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.

Penrose smiled sadly. "You know that my career in life depends wholly on my superiors," he answered. "But

if I am still in Englandand if you have sorrows in the future that I can share and alleviateonly let me

know it. There is nothing within the compass of my power which I will not do for your sake. God bless and

In spite of his fortitude, the tears rose in his eyes. He hurried out of the room.

Romayne sat down at his writingtable, 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 nowthe 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

himthe 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

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

"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 showplaces in the neighborhood. Is there a little Protestant prejudice in this new idea of

"I am open to conviction, my dear. If you will only tell me what interest Father Benwell can have in knowing

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

Lady Loring started. "You astonish me," she said. "What right has Romayne to know it?"

"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 mannot even the man

who is soon to be your husbandhas a right to know what you have so unjustly suffered. Think of the

"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 justiceand 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."

"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 upand 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

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.

"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

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

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

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

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 doglike 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 Eyrecourthe has

deliberately closed his ears to the confidence which Romayne wished to repose in him, on the ground that I

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

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

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 Clovellytelling my friends here that I was taking a little holiday, in the interests

I found Father Newbliss a venerable and reticent son of the Churchwith 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

1. The events which connect Mr. Winterfield with Miss Eyrecourt happened about two years since, and had

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

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

5. At the end of that time Mr. Winterfield returned alone to Beaupark House, and told nobody how, or where,

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

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 refinementsuch 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

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 natureI 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

And yet there is something wrongfor this plain reason, that there is something to be concealed in the past

Under these perplexing circumstances, what use have I made of my opportunities? I am going to surprise you

againI have mentioned Romayne's name to Mr. Winterfield; and I have ascertained that they are, so far,

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

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

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 youwhat

Penrose ought to have discoveredwhether Romayne has been already entrapped into a marriage

Farewell for the present. Remind the Reverend Fathers, with my respects, that I possess one of the valuable

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

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

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.

There was a change in the tone of his voice, which his wife's quick ear detected. "I am afraid you are not

"I am a little tired after our long ride today. Do you want to go back to the Belvidere?"

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.

He put his arm round her waist and made her sit on his knee. "Nothing is the matter with me," he said, with

"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

"Oh, no! I can be happy anywhere with youand especially at Vange. You don't how this noble old house

He was not convinced. "Vange is very dull," he said, obstinately; "and your friends will be wanting to see

"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

He rose also, and took from the sofa the letter which he had thrown on it. "Let us see what our friends say,"

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

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 backbut 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 floorand

"Yes," he said; "I heard it after you left me on the Belviderejust 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

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?

THERE was no obstacle to the speedy departure of Romayne and his wife from Vange Abbey. The villa at

Highgatecalled Ten Acres Lodge, in allusion to the measurement of the grounds surrounding the

househad been kept in perfect order by the servants of the late Lady Berrick, now in the employment of

On the morning after their arrival at the villa, Stella sent a note to her mother. The same afternoon, Mrs.

Eyrecourt arrived at Ten Acreson her way to a gardenparty. 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,

"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 weddingfive 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

musicand, 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

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

"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

tomorrowyou are within such a nice easy drive from townand I'll bring my visitingbook, 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

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 speakand skipped into the carriage like a

"If I could persuade her to stay with us a little while," Stella suggested, "the rest and quiet might do wonders

"My darling, I object to nothingexcept giving a ball and burning my books. If your mother will yield on

He spoke playfullyhe 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

"I want to hear if he has anything to tell meabout 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

"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

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

"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,

"It was my fault, lovehe is so harmless and so gentle, and he has such a sweet faceI 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?

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 little 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

Romayne came in before he could speak more particularly. When the servants had left the room, after dinner,

"I am going to agreeably surprise you," he began. "All responsibility toward the General's family is taken off

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

"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

widowand he at once traveled to England. I bade them goodby yesterdaymost happily reunitedon

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 circumstanceshe is as good a fellow

"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 proprietora 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 awayand his

mother burst out crying at the idea of leaving him. It was a melancholy scene You know what a good mother

isno 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. Bytheway, Romayne, his uncle desires me to thank you"

"Don't alarm yourself. He is a gentleman, and when I told him I was pledged to secrecy, he made but one

inquiryhe asked if you were a rich man. I told him you had eighteen thousand a year."

"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, Romaynenow

that the General's family has left England I don't see why the proprietor might not make his report directly

Very well. I can send you any letters that I may receive from the asylum. Will you give us some music, Mrs.

Romayne? Not tonight? Then let us go to the billiardroom; and as I am the worst of bad players, I will ask

On the afternoon of the next day, Mrs. Eyrecourt's maid arrived at Ten Acres with a note from her mistress.

"Dearest StellaMatilda must bring you my excuses for today. I don't in the least understand it, but I seem

to have turned lazy. It is most ridiculousI 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 Romayneand 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."

"So ill, ma'am, that I begged and prayed her to let me send for a doctor. You know what my mistress is. If

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

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 twentyfour 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 fidgetI can't have two of you at my bedside. Goodnight." Stella stooped over her and kissed

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

Thus, in a little more than a month from the day of his marriage, Romayne was, for the time, a lonely man

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 hourssubject 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 everwelcome 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

brainwork of a man devoted to an absorbing intellectual pursuit? She can love him, admire him, serve him,

believe in him beyond all other menbut (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 Hyndtrue to the principle of getting away as often as possible from his

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 itso to the Lorings he resolved to apply.

ROMAYNE'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

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

Lady Loring very kindly searched her cardbasket, 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

"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

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.

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 delightfulit 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

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,

"And Mrs. Romayne?" pursued Father Benwell. "This is a sad trial for her. She is in attendance on her

"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 selfcontrol, his vigilant eyes

Thus far, the priest's wellplanned scheme, (like Mr. Bitrake's clever inquiries) had failed. He had not even

entrapped Mrs. Eyrecourt into revealing the marriage engagement. Her unconquerable smalltalk had foiled

him at every point. Even when he had deliberately kept his seat after the other guests at the teatable had

taken their departure, she rose with the most imperturbable coolness, and left him. "I have a dinner and two

parties tonight, and this is just the time when I take my little restorative nap. Forgive meand 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

defeatbut 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 nowhe knew it when he handed back the letter to Romaynehis

"You can hardly go to Paris to consult the book," he said, "in the present state of Mrs. Eyrecourt's health?"

"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

"I am certain he will trust you with it. My friend is Mr. Winterfield, of Beaupark House, North Devon.

"Then come and see the man himself. He is now in Londonand I am entirely at your service."

In half an hour more, Romayne was presented to a wellbred, 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

With those words, he dispatched the telegram to the office. Romayne attempted to make his

"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

Not even tobacco would soothe Romayne's wasted and irritable nerves. Father Benwell"all things to all

"Father Benwell possesses all the social virtues," Mr. Winterfield ran on. "He shall have his coffee, and the

largest sugarbasin 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 BenwellI confess I have a certain sympathy with sunworship. In the East

especially, the rising of the sun is surely the grandest of all objectsthe visible symbol of a beneficent Deity,

"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

"Certainlyat 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

This touched Romayne on a sad side of his own personal experience. "Perhaps," he said, "you don't believe in

"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 motivesfar 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 fellowcreatures," 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 crimethat 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 manif his death was my misfortune as well as hisand if (as frequently happens) I am nevertheless

troubled by remorse, the true cause lies in my own inability fairly to realize my own motivesbefore 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

"I entirely agree with you," said Father Benwell; "I have had occasion to say the same thing in the

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."

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

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

The tone of the reply was not encouraging; Romayne felt no interest in talking of Ten Acres Lodge. Father

"I was told by Mrs. Eyrecourt," he went on "that Lady Berrick had some fine pictures. Are they still at the

Father Benwell looked at Winterfield. "Another taste in common between you and Mr. Romayne," he said,

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 tomorrow doby the noonday light?"

Among his other accomplishments, Father Benwell was a chessplayer. If his thoughts at that moment had

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 menin 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 supersubtle 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 cleverand

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 livingrooms of the villa. Turner, Constable, Collins,

Danby, Callcott, Linnellthe 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 goodhumored way. "I can't

part with those pictures when I say goodby today. 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 lovelyI could kiss that

They were in Romayne's study when this odd outburst of enthusiasm escaped Winterfield. He happened to

look toward the writingtable next. Some pages of manuscript, blotted and interlined with corrections, at

"Is that the forthcoming history?" he asked. "You are not one of the authors who perform the process of

Romayne looked at him in surprise. "I suspect, Mr. Winterfield, you have used your pen for other purposes

"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 today 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 thoughtnot unkindlyof 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

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

"Yes," said Winterfield, "there it isthe 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

paintedand 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

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 beganand suddenly drew back, without

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 doortoo hurriedly to notice Winterfield standing, in the corner to which he had

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

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

She roused herself, and tried to smileand 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 wordsso

trivial and so terriblethat must, sooner or later, be pronounced. "You have a visitor?" she said.

"Did you see him at the window? A really delightful manI 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

She consentedshe really felt the need of it. As he turned away to ring the bell, she put the question which

She was not surprised by the answerher 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 placedit 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 wellbred man, would inevitably excite suspicion of some unworthy

motiveand might, perhaps, connect that motive with her unexpected appearance at the house. Romayne

"Mr. Winterfield, let me introduce you to Mrs. Romayne." They bowed to each other; they spoke the

conventional words proper to the occasionbut 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.

"Mr. Winterfield is so pleased with the pictures, that he means to come and see them again," he said to his

She tried to look at Winterfield, but her eyes sank. She could turn toward him, and that was all. "Is it the

"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

"The little watercolor drawing in my bedroom is by the same artist," she said. "Mr. Winterfield might like to

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

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

He remonstrated, with a gentleness that might have touched the heart of any woman. "Do you still refuse to

She was more contemptuous toward him than ever. "Spare me your protestations," she said; "I heard enough

"Put an end to your acquaintance with my husband. Put an end to it," she repeated vehemently, "from this

"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 himwith 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

"When Mr. Romayne introduced us, you met me like a strangerand you left me no choice but to do as you

Her sharpest replies made no change in his manner. He spoke as kindly and as patiently as ever.

Stella understood what he meantand 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 doesand if you deny itI will do for you

what I would do for no other human creature; I will deny it too. You are safe from discovery. Be happyand

For the first time she showed signs of relentingshe 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 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,

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

"I am sorry to say I must beg you to excuse me. My plans are altered since we met yesterday. I am obliged to

Romayne was unwilling to part with him on these terms. "You will let me know when you are next in town?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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

He fixed another searching look on me. "Mr. Romayne might have said so when he left me to receive his wife

"In that case, Mr. Winterfield, the explanation is as plain as the sun at noonday. Mrs. Romayne is a strong

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 kindnesshe is eager to improve his

I said I was sorry to hear it. "However," I added, "you can always see him here, when you are in London." He

puffed out a big volume of smoke, and made no remark. I declined to be put down by silence and smoke. "Or

perhaps," I persisted, "you will honor me by meeting him at a simple little dinner at my lodgings?" Being a

gentleman, he was of course obliged to answer this. He said, "You are very kind; I would rather not. Shall we

We talked of something else. He was just as amiable as everbut he was not in good spirits. "I think I shall

run over to Paris before the end of the month," he said. "To make a long stay?" I asked. "Oh, no! Call in a

When I got up to go, he returned of his own accord to the forbidden subject. He said, "I must beg you to do

me two favors. The first is, not to let Mr. Romayne know that I am still in London. The second is, not to ask

The result of our interview may be stated in very few words. It has advanced me one step nearer to discovery.

Winterfield's voice, look, and manner satisfied me of thisthe true motive for his sudden change of feeling

toward Romayne is jealousy of the man who has married Miss Eyrecourt. Those compromising

circumstances which baffled the inquiries of my agent are associated, in plain English, with a love affair.

Remember all that I have told you of Romayne's peculiar dispositionand imagine, if you can, what the

consequences of such a disclosure will be when we are in a position to enlighten the master of Vange Abbey!

As to the present relations between the husband and wife, I have only to tell you next what passed, when I

visited Romayne a day or two later. I did well to keep Penrose at our disposal. We shall want him again.

On arriving at Ten Acres Lodge, I found Romayne in his study. His manuscript lay before himbut he was

not at work. He looked worn and haggard. To this day I don't know from what precise nervous malady he

suffers; I could only guess that it had been troubling him again since he and I last met.

My first conventional civilities were dedicated, of course, to his wife. She is still in attendance on her mother.

Mrs. Eyrecourt is now considered to be out of danger. But the good lady (who is ready enough to recommend

doctors to other people) persists in thinking that she is too robust a person to require medical help herself.

The physician in attendance trusts entirely to her daughter to persuade her to persevere with the necessary

course of medicine. Don't suppose that I trouble you by mentioning these trumpery circumstances without a

Before I had been five minutes in his company, Romayne asked me if I had seen Winterfield since his visit to

I said I had seen him, and waited, anticipating the next question. Romayne fulfilled my expectations. He

There are certain cases (as I am told by medical authorities) in which the dangerous system of bleeding a

patient still has its advantages. There are other cases in which the dangerous system of telling the truth

becomes equally judicious. I said to Romayne, "If I answer you honestly, will you consider it as strictly

confidential? Mr. Winterfield, I regret to say, has no intention of improving his acquaintance with you. He

Romayne's face plainly betrayed that he was annoyed and irritated. "Nothing that you say to me, Father

Benwell, shall pass the walls of this room," he replied. "Did Winterfield give any reason for not continuing

I told the truth once more, with courteous expressions of regret. "Mr. Winterfield spoke of an ungracious

He started to his feet, and walked irritably up and down the room. "It is beyond endurance!" he said to

The truth had served its purpose by this time. I affected not to have heard him. "Did you speak to me?" I

He used a milder form of expression. "It is most unfortunate," he said. "I must immediately send back the

valuable book which Mr. Winterfield has lent to me. And that is not the worst of it. There are other volumes

in his library which I have the greatest interest in consultingand it is impossible for me to borrow them

now. At this time, too, when I have lost Penrose, I had hoped to find in Winterfield another friend who

sympathized with my pursuits. There is something so cheering and attractive in his mannerand he has just

the boldness and novelty of view in his opinions that appeal to a man like me. It was a pleasant future to look

From our point of view this was a frame of mind to be encouraged. I tried the experiment of modestly taking

the blame on myself. I suggested that I might be (quite innocently) answerable for Romayne's

He looked at me thoroughly puzzled. I repeated what I had said to Winterfield. "Did you mention to Mrs.

He was too impatient to let me finish the sentence. "I did mention it to Mrs. Romayne," he said. "And what of

"Pardon me for reminding you that Mrs. Romayne has Protestant prejudices," I rejoined. "Mr. Winterfield

He was almost angry with me for suggesting the very explanation which had proved so acceptable to

"Nonsense!" he cried. "My wife is far too wellbred a woman to let her prejudices express themselves in that

way. Winterfield's personal appearance must have inspired her with some unreasonable antipathy, or"

He stopped, and turned away thoughtfully to the window. Some vague suspicion had probably entered his

mind, which he had only become aware of at that moment, and which he was not quite able to realize as yet. I

I ventured on a courteous remonstrance. "My dear sir! if you can't find another reason, how can I? It must

have been a sudden antipathy, as you say. Such things do happen between strangers. I suppose I am right in

His eyes flashed with a sudden sinister brightnessthe new idea had caught light in his mind. "They met as

There he stopped again, and returned to the window. I felt that I might lose the place I had gained in his

confidence if I pressed the subject any further. Besides, I had my reasons for saying a word about Penrose

next. As it happened, I had received a letter from him, relating to his present employment, and sending

I gave the message. Romayne looked round, with an instant change in his face. The mere sound of Penrose's

name seemed to act as a relief to the gloom and suspicion that had oppressed him the moment before. "You

"Why not write to him?" I suggested. "He would be so glad to hear from you again."

As I approached the door I noticed on a side table the Catholic volumes which Penrose left with Romayne.

One of them was open, with a pencil lying beside it. I thought that a good signbut I said nothing.

Romayne pressed my hand at parting. "You have been very kind and friendly, Father Benwell," he said. "I

Don't mention it in quarters where it might do me harm. Do you know, I really pitied him. He has sacrificed

everything to his marriageand his marriage has disappointed him. He was even reduced to be friendly with

Of course when the right time comes I shall give Penrose leave of absence. Do you foresee, as I do, the

speedy return of "the dear gentle little fellow" to his old employment; the resumed work of conversion

advancing more rapidly than ever; and the jealousy of the Protestant wife aggravating the false position in

which she is already placed by her equivocal reception of Winterfield? You may answer this by reminding

me of the darker side of the prospect. An heir may be born; and the heir's mother, backed by general opinion,

may insistif there is any hesitation in the matteron asserting the boy's natural right to succeed his father.

Patience, my reverend colleague! There is no threatening of any such calamity yet. And, even if it happens,

don't forget that Romayne has inherited a second fortune. The Vange estate has an estimated value. If the act

of restitution represented that value in ready money, do you think the Church would discourage a good

The next day I called to inquire how Mrs. Eyrecourt was getting on. The report was favorable. Three days

later I called again. The report was still more encouraging. I was also informed that Mrs. Romayne had

Much of my success in life has been achieved by never being in a hurry. I was not in a hurry now. Time

A man of headlong disposition, in my place, would have probably spoken of Miss Eyrecourt's marriage to

Romayne at his first meeting with Winterfield, and would have excited their distrust, and put them

respectively on their guard, without obtaining any useful result. I can, at any time, make the disclosure to

Romayne which informs him that his wife had been Winterfield's guest in Devonshire, when she affected to

meet her former host on the footing of a stranger. In the meanwhile, I give Penrose ample opportunity for

You see, I hope, that if I maintain a passive position, it is not from indolence or discouragement. Now we

After an interval of a few days more I decided on making further inquiries at Mrs. Eyrecourt's house. This

time, when I left my card, I sent a message, asking if the lady could receive me. Shall I own my weakness?

She possesses all the information that I want, and she has twice baffled my inquiries. Under these humiliating

circumstances, it is part of the priestly pugnacity of my disposition to inquire again.

The front and back drawingrooms of the house were thrown into one. Mrs. Eyrecourt was being gently

moved backward and forward in a chair on wheels, propelled by her maid; two gentlemen being present,

visitors like myself. In spite of rouge and loosely folded lace and flowing draperies, she presented a

deplorable spectacle. The bodily part of her looked like a dead woman, painted and revivedwhile the moral

"So glad to see you again, Father Benwell, and so much obliged by your kind inquiries. I am quite well,

though the doctor won't admit it. Isn't it funny to see me being wheeled about, like a child in a perambulator?

Returning to first principles, I call it. You see it's a law of my nature that I must go about. The doctor won't

let me go about outside the house, so I go about inside the house. Matilda is the nurse, and I am the baby who

will learn to walk some of these days. Are you tired, Matilda? No? Then give me another turn, there's a good

creature. Movement, perpetual movement, is a law of Nature. Oh, dear no, doctor; I didn't make that

discovery for myself. Some eminent scientific person mentioned it in a lecture. The ugliest man I ever saw.

Now back again, Matilda. Let me introduce you to my friends, Father Benwell. Introducing is out of fashion,

I know. But I am one of the few women who can resist the tyranny of fashion. I like introducing people. Sir

John DroneFather Benwell. Father BenwellDoctor Wybrow. Ah, yes, you know the doctor by

reputation? Shall I give you his character? Personally charming; professionally detestable. Pardon my

impudence, doctor, it is one of the consequences of the overflowing state of my health. Another turn,

Matildaand a little faster this time. Oh, how I wish I was traveling by railway!"

There, her breath failed her. She reclined in her chair, and fanned herself silentlyfor a while.

I was now able to turn my attention to the two visitors. Sir John Drone, it was easy to see, would be no

obstacle to confidential conversation with Mrs. Eyrecourt. An excellent country gentleman, with the bald

head, the ruddy complexion, and the inexhaustible capacity for silence, so familiar to us in English

societythere you have the true description of Sir John. But the famous physician was quite another sort of

man. I had only to look at him, and to feel myself condemned to small talk while he was in the room.

You have always heard of it in my correspondence, whenever I have been in the wrong. I was in the wrong

again nowI had forgotten the law of chances. Capricious Fortune, after a long interval, was about to

declare herself again in my favor, by means of the very woman who had twice already got the better of me.

What a recompense for my kind inquiries after Mrs. Eyrecourt! She recovered breath enough to begin talking

"Dear me, how dull you are!" she said to us. "Why don't you amuse a poor prisoner confined to the house?

Rest a little, Matilda, or you will be falling ill next. Doctor! is this your last professional visit?"

"Promise to take care of yourself, Mrs. Eyrecourt, and I will confess that the professional visits are over. I

"You best of men! Do me another favor. Enliven our dullness. Tell us some interesting story about a patient.

These great doctors, Sir John, pass their lives in a perfect atmosphere of romance. Dr. Wybrow's

consultingroom is like your confessional, Father Benwell. The most fascinating sins and sorrows are poured

into his ears. What is the last romance in real life, doctor, that has asked you to treat it medically? We don't

"It is impossible to persuade ladies," he said, "that we, too, are fatherconfessors in our way. The first duty of

The doctor answered seriously. "No, indeed. That is only the second duty. Our first duty is invariably to

respect the confidence of our patients. However," he resumed in his easier tone, "I happen to have seen a

patient today, under circumstances which the rules of professional honor do not forbid me to mention. I

don't know, Mrs. Eyrecourt, whether you will quite like to be introduced to the scene of the story. The scene

Mrs. Eyrecourt burst out with a coquettish little scream, and shook her fan at the doctor. "No horrors!" she

cried. "The bare idea of a madhouse distracts me with terror. Oh, fie, fie! I won't listen to youI won't look

at youI positively refuse to be frightened out of my wits. Matilda! wheel me away to the furthest end of the

room. My vivid imagination, Father Benwell, is my rock ahead in life. I declare I can smell the odious

madhouse. Go straight to the window, Matilda; I want to bury my nose among the flowers."

Sir John, upon this, spoke for the first time. His language consisted entirely of beginnings of sentences,

mutely completed by a smile. "Upon my word, you know. Eh, Doctor Wybrow? A man of your experience.

Horrors in madhouses. A lady in delicate health. No, really. Upon my honor, now, I cannot. Something

He rose to leave us. Dr. Wybrow gently stopped him. "I had a motive, Sir John," he said, "but I won't trouble

you with needless explanations. There is a person, unknown to me, whom I want to discover. You are a great

deal in society when you are in London. May I ask if you have ever met with a gentleman named

I have always considered the power of selfcontrol as one of the strongest points in my character. For the

future I shall be more humble. When I heard that name, my surprise so completely mastered me that I sat

In the meanwhile, Sir John took his time to consider, and discovered that he had never heard of a person

named Winterfield. Having acknowledged his ignorance, in his own eloquent language, he drifted away to

the windowbox in the next room, and gravely contemplated Mrs. Eyrecourt, with her nose buried in flowers.

The doctor turned to me. "Am I wrong, Father Benwell, in supposing that I had better have addressed myself

Dr. Wybrow got up directly. "Have you a few minutes to spare?" he asked. It is needless to say that I was at

the doctor's disposal. "My house is close by, and my carriage is at the door," he resumed. "When you feel

inclined to say goodby to our friend Mrs. Eyrecourt, I have something to say to you which I think you ought

We took our departure at once. Mrs. Eyrecourt (leaving some of the color of her nose among the flowers)

patted me encouragingly with her fan, and told the doctor that he was forgiven, on the understanding that he

My watch tells me that I cannot hope to finish this letter by post time. Accept what I have written thus

The doctor began cautiously. "Winterfield is not a very common name," he said. "But it may not be amiss,

Father Benwell, to discover, if we can, whether your Winterfield is the man of whom I am in search. Do you

Dr. Wybrow went on. "Will you pardon me if I venture on an indiscreet question? When you are acquainted

with the circumstances, I am sure you will understand and excuse me. Are you aware of anywhat shall I

This timefeeling myself, in all probability, on the brink of discoveryI was careful to preserve my

composure. I said, quietly: "Some such incident as you describe has occurred in Mr. Winterfield's past life."

The doctor showed no curiosity to hear more. "My object," he went on, "was merely to be reasonably sure

that I was speaking to the right person, in speaking to you. I may now tell you that I have no personal interest

in trying to discover Mr. Winterfield; I only act as the representative of an old friend of mine. He is the

proprietor of a private asylum at Sandswortha man whose integrity is beyond dispute, or he would not be

Proprietors of private asylums are, in these days, the objects of very general distrust in England. I understood

He proceeded. "Yesterday evening, my friend called upon me, and said that he had a remarkable case in his

house, which he believed would interest me. The person to whom he alluded was a French boy, whose mental

powers had been imperfectly developed from his childhood. The mischief had been aggravated, when he was

about thirteen years old, by a serious fright. When he was placed in my asylum, he was not idiotic, and not

dangerously madit was a case (not to use technical language) of deficient intelligence, tending sometimes

toward acts of unreasoning mischief and petty theft, but never approaching to acts of downright violence. My

friend was especially interested in the ladwon his confidence and affection by acts of kindnessand so

improved his bodily health as to justify some hope of also improving the state of his mind, when a misfortune

occurred which has altered the whole prospect. The poor creature has fallen ill of a fever, and the fever has

developed to typhus. So far, there has been little to interest youI am coming to a remarkable event at last.

