The Black Robe Part 24

The moment he was gone, she drew her daughter into a quiet corner.

"Don't be frightened, Stella. That sly old person has some interest in trying to find out about Winterfield. Do you know why?"

"Indeed I don't, mamma. I hate him!"

"Oh, hush! hush! Hate him as much as you like; but always be civil to him. Tell me--have you been in the conservatory with Romayne?"

"Yes."

"All going on well?"

"Yes."

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

CHAPTER IV.

IN THE SMALL HOURS.

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

Penrose was waiting to speak to him. Romayne noticed signs of suppressed agitation in his secretary's face. "Has anything happened?" he inquired.

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

"Certainly. Is it for a long time?"

Penrose hesitated. "You have a new life opening before you," he said.

"If your experience of that life is--as I hope and pray it may be--a happy one, you will need me no longer; we may not meet again." His voice began to tremble; he could say no more.

"Not meet again?" Romayne repeated. "My dear Penrose, if _you_ forget how many happy days I owe to your companionship, _my_ memory is to be trusted. Do you really know what my new life is to be? Shall I tell you what I have said to Stella to-night?"

Penrose lifted his hand with a gesture of entreaty.

"Not a word!" he said, eagerly. "Do me one more kindness--leave me to be prepared (as I am prepared) for the change that is to come, without any confidence on your part to enlighten me further. Don't think me ungrateful. I have reasons for saying what I have just said--I cannot mention what they are--I can only tell you they are serious reasons.

You have spoken of my devotion to you. If you wish to reward me a hundred-fold more than I deserve, bear in mind our conversations on religion, and keep the books I asked you to read as gifts from a friend who loves you with his whole heart. No new duties that you can undertake are incompatible with the higher interests of your soul. Think of me sometimes. When I leave you I go back to a lonely life. My poor heart is full of your brotherly kindness at this last moment when I may be saying good-by forever. And what is my one consolation? What helps me to bear my hard lot? The Faith that I hold! Remember that, Romayne. If there comes a time of sorrow in the future, remember that."

Romayne was more than surprised, he was shocked. "Why must you leave me?" he asked.

"It is best for you and for _her,_" said Penrose, "that I should withdraw myself from your new life."

He held out his hand. Romayne refused to let him go. "Penrose!" he said, "I can't match your resignation. Give me something to look forward to. I must and will see you again."

Penrose smiled sadly. "You know that my career in life depends wholly on my superiors," he answered. "But if I am still in England--and if you have sorrows in the future that I can share and alleviate--only let me know it. There is nothing within the compa.s.s of my power which I will not do for your sake. G.o.d bless and prosper you! Good-by!"

In spite of his fort.i.tude, the tears rose in his eyes. He hurried out of the room.

Romayne sat down at his writing-table, and hid his face in his hands.

He had entered the room with the bright image of Stella in his mind.

The image had faded from it now--the grief that was in him not even the beloved woman could share. His thoughts were wholly with the brave and patient Christian who had left him--the true man, whose spotless integrity no evil influence could corrupt. By what inscrutable fatality do some men find their way into spheres that are unworthy of them? Oh, Penrose, if the priests of your Order were all like you, how easily I should be converted! These were Romayne's thoughts, in the stillness of the first hours of the morning. The books of which his lost friend had spoken were close by him on the table. He opened one of them, and turned to a page marked by pencil lines. His sensitive nature was troubled to its inmost depths. The confession of that Faith which had upheld Penrose was before him in words. The impulse was strong in him to read those words, and think over them again.

He trimmed his lamp, and bent his mind on his book. While he was still reading, the ball at Lord Loring's house came to its end. Stella and Lady Loring were alone together, talking of him, before they retired to their rooms.

"Forgive me for owning it plainly," said Lady Loring--"I think you and your mother are a little too ready to suspect Father Benwell without any discoverable cause. Thousands of people go to Clovelly, and Beaupark House is one of the show-places in the neighborhood. Is there a little Protestant prejudice in this new idea of yours?"

Stella made no reply; she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.

Lady Loring went on.

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

Stella suddenly looked up. "Let us speak of another person," she said; "I own I don't like Father Benwell. As you know, Romayne has concealed nothing from me. Ought I to have any concealments from _him?_ Ought I not to tell him about Winterfield?"

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

"What right have I to keep it a secret from him?"

"My dear Stella! if you had been in any way to blame in that miserable matter, I should be the last person in the world to advise you to keep it a secret. But you are innocent of all blame. No man--not even the man who is soon to be your husband--has a right to know what you have so unjustly suffered. Think of the humiliation of even speaking of it to Romayne!"

"I daren't think of it," cried Stella pa.s.sionately. "But if it is my duty--"

"It is your duty to consider the consequences," Lady Loring interposed.

"You don't know how such things sometimes rankle in a man's mind. He may be perfectly willing to do you justice--and yet, there may be moments when he would doubt if you had told him the whole truth. I speak with the experience of a married woman. Don't place yourself in _that_ position toward