At the stage of the fever when delirium usually occurs in patients of sound mind, this crazy French boy has

I looked at him, when he made this amazing assertion, with a momentary doubt of his being in earnest.

"Just what I thought, too, when I first heard it!" he said. "My friend was neither offended nor surprised. After

inviting me to go to his house, and judge for myself, he referred me to a similar case, publicly cited in the

'Cornhill Magazine,' for the month of April, 1879, in an article entitled 'Bodily Illness as a Mental Stimulant.'

The article is published anonymously; but the character of the periodical in which it appears is a sufficient

guarantee of the trustworthiness of the statement. I was so far influenced by the testimony thus cited, that I

"Thoroughly. When I saw him last night, the poor boy was as sane as I am. There is, however, a complication

in this instance, which is not mentioned in the case related in print. The boy appears to have entirely forgotten

every event in his past life, reckoning from the time when the bodily illness brought with it the strange mental

This was a disappointment. I had begun to hope for some coming result, obtained by the lad's confession.

"Is it quite correct to call him sane, when his memory is gone?" I ventured to ask.

"In this case there is no necessity to enter into the question," the doctor answered. "The boy's lapse of

memory refers, as I told you, to his past lifethat is to say, his life when his intellect was deranged. During

the extraordinary interval of sanity that has now declared itself, he is putting his mental powers to their first

free use; and none of them fail him, so far as I can see. His new memory (if I may call it so) preserves the

knowledge of what has happened since his illness. You may imagine how this problem in brain disease

interests me; and you will not wonder that I am going back to Sandsworth tomorrow afternoon, when I have

done with my professional visits. But you may be reasonably surprised at my troubling you with details

Was he about to ask me to go with him to the asylum? I replied very briefly, merely saying that the details

were interesting to every student of human nature. If he could have felt my pulse at that moment, I am afraid

"Prepare yourself," he resumed, "for another surprising circumstance. Mr. Winterfield is, by some

incomprehensible accident, associated with one of the mischievous tricks played by the French boy, before he

was placed under my friend's care. There, at any rate, is the only explanation by which we can account for the

discovery of an envelope (with inclosures) found sewn up in the lining of the lad's waistcoat, and directed to

"Now," said the doctor, "you will understand why I put such strange questions to you. My friend and I are

both hardworking men. We go very little into society, as the phrase is; and neither he nor I had ever heard

the name of Winterfield. As a certain proportion of my patients happen to be people with a large experience

of society, I undertook to make inquiries, so that the packet might be delivered, if possible, to the right

person. You heard how Mrs. Eyrecourt (surely a likely lady to assist me?) received my unlucky reference to

the madhouse; and you saw how I puzzled Sir John. I consider myself most fortunate, Father Benwell, in

having had the honor of meeting you? Will you accompany me to the asylum tomorrow? And can you add

This last request it was out of my powerreally out of my powerto grant. Winterfield had left London

that morning on his visit to Paris. His address there was, thus far, not known to me.

"Well, you must represent your friend," the doctor said. "Time is every way of importance in this case. Will

There is no need for me to trouble you with a narrative of what I sawfavored by Doctor Wybrow's

introductionat the French boy's bedside. It was simply a repetition of what I had already heard. There he

lay, at the height of the fever, asking, in the intervals of relief, intelligent questions relating to the medicines

administered to him; and perfectly understanding the answers. He was only irritable when we asked him to

take his memory back to the time before his illness; and then he answered in French, "I haven't got a

But I have something else to tell you, which is deserving of your best attention. The envelope and its

inclosures (addressed to "Bernard Winterfield, Esqre.") are in my possession. The Christian name sufficiently

The circumstances under which the discovery was made were related to me by the proprietor of the asylum.

When the boy was brought to the house, two French ladies (his mother and sister) accompanied him. and

mentioned what had been their own domestic experience of the case. They described the wandering

propensities which took the lad away from home, and the odd concealment of his waistcoat, on the last

On his first night at the asylum, he became excited by finding himself in a strange place. It was necessary to

give him a composing draught. On going to bed, he was purposely not prevented from hiding his waistcoat

When the sedative had produced its effect, the attendant easily possessed himself of the hidden garment. It

was the plain duty of the master of the house to make sure that nothing likely to be turned to evil uses was

concealed by a patient. The seal which had secured the envelope was found, on examination, to have been

"I would not have broken the seal myself," our host added. "But, as things were, I thought it my duty to look

at the inclosures. They refer to private affairs of Mr. Winterfield, in which he is deeply interested, and they

ought to have been long since placed in his possession. I need hardly say that I consider myself bound to

preserve the strictest silence as to what I have read. An envelope, containing some blank sheets of paper, was

put back in the boy's waistcoat, so that he might feel it in its place under the lining, when he woke. The

original envelope and inclosures (with a statement of circumstances signed by my assistant and myself) have

been secured under another cover, sealed with my own seal. I have done my best to discover Mr. Bernard

Winterfield. He appears not to live in London. At least I failed to find his name in the Directory. I wrote next,

mentioning what had happened, to the English gentleman to whom I send reports of the lad's health. He

couldn't help me. A second letter to the French ladies only produced the same result. I own I should be glad

All this was said in the boy's presence. He lay listening to it as if it had been a story told of some one else. I

could not resist the useless desire to question him. Not speaking French myself (although I can read the

My questions led to nothing. The French boy knew no more about the stolen envelope than I did.

There was no discoverable motive, mind, for suspecting him of imposing on us. When I said, "Perhaps you

stole it?" he answered quite composedly, "Very likely; they tell me I have been mad; I don't remember it

myself; but mad people do strange things." I tried him again. "Or, perhaps, you took it away out of mischief?"

"Yes." "And you broke the seal, and looked at the papers?" "I dare say." "And then you kept them hidden,

thinking they might be of some use to you? Or perhaps feeling ashamed of what you had done, and meaning

to restore them if you got the opportunity?" "You know best, sir." The same result followed when we tried to

find out where he had been, and what people had taken care of him, during his last vagrant escape from

home. It was a new revelation to him that he had been anywhere. With evident interest, he applied to us to tell

So our last attempts at enlightenment ended. We came to the final question of how to place the papers, with

His absence in Paris having been mentioned, I stated plainly my own position toward him at the present time.

"Mr. Winterfield has made an appointment with me to call at his hotel, on his return to London," I said. "I

shall probably be the first friend who sees him. If you will trust me with your sealed packet, in consideration

of these circumstances, I will give you a formal receipt for it in Doctor Wybrow's presenceand I will add

any written pledge that you may require on my part, acting as Mr. Winterfield's representative and friend.

He made a courteous reply. "A friend of Dr. Wybrow's," he said, "requires no other reference."

"Excuse me," I persisted. "I had the honor of meeting Doctor Wybrow, for the first time, yesterday. Permit

me to refer you to Lord Loring, who has long known me as his spiritual director and friend."

This account of myself settled the matter. I drew out the necessary securitiesand I have all the papers lying

You remember how seals were broken, and impressed again, at the Roman postoffice, in the revolutionary

days when we were both young men? Thanks to the knowledge then obtained, the extraordinary events which

once associated Mr. Winterfield and Miss Eyrecourt are at last plainly revealed to me. Copies of the papers

are in my possession, and the originals are sealed again, with the crest of the proprietor of the asylum, as if

nothing had happened. I make no attempt to excuse myself. You know our motto:THE END JUSTIFIES

I don't propose to make any premature use of the information which I have obtained. The first and foremost

necessity, as I have already reminded you, is to give Penrose the undisturbed opportunity of completing the

conversion of Romayne. During this interval, my copies of the papers are at the disposal of my reverend

How shall I address you? Dear Bernard, or Sir? It doesn't matter. I am going to do one of the few good

actions of my life: and familiarities or formalities matter nothing to a woman who lies on her deathbed.

YesI have met with another accident. Shortly after the date of our separation, you heard, I think, of the fall

in the circus that fractured my skull? On that occasion, a surgical operation, and a bit of silver plate in place

of the bone, put me right again. This time it has been the kick of a horse, in the stables. Some internal injury

is the consequence. I may die tomorrow, or live till next week. Anywaythe doctor has confessed itmy

Mind one thing. The drinkthat vile habit which lost me your love and banished me from your housethe

drink is not to blame for this last misfortune. Only the day before it happened I had taken the pledge, under

persuasion of the good rector here, the Reverend Mr. Fennick. It is he who has brought me to make this

confession, and who takes it down in writing at my bedside. Do you remember how I once hated the very

name of a parsonand when you proposed, in joke, to marry me before the registrar, how I took it in

downright earnest, and kept you to your word? We poor horseriders and acrobats only knew clergymen as

the worst enemies we hadalways using their influence to keep the people out of our show, and the bread

out of our mouths. If I had met with Mr. Fennick in my younger days, what a different woman I might have

Well, regrets of that kind are useless now. I am truly sorry, Bernard, for the evil that I have done to you; and I

You will at least allow it in my favor that your drunken wife knew she was unworthy of you. I refused to

accept the allowance that you offered to me. I respected your name. For seven years from the time of our

separation I returned to my profession under an assumed name and never troubled you. The one thing I could

not do was to forget you. If you were infatuated by my unlucky beauty, I loved devotedly on my side. The

wellborn gentleman who had sacrificed everything for my sake, was something more than mortal in my

estimation; he wasno! I won't shock the good man who writes this by saying what he was. Besides, what

If you had only been content to remain as I left youor if I had not found out that you were in love with

Miss Eyrecourt, and were likely to marry her, in the belief that death had released you from meI should

have lived and died, doing you no other injury than the first great injury of consenting to be your wife.

But I made the discoveryit doesn't matter how. Our circus was in Devonshire at the time. My jealous rage

maddened me, and I had a wicked admirer in a man who was old enough to be my father. I let him suppose

that the way to my favor lay through helping my revenge on the woman who was about to take my place. He

found the money to have you watched at home and abroad; he put the false announcement of my death in the

daily newspapers, to complete your delusion; he baffled the inquiries made through your lawyers to obtain

positive proof of my death. And last, and (in those wicked days) best service of all he took me to Brussels and

posted me at the door of the English church, so that your lawful wife (with her marriage certificate in her

hand) was the first person who met you and the mock Mrs. Winterfield on your way from the altar to the

But I had deserved to suffer; and I did suffer, when I heard that Miss Eyrecourt's mother and her two friends

took her away from youwith her own entire approvalat the church door, and restored her to society,

without a stain on her reputation. How the Brussels marriage was kept a secret, I could not find out. And

when I threatened them with exposure, I got a lawyer's letter, and was advised in my own interests to hold my

tongue. The rector has since told me that your marriage to Miss Eyrecourt could be lawfully declared null and

void, and that the circumstances would excuse you, before any judge in England. I can now well understand

that people, with rank and money to help them, can avoid exposure to which the poor, in their places, must

I declare solemnly, on my deathbed, that you acted in perfect good faith when you married Miss Eyrecourt.

You have not only been a man cruelly injured by me, but vilely insulted and misjudged by the two

Eyrecourts, and by the lord and lady who encouraged them to set you down as a villain guilty of heartless and

It is my conviction that these people might have done more than misinterpret your honorable submission to

the circumstances in which you were placed. They might have prosecuted you for bigamyif they could

have got me to appear against you. I am comforted when I remember that I did make some small amends. I

When the doctor writes my certificate, he will mention the mark by which I may be identified, if this reaches

you (as I hope and believe it will) between the time of my death and my burial. The rector, who will close

and seal these lines, as soon as the breath is out of my body, will add what he can to identify me; and the

landlady of this house is ready to answer any questions that may be put to her. This time you may be really

assured that you are free. When I am buried, and they show you my nameless grave in the churchyard, I know

There was one thing more that I had to ask of you, relating to a poor lost creature who is in the room with us

at this moment. But, oh, I am so weary! Mr. Fennick will tell you what it is. Say to yourself

sometimesperhaps when you have married some lady who is worthy of youThere was good as well as

SirIt is my sad duty to inform you that Mrs. Emma Winterfield died this morning, a little before five

o'clock. I will add no comment of mine to the touching language in which she has addressed you. God has, I

most sincerely believe, accepted the poor sinner's repentance. Her contrite spirit is at peace, among the

In consideration of her wish that you should see her in death, the coffin will be kept open until the last

moment. The medical man in attendance has kindly given me a copy of his certificate, which I inclose. You

will see that the remains are identified by the description of a small silver plate on the right parietal bone of

I need hardly add that all the information I can give you is willingly at your service.

She mentions, poor soul, something which she had to ask of you. I prefer the request which, in her exhausted

While the performances of the circus were taking place in the next county to ours, a wandering lad, evidently

of deficient intelligence, was discovered, trying to creep under the tent to see what was going on. He could

give no intelligible account of himself. The late Mrs. Winterfield (who was born and brought up, as I

understand, in France) discovered that the boy was French, and felt interested in the unfortunate creature,

from former happy association with kind friends of his nation. She took care of him from that time to the day

I say "appeared," because an inveterate reserve marks one of the peculiarities of the mental affliction from

which he suffers. Even his benefactress never could persuade him to take her into his confidence. In other

respects, her influence (so far as I can learn) had been successfully exerted in restraining certain mischievous

propensities in him, which occasionally showed themselves. The effect of her death has been to intensify that

reserve to which I have already alluded. He is sullen and irritableand the good landlady at the lodgings

does not disguise that she shrinks from taking care of him, even for a few days. Until I hear from you, he will

You have, no doubt, anticipated the request which the poor sufferer wished to address to you but a few hours

before her death. She hoped that you might be willing to place this friendless and helpless creature under

competent protection. Failing your assistance, I shall have no alternative, however I may regret it, but to send

Yesterday evening, I had returned to my house, before it occurred to me that Mrs. Winterfield had not

mentioned your address. My only excuse for this forgetfulness is, that I was very much distressed while I was

writing by her bedside. I at once went back to the lodgings, but she had fallen asleep, and I dared not disturb

her. This morning, when I returned to the house, she was dead. There is an allusion to Devonshire in her

letter, which suggests that your residence may be in that county; and I think she once spoke of you as a

person of rank and fortune. Having failed to find your name in a London Directory, I am now about to search

our free library here for a county history of Devon, on the chance that it may assist me. Let me add, for your

own satisfaction, that no eyes but mine will see these papers. For security's sake, I shall seal them at once,

How the boy contrived to possess himself of the sealed packet we shall probably never discover. Anyhow, we

know that he must have escaped from the rectory, with the papers in his possession, and that he did certainly

With such complete information as I now have at my disposal, the prospect is as clear again as we can desire.

The separation of Romayne from his wife, and the alteration of his will in favor of the Church, seem to be

A FORTNIGHT after Father Benwell's discovery, Stella followed her husband one morning into his study.

She looked at him with a mingled expression of surprise and reproach. "Why do you say that?" she asked.

Thus far, he had been sitting at his desk, resting his head on his hand, with his downcast eyes fixed on an

open book. When she put her last question to him he suddenly looked up. Through the large window at his

side the morning light fell on his face. The haggard look of suffering, which Stella remembered on the day

when they met on the deck of the steamboat, was again visiblenot softened and chastened now by the

touching resignation of the bygone time, but intensified by the dogged and despairing endurance of a man

weary of himself and his life. Her heart ached for him. She said, softly: "I don't mean to reproach you."

He eyed her with a strange expression of suspicious surprise. "Why are you afraid of Penrose?"

It was no time to run the risk of irritating him. The torment of the Voice had returned in the past night. The

old gnawing remorse of the fatal day of the duel had betrayed itself in the wild words that had escaped him,

when he sank into a broken slumber as the morning dawned. Feeling the truest pity for him, she was still

resolute to assert herself against the coming interference of Penrose. She tried her ground by a dangerous

"I think you might have told me," she said, "that Mr. Penrose was a Catholic priest."

He looked down again at his book. "How did you know Penrose was a Catholic priest?"

"Well, and what is there to frighten you in his being a priest? You told me at the Loring's ball that you took

"I didn't know then, Lewis, that he had concealed his profession from us. I can't help distrusting a man who

He laughednot very kindly. "You might as well say you distrust a man who conceals that he is an author,

by writing an anonymous book. What Penrose did, he did under orders from his superiorand, moreover, he

frankly owned to me that he was a priest. If you blame anybody, you had better blame me for respecting his

She drew back from him, hurt by the tone in which he spoke to her. "I remember the time, Lewis," she said,

That simple appeal touched his better nature. "I don't mean to be hard on you, Stella," he answered. "It is a

little irritating to hear you say that you distrust the most devoted and most affectionate friend that man ever

had. Why can't I love my wife, and love my friend, too? You don't know, when I am trying to get on with my

book, how I miss the help and sympathy of Penrose. The very sound of his voice used to encourage me.

He rose from his writingtable. She met him more than half way, and pressed all her loveand perhaps a

little of her fearon his lips. He returned the kiss as warmly as it was given; and then, unhappily for both of

"My own love," he said, "try to like my friend for my sake; and be tolerant of other forms of Christianity

Her smiling lips closed; she turned from him. With the sensitive selfishness of a woman's love, she looked on

Penrose as a robber who had stolen the sympathies which should have been wholly hers. As she moved away,

her quick observation noticed the open book on the desk, with notes and lines in pencil on the margin of the

page. What had Romayne been reading which interested him in that way? If he had remained silent, she

would have addressed the inquiry to him openly. But he was hurt on his side by the sudden manner of her

"I won't attempt to combat your prejudices," he said. "But one thing I must seriously ask of you. When my

friend Penrose comes here tomorrow, don't treat him as you treated Mr. Winterfield."

There was a momentary paleness in her face which looked like fear, but it passed away again. She confronted

"Why do you refer again to that?" she asked. "Is" (she hesitated and recovered herself)"Is Mr.

He walked to the door, as if he could hardly trust his temper if he answered herstoppedand, thinking

"We won't quarrel, Stella," he rejoined; "I will only say I am sorry you don't appreciate my forbearance. Your

reception of Mr. Winterfield has lost me the friendship of a man whom I sincerely liked, and who might have

assisted my literary labors. You were ill at the time, and anxious about Mrs. Eyrecourt. I respected your

devotion to your mother. I remembered your telling me, when you first went away to nurse her, that your

conscience accused you of having sometimes thoughtlessly neglected your mother in her days of health and

good spirits, and I admired the motive of atonement which took you to her bedside. For those reasons I

shrank from saying a word that might wound you. But, because I was silent, it is not the less true that you

surprised and disappointed me. Don't do it again! Whatever you may privately think of Catholic priests, I

She stood, looking after him as he closed the door, like a woman thunderstruck. Never yet had he looked at

her as he looked when he spoke his last warning words. With a heavy sigh she roused herself. The vague

dread with which his tone rather than his words had inspired her, strangely associated itself with the

momentary curiosity which she had felt on noticing the annotated book that lay on his desk.

She snatched up the volume and looked at the open page. It contained the closing paragraphs of an eloquent

attack on Protestantism, from the Roman Catholic point of view. With trembling hands she turned back to the

titlepage. It presented this written inscription: "To Lewis Romayne from his attached friend and servant,

The affectionate meeting between the two men tested Stella's selfcontrol as it had never been tried yet. She

submitted to the ordeal with the courage of a woman whose happiness depended on her outward graciousness

of manner toward her husband's friend. Her reception of Penrose, viewed as an act of refined courtesy, was

beyond reproach. When she found her opportunity of leaving the room, Romayne gratefully opened the door

for her. "Thank you!" he whispered, with a look which was intended to reward her.

Even in trifles, a woman's nature is degraded by the falsities of language and manner which the artificial

condition of modern society exacts from her. When she yields herself to more serious deceptions, intended to

protect her dearest domestic interests, the mischief is increased in proportion. Deceit, which is the natural

weapon of defense used by the weak creature against the strong, then ceases to be confined within the limits

assigned by the sense of selfrespect and by the restraints of education. A woman in this position will

descend, self blinded, to acts of meanness which would be revolting to her if they were related of another

Stella had already begun the process of selfdegradation by writing secretly to Winterfield. It was only to

warn him of the danger of trusting Father Benwellbut it was a letter, claiming him as her accomplice in an

act of deception. That morning she had received Penrose with the outward cordialities of welcome which are

offered to an old and dear friend. And now, in the safe solitude of her room, she had fallen to a lower depth

still. She was deliberately considering the safest means of acquainting herself with the confidential

conversation which Romayne and Penrose would certainly hold when she left them together. "He will try to

set my husband against me; and I have a right to know what means he uses, in my own defense." With that

thought she reconciled herself to an action which she would have despised if she had heard of it as the action

It was a beautiful autumn day, brightened by clear sunshine, enlivened by crisp air. Stella put on her hat and

While she was within view from the windows of the servants' offices she walked away from the house.

Turning the corner of a shrubbery, she entered a winding path, on the other side, which led back to the lawn

under Romayne's study window. Garden chairs were placed here and there. She took one of them, and seated

herselfafter a last moment of honorable hesitationwhere she could hear the men's voices through the

"Yes. Father Benwell has granted me a holiday," he said; "but I don't come here to be an idle man. You must

allow me to employ my term of leave in the pleasantest of all ways. I mean to be your secretary again."

(Stella waited, in breathless expectation, for what Penrose would say to this. Would he speak of her? No.

There was a natural tact and delicacy in him which waited for the husband to introduce the subject.)

"Why? Were you as innocently hopeful as I was? Did you expect my experience of married life to help me in

Penrose replied after a pause, speaking a little sadly. "I expected your married life to encourage you in all

(Stella turned pale with suppressed anger. He had spoken with perfect sincerity. The unhappy woman

believed that he lied, for the express purpose of rousing irritation against her, in her husband's irritable mind.

He made no answer. Penrose changed the subject. "You are not looking very well," he gently resumed. "I am

It was still one of the characteristics of Romayne's nervous irritability that he disliked to hear the terrible

delusion of the Voice referred to in words. "Yes," he interposed bitterly, "I have heard it again and again. My

right hand is as red as ever, Penrose, with the blood of a fellowcreature. Another destruction of my illusions

"Oh, very well. Let us go back to my book. Perhaps I shall get on better with it now you are here to help me.

My ambition to make a name in the world has never taken so strong a hold on me (I don't know why, unless

other disappointments have had something to do with it) as at this time, when I find I can't give my mind to

my work. We will make a last effort together, my friend! If it fails, we will put my manuscripts into the fire,

and I will try some other career. Politics are open to me. Through politics, I might make my mark in

diplomacy. There is something in directing the destinies of nations wonderfully attractive to me in my present

state of feeling. I hate the idea of being indebted for my position in the world, like the veriest fool living, to

the accidents of birth and fortune. Are you content with the obscure life that you lead? Did you not envy that

priest (he is no older than I am) who was sent the other day as the Pope's ambassador to Portugal?"

Penrose spoke out at last without hesitation. "You are in a thoroughly unwholesome state of mind," he said.

Romayne laughed recklessly. "When was I ever in a healthy state of mind?" he asked.

Penrose passed the interruption over without notice. "If I am to do you any good," he resumed, "I must know

what is really the matter with you. The very last question that I ought to put, and that I wish to put, is the

"When you speak of your married life," said Penrose, "your tone is the tone of a disappointed man. Have you

(Stella rose to her feet, in her eagerness to hear what her husband's answer would be.)

"Serious reason?" Romayne repeated. "How can such an idea have entered your head? I only complain of

irritating trifles now and then. Even the best of women is not perfect. It's hard to expect it from any of them."

(The interpretation of this reply depended entirely on the tone in which it was spoken. What was the

animating spirit in this case? Irony or Indulgence? Stella was ignorant of the indirect methods of irritation, by

means of which Father Benwell had encouraged Romayne's doubts of his wife's motive for the reception of

Winterfield. Her husband's tone, expressing this state of mind, was new to her. She sat down again, divided

between hope and fear, waiting to hear more. The next words, spoken by Penrose, astounded her. The priest,

the Jesuit, the wily spiritual intruder between man and wife, actually took the wife's side!)

"I will try and tell you. I believe your wife to be a good woman. I believe she loves you. There is something

in her face that speaks for hereven to an inexperienced person like myself. Don't be impatient with her! Put

away from you that besetting temptation to speak in ironyit is so easy to take that tone, and sometimes so

cruel. I am only a lookeron, I know. Domestic happiness can never be the happiness of my life. But I have

observed my fellowcreatures of all degreesand this, I tell you, is the result. The largest number of happy

men are the husbands and fathers. Yes; I admit that they have terrible anxietiesbut they are fortified by

unfailing compensations and encouragements. Only the other day I met with a man who had suffered the loss

of fortune and, worse still, the loss of health. He endured those afflictions so calmly that he surprised me.

'What is the secret of your philosophy?' I asked. He answered, 'I can bear anything while I have my wife and

my children.' Think of that, and judge for yourself how much happiness you may have left yet ungathered in

(Those words touched Stella's higher nature, as the dew touches the thirsty ground. Surely they were nobly

"I must think with your mind, Penrose, before I can do what you ask of me. Is there any method of

transformation by which I can change natures with you?" That was all he saidand he said it despondingly.

"If there is anything in my nature, worthy to be set as an example to you," he replied, "you know to what

blessed influence I owe selfdiscipline and serenity of mind. Remember what I said when I left you in

London, to go back to my friendless life. I told you that I found, in the Faith I held, the one sufficient

consolation which helped me to bear my lot. Andif there came a time of sorrow in the futureI entreated

"Look at the book here on my desklook at the other books, within easy reach, on that tableare you

"More than satisfied. Tell medo you feel nearer to an understanding of the Faith to which I have tried to

There was a pause. "Say that I do feel nearer," Romayne resumed"say that some of my objections are

removedare you really as eager as ever to make a Catholic of me, now that I am a married man?"

"I am even more eager," Penrose answered. "I have always believed that your one sure way to happiness lay

through your conversion. Now, when I know, from what I have seen and heard in this room, that you are not

reconciled, as you should be, to your new life, I am doubly confined in my belief. As God is my witness, I

"With my whole heart, I say it! Be converted, and be happy. Be happy, and you will be a good husband. I

speak in your wife's interest as well as in yours. People who are happy in each other's society, will yield a

little on either side, even on questions of religious belief. And perhaps there may follow a more profitable

result still. So far as I have observed, a good husband's example is gladly followed by his wife. Don't think

that I am trying to persuade you against your will! I am only telling you, in my own justification, from what

motives of love for yourself, and of true interest in your welfare, I speak. You implied just now that you had

still some objections left. If I can remove themwell and good. If I failif you cannot act on purely

conscientious convictionI not only advise, I entreat you, to remain as you are. I shall be the first to

(This moderation of tone would appeal irresistibly, as Stella well knew, to her husband's ready appreciation

of those good qualities in others which he did not himself possess. Once more her suspicion wronged

Penrose. Had he his own interested motives for pleading her cause? At the bare thought of it, she left her

chair and, standing under the window, boldly interrupted the conversation by calling to Romayne.)

"Lewis!" she cried, "why do you stay indoors on this beautiful day? I am sure Mr. Penrose would like a walk

Penrose appeared alone at the window. "You are quite right, Mrs. Romayne," he said; "we will join you

In a few minutes he turned the corner of the house, and met Stella on the lawn. Romayne was not with him.

"Is my husband not coming with us?" she asked. "He will follow us," Penrose answered. "I believe he has

Stella looked at him, suspecting some underhand exercise of influence on her husband.

If she had been able to estimate the noble qualities in the nature of Penrose, she might have done him the

justice to arrive at a truer conclusion. It was he who had asked leave (when Stella had interrupted them) to

take the opportunity of speaking alone with Mrs. Romayne. He had said to his friend, "If I am wrong in my

anticipation of the effect of your change of religion on your wife, let me find it out from herself. My one

object is to act justly toward you and toward her. I should never forgive myself if I made mischief between

you, no matter how innocent of any evil intention I might be." Romayne had understood him. It was Stella's

misfortune ignorantly to misinterpret everything that Penrose said or did, for the allsufficient reason that he

was a Catholic priest. She had drawn the conclusion that her husband had deliberately left her alone with

Penrose, to be persuaded or deluded into giving her sanction to aid the influence of the priest. "They shall

"Have I interrupted an interesting conversation?" she inquired abruptly. "When I asked you to come out, were

Penrose started. "Is it indiscreet," he said gently, "to inquire what your experience may have been?"

"I will tell you what my experience has been," Stella replied. "I am ignorant of theological subtleties, and

questions of doctrine are quite beyond me. But this I do know. A wellmeaning and zealous Catholic

shortened my father's life, and separated me from an only sister whom I dearly loved. I see I shock youand

"I hear what you say, Mrs. Romayne, with very great painI don't presume to form any opinion thus far."

"My sad story can be told in a few words," Stella proceeded. "When my elder sister was still a young girl, an

aunt of ours (my mother's sister) came to stay with us. She had married abroad, and she was, as I have said, a

zealous Catholic. Unknown to the rest of us, she held conversations on religion with my sisterworked on

the enthusiasm which was part of the girl's natureand accomplished her conversion. Other influences, of

which I know nothing, were afterward brought to bear on my sister. She declared her intention of entering a

convent. As she was under age, my father had only to interpose his authority to prevent this. She was his

favorite child. He had no heart to restrain her by forcehe could only try all that the kindest and best of

fathers could do to persuade her to remain at home. Even after the years that have passed, I cannot trust

myself to speak of it composedly. She persisted; she was as hard as stone. My aunt, when she was entreated

to interfere, called her heartless obstinacy 'a vocation.' My poor father's loving resistance was worn out; he

slowly drew nearer and nearer to death, from the day when she left us. Let me do her justice, if I can. She has

not only never regretted entering the conventshe is so happily absorbed in her religious duties that she has

not the slightest wish to see her mother or me. My mother's patience was soon worn out. The last time I went

to the convent, I went by myself. I shall never go there again. She could not conceal her sense of relief when I

took my leave of her. I need say no more. Arguments are thrown away on me, Mr. Penrose, after what I have

seen and felt. I have no right to expect that the consideration of my happiness will influence youbut I may

perhaps ask you, as a gentleman, to tell me the truth. Do you come here with the purpose of converting my

"I cannot take your view of your sister's pious devotion of herself to a religious life," he said. "But I can, and

will, answer you truly. From the time when I first knew him, my dearest object has been to convert your

Stella drew back from him, as if he had stung her, and clasped her hands in silent despair.

"But I am bound as a Christian," he went on, "to do to others as I would they should do to me."

She turned on him suddenly, her beautiful face radiant with hope, her hand trembling as it caught him by the

"The happiness of my friend's wife, Mrs. Romayne, is sacred to me for his sake. Be the good angel of your

He lifted her hand from his arm and raised it respectfully to his lips. Then, when he had bound himself by a

promise that was sacred to him, the terrible influence of the priesthood shook even that brave and lofty soul.

TWICE Father Benwell called at Derwent's Hotel, and twice he was informed that no news had been received

there of Mr. Winterfield. At the third attempt, his constancy was rewarded. Mr. Winterfield had written, and

It was then halfpast four. Father Benwell decided to await the return of his friend.

He was as anxious to deliver the papers which the proprietor of the asylum had confided to him, as if he had

never broken a seal or used a counterfeit to hide the betrayal of a trust. The resealed packet was safe in the

pocket of his long black frockcoat. His own future proceedings depended, in some degree, on the course

which Winterfield might take, when he had read the confession of the unhappy woman who had once been

Would he show the letter to Stella, at a private interview, as an unanswerable proof that she had cruelly

wronged him? And would it in this case be desirableif the thing could be doneso to handle

circumstances as that Romayne might be present, unseen, and might discover the truth for himself? In the

other eventthat is to say, if Winterfield abstained from communicating the confession to Stellathe

Father Benwell walked softly up and down the room, looking about him with quietlyobservant eye. A side

table in a corner was covered with letters, waiting Winterfield's return. Always ready for information of any

The handwritings presented the customary variety of character. All but three of the envelopes showed the

London district postmarks. Two of the other letters (addressed to Winterfield at his club) bore foreign

postmarks; and one, as the altered direction showed, had been forward from Beaupark House to the hotel.

The address was apparently in a woman's handwriting. And it was worthy of remark that she appeared to be

the only person among Winterfield's correspondents who was not acquainted with the address of his hotel or

of his club. Who could the person be? The subtly inquiring intellect of Father Benwell amused itself by

speculating even on such a trifling problem as this. He little thought that he had a personal interest in the

letter. The envelope contained Stella's warning to Winterfield to distrust no less a person than Father Benwell

It was nearly halfpast five before quick footsteps were audible outside. Winterfield entered the room.

"This is friendly indeed!" he said. "I expected to return to the worst of all solitudessolitude in a hotel. You

will stay and dine with me? That's right. You must have thought I was going to settle in Paris. Do you know

what has kept me so long? The most delightful theater in the worldthe Opera Comique. I am so fond of the

bygone school of music, Father Benwellthe flowing graceful delicious melodies of the composers who

followed Mozart. One can only enjoy that music in Paris. Would you believe that I waited a week to hear

Nicolo's delightful Joconde for the second time. I was almost the only young man in the stalls. All round me

were the old men who remembered the first performances of the opera, beating time with their wrinkled

hands to the tunes which were associated with the happiest days of their lives. What's that I hear? My dog! I

He flew to the door and called down the stairs to have the dog set free. The spaniel rushed into the room and

leaped into his master's outstretched arms. Winterfield returned his caresses, and kisses him as tenderly as a

"Dear old fellow! it's a shame to have left youI won't do it again. Father Benwell, have you many friends

who would be as glad to see you as this friend? I haven't one. And there are fools who talk of a dog as an

inferior being to ourselves! This creature's faithful love is mine, do what I may. I might be disgraced in the

estimation of every human creature I know, and he would be as true to me as ever. And look at his physical

qualities. What an ugly thing, for instanceI won't say your earI will say, my ear is; crumpled and

wrinkled and naked. Look at the beautiful silky covering of his ear! What are our senses of smelling and

hearing compared to his? We are proud of our reason. Could we find our way back, if they shut us up in a

basket, and took us to a strange place away from home? If we both want to run downstairs in a hurry, which

of us is securest against breaking his neckI on my poor two legs, or he on his four? Who is the happy

mortal who goes to bed without unbuttoning, and gets up again without buttoning? Here he is, on my lap,

knowing I am talking about him, and too fond of me to say to himself, 'What a fool my master is!' "

Father Benwell listened to this rhapsodyso characteristic of the childish simplicity of the manwith an

inward sense of impatience, which never once showed itself on the smiling surface of his face.

He had decided not to mention the papers in his pocket until some circumstance occurred which might appear

to remind him naturally that he had such things about him. If he showed any anxiety to produce the envelope,

he might expose himself to the suspicion of having some knowledge of the contents. When would

The ticktick of the clock on the mantelpiece steadily registered the progress of time, and Winterfield's

Even Father Benwell's patience was sorely tried when the good country gentleman proceeded to mention not

only the spaniel's name, but the occasion which had suggested it. "We call him Traveler, and I will tell you

why. When he was only a puppy he strayed into the garden at Beaupark, so weary and footsore that we

concluded he had come to us from a great distance. We advertised him, but he was never claimedand here

he is! If you don't object, we will give Traveler a treat today. He shall have dinner with us."

Perfectly understanding those last words, the dog jumped off his master's lap, and actually forwarded the

views of Father Benwell in less than a minute more. Scampering round and round the room, as an appropriate

expression of happiness, he came into collision with the side table and directed Winterfield's attention to the

Father Benwell rose politely, to assist in picking up the prostrate correspondence. But Traveler was

beforehand with him. Warning the priest, with a low growl, not to interfere with another person's business,

the dog picked up the letters in his mouth, and carried them by installments to his master's feet. Even then,

the exasperating Winterfield went no further than patting Traveler. Father Benwell's endurance reached its

limits. "Pray don't stand on ceremony with me," he said. "I will look at the newspaper while you read your

Winterfield carelessly gathered the letters together, tossed them on the dining table at his side, and took the

Fate was certainly against the priest on that evening. The first letter that Winterfield opened led him off to

another subject of conversation before he had read it to the end. Father Benwell's hand, already in his coat

"Here's a proposal to me to go into Parliament," said the Squire. "What do you think of representative

institutions, Father Benwell? To my mind, representative institutions are on their last legs. Honorable

Members vote away more of our money every year. They have no alternative between suspending liberty of

speech, or sitting helpless while half a dozen impudent idiots stop the progress of legislation from motives of

the meanest kind. And they are not even sensitive enough to the national honor to pass a social law among

themselves which makes it as disgraceful in a gentleman to buy a seat by bribery as to cheat at cards. I

declare I think the cardsharper the least degraded person of the two. He doesn't encourage his inferiors to be

false to a public trust. In short, my dear sir, everything wears out in this worldand why should the House of

He picked up the next letter from the heap. As he looked at the address, his face changed. The smile left his

lips, the gayety died out of his eyes. Traveler, entreating for more notice with impatient forepaws applied to

his master's knees, saw the alteration, and dropped into a respectfully recumbent position. Father Benwell

glanced sidelong off the columns of the newspaper, and waited for events with all the discretion, and none of

"Forwarded from Beaupark," Winterfield said to himself. He opened the letterread it carefully to the

The priest put down the newspaper. For a few moments more nothing was audible but the steady ticktick of

"We have not been very long acquainted," Winterfield resumed. "But our association has been a pleasant one,

and I think I owe to you the duty of a friend. I don't belong to your Church; but I hope you will believe me

when I say that ignorant prejudice against the Catholic priesthood is not one of my prejudices."

"You are mentioned," Winterfield proceeded, "in the letter which I have just read."

"Are you at liberty to tell me the name of your correspondent?" Father Benwell asked.

"I am not at liberty to do that. But I think it due to you, and to myself, to tell you what the substance of the

letter is. The writer warns me to be careful in my intercourse with you. Your object (I am told) is to make

yourself acquainted with events in my past life, and you have some motive which my correspondent has thus

far failed to discover. I speak plainly, but I beg you to understand that I also speak impartially. I condemn no

man unheardleast of all, a man whom I have had the honor of receiving under my own roof."

He spoke with a certain simple dignity. With equal dignity, Father Benwell answered. It is needless to say

"Let me sincerely thank you, Mr. Winterfield, for a candor which does honor to us both," he said. "You will

hardly expect meif I may use such an expressionto condescend to justify myself against an accusation

which is an anonymous accusation so far as I am concerned. I prefer to meet that letter by a plain proof; and I

leave you to judge whether I am still worthy of the friendship to which you have so kindly alluded."

With this preface he briefly related the circumstances under which he had become possessed of the packet,

"Decide for yourself," he concluded, "whether a man bent on prying into your private affairs, with that letter

He rose and took his hat, ready to leave the room, if his honor was profaned by the slightest expression of

distrust. Winterfield's genial and unsuspicious nature instantly accepted the offered proof as conclusive.

"Before I break the seal," he said, "let me do you justice. Sit down again, Father Benwell, and forgive me if

my sense of duty has hurried me into hurting your feelings. No man ought to know better than I do how often

They shook hands cordially. No moral relief is more eagerly sought than relief from the pressure of a serious

explanation. By common consent, they now spoke as lightly as if nothing had happened. Father Benwell set

"You actually believe in a priest!" he said gayly. "We shall make a good Catholic of you yet."

"Don't be too sure of that," Winterfield replied, with a touch of his quaint humor. "I respect the men who

have given to humanity the inestimable blessing of quinineto say nothing of preserving learning and

They both laughed. Father Benwell went back to his newspaper. Winterfield broke the seal of the envelope

The confession was the first of the papers at which he happened to look. At the opening lines he turned pale.

He read more, and his eyes filled with tears. In low broken tones he said to the priest, "You have innocently

brought me most distressing news. I entreat your pardon if I ask to be left alone."

Father Benwell said a few wellchosen words of sympathy, and immediately withdrew. The dog licked his

Later in the evening, a note from Winterfield was left by messenger at the priest's lodgings. The writer

announced, with renewed expressions of regret, that he would be again absent from London on the next day,

but that he hoped to return to the hotel and receive his guest on the evening of the day after.

Father Benwell rightly conjectured that Winterfield's destination was the town in which his wife had died.

His object in taking the journey was not, as the priest supposed, to address inquiries to the rector and the

landlady, who had been present at the fatal illness and the deathbut to justify his wife's last expression of

belief in the mercy and compassion of the man whom she had injured. On that "nameless grave," so sadly and

so humbly referred to in the confession, he had resolved to place a simple stone cross, giving to her memory

the name which she had shrunk from profaning in her lifetime. When he had written the brief inscription

which recorded the death of "Emma, wife of Bernard Winterfield," and when he had knelt for a while by the

low turf mound, his errand had come to its end. He thanked the good rector; he left gifts with the landlady

and her children, by which he was gratefully remembered for many a year afterward; and then, with a heart

Other men might have made their sad little pilgrimage alone. Winterfield took his dog with him. "I must have

WHEN I wrote last, I hardly thought I should trouble you again so soon. The necessity has, however, arisen. I

must ask for instructions, from our Most Reverend General, on the subject of Arthur Penrose.

I believe that I informed you that I decided to defer my next visit to Ten Acres Lodge for two or three days,

in order that Winterfield (if he intended to do so) might have time to communicate with Mrs. Romayne, after

his return from the country. Naturally enough, perhaps, considering the delicacy of the subject, he has not

taken me into his confidence. I can only guess that he has maintained the same reserve with Mrs. Romayne.

I asked first, of course, for the lady of the house, and hearing she was in the grounds, joined her there. She

looked ill and anxious, and she received me with rigid politeness. Fortunately, Mrs. Eyrecourt (now

convalescent) was staying at Ten Acres, and was then taking the air in her chair on wheels. The good lady's

nimble and discursive tongue offered me an opportunity of referring, in the most innocent manner possible, to

Winterfield's favorable opinion of Romayne's pictures. I need hardly say that I looked at Romayne's wife

when I mentioned the name. She turned paleprobably fearing that I had some knowledge of her letter

warning Winterfield not to trust me. If she had already been informed that he was not to be blamed, but to be

pitied, in the matter of the marriage at Brussels, she would have turned red. Such, at least, is my experience,

The ladies having served my purpose, I ventured into the house, to pay my respects to Romayne.

He was in the study, and his excellent friend and secretary was with him. After the first greetings Penrose left

us. His manner told me plainly that there was something wrong. I asked no questionswaiting on the chance

"I hope you are in better spirits, now that you have your old companion with you," I said.

"I am very glad to have Penrose with me," he answered. And then he frowned and looked out of the window

It occurred to me that Mrs. Eyrecourt might be occupying the customary false position of a motherinlaw. I

was mistaken. He was not thinking of his wife's motherhe was thinking of his wife.

"I suppose you know that Penrose had an idea of converting me?" he said, suddenly.

I was perfectly candid with himI said I knew it, and approved of it. "May I hope that Arthur has succeeded

"Nothing of the sort! I have thought and thought of itand I can tell you I was more than ready to meet him

He pointed through the window to his wife. "There is the obstacle," he said, in a tone of ironical resignation.

Knowing Arthur's character as I knew it, I at last understood what had happened. For a moment I felt really

angry. Under these circumstances, the wise course was to say nothing, until I could be sure of speaking with

"We talked of my wife, Father Benwell, the last time you were here. You only knew, then, that her reception

of Mr. Winterfield had determined him never to enter my house again. By way of adding to your information

on the subject of 'petticoat government,' I may now tell you that Mrs. Romayne has forbidden Penrose to

proceed with the attempt to convert me. By common consent, the subject is never mentioned between us."

The bitter irony of his tone, thus far, suddenly disappeared. He spoke eagerly and anxiously. "I hope you are

By this time my little fit of illtemper was at an end. I answeredand it was really in a certain sense

Romayne seemed to be relieved. "I only troubled you with this last domestic incident," he resumed, "to

bespeak your indulgence for Penrose. I am getting learned in the hierarchy of the Church, Father Benwell!

You are the superior of my dear little friend, and you exercise authority over him. Oh, he is the kindest and

best of men! It is not his fault. He submits to Mrs. Romayneagainst his own better convictionin the

I don't think I misinterpret the state of Romayne's mind, and mislead you, when I express my belief that this

second indiscreet interference of his wife between his friend and himself will produce the very result which

she dreads. Mark my words, written after the closest observation of himthis new irritation of Romayne's

You will understand that the one alternative before me, after what has happened, is to fill the place from

which Penrose has withdrawn. I abstained from breathing a word of this to Romayne. It is he, if I can manage

it, who must invite me to complete the work of conversionand, besides, nothing can be done until the visit

of Penrose has come to an end. Romayne's secret sense of irritation may be safely left to develop itself, with

The present state of his mind is not favorable to work of that exacting kind. Even with the help of Penrose to

encourage him, he does not get on to his satisfactionand yet, as I could plainly perceive, the ambition to

make a name in the world exercises a stronger influence over him than ever. All in our favor, my reverend

I took the liberty of asking to see Penrose alone for a moment; and, this request granted, Romayne and I

parted cordially. I can make most people like me, when I choose to try. The master of Vange Abbey is no

exception to the rule. Did I tell you, bytheby, that the property has a little declined of late in value? It is

now not worth more than six thousand a year. We will improve it when it returns to the Church.

My interview with Penrose was over in two minutes. Dispensing with formality, I took his arm, and led him

"I have heard all about it," I said; "and I must not deny that you have disappointed me. But I know your

disposition, and I make allowances. You have qualities, dear Arthur, which perhaps put you a little out of

place among us. I shall be obliged to report what you have donebut you may trust me to put it favorably.

Shake hands, my son, and, while we are still together, let us be as good friends as ever."

You may think that I spoke in this way with a view to my indulgent language being repeated to Romayne,

and so improving the position which I have already gained in his estimation. Do you know, I really believe I

meant it at the time! The poor fellow gratefully kissed my hand when I offered it to himhe was not able to

speak. I wonder whether I am weak about Arthur? Say a kind word for him, when his conduct comes under

noticebut pray don't mention this little frailty of mine; and don't suppose I have any sympathy with his

weakminded submission to Mrs. Romayne's prejudices. If I ever felt the smallest consideration for her (and

I cannot call to mind any amiable emotion of that sort), her letter to Winterfield would have effectually

In closing this letter, I may quiet the minds of our reverend brethren, if I assure them that my former

objection to associating myself directly with the conversion of Romayne no longer exists.

Yes! even at my age, and with my habits, I am now resigned to hearing, and confuting, the trivial arguments

of a man who is young enough to be my son. I shall write a carefullyguarded 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

* 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.

HAS my letter failed to reach you? I directed it (as I direct this) to Beaupark, not knowing your London

Yesterday, Father Benwell called at Ten Acres Lodge. He first saw my mother and myself and he contrived

to mention your name. It was done with his usual adroitness, and I might perhaps have passed it over if he

had not looked at me. I hope and pray it may be only my fancybut 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 confidenceor even if you have hinted anything to him which gives him a

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 wordI have not even let slip the

slightest hintwhich 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

I have reasons, on my side, for not justifying myselfexcept 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

Dear SirI have received your letter, mentioning that you wish to accompany me, at my next visit to the

asylum, to see the French boy, so strangely associated with the papers delivered to you by Father Benwell.

Your proposal reaches me too late. The poor creature's troubled life has come to an end. He never rallied

from the exhausting effect of the fever. To the last he was attended by his mother.

I write with true sympathy for that excellent ladybut 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

ON the tenth morning, dating from the dispatch of Father Benwell's last letter to Rome, Penrose was writing

in the study at Ten Acres Lodge, while Romayne sat at the other end of the room, looking listlessly at a blank

sheet of paper, with the pen lying idle beside it. On a sudden he rose, and, snatching up paper and pen, threw

"Don't trouble yourself to write any longer," he said to Penrose. "My dream is over. Throw my manuscripts

"Every man devoted to literature has these fits of despondency," Penrose answered. "Don't think of your

work. Send for your horse, and trust to fresh air and exercise to relieve your mind."

Romayne barely listened. He turned round at the fireplace and studied the reflection of his face in the glass.

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

answerablethough you all deny itfor 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 witchesthe merciless old

women who made wax images of the people who injured them, and stuck pins in their mock likenesses, to

never been disproved." He stopped, looked at Penrose, and suddenly changed his tone. "Arthur! what is the

"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

"No; I was thinking of something else. I was wondering whether I really know you as well as I thought I did.

"My only ambition is to lead a worthy life, and to be as useful to my fellowcreatures as I can. Does that

"I don't say it seems strange that you should be a priest," Romayne explained. "I am only surprised that a man

of your simple way of thinking should have attached himself to the Order of the Jesuits."

"I can quite understand that," said Penrose. "But you should remember that circumstances often influence a

man in his choice of a vocation. It has been so with me. I am a member of a Roman Catholic family. A Jesuit

College was near our place of abode, and a near relative of minesince deadwas 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.

Penrose took the offered hand, and pressed it fervently. He tried to speakand suddenly shuddered, like a

man in pain. "I am not very well this morning," he stammered; "a turn in the garden will do me good."

Romayne's doubts were confirmed by the manner in which Penrose left him. Something had unquestionably

happened, which his friend shrank from communicating to him. He sat down again at his desk and tried to

read. The time passedand he was still left alone. When the door was at last opened it was only Stella who

The estrangement between them had been steadily widening of late. Romayne had expressed his resentment

at his wife's interference between Penrose and himself by that air of contemptuous endurance which is the

hardest penalty that a man can inflict on the woman who loves him. Stella had submitted with a proud and

silent resignationthe most unfortunate form of protest that she could have adopted toward a man of

Romayne's temper. When she now appeared, however, in her husband's study, there was a change in her

expression which he instantly noticed. She looked at him with eyes softened by sorrow. Before she could

Stella took a chair by her husband's side. "I am truly sorry for you, Lewis," she said. "It is even a sad parting

for Me. If you will let me say it, I have a sincere regard for dear Mr. Penrose."

Under other circumstances, this confession of feeling for the man who had sacrificed his dearest aspiration to

the one consideration of her happiness, might have provoked a sharp reply. But by this time Romayne had

really become alarmed. "You speak as if Arthur was going to leave England," he said.

Her courage failed her. She paused. Romayne beat his hand impatiently on the desk before him. "Speak out!"

"He goes to Rome," she said "to receive his instructions, and to become personally acquainted with the

missionaries who are associated with him. They will leave Leghorn in the next vessel which sets sail for a

port in Central America. And the dangerous duty intrusted to them is to reestablish one of the Jesuit

Missions destroyed by the savages years since. They will find their church a ruin, and not a vestige left of the

house once inhabited by the murdered priests. It is not concealed from them that they may be martyred, too.

They are soldiers of the Cross; and they gowillingly goto save the souls of the Indians, at the peril of

Romayne rose, and advanced to the door. There, he turned, and spoke to Stella. "Where is Arthur?" he said.

"There was one word more he entreated me to saypray wait and hear it," she pleaded. "His one grief is at

leaving You. Apart from that, he devotes himself gladly to the dreadful service which claims him. He has

long looked forward to it, and has long prepared himself for it. Those, Lewis, are his own words."

There was a knock at the door. The servant appeared, to announce that the carriage was waiting.

"Have you spoken for me?" he said to Stella. She could only answer him by a gesture. He turned to Romayne

Pale and trembling, Romayne took his hand. "Is this Father Benwell's doing?" he asked.

"No!" Penrose answered firmly. "In Father Benwell's position it might have been his doing, but for his

goodness to me. For the first time since I have known him he has shrunk from a responsibility. For my sake

he has left it to Rome. And Rome has spoken. Oh, my more than friendmy brother in love!"

His voice failed him. With a resolution which was nothing less than heroic in a man of his affectionate nature,

"Let us make it as little miserable as it can be," he said. "At every opportunity we will write to each other.

And, who knowsI may yet come back to you? God has preserved his servants in dangers as great as any

that I shall encounter. May that merciful God bless and protect you! Oh, Romayne, what happy days we have

had together!" His last powers of resistance were worn out. Tears of noble sorrow dimmed the friendly eyes

which had never once looked unkindly on the brother of his love. He kissed Romayne. "Help me out!" he

said, turning blindly toward the hall, in which the servant was waiting. That last act of mercy was not left to a

servant. With sisterly tenderness, Stella took his hand and led him away. "I shall remember you gratefully as

long as I live," she said to him when the carriage door was closed. He waved his hand at the window, and she

The relief of tears had not come to Romayne. He had dropped into a chair when Penrose left him. In stony

silence he sat there, his head down, his eyes dry and staring. The miserable days of their estrangement were

forgotten by his wife in the moment when she looked at him. She knelt by his side and lifted his head a little

and laid it on her bosom. Her heart was fullshe let the caress plead for her silently. He felt it; his cold

fingers pressed her hand thankfully; but he said nothing. After a long interval, the first outward expression of

Years afterward Stella remembered those words, and the tone in which he had spoken them.

AFTER a lapse of a few days, Father Benwell was again a visitor at Ten Acres Lodgeby Romayne's

invitation. The priest occupied the very chair, by the study fireside, in which Penrose had been accustomed to

"It is really kind of you to come to me," said Romayne, "so soon after receiving my acknowledgment of your

letter. I can't tell you how I was touched by the manner in which you wrote of Penrose. To my shame I

"I hardly knew it myself, Mr. Romayne, until our dear Arthur was taken away from us."

If you used your influence, Father Benwell, is there no hope that you might yet persuade him?"

"To withdraw from the Mission? Oh, Mr. Romayne, don't you know Arthur's character better than that? Even

his gentle temper has its resolute side. The zeal of the first martyrs to Christianity is the zeal that burns in that

noble nature. The Mission has been the dream of his lifeit is endeared to him by the very dangers which

we dread. Persuade Arthur to desert the dear and devoted colleagues who have opened their arms to him? I

might as soon persuade that statue in the garden to desert its pedestal, and join us in this room. Shall we

change the sad subject? Have you received the book which I sent you with my letter?"

Romayne took up the book from his desk. Before he could speak of it some one called out briskly, on the

other side of the door: "May I come in?"and came in, without waiting to be asked. Mrs. Eyrecourt, painted

and robed for the morningwafting perfumes as she movedappeared in the study. She looked at the

"Oh, dear me! I had no idea you were here, Father Benwell. I ask ten thousand pardons. Dear and admirable

Romayne, you don't look as if you were pleased to see me. Good gracious! I am not interrupting a confession,

Father Benwell (with his paternal smile in perfect order) resigned his chair to Mrs. Eyrecourt. The traces of

her illness still showed themselves in an intermittent trembling of her head and her hands. She had entered the

room, strongly suspecting that the process of conversion might be proceeding in the absence of Penrose, and

determined to interrupt it. Guided by his subtle intelligence, Father Benwell penetrated her motive as soon as

she opened the door. Mrs. Eyrecourt bowed graciously, and took the offered chair. Father Benwell sweetened

"How glad I am," he said, "to see you in your customary good spirits! But wasn't it just a little malicious to

talk of interrupting a confession? As if Mr. Romayne was one of Us! Queen Elizabeth herself could hardly

"You clever creature!" said Mrs. Eyrecourt. "How easily you see through a simple woman like me! ThereI

give you my hand to kiss and I will never try to deceive you again. Do you know, Father Benwell, a most

extraordinary wish has suddenly come to me. Please don't be offended. I wish you were a Jew."

"May I ask why?" Father Benwell inquired, with an apostolic suavity worthy of the best days of Rome.

Mrs. Eyrecourt explained herself with the modest selfdistrust of a maiden of fifteen. "I am really so

ignorant, I hardly know how to put it. But learned persons have told me that it is the peculiarity of the

Jewsmay I say, the amiable peculiarity?never to make converts. It would be so nice if you would take a

leaf out of their book, when we have the happiness of receiving you here. My lively imagination pictures you

in a double character. Father Benwell everywhere else; andsay, the patriarch Abraham at Ten Acres

Father Benwell lifted his persuasive hands in courteous protest. "My dear lady! pray make your mind easy.

Not one word on the subject of religion has passed between Mr. Romayne and myself"

"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Eyrecourt interposed, "I am afraid I fail to follow you. My silent soninlaw looks

as if he longed to smother me, and my attention is naturally distracted. You were about to say?"

"I was about to say, dear Mrs. Eyrecourt, that you are alarming yourself without any reason. Not one word,

Mrs. Eyrecourt cocked her head, with the artless vivacity of a bird. "Ah, but it might, though!" she suggested,

Father Benwell once more remonstrated in dumb show, and Romayne lost his temper.

Mrs. Eyrecourt screamed, and lifted her hands to her ears. "I am not deaf, dear Romayne, and I am not to be

put down by any illtimed exhibition of, what I may call, domestic ferocity. Father Benwell sets you an

"Talk on any other topic that you like, Mrs. Eyrecourt. I request youdon't oblige me to use a harder

wordI request you to spare Father Benwell and myself any further expression of your opinion on

A soninlaw may make a request, and a motherinlaw may decline to comply. Mrs. Eyrecourt declined to

"No, Romayne, it won't do. I may lament your unhappy temper, for my daughter's sakebut I know what I

am about, and you can't provoke me. Our reverend friend and I understand each other. He will make

allowances for a sensitive woman, who has had sad experience of conversions in her own household. My

eldest daughter, Father Benwella poor foolish creaturewas converted into a nunnery. The last time I saw

her (she used to be sweetly pretty; my dear husband quite adored her)the last time I saw her she had a red

nose, and, what is even more revolting at her age, a double chin. She received me with her lips pursed up, and

her eyes on the ground, and she was insolent enough to say that she would pray for me. I am not a furious old

man with a long white beard, and I don't curse my daughter and rush out into a thunderstorm afterwardbut

I know what King Lear felt, and I have struggled with hysterics just as he did. With your wonderful insight

into human nature, I am sure you will sympathize with and forgive me. Mr. Penrose, as my daughter tells me,

behaved in the most gentlemanlike manner. I make the same appeal to your kind forbearance. The bare

"Not at all, Mrs. Eyrecourt. If I became a Catholic, I might escape from the society of ladies, in the refuge of

"Remain a Protestant, my dear, and go to your club. There is a refuge for you from the ladiesa monastery,

with nice little dinners, and all the newspapers and periodicals." Having launched this shaft, she got up, and

recovered her easy courtesy of look and manner. "I am so much obliged to you, Father Benwell. I have not

"You have done me a service, dear Mrs. Eyrecourt. But for your salutory caution, I might have drifted into

"How very good of you! We shall meet again, I hope, under more agreeable circumstances. After that polite

allusion to a monastery, I understand that my visit to my soninlaw may as well come to an end. Please

As she approached the door, it was opened from the outer side. Her daughter met her halfway. "Why are

"Why, indeed, my love! You had better leave the room with me. Our amiable Romayne's present idea is to

relieve himself of our society by retiring to a monastery. Don't you see Father Benwell?"

Stella coldly returned the priest's bowand looked at Romayne. She felt a vague forewarning of what had

happened. Mrs. Eyrecourt proceeded to enlighten her, as an appropriate expression of gratitude. "We are

indeed indebted to Father Benwell, my dear. He has been most considerate and kind"

Romayne interrupted her without ceremony. "Favor me," he said, addressing his wife, "by inducing Mrs.

Stella was hardly conscious of what her mother or her husband had said. She felt that the priest's eyes were

on her. Under any other circumstances, Father Benwell's good breeding and knowledge of the world would

have impelled him to take his departure. As things were, he knew perfectly well that the more seriously

Romayne was annoyed, in his presence, the better his own private interests would be served. Accordingly, he

stood apart, silently observant of Stella. In spite of Winterfield's reassuring reply to her letter, Stella

instinctively suspected and dreaded the Jesuit. Under the spell of those watchful eyes she trembled inwardly;

her customary tact deserted her; she made an indirect apology to the man whom she hated and feared.

"Whatever my mother may have said to you, Father Benwell, has been without my knowledge."

"Dear Mrs. Romayne, nothing has been said which needs any disclaimer on your part."

"I should think not!" Mrs. Eyrecourt added. "Really, Stella, I don't understand you. Why may I not say to

Father Benwell what you said to Mr. Penrose? You trusted Mr. Penrose as your friend. I can tell you thisI

Once more Romayne attempted to speak. And, once more, Father Benwell was beforehand with him.

"May I hope," said the priest, with a finely ironical smile, "that Mrs. Romayne agrees with her excellent

With all her fear of him, the exasperating influence of his tone and his look was more than Stella could

"I am not sufficiently well acquainted with you, Father Benwell, to express an opinion."

The moment they were alone, Romayne turned to the priest, trembling with anger. Father Benwell, smiling

indulgently at the lady's little outbreak, took him by the hand, with peacemaking intentions, "Now

Romayne was not to be pacified in that way. His anger was trebly intensified by the longcontinued strain on

"I must, and will, speak out at last!" he said. "Father Benwell, the ladies of my household have inexcusably

presumed on the consideration which is due to women. No words can say how ashamed I am of what has

happened. I can only appeal to your admirable moderation and patience to accept my apologies, and the most

"No more, Mr. Romayne! As a favor to Me, I beg and entreat you will say no more. Sit down and compose

But Romayne was impenetrable to the influence of friendly and forgiving demonstrations. "I can never expect

"My dear sir, I will come and see you again, with the greatest pleasure, on any day that you may

appointthe earlier day the better. Come! come! let us laugh. I don't say it disrespectfully, but poor dear

Mrs. Eyrecourt has been more amusing than ever. I expect to see our excellent Archbishop tomorrow, and I

must really tell him how the good lady felt insulted when her Catholic daughter offered to pray for her. There

is hardly anything more humorous, even in Moliere. And the double chin, and the red noseall the fault of

those dreadful Papists. Oh, dear me, you still take it seriously. How I wish you had my sense of humor! When

shall I come again, and tell you how the Archbishop likes the story of the nun's mother?"

He held out his hand with irresistible cordiality. Romayne took it gratefullystill bent, however, on making

"Let me first do myself the honor of calling on You," he said. "I am in no state to open my mindas I might

"Say the day after tomorrow," Father Benwell hospitably suggested. "Do me a great favor. Come and eat

your bit of mutton at my while, I bow to superior wisdom, without venturing to add a word in my own

The week's grace granted to me has elapsed. I write with humility. At the same time I have something to say

Yesterday, Mr. Lewis Romayne, of Vange Abbey, was received into the community of the Holy Catholic

Church. I inclose an accurate newspaper report of the ceremonies which attended the conversion.

Be pleased to inform me, by telegraph, whether our Reverend Fathers wish me to go on, or not.

THE leaves had fallen in the grounds at Ten Acres Lodge, and stormy winds told drearily that winter had

An unchanging dullness pervaded the house. Romayne was constantly absent in London, attending to his new

religious duties under the guidance of Father Benwell. The litter of books and manuscripts in the study was

seen no more. Hideously rigid order reigned in the unused room. Some of Romayne's papers had been

burned; others were imprisoned in drawers and cupboardsthe history of the Origin of Religions had taken

its melancholy place among the suspended literary enterprises of the time. Mrs. Eyrecourt (after a

superficially cordial reconciliation with her soninlaw) visited her daughter every now and then, as an act of

maternal sacrifice. She yawned perpetually; she read innumerable novels; she corresponded with her friends.

In the long dull evenings, the oncelively lady sometimes openly regretted that she had not been born a

manwith the three masculine resources of smoking, drinking, and swearing placed at her disposal. It was a

dreary existence, and happier influences seemed but little likely to change it. Grateful as she was to her

mother, no persuasion would induce Stella to leave Ten Acres and amuse herself in London. Mrs. Eyrecourt

said, with melancholy and metaphorical truth, "There is no elasticity left in my child."

On a dim gray morning, mother and daughter sat by the fireside, with another long day before them.

"Where is that contemptible husband of yours?" Mrs. Eyrecourt asked, looking up from her book.

Stella was too dull to immediately understand the allusion. "Do you mean Father Benwell?" she inquired.

"Don't mention his name, my dear. I have rechristened him on purpose to avoid it. Even his name humiliates

me. How completely the fawning old wretch took me inwith all my knowledge of the world, too! He was

so nice and sympatheticsuch a comforting contrast, on that occasion, to you and your husbandI declare I

forgot every reason I had for not trusting him. Ah, we women are poor creatureswe may own it among

ourselves. If a man only has nice manners and a pleasant voice, how many of us can resist him? Even

Romayne imposed upon meassisted by his property, which in some degree excuses my folly. There is

nothing to be done now, Stella, but to humor him. Do as that detestable priest does, and trust to your beauty

(there isn't as much of it left as I could wish) to turn the scale in your favor. Have you any idea when the new

convert will come back? I heard him ordering a fish dinner for himself, yesterdaybecause it was Friday.

"What he has said more than once already, mama. His peace of mind is returning, thanks to Father Benwell.

He was perfectly gentle and indulgentbut he looked as if he lived in a different world from mine. He told

me he proposed to pass a week in, what he called, Retreat. I didn't ask him what it meant. Whatever it is, I

"My dear, don't you remember your sister began in the same way? She retreated. We shall have Romayne

with a red nose and a double chin, offering to pray for us next! Do you recollect that French maid of

minethe woman I sent away, because she would spit, when she was out of temper, like a cat? I begin to

think I treated the poor creature harshly. When I hear of Romayne and his Retreat, I almost feel inclined to

spit, myself. There! let us go on with your reading. Take the first volumeI have done with it."

"A very remarkable work, Stella, in the present state of light literature in Englanda novel that actually tells

a story. It's quite incredible, I know. Try the book. It has another extraordinary meritit isn't written by a

Stella obediently received the first volume, turned over the leaves, and wearily dropped the wonderful novel

on her lap. "I can't attend to it," she said. "My mind is too full of my own thoughts."

"No. When I think of my husband now, I almost wish I had his confidence in Priests and Retreats. The

conviction grows on me, mama, that my worst troubles are still to come. When I was younger, I don't

remember being tormented by presentiments of any kind. Did I ever talk of presentiments to you, in the

"If you had done anything of the sort, my love (excuse me, if I speak plainly), I should have said, 'Stella, your

liver is out of order'; and I should have opened the family medicinechest. I will only say now send for the

carriage; let us go to a morning concert, dine at a restaurant, and finish the evening at the play."

This characteristic proposal was entirely thrown away on Stella. She was absorbed in pursuing her own train

"Are you actually simple enough, Stella, to think that a man of Romayne's temper would have made you his

"Why not! Would Romaynewould any manbelieve that you really did part from Winterfield at the

church door? Considering that you are a married woman, your innocence, my sweet child, is a perfect

"I am afraid, through Father Benwell. Yes! yes! I know you only think him a fawning old hypocriteyou

don't fear him as I do. Nothing will persuade me that zeal for his religion is the motive under which that man

acts in devoting himself to Romayne. He has some abominable object in view, and his eyes tell me that I am

"I declare, my dear, there is something absolutely provoking in your utter want of knowledge of the world!

When you are puzzled to account for anything remarkable in a clergyman's conduct (I don't care, my poor

child, to what denomination he belongs) you can't be wrong in attributing his motive toMoney. If

Romayne had turned Baptist or Methodist, the reverend gentleman in charge of his spiritual welfare would

not have forgottenas you have forgotten, you little goosethat his convert was a rich man. His mind

would have dwelt on the chapel, or the mission, or the infant school, in want of funds; andwith no more

abominable object in view than I have, at this moment, in poking the firehe would have ended in

producing his modest subscription list and would have betrayed himself (just as our odious Benwell will

betray himself) by the two amiable little words, Please contribute. Is there any other presentiment, my dear,

Before she had reached the end of the first page, her mind was far away again from the unfortunate story. She

was thinking of that "other presentiment," which had formed the subject of her mother's last satirical inquiry.

The vague fear that had shaken her when she had accidentally touched the French boy, on her visit to Camp's

Hill, still from time to time troubled her memory. Even the event of his death had failed to dissipate the

delusion, which associated him with some undefined evil influence that might yet assert itself. A superstitious

forewarning of this sort was a weakness new to her in her experience of herself. She was heartily ashamed of

itand yet it kept its hold. Once more the book dropped on her lap. She laid it aside, and walked wearily to

Almost at the same moment Mrs. Eyrecourt's maid disturbed her mistress over the second volume of the

The letter had been brought to the house by one of Lady Loring's servants. In delivering it he had apparently

given private instructions to the maid. She laid her finger significantly on her lips when she gave the letter to

"If Stella happens to be with you, when you receive my note, don't say anything which will let her know that

I am your correspondent. She has always, poor dear, had an inveterate distrust of Father Benwell; and,

between ourselves, I am not sure that she is quite so foolish as I once thought. The Father has unexpectedly

left uswith a wellframed excuse which satisfied Lord Loring. It fails to satisfy Me. Not from any

wonderful exercise of penetration on my part, but in consequence of something I have just heard in course of

conversation with a Catholic friend. Father Benwell, my dear, turns out to be a Jesuit; and, what is more, a

person of such high authority in the Order, that his concealment of his rank, while he was with us, must have

been a matter of necessity. He must have had some very serious motive for occupying a position so entirely

beneath him as his position in our house. I have not the shadow of a reason for associating this startling

discovery with dear Stella's painful misgivingsand yet there is something in my mind which makes me

want to hear what Stella's mother thinks. Come and have a talk about it as soon as you possibly can."

Applying to Lady Loring's letter the infallible system of solution which she had revealed to her daughter,

Mrs. Eyrecourt solved the mystery of the priest's conduct without a moment's hesitation. Lord Loring's check,

in Father Benwell's pocket, representing such a liberal subscription that my lord was reluctant to mention it to

my ladythere was the reading of the riddle. as plain as the sun at noonday! Would it be desirable to

enlighten Lady Loring as she had already enlightened Stella? Mrs. Eyrecourt decided in the negative. As

Roman Catholics, and as old friends of Romayne, the Lorings naturally rejoiced in his conversion. But as old

friends also of Romayne's wife, they were bound not to express their sentiments too openly. Feeling that any

discussion of the priest's motives would probably lead to the delicate subject of the conversion, Mrs.

Eyrecourt prudently determined to let the matter drop. As a consequence of this decision, Stella was left

The light of the clearing sky, at once soft and penetrating, fell full on her. Mrs. Eyrecourt, looking at her as

usual, suddenly became serious: she studied her daughter's face with an eager and attentive scrutiny.

Instead of answering, Mrs. Eyrecourt put her arm round Stella with a loving gentleness, entirely at variance

with any ordinary expression of her character. The worldly mother's eyes rested with a lingering tenderness

on the daughter's face. "Stella!" she said softlyand stopped, at a loss for words for the first time in her life.

After a while, she began again. "Yes; I see a change in you," she whispered"an interesting change which

She laid her head in silence on her mother's bosom. Worldly, frivolous, selfinterested, Mrs. Eyrecourt's

nature was the nature of a womanand the one great trial and triumph of a woman's life, appealing to her as

a trial and a triumph soon to come to her own child, touched fibers under the hardened surface of her heart

which were still unprofaned. "My poor darling," she said, "have you told the good news to your husband?"

"Nonsense, Stella! You may win him back to you by a wordand do you hesitate to say the word? I shall

Stella suddenly drew herself away from her mother's caressing arm. "If you do," she cried, "no words can say

how inconsiderate and how cruel I shall think you. Promiseon your word of honorpromise you will

"Hush, hush! don't excite yourself, my love; I promise. Give me a kiss. I declare I am agitated myself!" she

exclaimed, falling back into her customary manner. "Such a shock to my vanity, Stellathe prospect of

becoming a grandmother! I really must ring for Matilda, and take a few drops of red lavender. Be advised by

me, my poor dear, and we will turn the priest out of the house yet. When Romayne comes back from his

ridiculous Retreatafter his fasting and flagellation, and Heaven knows what besidesthen bring him to his

"And one word more, before Matilda comes in. Remember the vast importance of having a male heir to

Vange Abbey. On these occasions you may practice with perfect impunity on the ignorance of the men. Tell

SITUATED in a distant quarter of the vast western suburb of London, the house called The Retreat stood in

the midst of a wellkept garden, protected on all sides by a high brick wall. Excepting the grand gilt cross on

the roof of the chapel, nothing revealed externally the devotional purpose to which the Roman Catholic

priesthood (assisted by the liberality of "the Faithful") had dedicated the building.

But the convert privileged to pass the gates left Protestant England outside, and found himself, as it were, in a

new country. Inside The Retreat, the paternal care of the Church took possession of him; surrounded him with

monastic simplicity in his neat little bedroom; and dazzled him with devotional splendor when his religious

duties called him into the chapel. The perfect tasteso seldom found in the modern arrangement and

decoration of convents and churches in southern countriesshowed itself here, pressed into the service of

religion, in every part of the house. The severest discipline had no sordid and hideous side to it in The

Retreat. The inmates fasted on spotless tablecloths, and handled knives and forks (the humble servants of

halffilled stomachs) without a speck on their decent brightness. Penitents who kissed the steps of the altar

(to use the expressive Oriental phrase), "eat no dirt." Friends, liberal friends, permitted to visit the inmates on

stated days, saw copies of famous Holy Families in the receptionroom which were really works of Art; and

trod on a carpet of studiously modest pretensions, exhibiting pious emblems beyond reproach in color and

design. The Retreat had its own artesian well; not a person in the house drank impurity in his water. A faint

perfume of incense was perceptible in the corridors. The soothing and mysterious silence of the place was

intensified rather than disturbed by soft footsteps, and gentle opening and closing of doors. Animal life was

not even represented by a cat in the kitchen. And yet, pervaded by some inscrutable influence, the house was

not dull. Heretics, with lively imaginations, might have not inappropriately likened it to an enchanted castle.

In one word, the Catholic system here showed to perfection its masterly knowledge of the weakness of

On the morning when Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter held their memorable interview by the fireside at Ten

Acres, Father Benwell entered one of the private rooms at The Retreat, devoted to the use of the priesthood.

The demure attendant, waiting humbly for instructions, was sent to request the presence of one of the inmates

Father Benwell's customary serenity was a little ruffled, on this occasion, by an appearance of anxiety. More

than once he looked impatiently toward the door, and he never even noticed the last new devotional

Mr. Mortleman made his appearancea young man and a promising convert. The wild brightness of his eyes

revealed that incipient form of brain disease which begins in fanaticism, and ends not infrequently in

religious madness. His manner of greeting the priest was absolutely servile. He cringed before the illustrious

Father Benwell took no notice of these demonstrations of humility. "Be seated, my son," he said. Mr.

Mortleman looked as if he would have preferred going down on his knees, but he yielded, and took a chair.

"I think you have been Mr. Romayne's companion for a few days, in the hours of recreation?" the priest

"Oh, far from it! He feels the benign influence of The Retreat; we have had some delightful hours together."

Mr. Mortleman crossed his hands on his breast and bowed profoundly. "I have to report of myself, Father,

that I have committed the sin of presumption. I presumed that Mr. Romayne was, like myself, not married."

"Then you have committed no sin. You have only made an excusable mistake. How were you led into error?"

"In this way, Father. Mr. Romayne had been speaking to me of a book which you had been so good as to send

to him. He had been especially interested by the memoir therein contained of the illustrious Englishman,

Cardinal Acton. The degrees by which his Eminence rose to the rank of a Prince of the Church seemed, as I

thought, to have aroused in my friend a new sense of vocation. He asked me if I myself aspired to belong to

the holy priesthood. I answered that this was indeed my aspiration, if I might hope to be found worthy. He

appeared to be deeply affected. I ventured to ask if he too had the same prospect before him. He grieved me

indescribably. He sighed and said, 'I have no such hope; I am married.' Tell me Father, I entreat you, have I

Father Benwell considered for a moment. "Did Mr. Romayne say anything more?" he asked.

Father Benwell held out his hand. "My young friend, you have not only done no wrongyou have shown the

most commendable discretion. I will detain you no longer from your duties. Go to Mr. Romayne, and say that

Mr. Mortleman dropped on one knee, and begged for a blessing. Father Benwell lifted the traditional two

fingers, and gave the blessing. The conditions of human happiness are easily fulfilled if we rightly understand

Left by himself again, Father Benwell paced the room rapidly from end to end. The disturbing influence

visible in his face had now changed from anxiety to excitement. "I'll try it today!" he said to himselfand

stopped, and looked round him doubtfully. "No, not here," he decided; "it may get talked about too soon. It

will be safer in every way at my lodgings." He recovered his composure, and returned to his chair.

The double influence of the conversion, and of the life in The Retreat, had already changed him. His

customary keenness and excitability of look had subsided, and had left nothing in their place but an

expression of suave and meditative repose. All his troubles were now in the hands of his priest. There was a

passive regularity in his bodily movements and a beatific serenity in his smile.

"My dear friend," said Father Benwell, cordially shaking hands, "you were good enough to be guided by my

advice in entering this house. Be guided by me again, when I say that you have been here long enough. You

can return, after an interval, if you wish it. But I have something to say to you firstand I beg to offer the

The time had been when Romayne would have asked for some explanation of this abrupt notice of removal.

Now, he passively accepted the advice of his spiritual director. Father Benwell made the necessary

communication to the authorities, and Romayne took leave of his friends in The Retreat. The great Jesuit and

ON their way through the streets, Father Benwell talked as persistently of the news of the day as if he had

nothing else in his thoughts. To keep his companion's mind in a state of suspense was, in certain emergencies,

to exert a useful preparatory influence over a man of Romayne's character. Even when they reached his

lodgings, the priest still hesitated to approach the object that he had in view. He made considerate inquiries,

"I want nothing, thank you," Romayne answered, with an effort to control his habitual impatience of needless

"Pardon mewe have a long interview before us, I fear. Our bodily necessities, Romayne (excuse me if I

take the friendly liberty of suppressing the formal 'Mr.')our bodily necessities are not to be trifled with. A

bottle of my famous claret, and a few biscuits, will not hurt either of us." He rang the bell, and gave the

necessary directions "Another damp day!" he went on cheerfully. "I hope you don't pay the rheumatic

penalties of a winter residence in England? Ah, this glorious country would be too perfect if it possessed the

The wine and biscuits were brought in. Father Benwell filled the glasses and bowed cordially to his guest.

"Nothing of this sort at The Retreat!" he said gayly. "Excellent water, I am toldwhich is a luxury in its

way, especially in London. Well, my dear Romayne, I must begin by making my apologies. You no doubt

thought me a little abrupt in running away with you from your retirement at a moment's notice?"

"Thank youyou do me justiceit was in your best interests that I acted. There are men of phlegmatic

temperament, over whom the wise monotony of discipline at The Retreat exercises a wholesome

influenceI mean an influence which may be prolonged with advantage. You are not one of those persons.

Protracted seclusion and monotony of life are morally and mentally unprofitable to a man of your ardent

disposition. I abstained from mentioning these reasons, at the time, out of a feeling of regard for our excellent

resident director, who believes unreservedly in the institution over which he presides. Very good! The Retreat

has done all that it could usefully do in your case. We must think next of how to employ that mental activity

which, rightly developed, is one of the most valuable qualities that you possess. Let me ask, first, if you have

"That's right! And your nervous sufferingsI don't ask what they are; I only want to know if you experience

"A most welcome sense of relief," Romayne answered, with a revival of the enthusiasm of other days. "The

"And to dear Penrose," Father Benwell interposed, with the prompt sense of justice which no man could more

"Forget him?" Romayne repeated. "Not a day passes without my thinking of him. It is one of the happy

results of the change in me that my mind does not dwell bitterly on the loss of him now. I think of Penrose

with admiration, as of one whose glorious life, with all its dangers, I should like to share!"

He spoke with a rising color and brightening eyes. Already, the absorbent capacity of the Roman Church had

drawn to itself that sympathetic side of his character which was also one of its strongest sides. Already, his

love for Penrosehitherto inspired by the virtues of the manhad narrowed its range to sympathy with the

trials and privileges of the priest. Truly and deeply, indeed, had the physician consulted, in bygone days,

reasoned on Romayne's case! That "occurrence of some new and absorbing influence in his life," of which

the doctor had spokenthat "working of some complete change in his habits of thought"had found its way

to him at last, after the wife's simple devotion had failed, through the subtler ministrations of the priest.

Some men, having Father Benwell's object in view, would have taken instant advantage of the opening

offered to them by Romayne's unguarded enthusiasm. The illustrious Jesuit held fast by the wise maxim

"No," he said, "your life must not be the life of our dear friend. The service on which the Church employs

Romayne looked at his spiritual adviser with a momentary change of expressiona relapse into the ironical

"Have you forgotten that I am, and can be, only a layman?" he asked. "What claims can I have, except the

common claim of all faithful members of the Church on the good offices of the priesthood?" He paused for a

moment, and continued with the abruptness of a man struck by a new idea. "Yes! I have perhaps one small

"Surely you can guess? I am a rich man; I have money lying idle, which it is my duty (and my privilege) to

devote to the charities and necessities of the Church. And, while I am speaking of this, I must own that I am a

little surprised at your having said nothing to me on the subject. You have never yet pointed out to me the

manner in which I might devote my money to the best and noblest uses. Was it forgetfulness on your part?"

Father Benwell got up and walked to the fireplace. Now there are various methods of getting up and walking

to a fireplace, and they find their way to outward expression through the customary means of look and

manner. We may feel cold, and may only want to warm ourselves. Or we may feel restless, and may need an

excuse for changing our position. Or we may feel modestly confused, and may be anxious to hide it. Father

Benwell, from head to foot, expressed modest confusion, and polite anxiety to hide it.

Romayne was a sincere convert, but there were instincts still left in him which resented this expression of

regard, even when it proceeded from a man whom he respected and admired. "You will hurt my feelings," he

"Then I will be plain with you," Father Benwell rejoined. "The Churchspeaking through me, as her

unworthy interpreterfeels a certain delicacy in approaching You on the subject of money."

Father Benwell left the fireplace without immediately answering. He opened a drawer and took out of it a flat

mahogany box. His gracious familiarity became transformed, by some mysterious process of congelation,

"The Church, Mr. Romayne, hesitates to receive, as benevolent contributions, money derived from property

of its own, arbitrarily taken from it, and placed in a layman's hands. No!" he cried, interrupting Romayne,

who instantly understood the allusion to Vange Abbey"no! I must beg you to hear me out. I state the case

plainly, at your own request. At the same time, I am bound to admit that the lapse of centuries has, in the eye

of the law, sanctioned the deliberate act of robbery perpetrated by Henry the Eighth. You have lawfully

inherited Vange Abbey from your ancestors. The Church is not unreasonable enough to assert a merely moral

right against the law of the country. It may feel the act of spoliationbut it submits." He unlocked the flat

mahogany box, and gently dropped his dignity: the man took the place of the priest. "As the master of

Vange," he said, you may be interested in looking at a little historical curiosity which we have preserved. The

titledeeds, dear Romayne, by which the monks held your present property, in their time. Take another glass

Father Benwell had roused his pride, his sense of justice, his wild and lavish instincts of generosity. He, who

had always despised moneyexcept when it assumed its only estimable character, as a means for the

attainment of merciful and noble endshe was in possession of property to which he had no moral right:

"You have made me ashamed of myself," Romayne answered, warmly. "On the day when I became a

Catholic, I ought to have remembered Vange. Better late than never. I refuse to take shelter under the lawI

respect the moral right of the Church. I will at once restore the property which I have usurped."

"I am proud of you!" he said. We shall all be proud of you, when I write word to Rome of what has passed

between us. Butno, Romayne!this must not be. I admire you, feel with you; and I refuse. On behalf of

"Wait a little, Father Benwell! You don't know the state of my affairs. I don't deserve the admiration which

you feel for me. The loss of the Vange property will be no pecuniary loss, in my case. I have inherited a

fortune from my aunt. My income from that source is far larger than my income from the Yorkshire

"Pardon me, it must be. I have more money than I can spendwithout Vange. And I have painful

Even this confession failed to move Father Benwell. He obstinately crossed his arms, obstinately tapped his

foot on the floor. "No!" he said. "Plead as generously as you may, my answer is, No."

Romayne only became more resolute on his side. "The property is absolutely my own," he persisted. "I am

without a near relation in the world. I have no children. My wife is already provided for at my death, out of

the fortune left me by my aunt. It is downright obstinacyforgive me for saying soto persist in your

"It is downright duty, Romayne. If I gave way to you, I should be the means of exposing the priesthood to the

vilest misinterpretation. I should be deservedly reprimanded, and your proposal of restitutionif you

expressed it in writingwould, without a moment's hesitation, be torn up. If you have any regard for me,

"Very well," he said, "there is one document you can't tear up. You can't interfere with my making another

will. I shall leave the Vange property to the Church, and I shall appoint you one of the trustees. You can't

"The law spares me the ungracious necessity of objecting, in this case," he answered. "My friend, you forget

the Statutes of Mortmain. They positively forbid you to carry out the intention which you have just

Romayne dismissed this appeal to the law irritably, by waving his hand. "The Statutes of Mortmain," he

rejoined, "can't prevent my bequeathing my property to an individual. I shall leave Vange Abbey to You.

With Christian humility the Jesuit accepted the defeat, for which he had paved the way from the outset of the

interview. At the same time, he shuffled all personal responsibility off his own shoulders. He had gained the

"Your generosity has conquered me," he said. "But I must be allowed to clear myself of even the suspicion of

an interested motive. On the day when your will is executed, I shall write to the General of our Order at

Rome, leaving my inheritance to him. This proceeding will be followed by a deed, in due form, conveying

the property to the Church. You have no objection to my taking that course? No? My dear Romayne, words

are useless at such a time as this. My acts shall speak for me. I am too agitated to say more. Let us talk of

He filled the glasses; he offered more biscuits.he was really, and even perceptibly, agitated by the victory

that he had won. But one last necessity now confronted himthe necessity of placing a serious obstacle in

the way of any future change of purpose on the part of Romayne. As to the choice of that obstacle, Father

"What was it I had to say to you?" he resumed "Surely, I was speaking on the subject of your future life?"

"You are very kind, Father Benwell. The subject has little interest for me. My future life is shaped

Still pacing the room, Father Benwell stopped at that reply, and put his hand kindly on Romayne's shoulder.

"We don't allow a good Catholic to drift into domestic retirement, who is worthy of better things," he said.

"The Church, Romayne wishes to make use of you. I never flattered any one in my life, but I may say before

your face what I have said behind your back. A man of your strict sense of honorof your intellectof your

high aspirationsof your personal charm and influenceis not a man whom we can allow to run to waste.

Open your mind, my friend, fairly to me, and I will open my mind fairly to you. Let me set the example. I say

Romayne's pale cheeks flushed with excitement. "What future?" he asked, eagerly. "Am I free to choose?

"Romayne, I am trying to break my way through that inveterate reserve which is one of the failings in your

character. Unless you can prevail on yourself to tell me those secret thoughts, those unexpressed regrets,

which you can confide to no other man, this conversation must come to an end. Is there no yearning, in your

"You are not in the confessional," Father Benwell reminded him, with melancholy submission to

Romayne roused himself. He spoke in low, reluctant tones. "I am afraid to answer you," he said.

That apparently discouraging reply armed Father Benwell with the absolute confidence of success which he

had thus far failed to feel. He wound his way deeper and deeper into Romayne's mind, with the delicate

"Perhaps I have failed to make myself clearly understood," he said. "I will try to put it more plainly. You are

no halfhearted man, Romayne. What you believe, you believe fervently. Impressions are not dimly and

slowly produced on your mind. As the necessary result, your conversion being once accomplished, your

whole soul is given to the Faith that is in you. Do I read your character rightly?"

"Bear in mind what I have just said," he resumed; "and you will understand why I feel it my duty to press the

question which you have not answered yet. You have found in the Catholic Faith the peace of mind which

you have failed to obtain by other means. If I had been dealing with an ordinary man, I should have expected

from the change no happier result than this. But I ask You, has that blessed influence taken no deeper and

nobler hold on your heart? Can you truly say to me, 'I am content with what I have gained; I wish for no

The time had now come for speaking plainly. Father Benwell no longer advanced to his end under cover of a

"A little while since," he said, "you spoke of Penrose as of a man whose lot in life you longed to share. The

career which has associated him with an Indian mission is, as I told you, only adapted to a man of his special

character and special gifts. But the career which has carried him into the sacred ranks of the priesthood is

open to every man who feels the sense of divine vocation, which has made Penrose one of Us."

"I say it is open to You. And moreI enjoin, I command, you to dismiss from your mind all merely human

obstacles and discouragements. They are beneath the notice of a man who feels himself called to the

priesthood. Give me your hand, Romayne! Does your conscience tell you that you are that man?"

"I can't dismiss the obstacles that surround me!" he cried, passionately. "To a man in my position, your

advice is absolutely useless. The ties that bind me are beyond the limit of a priest's sympathies."

Father Benwell folded his arms over his breastlooked with immovable resolution straight in Romayne's

Father Benwell was alive to the vast importance, at such a moment, of not shrinking from the responsibility

which he had assumed. "I see how I distress you," he said; "but, for your sake, I am bound to speak out.

Romayne! the woman whom you have married is the wife of another man. Don't ask me how I know itI do

know it. You shall have positive proof, as soon as you have recovered. Come! rest a little in the easychair."

He took Romayne's arm, and led him to the chair, and made him drink some wine. They waited a while.

"The woman whom I have married is the wife of another man." He slowly repeated the words to

"I introduced you to him, when I was as ignorant of the circumstances as you are," the priest answered. "The

Romayne half raised himself from the chair. A momentary anger glittered in his eyes, and faded out again,

extinguished by the nobler emotions of grief and shame. He remembered Winterfield's introduction to Stella.

"Her husband!" he said, speaking again to himself. "And she let me introduce him to her. And she received

him like a stranger." He paused, and thought of it. "The proofs, if you please, sir," he resumed, with sudden

humility. "I don't want to hear any particulars. It will be enough for me if I know beyond all doubt that I have

Father Benwell unlocked his desk and placed two papers before Romayne. He did his duty with a grave

indifference to all minor considerations. The time had not yet come for expressions of sympathy and regret.

"The first paper," he said, "is a certified copy of the register of the marriage of Miss Eyrecourt to Mr.

Winterfield, celebrated (as you will see) by the English chaplain at Brussels, and witnessed by three persons.

The bride's mother was the first witness. The two names that followed were the names of Lord and Lady

Loring. "They, too, in the conspiracy to deceive me!" Romayne said, as he laid the paper back on the table.

"I obtained that piece of written evidence," Father Benwell proceeded, "by the help of a reverend colleague of

mine, residing at Brussels. I will give you his name and address, if you wish to make further inquiries."

"This other paper is an extract from the shorthand writer's notes (suppressed in the reports of the public

journals) of proceedings in an English court of law, obtained at my request by my lawyer in London."

He put the question in a tone of passive enduranceresigned to the severest moral martyrdom that could be

"I will answer you in two words," said Father Benwell. "In justice to Miss Eyrecourt, I am bound to produce

"Yesexcuse. The proceedings to which I have alluded declare Miss Eyrecourt's marriage to Mr.

Winterfield to be null and voidby the English lawin consequence of his having been married at the time

to another woman. Try to follow me. I will put it as briefly as possible. In justice to yourself, and to your

future career, you must understand this revolting case thoroughly, from beginning to end."

With those prefatory words, he told the story of Winterfield's first marriage; altering nothing; concealing

nothing; doing the fullest justice to Winterfield's innocence of all evil motive, from first to last. When the

plain truth served his purpose, as it most assuredly did in this case, the man has never yet been found who

could match Father Benwell at stripping himself of every vestige of reserve, and exhibiting his naked heart to

"You were mortified, and I was surprised," he went on, "when Mr. Winterfield dropped his acquaintance with

He waited to see what effect he had produced. Romayne was in no state of mind to do justice to Winterfield

or to any one. His pride was mortally wounded; his high sense of honor and delicacy writhed under the

"And mind this," Father Benwell persisted, "poor human nature has its right to all that can be justly conceded

in the way of excuse and allowance. Miss Eyrecourt would naturally be advised by her friends, would

naturally be eager, on her own part, to keep hidden from you what happened at Brussels. A sensitive woman,

placed in a position so horribly false and degrading, must not be too severely judged, even when she does

wrong. I am bound to say thisand more. Speaking from my own knowledge of all the parties, I have no

doubt that Miss Eyrecourt and Mr. Winterfield did really part at the church door."

Romayne answered by a lookso disdainfully expressive of the most immovable unbelief that it absolutely

justified the fatal advice by which Stella's worldlywise friends had encouraged her to conceal the truth.

Father Benwell prudently closed his lips. He had put the case with perfect fairnesshis bitterest enemy

Romayne took up the second paper, looked at it, and threw it back again on the table with an expression of

"You told me just now," he said, "that I was married to the wife of another man. And there is the judge's

decision, releasing Miss Eyrecourt from her marriage to Mr. Winterfield. May I ask you to explain yourself?"

"Certainly. Let me first remind you that you owe religious allegiance to the principles which the Church has

asserted, for centuries past, with all the authority of its divine institution. You admit that?"

"Now, listen! In our church, Romayne, marriage is even more than a religious institutionit is a sacrament.

We acknowledge no human laws which profane that sacrament. Take two examples of what I say. When the

great Napoleon was at the height of his power, Pius the Seventh refused to acknowledge the validity of the

Emperor's second marriage to Maria Louisawhile Josephine was living, divorced by the French Senate.

Again, in the face of the Royal Marriage Act, the Church sanctioned the marriage of Mrs. Fitzherbert to

George the Fourth, and still declares, in justice to her memory, that she was the king's lawful wife. In one

word, marriage, to be marriage at all, must be the object of a purely religious celebrationand, this condition

complied with, marriage is only to be dissolved by death. You remember what I told you of Mr.

"In plain English, Romayne, Mr. Winterfield and the womanrider in the circus pronounced a formula of

words before a layman in an office. That is not only no marriage, it is a blasphemous profanation of a holy

rite. Acts of Parliament which sanction such proceedings are acts of infidelity. The Church declares it, in

"Which the English law," Father Benwell interposed, "declares to be annulled by the marriage before the

registrar, stands good, nevertheless, by the higher law of the Church. Mr. Winterfield is Miss Eyrecourt's

husband, as long as they both live. An ordained priest performed the ceremony in a consecrated

buildingand Protestant marriages, so celebrated, are marriages acknowledged by the Catholic Church.

Under those circumstances, the ceremony which afterward united you to Miss Eyrecourtthough neither

you nor the clergyman were to blamewas a mere mockery. Need I to say any more? Shall I leave you for a

"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

"It may be so to you, Father Benwell. Did you part with your humanity when you put on the black robe of the

"I parted, my son, with those weaknesses of our humanity on which women practice. You talk of your

"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. Romayneshe is Mrs. Winterfield, living with you in adultery. If you regret your conversion"

"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

The priest poured out the wine. "I feel for you," he said. "Indeed, indeed, I feel for you."

It was not all a liethere were grains of truth in that outburst of sympathy. Father Benwell was not wholly

merciless. His farseeing intellect, his daring duplicity, carried him straight on to his end in view. But, that

end once gainedand, let it be remembered, not gained, in this case, wholly for himselfthere were

compassionate impulses left in him which sometimes forced their way to the surface. A man of high

intelligencehowever he may misuse it, however unworthy he may be of ithas a gift from Heaven. When

"Let me mention one circumstance," Father Benwell proceeded, "which may help to relieve you for the

"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"

Father Benwell sighed. "Ah, I understand!" he said, sadly. "The house associated with Mr. Winterfield's

Romayne again interrupted himthis time by gesture only. The hand that had made the sign clinched itself

when it rested afterward on the table. His eyes looked downward, under frowning brows. At the name of

Winterfield, remembrances that poisoned every better influence in him rose venomously in his mind. Once

more he loathed the deceit that had been practiced on him. Once more the detestable doubt of that asserted

parting at the church door renewed its stealthy torment, and reasoned with him as if in words: She has

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,

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

"Can you go with me at any time?" he asked. "Have you no duties that keep you in England?"

"I have thought it possible. Your journey may be long, or it may be shortyou 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 goand where you will go," said Father Benwell, emphatically.

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

Nohe had only foreseen possibilities, on the day when it first occurred to him that Romayne's marriage

was assailable, before the court of Romayne's conscience, from the Roman Catholic point of view. By this

means, the misfortune of Romayne's marriage having preceded his conversion might be averted; and the one

certain obstacle in the way of any change of purpose on his partthe obstacle of the priesthoodmight 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

Before posttime, on the same day, Father Benwell wrote his last report to the Secretary of the Society of

"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."

You and I, Cousin Beeminster, seldom meet. But I occasionally hear of you, from friends acquainted with

I have heard of you last at Sir Philip's rentday dinner a week since. My name happened to be mentioned by

one of the gentlemen present, a guest like yourself. You took up the subject of your own free will, and spoke

"I am sorry to say it of the existing head of the familybut Bernard is really unfit for the position which he

holds. He has, to say the least of it, compromised himself and his relatives on more than one occasion. He

began as a young man by marrying a circusrider. He got into some other scrape, after that, which he has

contrived to keep a secret from us. We only know how disgraceful it must have been by the resultshe was

a voluntary exile from England for more than a year. And now, to complete the list, he has mixed himself up

If any other person had spoken of me in this manner, I should have set him down as a mischievous idiotto

With you, the case is different. If I die without male offspring, the Beaupark estate goes to you, as next heir.

I don't choose to let a man in this position slander me, and those dear to me, without promptly contradicting

him. The name I bear is precious to me, in memory of my father. Your unanswered allusion to my relations

with "Lewis Romayne and his wife," coming from a member of the family, will be received as truth. Rather

than let this be, I reveal to you, without reserve, some of the saddest passages of my life. I have nothing to be

ashamed ofand, if I have hitherto kept certain events in the dark, it has been for the sake of others, not for

my own sake. I know better now. A woman's reputationif she is a good womanis not easily

compromised by telling the truth. The person of whom I am thinking, when I write this, knows what I am

You will receive, with these lines, the most perfectly candid statement that I can furnish, being extracts cut

out of my own private Diary. They are accompanied (where plain necessity seems to call for it) by the written

There has never been much sympathy between us. But you have been brought up like a gentlemanand,

when you have read my narrative, I expect that you will do justice to me, and to otherseven though you

April 11th, 1869.Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter have left Beaupark today for London. Have I really

made any impression on the heart of the beautiful Stella? In my miserable positionignorant whether I am

12th.I am becoming superstitious! In the Obituary of today's Times the death is recorded of that unhappy

woman whom I was mad enough to marry. After hearing nothing of her for seven yearsI am free! Surely

this is a good omen? Shall I follow the Eyrecourts to London, and declare myself? I have not confidence

enough in my own power of attraction to run the risk. Better to write first, in strictest confidence, to Mrs.

14th.An enchanting answer from my angel's mother, written in great haste. They are on the point of

leaving for Paris. Stella is restless and dissatisfied; she wants change of scene; and Mrs. Eyrecourt adds, in so

many words"It is you who have upset her; why did you not speak while we were at Beaupark?" I am to

hear again from Paris. Good old Father Newbliss said all along that she was fond of me, and wondered, like

Mrs. Eyrecourt, why I failed to declare myself. How could I tell them of the hideous fetters which bound me

19th.A letter from my lawyer, full of professional subtleties and delays. I have no patience to enumerate

them. We move to Belgium tomorrow. Not on our way back to EnglandStella is so little desirous of

leaving the Continent that we are likely to be married abroad. But she is weary of the perpetual gayety and

glitter of Paris, and wants to see the old Belgian cities. Her mother leaves Paris with regret. The liveliest

Brussels, May 7.My blessing on the old Belgian cities. Mrs. Eyrecourt is so eager to get away from them

that she backs me in hurrying the marriage, and even consents, sorely against the grain, to let the wedding be

celebrated at Brussels in a private and unpretending way. She has only stipulated that Lord and Lady Loring

(old friends) shall be present. They are to arrive tomorrow, and two days afterward we are to be married.

(An inclosure is inserted in this place. It consists of the deathbed confession of Mr. Winterfield's wife, and

of the explanatory letter written by the rector of Belhaven. The circumstances related in these documents,

already known to the reader, are left to speak for themselves, and the Extracts from the Diary are then

Bingen, on the Rhine, May 19.Letters from Devonshire at last, which relieve my wretchedness in some

small degree. The frightful misfortune at Brussels will at least be kept secret, so far as I am concerned.

Beaupark House is shut up, and the servants are dismissed, "in consequence of my residence abroad." To

Father Newbliss I have privately written. Not daring to tell him the truth, I leave him to infer that my

marriage engagement has been broken off, he writes back a kind and comforting letter. Time will, I suppose,

help me to bear my sad lot. Perhaps a day may come when Stella and her friends will know how cruelly they

London, November 18,1860.The old wound has been opened again. I met her accidentally in a picture

London, August 12, 1861.Another meeting with her. And another shock to endure, which I might not have

suffered if I had been a reader of the marriage announcements in the newspapers. Like other men, I am in the

I went to visit an agreeable new acquaintance, Mr. Romayne. His wife drove up to the house while I was

looking out of window. I recognized Stella! After two years, she has made use of the freedom which the law

has given to her. I must not complain of that, or of her treating me like a stranger, when her husband

innocently introduced us. But when are were afterward left together for a few minutesno! I cannot write

down the merciless words she said to me. Why am I fool enough to be as fond of her as ever?

Beaupark, November 16.Stella's married life is not likely to be a happy one. Today's newspaper

announces the conversion of her husband to the Roman Catholic Faith. I can honestly say I am sorry for her,

knowing how she has suffered, among her own relatives, by these conversions. But I so hate him, that this

Beaupark, January 27, 1862.A letter from Stella, so startling and deplorable that I cannot remain away

from her after reading it. Her husband has deliberately deserted her. He has gone to Rome, to serve his term

London, January 27.Short as it is, I looked at Stella's letter again and again on the journey. The tone of the

closing sentences is still studiously cold. After informing me that she is staying with her mother in London,

"Be under no fear that the burden of my troubles will be laid on your shoulders. Since the fatal day when we

met at Ten Acres, you have shown forbearance and compassion toward me. I don't stop to inquire if you are

sincereit rests with you to prove that. But I have some questions to ask, which no person but you can

answer. For the rest, my friendless position will perhaps plead with you not to misunderstand me. May I write

Inveterate distrust in every sentence! If any other woman had treated me in this way, I should have put her

January 29.A day missed out of my Diary. The events of yesterday unnerved me for the time.

Arriving at Derwent's Hotel on the evening of the 27th, I sent a line to Stella by messenger, to ask when she

It is strange how the merest trifles seem to touch women! Her note in reply contains the first expression of

friendly feeling toward me which has escaped her since we parted at Brussels. And this expression proceeds

from her ungovernable surprise and gratitude at my taking the trouble to travel from Devonshire to London

For the rest, she proposed to call on me at the hotel the next morning. She and her mother, it appeared,

differed in opinion on the subject of Mr. Romayne's behavior to her; and she wished to see me, in the first

There was little sleep for me that night. I passed most of the time in smoking and walking up and down the

room. My one relief was afforded by Travelerhe begged so hard to go to London with me, I could not

resist him. The dog always sleeps in my room. His surprise at my extraordinary restlessness (ending in

downright anxiety and alarm) was expressed in his eyes, and in his little whinings and cries, quite as

intelligibly as if he had put his meaning into words. Who first called a dog a dumb creature? It must have

been a man, I thinkand a thoroughly unlovable man, too, from a dog's point of view.

In her personal appearance, I saw a change for the worse: produced, I suppose, by the troubles that have tried

her sorely, poor thing. There was a sad loss of delicacy in her features, and of purity in her complexion. Even

her dressI should certainly not have noticed it in any other womanseemed to be loose and slovenly. In

the agitation of the moment, I forgot the long estrangement between us; I half lifted my hand to take hers, and

checked myself. Was I mistaken in supposing that she yielded to the same impulse, and resisted it as I did?

"I am ashamed that you should have taken the journey to London in this wintry weather" she began.

It was impossible, in her situation, to let her assume this commonplace tone with me. "I sincerely feel for

She looked at me for the first time. Did she believe me? or did she still doubt? Before I could decide, she took

"Women often exaggerate their troubles," she said. "It is perhaps an unfair trial of your patiencebut I

should like you to satisfy yourself that I have not made the worst of my situation. That letter will place it

before you in Mr. Romayne's own words. Read it, except where the page is turned down."

The language was scrupulously delicate and considerate. But to my mind it entirely failed to disguise the

fanatical cruelty of the man's resolution, addressed to his wife. In substance, it came to this:

"He had discovered the marriage at Brussels, which she had deliberately concealed from him when he took

her for his wife. She had afterward persisted in that concealment, under circumstances which made it

impossible that he could ever trust her again." (This no doubt referred to her illadvised reception of me, as a

total stranger, at Ten Acres Lodge.) "In the miserable breakup of his domestic life, the Church to which he

now belonged offered him not only her divine consolation, but the honor, above all earthly distinctions, of

serving the cause of religion in the sacred ranks of the priesthood. Before his departure for Rome he bade her

a last farewell in this world, and forgave her the injuries that she had inflicted on him. For her sake he asked

leave to say some few words more. In the first place, he desired to do her every justice, in a worldly sense.

Ten Acres Lodge was offered to her as a free gift for her lifetime, with a sufficient income for all her wants.

In the second place, he was anxious that she should not misinterpret his motives. Whatever his opinion of her

conduct might be, he did not rely on it as affording his only justification for leaving her. Setting personal

feeling aside, he felt religious scruples (connected with his marriage) which left him no other alternative than

the separation on which he had resolved. He would briefly explain those scruples, and mention his authority

"It is needless for you to read the end," she said. "You know, under his own hand, that he has left me; and (if

such a thing pleads with you in his favor) you also know that he is liberal in providing for his deserted wife."

"Whatever you may think of his conduct," she continued, "I beg that you will not speak of it to me. May I ask

your opinion (now you have read his letter) on another matter, in which my own conduct is concerned? In

"I must speak of them. In former days, I think you were told that my father's will provided for my mother and

I had heard of it, at the time of our betrothalwhen the marriage settlement was in preparation. The mother

and daughter had each a little income of a few hundreds a year. The exact amount had escaped my memory.

She suddenly became silent; the most painful embarrassment showed itself in her face and manner. "Never

mind the rest," she said, mastering her confusion after an interval. "I have had some hard trials to bear; I

forget things" she made an effort to finish the sentence, and gave it up, and called to the dog to come to

her. The tears were in her eyes, and that was the way she took to hide them from me.

In general, I am not quick at reading the minds of othersbut I thought I understood Stella. Now that we

were face to face, the impulse to trust me had, for the moment, got the better of her caution and her pride; she

was half ashamed of it, half inclined to follow it. I hesitated no longer. The time for which I had waitedthe

time to prove, without any indelicacy on my side, that I had never been unworthy of herhad surely come at

"I promised, if you ever had need of me, to prove that I had never been unworthy of your confidence. In your

present situation, I can honorably keep my promise. Shall I wait till you are calmer? or shall I go on at once?"

"When your mother and your friends took you from me," I resumed, "if you had shown any hesitation"

She shuddered. The image of my unhappy wife, vindictively confronting us on the church steps, seemed to be

recalled to her memory. "Don't go back to it!" she cried. "Spare me, I entreat you."

I opened the writingcase in which I keep the papers sent to me by the Rector of Belhaven, and placed them

on the table by which she was sitting.. The more plainly and briefly I spoke now, the better I thought it might

"Since we parted at Brussels," I said, "my wife has died. Here is a copy of the medical certificate of her

Stella refused to look at it. "I don't understand such things," she answered faintly. "What is this?"

"It will tell you, Stella, that false appearances once led you into wronging an innocent man."

Having said this, I walked away to a window behind her, at the further end of the room, so that she might not

After a timehow much longer it seemed to be than it really was!I heard her move. As I turned from the

window, she ran to me, and fell on her knees at my feet. I tried to raise her; I entreated her to believe that she

was forgiven. She seized my hands, and held them over her facethey were wet with her tears. "I am

I never was so distressed in my life. I don't know what I should have said, what I should have done, if my

dear old dog had not helped me out of it. He, too, ran up to me, with the loving jealousy of his race, and tried

to lick my hands, still fast in Stella's hold. His paws were on her shoulder; he attempted to push himself

between us. I think I successfully assumed a tranquillity which I was far from really feeling. "Come, come!" I

said, "you mustn't make Traveler jealous." She let me raise her. Ah, if she could have kissed mebut that

was not to be done; she kissed the dog's head, and then she spoke to me. I shall not set down what she said in

I led her back to her chair. The letter addressed to me by the Rector of Belhaven still lay on the table, unread.

It was of some importance to Stella's complete enlightenment, as containing evidence that the confession was

I said it. "You had something to ask of me," I resumed, "and you never put the question."

"I meant to tell you," she said, "that I had written a letter of refusal to Mr. Romayne's lawyers. I have left Ten

Acres, never to return; and I refuse to accept a farthing of Mr. Romayne's money. My motherthough she

knows that we have enough to live ontells me I have acted with inexcusable pride and folly. I wanted to

I daresay I was inexcusably proud and foolish too. It was the second time she had called me by my Christian

name since the happy bygone time, never to come again. Under whatever influence I acted, I respected and

admired her for that refusal, and I owned it in so many words. This little encouragement seemed to relieve

She wouldn't hear of it. "Oh, Bernard, have I not learned to trust you yet? Put away those papers. There is

" I knew it!" she cried. "It is the priest who has wrecked my married lifeand he got his information from

those letters, before he put them into your hands." She waited a while, and recovered herself. "That was the

first of the questions I wanted to put to you," she said. "I am answered. I ask no more."

I told her that my reverend friend had put the letters into my hand, with the seal which protected them

unbroken. She laughed disdainfully. Did I know him so little as to doubt for a moment that he could break a

seal and replace it again? This view was entirely new to me; I was startled, but not convinced. I never desert

my friendseven when they are friends of no very long standingand I still tried to defend Father Benwell.

The only result was to make her alter her intention of asking me no more questions. I innocently roused in her

a new curiosity. She was eager to know how I had first become acquainted with the priest, and how he had

It was far from easy to a man like myself, unaccustomed to state circumstances in their proper orderbut I

had no other choice than to reply, by telling the long story of the theft and discovery of the Rector's papers.

So far as Father Benwell was concerned, the narrative only confirmed her suspicions. For the rest, the

circumstances which most interested her were the circumstances associated with the French boy.

"Anything connected with that poor creature, " she said, "has a dreadful interest for me now."

"I knew him and his motheryou shall hear how, at another time. I suppose I felt a presentiment that the boy

would have some evil influence over me. At any rate, when I accidentally touched him, I trembled as if I had

touched a serpent. You will think me superstitiousbut, after what you have said, it is certainly true that he

has been the indirect cause of the misfortune that has fallen on me. How came he to steal the papers? Did you

"I asked the Rector nothing. But he thought it his duty to tell me all that he knew of the theft."

She drew her chair nearer to me. "Let me hear every word of it!" she pleaded eagerly.

This forced me to be plain with her. "If I repeat what the Rector told me," I said, "I must speak of my wife."

She took my hand. "You have pitied and forgiven her," she answered. "Speak of her, Bernardand don't, for

"It began," I said, "in the grateful attachment which the boy felt for my wife. He refused to leave her bedside

on the day when she dictated her confession to the Rector. As he was entirely ignorant of the English

language, there seemed to be no objection to letting him have his own way. He became inquisitive as the

writing went on. His questions annoyed the Rectorand as the easiest way of satisfying his curiosity, my

wife told him that she was making her will. He knew just enough, from what he had heard at various times, to

associate making a will with gifts of moneyand the pretended explanation silenced and satisfied him."

"Yes. Like many other Englishmen in his position, although he was not ready at speaking French, he could

read the language, and could fairly well understand it, when it was spoken. After my wife's death, he kindly

placed the boy, for a few days, under the care of his housekeeper. Her early life had been passed in the island

of Martinique, and she was able to communicate with the friendless foreigner in his own language. When he

disappeared, she was the only person who could throw any light on his motive for stealing the papers. On the

day when he entered the house, she caught him peeping through the keyhole of the study door. He must have

seen where the confession was placed, and the color of the oldfashioned blue paper, on which it was written,

would help him to identify it. The next morning, during the Rector's absence, he brought the manuscript to

the housekeeper, and asked her to translate it into French, so that he might know how much money was left to

him in "the will." She severely reproved him, made him replace the paper in the desk from which he had

taken it, and threatened to tell the Rector if his misconduct was repeated. He promised amendment, and the

goodnatured woman believed him. On that evening the papers were sealed, and locked up. In the morning

the lock was found broken, and the papers and the boy were both missing together."

"Do you think he showed the confession to any other person?" Stella asked. "I happen to know that he

"After the housekeeper's reproof," I replied, "he would be cunning enough, in my opinion, not to run the risk

of showing it to strangers. It is far more likely that he thought he might learn English enough to read it

There the subject dropped. We were silent for a while. She was thinking, and I was looking at her. On a

"I have been thinking of the Lorings. They encouraged me to doubt you. They advised me to be silent about

what happened at Brussels. And they too are concerned in my husband's desertion of me. He first met Father

Benwell at their house." Her head drooped again; her next words were murmured to herself. "I am still a

This morbid way of thinking distressed me. I reminded her that she had dear and devoted friends.

"She and her husband have written most kindly, inviting me to make their house my home. I have no right to

blame themthey meant well. But after what has happened, I can't go back to them."

I was still looking at herand I am afraid my eyes said more than my words. If she had doubted it before,

she must have now known that I was as fond of her as ever. She looked distressed rather than confused. I

She agreed to this. But nevertheless she rose to gowith a friendly word, intended (as I hoped) to show me

that I had got my pardon for that time. "Will you come and see us tomorrow?" she said. "Can you forgive

my mother as generously as you have forgiven me? I will take care, Bernard, that she does you justice at

She held out her hand to take leave. How could I reply? If I had been a resolute man, I might have

remembered that it would be best for me not to see too much of her. But I am a poor weak creatureI

My thoughts are in a state of indescribable conflict and confusionand her mother is the cause of it. I wish I

had not gone to the house. Am I a bad man, I wonder? and have I only found it out now?

Mrs. Eyrecourt was alone in the drawingroom when I went in. Judging by the easy manner in which she got

up to receive me, the misfortune that has befallen her daughter seemed to have produced no sobering change

"My dear Winterfield," she began, "I have behaved infamously. I won't say that appearances were against you

at BrusselsI will only say I ought not to have trusted to appearances. You are the injured person; please

forgive me. Shall we go on with the subject? or shall we shake hands, and say no more about it?"

I shook hands, of course. Mrs. Eyrecourt perceived that I was looking for Stella.

"Sit down," she said; "and be good enough to put up with no more attractive society than mine. Unless I set

things straight, my good friend, you and my daughteroh, with the best intentions!will drift into a false

position. You won't see Stella today. Quite impossibleand I will tell you why. I am the worldly old

mother; I don't mind what I say. My innocent daughter would die before she would confess what I am going

I begged her to continue. She perplexedI am not sure that she did not even alarm me.

"Very well," she proceeded. "You may be surprised to hear itbut I don't mean to allow things to go on in

"Wait a little," said Mrs. Eyrecourt. "There is nothing to be alarmed about. Romayne is a weak fool; and

Father Benwell's greedy hands are (of course) in both his pockets. But he has, unless I am entirely mistaken,

some small sense of shame, and some little human feeling still left. After the manner in which he has

behaved, these are the merest possibilities, you will say. Very likely. I have boldly appealed to those

possibilities nevertheless. He has already gone away to Rome; and I need hardly addFather Benwell would

take good care of thathe has left us no address. It doesn't in the least matter. One of the advantages of

being so much in society as I am is that I have nice acquaintances everywhere, always ready to oblige me,

provided I don't borrow money of them. I have written to Romayne, under cover to one of my friends living

So far, I listened quietly enough, naturally supposing that Mrs. Eyrecourt trusted to her own arguments and

persuasions. I confess it even to myself, with shame. It was a relief to me to feel that the chances (with such a

This unworthy way of thinking was instantly checked by Mrs. Eyrecourt's next words.

"Don't suppose that I am foolish enough to attempt to reason with him," she went on. "My letter begins and

ends on the first page. His wife has a claim on him, which no newlymarried man can resist. Let me do him

justice. He knew nothing of it before he went away. My lettermy daughter has no suspicion that I have

She paused. Her eyes softened, her voice sank lowshe became quite unlike the Mrs. Eyrecourt whom I

"In a few months more, Winterfield," she said, "my poor Stella will be a mother. My letter calls Romayne

Mrs. Eyrecourt paused, evidently expecting me to offer an opinion of some sort. For the moment I was really

unable to speak. Stella's mother never had a very high opinion of my abilities. She now appeared to consider

"Then why can't you say something? I want a man's opinion of our prospects. Good gracious, how you fidget!

"Be quiet. You don't know what you would have done. I insist on your supposing yourself to be a weak,

superstitious, conceited, fanatical fool. You understand? Now, tell me, then. Could you keep away from your

wife, when you were called back to her in the name of your firstborn child? Could you resist that?"

I contrived to reply with an appearance of tranquillity. It was not very easy to speak with composure.

Envious, selfish, contemptibleno language is too strong to describe the turn my thoughts now took. I never

hated any human being as I hated Romayne at that moment. "Damn him, he will come back!" There was my

In the meantime, Mrs. Eyrecourt was satisfied. She dashed at the next subject as fluent and as confident as

"Now, Winterfield, it is surely plain to your mind that you must not see Stella againexcept when I am

present to tie the tongue of scandal. My daughter's conduct must not allow her husbandif you only knew

how I detest that man!must not, I say, allow her husband the slightest excuse for keeping away from her. If

we give that odious old Jesuit the chance, he will make a priest of Romayne before we know where we are.

The audacity of these Papists is really beyond belief. You remember how they made Bishops and

Archbishops here, in flat defiance of our laws? Father Benwell follows that example, and sets our other laws

at defianceI mean our marriage laws. I am so indignant I can't express myself as clearly as usual. Did

Stella tell you that he actually shook Romayne's belief in his own marriage? Ah, I understandshe kept that

I thought of the turneddown page in the letter. Mrs. Eyrecourt readily revealed what her daughter's delicacy

had forbidden me to readincluding the monstrous assumption which connected my marriage before the

"Yes," she proceeded, "these Catholics are all alike. My daughterI don't mean my sweet Stella; I mean the

unnatural creature in the nunnerysets herself above her own mother. Did I ever tell you she was impudent

enough to say she would pray for me? Father Benwell and the Papal Aggression over again! Now tell me,

Winterfield, don't you think, taking the circumstances into considerationthat you will act like a thoroughly

sensible man if you go back to Devonshire while we are in our present situation? What with footwarmers in

the carriage, and newspapers and magazines to amuse you, it isn't such a very long journey. And then

Beauparkdear Beauparkis such a remarkably comfortable house in the winter; and you, you enviable

I got up and took my hat. She patted me on the shoulder. I could have throttled her at that moment. And yet

"You dear, good fellow, I will do more than make your excuses; I will sing your praisesas the poet says."

In her ungovernable exultation at having got rid of me, she burst into extravagant language. "I feel like a

mother to you," she went on, as we shook hands at parting. "I declare I could almost let you kiss me."

There was not a single kissable place about Mrs. Eyrecourt, unpainted, undyed, or unpowdered. I resisted

temptation and opened the door. There was still one last request that I could not help making.

"With the greatest pleasure," Mrs. Eyrecourt answered, briskly. "Goodby, you best of friendsgoodby."

I write these lines while the servant is packing my portmanteau. Traveler knows what that means. My dog is

glad, at any rate, to get away from London. I think I shall hire a yacht, and try what a voyage round the world

Romayne has not even read the letter that she addressed to himit has actually been returned to her by

Father Benwell. Mrs. Eyrecourt writes, naturally enough, in a state of fury. Her one consolation, under this

insulting treatment, is that her daughter knows nothing of the circumstances. She warns me (quite needlessly)

"Dear MadamMr. Romayne can read nothing that diverts his attention from his preparation for the

priesthood, or that recalls past associations with errors which he has renounced forever. When a letter reaches

him, it is his wise custom to look at the signature first. He has handed your letter to me, unreadwith a

request that I will return it to you. In his presence, I instantly sealed it up. Neither he nor I know, or wish to

know, on what subject you have addressed him. We respectfully advise you not to write again."

This is really too bad; but it has one advantage, so far as I am concerned. It sets my own unworthy doubts and

jealousies before me in a baser light than ever. How honestly I defended Father Benwell! and how completely

he has deceived me! I wonder whether I shall live long enough to see the Jesuit caught in one of his own

11th.I was disappointed at not hearing from Stella, yesterday. This morning has made amends; it has

She is not well; and her mother's conduct sadly perplexes her. At one time, Mrs. Eyrecourt's sense of injury

urges her to indulge in violent measuresshe is eager to place her deserted daughter under the protection of

the law; to insist on a restitution of conjugal rights or on a judicial separation. At another time she sinks into a

state of abject depression; declares that it is impossible for her, in Stella's deplorable situation, to face society;

and recommends immediate retirement to some place on the Continent in which they can live cheaply. This

latter suggestion Stella is not only ready, but eager, to adopt. She proves it by asking for my advice, in a

postscript; no doubt remembering the happy days when I courted her in Paris, and the many foreign friends of

The postscript gave me the excuse that I wanted. I knew perfectly well that it would be better for me not to

see herand I went to London, for the sole purpose of seeing her, by the first train.

London, February 12.I found mother and daughter together in the drawingroom. It was one of Mrs.

Eyrecourt's days of depression. Her little twinkling eyes tried to cast on me a look of tragic reproach; she

shook her dyed head and said, "Oh. Winterfield, I didn't think you would have done this!Stella, fetch me

But Stella refused to take the hint. She almost brought the tears into my eyes, she received me so kindly. If

her mother had not been in the roombut her mother was in the room; I had no other choice than to enter on

Mrs. Eyrecourt began by reproving Stella for asking my advice, and then assured me that she had no intention

of leaving London. "How am I to get rid of my house?" she asked, irritably enough. I knew that "her house"

(as she called it) was the furnished upper part of a house belonging to another person, and that she could

"I have been thinking of two or three places which you might like," I went on. "The nearest place belongs to

an old French gentleman and his wife. They have no children, and they don't let lodgings; but I believe they

would be glad to receive friends of mine, if their spare rooms are not already occupied. They live at St.

I looked at Mrs. Eyrecourt as I said those last wordsI was as sly as Father Benwell himself. Paris justified

my confidence: the temptation was too much for her. She not only gave way, but actually mentioned the

amount of rent which she could afford to pay. Stella whispered her thanks to me as I went out. "My name is

not mentioned, but my misfortune is alluded to in the newspapers," she said. "Wellmeaning friends are

calling and condoling with me already. I shall die, if you don't help me to get away among strangers!"

Paris, February 13.It is evening. I have just returned from St. Germain. Everything is settledwith more

slyness on my part. I begin to think I am a born Jesuit; there must have been some detestable sympathy

My good friends, Monsieur and Madame Villeray, will be only too glad to receive English ladies, known to

me for many years. The spacious and handsome first floor of their house (inherited from once wealthy

ancestors by Madame Villeray) can be got ready to receive Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter in a week's time.

Our one difficulty related to the question of money. Monsieur Villeray, living on a Government pension, was

modestly unwilling to ask terms; and I was too absolutely ignorant of the subject to be of the slightest

assistance to him. It ended in our appealing to a houseagent at St. Germain. His estimate appeared to me to

be quite reasonable. But it exceeded the pecuniary limit mentioned by Mrs. Eyrecourt. I had known the

Villerays long enough to be in no danger of offending them by proposing a secret arrangement which

permitted me to pay the difference. So that difficulty was got over in due course of time.

We went into the large garden at the back of the house, and there I committed another act of duplicity.

In a nice sheltered corner I discovered one of those essentially French buildings called a "pavilion," a

delightful little toy house of three rooms. Another private arrangement made me the tenant of this place.

Madame Villeray smiled. "I bet you," she said to me in her very best English, "one of these ladies is in her

fascinating first youth." The good lady little knows what a hopeless love affair mine is. I must see Stella

sometimesI ask, and hope for, no more. Never have I felt how lonely my life is, as I feel it now.

London, March 1.Stella and her mother have set forth on their journey to St. Germain this morning,

Mrs. Eyrecourt set up the old objection of the claims of propriety. If that were the only obstacle in my way, I

should have set it aside by following them to France. Where is the impropriety of my seeing Stella, as her

friend and brotherespecially when I don't live in the same house with her, and when she has her mother, on

No! the influence that keeps me away from St. Germain is the influence of Stella herself.

"I will write to you often," she said; "but I beg you, for my sake, not to accompany us to France." Her look

and tone reduced me to obedience. Stupid as I am I think (after what passed between me and her mother) I

"Do you think I am hard and ungrateful?" she answered. "Do you doubt that I shall be glad, more than glad,

It was time to take leave. We were under her mother's superintendence; we shook hands and that was all.

Matilda (Mrs. Eyrecourt's maid) followed me downstairs to open the door. I suppose I looked, as I felt,

wretchedly enough. The good creature tried to cheer me. "Don't be anxious about them," she said; "I am used

to traveling, sirand I'll take care of them." She is a woman to be thoroughly depended on, a faithful and

attached servant. I made her a little present at parting, and I asked her if she would write to me from time to

Some people might consider this to be rather an undignified proceeding on my part. I can only say it came

naturally to me. I am not a dignified man; and, when a person means kindly toward me, I don't ask myself

whether that person is higher or lower, richer or poorer, than I am. We are, to my mind, on the same level

when the same sympathy unites us. Matilda was sufficiently acquainted with all that had passed to foresee, as

I did, that there would be certain reservations in Stella's letters to me. "You shall have the whole truth from

Me, sir, don't doubt it," she whispered. I believed her. When my heart is sore, give me a woman for my

I must do something, and go somewhere. Returning to Beaupark is out of the question. People with tranquil

minds can find pleasure in the society of their country neighbors. I am a miserable creature, with a mind in a

state of incessant disturbance. Excellent fathers of families talking politics to me; exemplary mothers of

families offering me matrimonial opportunities with their daughtersthat is what society means, if I go back

to Devonshire. No. I will go for a cruise in the Mediterranean; and I will take one friend with me whose

The vessel is discovereda fine schooner of three hundred tons, just returned from a cruise to Madeira. The

sailingmaster and crew only ask for a few days on shore. In that time the surveyor will have examined the

March 3.I have written to Stella, with a list of addresses at which letters will reach me; and I have sent

another list to my faithful ally the maid. When we leave Gibraltar, our course will be to Naplesthence to

Civita Vecchia, Leghorn, Genoa, Marseilles. From any of those places, I am within easy traveling distance of

March 7. At Sea.It is halfpast six in the evening. We have just passed the Eddystone Lighthouse, with the

Naples, May 10.The fair promise at the beginning of my voyage has not been fulfilled. Owing to contrary

winds, storms, and delays at Cadiz in repairing damages, we have only arrived at Naples this evening. Under

trying circumstances of all sorts, the yacht has behaved admirably. A stouter and finer seaboat never was

We are too late to find the postoffice open. I shall send ashore for letters the first thing tomorrow morning.

My next movements will depend entirely on the news I get from St. Germain. If I remain for any length of

time in these regions, I shall give my crew the holiday they have well earned at Civita Vecchia. I am never

May 11.My plans are completely changed. I am annoyed and angry; the further I get away from France,

I have heard from Stella, and heard from the maid. Both letters inform me that the child is born, and that it is

a boy. Do they expect me to feel any interest in the boy? He is my worst enemy before he is out of his

Stella writes kindly enough. Not a line in her letter, however, invites me, or holds out the prospect of inviting

me, to St. Germain. She refers to her mother very briefly, merely informing me that Mrs. Eyrecourt is well,

and is already enjoying the gayeties of Paris. Threefourths of the letter are occupied with the baby. When I

wrote to her I signed myself "yours affectionately." Stella signs "yours sincerely." It is a trifle, I daresaybut

"Since the birth of the baby," she writes, "Mrs. Romayne has never once mentioned your name; she can talk

of nothing, and think of nothing, but her child. I make every allowance, I hope, for a lady in her melancholy

situation. But I do think it is not very grateful to have quite forgotten Mr. Winterfield, who has done so much

for her, and who only asks to pass a few hours of his day innocently in her society. Perhaps, being a single

woman, I write ignorantly about mothers and babies. But I have my feelings; and (though I never liked Mr.

Romayne) I feel for you, sirif you will forgive the familiarity. In my opinion this new craze about the baby

will wear out. He is already a cause of difference of opinion. My good mistress, who possesses knowledge of

the world, and a kind heart as well, advises that Mr. Romayne should be informed of the birth of a son and

heir. Mrs. Eyrecourt says, most truly, that the hateful old priest will get possession of Mr. Romayne's

property, to the prejudice of the child, unless steps are taken to shame him into doing justice to his own son.

But Mrs. Romayne is as proud as Lucifer; she will not hear of making the first advances, as she calls it. 'The

man who has deserted me,' she says, 'has no heart to be touched either by wife or child.' My mistress does not

agree with her. There have been hard words already, and the nice old French gentleman and his wife try to

make peace. You will smile when I tell you that they offer sugarplums as a sort of composing gift. My

mistress accepts the gift, and has been to the theater at Paris, with Monsieur and Madame Villeray more than

once already. To conclude, sir, if I might venture to advise you, I should recommend trying the effect on Mrs.

A most sensibly written letter. I shall certainly take Matilda's advice. My name is never mentioned by

Well, I suppose a man can harden his heart if he likes. Let me harden my heart, and forget her.

The crew shall have three days ashore at Naples, and then we sail for Alexandria. In that port the yacht will

wait my return. I have not yet visited the cataracts of the Nile; I have not yet seen the magnificent

mousecolored women of Nubia. A tent in the desert, and a dusky daughter of Nature to keep house for

methere is a new life for a man who is weary of the vapid civilization of Europe! I shall begin by letting

Civita Vecchia, February 28, 1863.Back again on the coast of Italyafter an absence, at sea and ashore,

What have my travels done for me? They have made me browner and thinner; they have given me a more

patient mind, and a taste for mild tobacco. Have they helped me to forget Stella? Not the least in the

worldI am more eager than ever to see her again. When I look back at my diary I am really ashamed of my

own fretfulness and impatience. What miserable vanity on my part to expect her to think of me, when she was

absorbed in the first cares and joys of maternity; especially sacred to her, poor soul, as the one consolation of

her melancholy life! I withdraw all that I wrote about herand from the bottom of my heart I forgive the

Rome, March 1.I have found my letters waiting for me at the office of my banker.

The latest news from St. Germain is all that I could wish. In acknowledging the receipt of my last letter from

Cairo (I broke my rash vow of silence when we got into port, after leaving Naples) Stella sends me the long

desired invitation. "Pray take care to return to us, dear Bernard, before the first anniversary of my boy's

birthday, on the twentyseventh of March." After those words she need feel no apprehension of my being late

at my appointment. Travelerthe dog has well merited his name by this timewill have to bid goodby to

the yacht (which he loves), and journey homeward by the railway (which he hates). No more risk of storms

I have sent the news of my safe return from the East, by telegraph. But I must not be in too great a hurry to

leave Rome, or I shall commit a serious errorI shall disappoint Stella's mother.

Mrs. Eyrecourt writes to me earnestly, requesting, if I return by way of Italy, that I will get her some

information about Romayne. She is eager to know whether they have made him a priest yet. I am also to

discover, if I can, what are his prospectswhether he is as miserable as he deserves to bewhether he has

been disappointed in his expectations, and is likely to be brought back to his senses in that wayand, above

all, whether Father Benwell is still at Rome with him. My idea is that Mrs. Eyrecourt has not given up her

The right person to apply to for information is evidently my banker. He has been a resident in Rome for

twenty yearsbut he is too busy a man to be approached, by an idler like myself, in business hours. I have

March 2.My guest has just left me. I am afraid Mrs. Eyrecourt will be sadly disappointed when she hears

The moment I mentioned Romayne's name, the banker looked at me with an expression of surprise. "'The

man most talked about in Rome," he said; "I wonder you have not heard of him already."

"Certainly! And, what is more, the ordinary preparations for the priesthood were expressly shortened by high

authority on his account. The Pope takes the greatest interest in him; and as for the people, the Italians have

already nicknamed him 'the young cardinal.' Don't suppose, as some of our countrymen do, that he is

indebted to his wealth for the high position which he has already attained. His wealth is only one of the minor

influences in his favor. The truth is, he unites in himself two opposite qualities, both of the greatest value to

the Church, which are very rarely found combined in the same man. He has already made a popular

"A preacher!" I exclaimed. "And a popular reputation! How do the Italians understand him?"

"Why shouldn't they understand a man who addresses them in their own language?" he said. "Romayne could

speak Italian when he came hereand since that time he has learned by constant practice to think in Italian.

While our Roman season lasts, he preaches alternately in Italian and in English. But I was speaking of the

two opposite accomplishments which this remarkable man possesses. Out of the pulpit, he is capable of

applying his mind successfully to the political necessities of the Church. As I am told, his intellect has had

severe practical training, by means of historical studies, in the past years of his life. Anyhow, in one of the

diplomatic difficulties here between the Church and the State, he wrote a memorial on the subject, which the

CardinalSecretary declared to be a model of ability in applying the experience of the past to the need of the

present time. If he doesn't wear himself out, his Italian nickname may prove prophetically true. We may live

"No Englishman is acquainted with him," the banker answered. "There is a report of some romantic event in

his life which has led to his leaving England, and which makes him recoil from intercourse with his own

nation. Whether this is true or false, it is certain that the English in Rome find him unapproachable. I have

even heard that he refuses to receive letters from England. If you wish to see him, you must do what I have

doneyou must go to church and look at him in the pulpit. He preaches in EnglishI think for the last time

this seasonon Thursday evening next. Shall I call here and take you to the church?"

If I had followed my inclinations, I should have refused. I feel no sort of interest in RomayneI might even

say I feel a downright antipathy toward him. But I have no wish to appear insensible to the banker's kindness,

and my reception at St. Germain depends greatly on the attention I show to Mrs. Eyrecourt's request. So it

was arranged that I should hear the great preacherwith a mental reservation on my part, which

But, before I see him, I feel assured of one thingespecially after what the banker has told me. Stella's view

of his character is the right one. The man who has deserted her has no heart to be touched by wife or child.

March 3.I have just seen the landlord of the hotel; he can help me to answer one of Mrs. Eyrecourt's

questions. A nephew of his holds some employment at the Jesuit headquarters here, adjoining their famous

church Il Gesu. I have requested the young man to ascertain if Father Benwell is still in Romewithout

mentioning me. It would be no small trial to my selfcontrol if we met in the street.

March 4.Good news this time for Mrs. Eyrecourt, as far as it goes. Father Benwell has long since left

Rome, and has returned to his regular duties in England. If he exercises any further influence over Romayne,

March 5.I have returned from Romayne's sermon. This double renegadehas he not deserted his religion

and his wife?has failed to convince my reason. But he has so completely upset my nerves that I ordered a

bottle of champagne (to the great amusement of my friend the banker) the moment we got back to the hotel.

We drove through the scantily lighted streets of Rome to a small church in the neighborhood of the Piazza

Navona. To a more imaginative man than myself, the scene when we entered the building would have been

too impressive to be described in wordsthough it might perhaps have been painted. The one light in the

place glimmered mysteriously from a great wax candle, burning in front of a drapery of black cloth, and

illuminating dimly a sculptured representation, in white marble, of the crucified Christ, wrought to the size of

life. In front of this ghastly emblem a platform projected, also covered with black cloth. We could penetrate

no further than to the space just inside the door of the church. Everywhere else the building was filled with

standing, sitting and kneeling figures, shadowy and mysterious, fading away in far corners into impenetrable

gloom. The only sounds were the low, wailing notes of the organ, accompanied at intervals by the muffled

thump of fanatic worshipers penitentially beating their breasts. On a sudden the organ ceased; the

selfinflicted blows of the penitents were heard no more. In the breathless silence that followed, a man robed

in black mounted the black platform, and faced the congregation. His hair had become prematurely gray; his

face was of the ghastly paleness of the great crucifix at his side. The light of the candle, falling on him as he

slowly turned his head, cast shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, and glittered in his gleaming eyes. In

tones low and trembling at first, he stated the subject of his address. A week since, two noteworthy persons

had died in Rome on the same day. One of them was a woman of exemplary piety, whose funeral obsequies

had been celebrated in that church. The other was a criminal charged with homicide under provocation, who

had died in prison, refusing the services of the priestimpenitent to the last. The sermon followed the spirit

of the absolved woman to its eternal reward in heaven, and described the meeting with dear ones who had

gone before, in terms so devout and so touching that the women near us, and even some of the men, burst into

tears. Far different was the effect produced when the preacher, filled with the same overpowering sincerity of

belief which had inspired his description of the joys of heaven, traced the downward progress of the lost man,

from his impenitent deathbed to his doom in hell. The dreadful superstition of everlasting torment became

doubly dreadful in the priest's fervent words. He described the retributive voices of the mother and the

brother of the murdered man ringing incessantly in the ears of the homicide. "I, who speak to you, hear the

voices," he cried. "Assassin! assassin! where are you? I see himI see the assassin hurled into his place in

the sleepless ranks of the damnedI see him, dripping with the flames that burn forever, writhing under the

torments that are without respite and without end." The climax of this terrible effort of imagination was

reached when he fell on his knees and prayed with sobs and cries of entreatyprayed, pointing to the

crucifix at his sidethat he and all who heard him might die the death of penitent sinners, absolved in the

divinely atoning name of Christ. The hysterical shrieks of women rang through the church. I could endure it

no longer. I hurried into the street, and breathed again freely, when I looked up at the cloudless beauty of the

And this man was Romayne! I had last met with him among his delightful works of art; an enthusiast in

literature; the hospitable master of a house filled with comforts and luxuries to its remotest corner. And now I

"Yes," said my companion, "the Ancient Church not only finds out the men who can best serve it, but

develops qualities in those men of which they have been themselves unconscious. The advance which Roman

Catholic Christianity has been, and is still, making has its intelligible reason. Thanks to the great

Reformation, the papal scandals of past centuries have been atoned for by the exemplary lives of servants of

the Church, in high places and low places alike. If a new Luther arose among us, where would he now find

abuses sufficiently wicked and widely spread to shock the sense of decency in Christendom? He would find

them nowhereand he would probably return to the respectable shelter of the Roman sheepfold."

I listened, without making any remark. To tell the truth, I was thinking of Stella.

March 6.I have been to Civita Vecchia, to give a little farewell entertainment to the officers and crew

In a few words I said at parting, I mentioned that it was my purpose to make an offer for the purchase of the

vessel, and that my guests should hear from me again on the subject. This announcement was received with

enthusiasm. I really like my crewand I don't think it is vain in me to believe that they return the feeling,

from the sailingmaster to the cabinboy. My future life, after all that has passed, is likely to be a roving life,

unlessNo! I may think sometimes of that happier prospect, but I had better not put my thoughts into words.

I have a fine vessel; I have plenty of money; and I like the sea. There are three good reasons for buying the

She writes (immediately on the receipt of my telegram) to make a similar request to the request addressed to

me by her mother. Now that I am at Rome, she too wants to hear news of a Jesuit priest. He is absent on a

foreign mission, and his name is Penrose. "You shall hear what obligations I owe to his kindness," she writes,

"when we meet. In the meantime, I will only say that he is the exact opposite of Father Benwell, and that I

should be the most ungrateful of women if I did not feel the truest interest in his welfare."

This is strange, and, to my mind, not satisfactory. Who is Penrose? and what has he done to deserve such

strong expressions of gratitude? If anybody had told me that Stella could make a friend of a Jesuit, I am afraid

I should have returned a rude answer. Well, I must wait for further enlightenment, and apply to the landlord's

March 7.There is small prospect, I fear, of my being able to appreciate the merits of Mr. Penrose by

personal experience. He is thousands of miles away from Europe, and he is in a situation of peril, which

The Mission to which he is attached was originally destined to find its field of work in Central America.

Rumors of more fighting to come, in that revolutionary part of the world, reached Rome before the

missionaries had sailed from the port of Leghorn. Under these discouraging circumstances, the priestly

authorities changed the destination of the Mission to the territory of Arizona, bordering on New Mexico, and

recently purchased by the United States. Here, in the valley of Santa Cruz, the Jesuits had first attempted the

conversion of the Indian tribes two hundred years since, and had failed. Their missionhouse and chapel are

now a heap of ruins, and the ferocious Apache Indians keep the fertile valley a solitude by the mere terror of

their name. To this illomened place Penrose and his companions have made their daring pilgrimage; and

they are now risking their lives in the attempt to open the hearts of these bloodthirsty savages to the influence

of Christianity. Nothing has been yet heard of them. At the best, no trustworthy news is expected for months

What will Stella say to this? Anyhow, I begin to understand her interest in Penrose now. He is one of a

Tomorrow will be a memorable day in my calendar. Tomorrow I leave Rome for St. Germain.

If any further information is to be gained for Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter, I have made the necessary

arrangements for receiving it. The banker has promised to write to me, if there is a change in Romayne's life

and prospects. And my landlord will take care that I hear of it, in the event of news reaching Rome from the

St. Germain, March 14.I arrived yesterday. Between the fatigue of the journey and the pleasurable

agitation caused by seeing Stella again, I was unfit to make the customary entry in my diary when I retired for

She is more irresistibly beautiful than ever. Her figure (a little too slender as I remember it) has filled out. Her

lovely face has lost its haggard, careworn look; her complexion has recovered its delicacy; I see again in her

eyes the pure serenity of expression which first fascinated me, years since. It may be due to the consoling

influence of the childassisted, perhaps, by the lapse of time and the peaceful life which she now

leadsbut this at least is certain, such a change for the better I never could have imagined as the change I

As for the baby, he is a bright, goodhumored little fellow; and he has one great merit in my estimationhe

bears no resemblance to his father. I saw his mother's features when I first took him on my knee, and looked

at his face, lifted to mine in grave surprise. The baby and I are certain to get on well together.

Even Mrs. Eyrecourt seems to have improved in the French air, and under the French diet. She has a better

surface to lay the paint on; her nimble tongue runs faster than ever; and she has so completely recovered her

good spirits, that Monsieur and Madame Villeray declare she must have French blood in her veins. They were

all so unaffectedly glad to see me (Matilda included), that it was really like returning to one's home. As for

Traveler, I must interfere (in the interests of his figure and his health) to prevent everybody in the house from

My experience of today will, as Stella tells me, be my general experience of the family life at St. Germain.

We begin the morning with the customary cup of coffee. At eleven o'clock I am summoned from my

"pavilion" of three rooms to one of those delicious and artfully varied breakfasts which are only to be found

in France and in Scotland. An interval of about three hours follows, during which the child takes his airing

and his siesta, and his elders occupy themselves as they please. At three o'clock we all go outwith a pony

chaise which carries the weaker members of the householdfor a ramble in the forest. At six o'clock we

assemble at the dinnertable. At coffee time, some of the neighbors drop in for a game at cards. At ten, we all

Such is the domestic programme, varied by excursions in the country and by occasional visits to Paris. I am

naturally a man of quiet stayathome habits. It is only when my mind is disturbed that I get restless and feel

longings for change. Surely the quiet routine at St. Germain ought to be welcome to me now? I have been

looking forward to this life through a long year of travel. What more can I wish for?

And yetand yetStella has innocently made it harder than ever to play the part of her "brother." The

recovery of her beauty is a subject for congratulation to her mother and her friends. How does it affect Me?

I had better not think of my hard fate. Can I help thinking of it? Can I dismiss from memory the unmerited

misfortunes which have taken from me, in the prime of her charms, the woman whom I love? At least I can

March 15.It is eight in the morningand I hardly know how to employ myself. Having finished my

It strikes me that I am falling into a bad habit of writing too much about myself. The custom of keeping a

journal certainly has this drawbackit encourages egotism. Well, the remedy is easy. From this date, I lock

up my bookonly to open it again when some event has happened which has a claim to be recorded for its

own sake. As for myself and my feelings, they have made their last appearance in these pages.

June 7.The occasion for opening my diary once more has presented itself this morning.

News has reached me of Romayne, which is too important to be passed over without notice. He has been

appointed one of the Pope's Chamberlains. It is also reported, on good authority, that he will be attached to a

Papal embassy when a vacancy occurs. These honors, present and to come, seem to remove him further than

Being in Paris today, at a morning concert, she there met with her old friend, Doctor Wybrow. The famous

physician is suffering from overwork, and is on his way to Italy for a few months of rest and recreation. They

took a drive together, after the performance, in the Bois de Boulogne; and Mrs. Eyrecourt opened her mind to

the doctor, as freely as usual, on the subject of Stella and the child. He entirely agreed (speaking in the future

interests of the boy) that precious time has been lost in informing Romayne of the birth of an heir; and he has

promised, no matter what obstacles may be placed in his way, to make the announcement himself, when he

June 9.Madame Villeray has been speaking to me confidentially on a very delicate subject.

I am pledged to discontinue writing about myself. But in these private pages I may note the substance of what

my good friend said to me. If I only look back often enough at this little record, I may gather the resolution to

"Stella has spoken to me in confidence, since she met you accidentally in the garden yesterday. She cannot be

guilty of the poor affectation of concealing what you must have already discovered for yourself. But she

prefers to say the words that must be said to you, through me. Her husband's conduct to her is an outrage that

she can never forget. She now looks back with sentiments of repulsion, which she dare not describe, to that

'love at first sight' (as you call it in England), conceived on the day when they first metand she remembers

regretfully that other love, of years since, which was love of steadier and slower growth. To her shame she

confesses that she failed to set you the example of duty and selfrestraint when you two happened to be alone

yesterday. She leaves it to my discretion to tell you that you must see her for the future, always in the

presence of some other person. Make no reference to this when you next meet; and understand that she has

only spoken to me instead of to her mother, because she fears that Mrs. Eyrecourt might use harsh words, and

distress you again, as she once distressed you in England. If you will take my advice, you will ask permission

It matters nothing what I said in reply. Let me only relate that we were interrupted by the appearance of the

She led the child by the hand. Among his first efforts at speaking, under his mother's instruction, had been the

effort to call me Uncle Bernard. He had now got as far as the first syllable of my Christian name, and he had

come to me to repeat his lesson. Resting his little hands on my knees, he looked up at me with his mother's

eyes, and said, "Uncle Ber'." A trifling incident, but, at that moment, it cut me to the heart. I could only take

the boy in my arms, and look at Madame Villeray. The good woman felt for me. I saw tears in her eyes.

July 3.A letter has reached Mrs. Eyrecourt this morning, from Doctor Wybrow. It is dated, "Castel

Gandolpho, near Rome." Here the doctor is established during the hot monthsand here he has seen

Romayne, in attendance on the "Holy Father," in the famous summer palace of the Popes. How he obtained

the interview Mrs. Eyrecourt is not informed. To a man of his celebrity, doors are no doubt opened which

"I have performed my promise," he writes "and I may say for myself that I spoke with every needful

precaution. The result a little startled me. Romayne was not merely unprepared to hear of the birth of his

childhe was physically and morally incapable of sustaining the shock of the disclosure. For the moment, I

thought he had been seized with a fit of catalepsy. He moved, however, when I tried to take his hand to feel

the pulseshrinking back in his chair, and feebly signing to me to leave him. I committed him to the care of

his servant. The next day I received a letter from one of his priestly colleagues, informing me that he was

slowly recovering after the shock that I had inflicted, and requesting me to hold no further communication

with him, either personally or by letter. I wish I could have sent you a more favorable report of my

interference in this painful matter. Perhaps you or your daughter may hear from him."

July 49.No letter has been received. Mrs. Eyrecourt is uneasy. Stella, on the contrary, seems to be

July 10.A letter has arrived from London, addressed to Stella by Romayne's English lawyers. The income

which Mrs. Romayne has refused for herself is to be legally settled on her child. Technical particulars follow,

By return of post, Stella has answered the lawyers, declaring that, so long as she lives, and has any influence

over her son, he shall not touch the offered income. Mrs. Eyrecourt, Monsieur and Madame Villerayand

even Matildaentreated her not to send the letter. To my thinking, Stella acted with becoming spirit. Though

there is no entail, still Vange Abbey is morally the boy's birthrightit is a cruel wrong to offer him anything

July 11.For the second time I have proposed to leave St. Germain. The presence of the third person,

whenever I am in her company, is becoming unendurable to me. She still uses her influence to defer my

I am failing to keep my promise to myself, not to write about myself. But there is some little excuse this time.

For the relief of my own conscience, I may surely place it on record that I have tried to do what is right. It is

not my fault if I remain at St. Germain, insensible to Madame Villeray's warning.

The Indians have made a night attack on the new missionhouse. The building is burned to the ground, and

the missionaries have been massacredwith the exception of two priests, carried away captive. The names

of the priests are not known. News of the atrocity has been delayed four months on its way to Europe, owing

partly to the civil war in the United States, and partly to disturbances in Central America.

Looking at the Times (which we receive regularly at St. Germain), I found this statement confirmed in a short

Our one present hope of getting any further information seems to me to depend on our English newspaper.

The Times stands alone as the one public journal which has the whole English nation for volunteer

contributors. In their troubles at home, they appeal to the Editor. In their travels abroad, over civilized and

savage regions alike, if they meet with an adventure worth mentioning they tell it to the Editor. If any one of

our countrymen knows anything of this dreadful massacre, I foresee with certainty where we shall find the

Soon after my arrival here, Stella had told me of her memorable conversation with Penrose in the garden at

Ten Acres Lodge. I was well acquainted with the nature of her obligation to the young priest, but I was not

prepared for the outbreak of grief which escaped her when she had read the telegram from Rome. She

actually went the length of saying, "I shall never enjoy another happy moment till I know whether Penrose is

The inevitable third person with us, this morning, was Monsieur Villeray. Sitting at the window with a book

in his handsometimes reading, sometimes looking at the garden with the eye of a fond horticulturisthe

discovered a strange cat among his flower beds. Forgetful of every other consideration, the old gentleman

I spoke to Stella, in words which I would now give everything I possess to recall. A detestable jealousy took

possession of me. I meanly hinted that Penrose could claim no great merit (in the matter of Romayne's

conversion) for yielding to the entreaties of a beautiful woman who had fascinated him, though he might be

afraid to own it. She protested against my unworthy insinuationbut she failed to make me ashamed of

myself. Is a woman ever ignorant of the influence which her beauty exercises over a man? I went on, like the

"Excuse me," I said, "if I have unintentionally made you angry. I ought to have known that I was treading on

delicate ground. Your interest in Penrose may be due to a warmer motive than a sense of obligation."

She turned away from mesadly, not angrilyintending, as it appeared, to leave the room in silence.

"Even if you insult me, Bernard, I am not able to resent it," she said, very gently. I once wronged youI

It was not her fault; I alone am to blame. In another moment she was in my arms. I held her to my breastI

felt the quick beating of her heart on meI poured out the wild confession of my sorrow, my shame, my

loveI tasted again and again and again the sweetness of her lips. She put her arms round my neck and drew

her head back with a long sigh. "Be merciful to my weakness," she whispered. "We must meet no more."

I have broken my resolution not to write about myselfbut there is no egotism, there is a sincere sense of

humiliation in me, when I record this confession of misconduct. I can make but one atonementI must at

once leave St. Germain. Now, when it is too late, I feel how hard for me this life of constant repression has

Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a little note, addressed in pencil. No answer was

The few lines were in Stella's handwriting: "You must not leave us too suddenly, or you may excite my

mother's suspicions. Wait until you receive letters from England, and make them the pretext for your

I never thought of her mother. She is right. Even if she were wrong, I must obey her.

September 14.The letters from England have arrived. One of them presents me with the necessary excuse

for my departure, ready made. My proposal for the purchase of the yacht is accepted. The sailingmaster and

crew have refused all offers of engagement, and are waiting at Cowes for my orders. Here is an absolute

The newspaper arrived with the letters. My anticipations have been realized. Yesterday's paragraph has

produced another volunteer contributor. An Englishman just returned from Central America, after traveling in

Arizona, writes to the Times. He publishes his name and addressand he declares that he has himself seen

The name of this correspondent carries its own guarantee with it. He is no less a person than Mr.

Murthwaitethe wellknown traveler in India, who discovered the lost diamond called "the Moonstone," set

"SirI can tell you something of the two Jesuit priests who were the sole survivors of the massacre in the

"I was traveling at the time in Arizona, under the protection of an Apache chief, bribed to show me his

country and his nation (instead of cutting my throat and tearing off my scalp) by a present tribute of whisky

"About twelve miles northward of the little silvermining town of Tubac we came upon an Apache

encampment. I at once discovered two white men among the Indians These were the captive priests.

"One of them was a Frenchman, named L'Herbier. The other was an Englishman, named Penrose. They owed

their lives to the influence of two powerful considerations among the Indians. Unhappy L'Herbier lost his

senses under the horror of the night massacre. Insanity, as you may have heard, is a sacred thing in the

estimation of the American savages; they regard this poor madman as a mysteriously inspired person The

other priest, Penrose, had been in charge of the mission medicinechest, and had successfully treated cases of

illness among the Apaches. As a 'great medicineman,' he too is a privileged personunder the strong

protection of their interest in their own health. The lives of the prisoners are in no danger, provided they can

endure the hardship of their wandering existence among the Indians. Penrose spoke to me with the

resignation of a true hero. 'I am in the hands of God,' he said; 'and if I die, I die in God's service.'

"I was entirely unprovided with the means of ransoming the missionariesand nothing that I could say, or

that I could promise, had the smallest effect on the savages. But for severe and tedious illness, I should long

since have been on my way back to Arizona with the necessary ransom. As it is, I am barely strong enough to

write this letter. But I can head a subscription to pay expenses; and I can give instructions to any person who

Before I had read it, I was at a loss to know where to go, or what to do, when I leave St. Germain. I am now

at no loss. I have found an object in life, and a means of making atonement to Stella for my own ungracious

and unworthy words. Already I have communicated by telegraph with Mr. Murthwaite and with my

sailingmaster. The first is informed that I hope to be with him, in London, tomorrow morning. The second

is instructed to have the yacht fitted out immediately for a long voyage. If I can save these menespecially

London, September 15.No. I have resolution enough to go to Arizona, but I have no courage to record the

I had intended to keep the coming enterprise a secret, and only to make the disclosure in writing when the

vessel was ready to sail. But, after reading the letter to the Times, Stella saw something in my face (as I

suppose) that betrayed me. Well, it's over now. I do my best to keep myself from thinking of itand, for this

Mr. Murthwaite has not only given me valuable instructionshe has provided me with letters of introduction

to persons in office, and to the padres (or priests) in Mexico, which will be of incalculable use in such an

expedition as mine. In the present disturbed condition of the United States, he recommends me to sail for a

port on the eastern coast of Mexico, and then to travel northward overland, and make my first inquiries in

Arizona at the town of Tubac. Time is of such importance, in his opinion, that he suggests making inquiries

in London and Liverpool for a merchant vessel under immediate sailing orders for Vera Cruz or Tampico.

The fitting out of the yacht cannot be accomplished, I find, in less than a fortnight or three weeks. I have

September 16.No favorable answer, so far as the port of London is concerned. Very little commerce with

September 17.A Mexican brig has been discovered at Liverpool, under orders for Vera Cruz. But the

vessel is in debt, and the date of departure depends on expected remittances! In this state of things I may wait,

September 1830.I have settled my affairs; I have taken leave of my friends (good. Mr. Murthwaite

included); I have written cheerfully to Stella; and I sail from Portsmouth tomorrow, well provided with the

jars of whisky and the kegs of gunpowder which will effect the release of the captives.

It is strange, considering the serious matters I have to think of, but it is also true, that I feel out of spirits at the

prospect of leaving England without my traveling companion, the dog. I am afraid to take the dear old fellow

with me, on such a perilous expedition as mine may be. Stella takes care of himand, if I don't live to return,

she will never part with him, for his master's sake. It implies a childish sort of mind, I supposebut it is a

comfort to me to remember that I have never said a hard word to Traveler, and never lifted my hand on him

All this about a dog! And not a word about Stella? Not a word. Those thoughts are not to be written.

I have reached the last page of my diary. I shall lock it, and leave it in charge of my bankers, on my way to

the Portsmouth train. Shall I ever want a new diary? Superstitious people might associate this coming to the

end of the book with coming to an end of another kind. I have no imagination, and I take my leap in the dark

"Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those that hate; And whatever sky's above me Here's

(An inclosure is inserted here, marking a lapse of seven months, before the entries in the diary are resumed. It

consists of two telegrams, dispatched respectively on the 1st and 2d of May, 1864.)

1. "From Bernard Winterfield, Portsmouth, England. To Mrs. Romayne care of M. Villeray, St. Germain,

near Paris. Penrose is safe on board my yacht. His unfortunate companion has died of exhaustion, and he is

himself in a feeble state of health. I at once take him with me to London for medical advice. We are eager for

2. "From Mrs. Eyrecourt, St. Germain. To Bernard Winterfield, Derwent's Hotel, London. Your telegram

received with joy, and sent on to Stella in Paris. All well. But strange events have happened. If you cannot

London, 2d May, 1864.Mrs. Eyrecourt's telegram reached me just after Doctor Wybrow had paid his first

professional visit to Penrose, at the hotel. I had hardly time to feel relieved by the opinion of the case which

he expressed, before my mind was upset by Mrs. Eyrecourt. Leaving Penrose under the charge of our

It was still early in the day: his lordship was at home. He maddened me with impatience by apologizing at

full length for "the inexcusable manner in which he had misinterpreted my conduct on the deplorable

occasion of the marriage ceremony at Brussels." I stopped his flow of words (very earnestly spoken, it is only

right to add), and entreated him to tell me, in the first place, what Stella was doing in Paris.

My head turned giddy, my heart beat furiously. Lord Loring looked at meran to the luncheon table in the

next roomand returned with a glass of wine. I really don't know whether I drank the wine or not. I know I

What was he thinking of? I don't know. What was I thinking of? I daren't write it down.

Lord Loring resumed by expressing some anxiety on the subject of my health. I made the best excuse for

myself that I could, and told him of the rescue of Penrose. He had heard of my object in leaving England, and

heartily congratulated me. "This will be welcome news indeed," he said, "to Father Benwell."

Even the name of Father Benwell now excites my distrust. "Is he in Paris too?" I inquired.

"He left Paris last night," Lord Loring answered; "and he is now in London, on important business (as I

Lord Loring looked a little confused. "I have not heard," was all he said in reply.

I was far from satisfied. "You are one of Romayne's oldest friends," I persisted. "Have you not seen him

"I have seen him more than once. But he has never referred to his affairs." Having said this he hastily

changed the subject. "Is there any other information that I can give you?" he suggested.

I had still to learn under what circumstances Romayne had left Italy for France, and how the event of his

illness in Paris had been communicated to his wife. Lord Loring had only to draw on his own recollections to

"Lady Loring and I passed the last winter in Rome," he said. "And, there, we saw Romayne. You look

surprised. Perhaps you are aware that we had offended him, by advice which we thought it our duty to offer

I was certainly thinking of what Stella had said of the Lorings on the memorable day when she visited me at

"Romayne would probably have refused to receive us," Lord Loring resumed, "but for the gratifying

circumstance of my having been admitted to an interview with the Pope. The Holy Father spoke of him with

the most condescending kindness; and, hearing that I had not yet seen him, gave instructions, commanding

Romayne to present himself. Under these circumstances it was impossible for him to refuse to receive Lady

Loring and myself on a later occasion. I cannot tell you how distressed we were at the sad change for the

worse in his personal appearance. The Italian physician, whom he occasionally consulted, told me that there

was a weakness in the action of his heart, produced, in the first instance, by excessive study and the

excitement of preaching, and aggravated by the further drain on his strength due to insufficient nourishment.

He would eat and drink just enough to keep him alive, and no more; and he persistently refused to try the

good influence of rest and change of scene. My wife, at a later interview with him, when they were alone,

induced him to throw aside the reserve which he had maintained with me, and discovered another cause for

the deterioration in his health. I don't refer to the return of a nervous misery, from which he has suffered at

intervals for years past; I speak of the effect produced on his mind by the announcementmade no doubt

with best intentions by Doctor Wybrowof the birth of his child. This disclosure (he was entirely ignorant

of his wife's situation when he left her) appears to have affected him far more seriously than the English

doctor supposed. Lady Loring was so shocked at what he said to her on the subject, that she has only repeated

it to me with a certain reserve. 'If I could believe I did wrong,' he said, 'in dedicating myself to the service of

the Church, after the overthrow of my domestic happiness, I should also believe that the birth of this child

was the retributive punishment of my sin, and the warning of my approaching death. I dare not take this view.

And yet I have it not in me, after the solemn vows by which I am bound, to place any more consoling

interpretation on an event which, as a priest, it disturbs and humiliates me even to think of.' That one

revelation of his tone of thought will tell you what is the mental state of this unhappy man. He gave us little

encouragement to continue our friendly intercourse with him. It was only when we were thinking of our

return to England that we heard of his appointment to the vacant place of first attache to the Embassy at Paris.

The Pope's paternal anxiety on the subject of Romayne's health had chosen this wise and generous method of

obliging him to try a salutary change of air as well as a relaxation from his incessant employments in Rome.

On the occasion of his departure we met again. He looked like a wornout old man. We could now only

remember his double claim on usas a priest of our religion, and as a once dear friendand we arranged to

travel with him. The weather at the time was mild; our progress was made by easy stages. We left him at

"No," said Lord Loring. "We had reason to doubt whether Stella would be pleased to see us, and we felt

reluctant to meddle, unasked, with a matter of extreme delicacy. I arranged with the Nuncio (whom I have the

honor to know) that we should receive written information of Romayne's state of health, and on that

understanding we returned to England. A week since, our news from the Embassy was so alarming that Lady

Loring at once returned to Paris. Her first letter informed me that she had felt it her duty to tell Stella of the

critical condition of Romayne's health. She expressed her sense of my wife's kindness most gratefully and

feelingly and at once removed to Paris, to be on the spot if her husband expressed a wish to see her. The two

ladies are now staying at the same hotel. I have thus far been detained in London by family affairs. But,

unless I hear of a change for the better before evening, I follow Lady Loring to Paris by the mail train."

It was needless to trespass further on Lord Loring's time. I thanked him, and returned to Penrose. He was

On the table in the sittingroom I found a telegram waiting for me. It had been sent by Stella, and it

"I have just returned from his bedside, after telling him of the rescue of Penrose. He desires to see you. There

is no positive sufferinghe is sinking under a complete prostration of the forces of life. That is what the

doctors tell me. They said, when I spoke of writing to you, 'Send a telegram; there is no time to lose.' "

Toward evening Penrose awoke. I showed him the telegram. Throughout our voyage, the prospect of seeing

Romayne again had been the uppermost subject in his thoughts. In the extremity of his distress, he declared

that he would accompany me to Paris by the night train. Remembering how severely he had felt the fatigue of

the short railway journey from Portsmouth, I entreated him to let me go alone. His devotion to Romayne was

not to be reasoned with. While we were still vainly trying to convince each other, Doctor Wybrow came in.

"Oh, get up by all means," he said; "we will help you to dress." We took him out of bed and put on his

dressinggown. He thanked us; and saying he would complete his toilet by himself, sat down in an easy

chair. In another moment he was asleep again, so soundly asleep that we put him back in his bed without

waking him. Doctor Wybrow had foreseen this result: he looked at the poor fellow's pale peaceful face with a

"There is the treatment," he said, "that will set our patient on his legs again. Sleeping, eating, and

drinkinglet that be his life for some weeks to come, and he will be as good a man as ever. If your

homeward journey had been by land, Penrose would have died on the way. I will take care of him while you

At the station I met Lord Loring. He understood that I too had received bad news, and gave me a place in the

coupe carriage which had been reserved for him. We had hardly taken our seats when we saw Father Benwell

among the travelers on the platform, accompanied by a grayhaired gentleman who was a stranger to both of

us. Lord Loring dislikes strangers. Otherwise, I might have found myself traveling to Paris with that

Paris, May 3.On our arrival at the hotel I was informed that no message had yet been received from the

We found Lady Loring alone at the breakfasttable, when we had rested after our night journey.

"Romayne still lives," she said. "But his voice has sunk to a whisper, and he is unable to breathe if he tries to

rest in bed. Stella has gone to the Embassy; she hopes to see him today for the second time."

"You forget, Mr. Winterfield, that Romayne is a priest. He was only consecrated on the customary condition

of an absolute separation from his wife. On her sidenever let her know that I told you thisStella signed a

formal document, sent from Rome, asserting that she consented of her own free will to the separation. She

was relieved from the performance of another formality (which I need not mention more particularly) by a

special dispensation. Under these circumstancescommunicated to me while Stella and I have been together

in this housethe wife's presence at the bedside of her dying husband is regarded by the other priests at the

Embassy as a scandal and a profanation. The kindhearted Nuncio is blamed for having exceeded his powers

in yielding (even under protest) to the last wishes of a dying man. He is now in communication with Rome,

"Stella has taken the child with her today. It is doubtful in the last degree whether the poor little boy will be

allowed to enter his father's room. That complication is even more serious than the other. The dying

Romayne persists in his resolution to see the child. So completely has his way of thinking been altered by the

approach of death, and by the closing of the brilliant prospect which was before him, that he even threatens to

recant, with his last breath, if his wishes are not complied with. How it will end I cannot even venture to

"Unless the merciful course taken by the Nuncio is confirmed," said Lord Loring, "it may end in a revival of

the protest of the Catholic priests in Germany against the prohibition of marriage to the clergy. The

movement began in Silesia in 1826, and was followed by unions (or Leagues, as we should call them now) in

Baden, Wurtemburg, Bavaria, and Rhenish Prussia. Later still, the agitation spread to France and Austria. It

was only checked by a papal bull issued in 1847, reiterating the final decision of the famous Council of Trent

in favor of the celibacy of the priesthood. Few people are aware that this rule has been an institution of slow

growth among the clergy of the Church of Rome. Even as late as the twelfth century, there were still priests

I listened, as one of the many ignorant persons alluded to by Lord Loring. It was with difficulty that I fixed

my attention on what he was saying. My thoughts wandered to Stella and to the dying man. I looked at the

Lady Loring evidently shared the feeling of suspense that had got possession of me. She rose and walked to

"Here is the message!" she said, recognizing her traveling servant as he entered the hotel door.

The man appeared, with a line written on a card. I was requested to present the card at the Embassy, without

A silent servant received me at the Embassy, looked at the card, and led the way to an upper floor of the

As I crossed the threshold Stella met me. She took both my hands in hers and looked at me in silence. All that

He reclined, propped up with pillows, in a large easychair; it was the one position in which he could still

breathe with freedom. The ashy shades of death were on his wasted face. In the eyes alone, as they slowly

turned on me, there still glimmered the waning light of life. One of his arms hung down over the chair; the

other was clasped round his child, sitting on his knee. The boy looked at me wonderingly, as I stood by his

I quieted that anxiety. For a moment there was even the shadow of a smile on his face, as I told him of the

effort that Penrose had vainly made to be the companion of my journey. He asked me, by another gesture, to

"My last grateful blessing to Penrose. And to you. May I not say it? You have saved Arthur"his eyes

turned toward Stella"you have been her best friend." He paused to recover his feeble breath; looking round

the large room, without a creature in it but ourselves. Once more the melancholy shadow of a smile passed

"Christ took a child on His knee. The priests call themselves ministers of Christ. They have left me, because

of this child, here on my knee. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Winterfield, Death is a great teacher. I know how I

have erredwhat I have lost. Wife and child. How poor and barren all the rest of it looks now!"

He was silent for a while. Was he thinking? No: he seemed to be listeningand yet there was no sound in

the room. Stella, anxiously watching him, saw the listening expression as I did. Her face showed anxiety, but

"No," he said; "I have never heard it plainly, since I left Rome. It has grown fainter and fainter from that time.

It is not a Voice now. It is hardly a whisper: my repentance is accepted, my release is coming. Where is

"I spoke of Rome just now. What did Rome remind me of?" He slowly recovered the lost recollection. "Tell

Winterfield," he whispered to Stella, "what the Nuncio said when he knew that I was going to die. The great

man reckoned up the dignities that might have been mine if I had lived. From my place here in the

"Let me say it," she gently interposed, "and spare your strength for better things. From your place in the

Embassy you would have mounted a step higher to the office of ViceLegate. Those duties wisely

performed, another rise to the Auditorship of the Apostolic Chamber. That office filled, a last step upward to

"All vanity!" said the dying Romayne. He looked at his wife and his child. "The true happiness was waiting

He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his weary eyes. We thought he was composing himself to

sleep. Stella tried to relieve him of the boy. "No," he whispered; "I am only resting my eyes to look at him

again." We waited. The child stared at me, in infantine curiosity. His mother knelt at his side, and whispered

in his ear. A bright smile irradiated his face; his clear brown eyes sparkled; he repeated the forgotten lesson

Romayne heard it. His heavy eyelids opened again. "No," he said. "Not uncle. Something better and dearer.

Still kneeling, she obeyed him. He slowly raised himself on the chair. "Take her hand," he said to me. I too

knelt. Her hand lay cold in mine. After a long interval he spoke to me. "Bernard Winterfield," he said, "love

them, and help them, when I am gone." He laid his weak hand on our hands, clasped together. "May God

I remember no more. As a man, I ought to have set a better example; I ought to have preserved my

selfcontrol. It was not to be done. I turned away from themand burst out crying.

A soft knock at the door aroused me. I dashed away the useless tears. Stella had retired to the further end of

the room. She was sitting by the fireside, with the child in her arms. I withdrew to the same part of the room,

Two strangers came in and placed themselves on either side of Romayne's chair. He seemed to recognize

them unwillingly. From the manner in which they examined him, I inferred that they were medical men.

He returned again almost immediately, followed by the grayheaded gentleman whom I had noticed on the

The Jesuit's vigilant eyes discovered us instantly, in our place near the fireside. I thought I saw suspicion as

well as surprise in his face. But he recovered himself so rapidly that I could not feel sure. He bowed to Stella.

One of the doctors was an Englishman. He said to Father Benwell: "Whatever your business may be with Mr.

"Certainly not," Father Benwell answered. "The more witnesses are present, the more relieved I shall feel."

He turned to his traveling companion. "Let Mr. Romayne's lawyer," he resumed, "state what our business is."

Romayne, reclining in his chair, apparently lost to all interest in what was going on, heard and answered. The

weak tones of his voice failed to reach my ear at the other end of the room. The lawyer, seeming to be

satisfied so far, put a formal question to the doctors next. He inquired if Mr. Romayne was in full possession

Both the physicians answered without hesitation in the affirmative. Father Benwell added his attestation.

"Throughout Mr. Romayne's illness," he said firmly, "his mind has been as clear as mine is."

While this was going on, the child had slipped off his mother's lap, with the natural restlessness of his age. He

walked to the fireplace and stoppedfascinated by the bright red glow of the embers of burning wood. In

one corner of the low fender lay a loose little bundle of sticks, left there in case the fire might need relighting.

The boy, noticing the bundle, took out one of the sticks and threw it experimentally into the grate. The flash

of flame, as the stick caught fire, delighted him. He went on burning stick after stick. The new game kept him

"You remember, Mr. Romayne, that your will was placed, for safe keeping, in our office," he began. "Father

Benwell called upon us, and presented an order, signed by yourself, authorizing him to convey the will from

London to Paris. The object was to obtain your signature to a codicil, which had been considered a necessary

addition to secure the validity of the will.Are you favoring me with your attention, sir?"

Romayne answered by a slight bending of his head. His eyes were fixed on the boystill absorbed in

"At the time when your will was executed," the lawyer went on, "Father Benwell obtained your permission to

take a copy of it. Hearing of your illness, he submitted the copy to a high legal authority. The written opinion

of this competent person declares the clause, bequeathing the Vange estate to Father Benwell, to be so

imperfectly expressed, that the will might be made a subject of litigation after the testator's death. He has

accordingly appended a form of codicil amending the defect, and we have added it to the will. I thought it my

duty, as one of your legal advisers, to accompany Father Benwell on his return to Paris in charge of the

willin case you might feel disposed to make any alteration." He looked toward Stella and the child as he

completed that sentence. The Jesuit's keen eyes took the same direction. "Shall I read the will, sir?" the

Romayne held out his hand for the will, in silence. He was still watching his son. There were but few more

"One word, Mr. Romayne, before you examine that document," he said. "The Church receives back from you

(through me) the property which was once its own. Beyond that it authorizes and even desires you to make

any changes which you or your trusted legal adviser may think right. I refer to the clauses of the will which

relate to the property you have inherited from the late Lady Berrickand I beg the persons present to bear in

He bowed with dignity and drew back. Even the lawyer was favorably impressed. The doctors looked at each

other with silent approval. For the first time, the sad repose of Stella's face was disturbedI could see that it

cost her an effort to repress her indignation. The one unmoved person was Romayne. The sheet of paper on

which the will was written lay unregarded upon his lap; his eyes were still riveted on the little figure at the

The child had thrown his last stick into the glowing red embers. He looked about him for a fresh supply, and

His mother held up a warning finger. "Hush!" she whispered. He shrank away from her as she tried to take

him on her knee, and looked across the room at his father. "More!" he burst out louder than ever. Romayne

I led him across the room. He was quite willing to go with mehe reiterated his petition, standing at his

I could barely hear the words: even his strength to whisper seemed to be fast leaving him. He kissed his

sonwith a panting fatigue under that trifling exertion, pitiable to see. As I placed the boy on his feet again,

Father Benwell sprang forward with outstretched hands. I stopped him. He struggled with me. I forgot the

The boy threw the will into the fire. "Oh!" he shouted, in high delight, and clapped his chubby hands as the

In a frenzy of rage and despair, he looked round at the persons in the room. "I take you all to witness," he

"You yourself declared just now," said the lawyer, "that Mr. Romayne was in perfect possession of his

The baffled Jesuit turned furiously on the dying man. They looked at each other.

For one awful moment Romayne's eyes brightened, Romayne's voice rallied its power, as if life was returning

The last longdrawn sigh rose and fell. With those sacred words on his lips, Romayne died.

London, 6th May.At Stella's request, I have returned to Penrosewith but one fellowtraveler. My dear

old companion, the dog, is coiled up, fast asleep at my feet, while I write these lines. Penrose has gained

strength enough to keep me company in the sittingroom. In a few days more he will see Stella again.

What instructions reached the Embassy from Romewhether Romayne received the last sacrament at the

earlier period of his illnesswe never heard. No objection was made, when Lord Loring proposed to remove

I had undertaken to give the necessary directions for the funeral, on my arrival in London. Returning to the

hotel, I met Father Benwell in the street. I tried to pass on. He deliberately stopped me.

"How is Mrs. Romayne?" he asked, with that infernal suavity which he seems always to have at command.

"Fairly well I hope? And the boy? Ah, he little thought how he was changing his prospects for the better,

when he made that blaze in the fire! Pardon me, Mr. Winterfield, you don't seem to be quite so cordial as

usual. Perhaps you are thinking of your inconsiderate assault on my throat? Let us forgive and forget. Or,

perhaps, you object to my having converted poor Romayne, and to my being ready to accept from him the

restoration of the property of the Church. In both cases I only did my duty as a priest. You are a

I really could not endure this. "I have my own opinion of what you deserve," I answered. "Don't provoke me

With that he left me. If he means any further mischief, I can tell him thishe will find Me in his way.

To turn to a more pleasant subject. Reflecting on all that had passed at my memorable interview with

Romayne, I felt some surprise that one of the persons present had made no effort to prevent the burning of the

will. It was not to be expected of Stellaor of the doctors, who had no interest in the matterbut I was

unable to understand the passive position maintained by the lawyer. He enlightened my ignorance in two

"The Vange property and the Berrick property were both absolutely at the disposal of Mr. Romayne," he said.

"If he died without leaving a will, he knew enough of the law to foresee that houses, lands, and money would

When Penrose can travel, he accompanies me to Beaupark. Stella and her little son and Mrs. Eyrecourt will

be the only other guests in my house. Time must pass, and the boy will be older, before I may remind Stella

of Romayne's last wishes on that sad morning when we two knelt on either side of him. In the meanwhile, it

NOTE.The next leaf of the Diary is missing. By some accident, a manuscript page has got into its place,

bearing a later date, and containing elaborate instructions for executing a design for a wedding dress. The

handwriting has since been acknowledged as her own, by no less a person thanMrs. Eyrecourt.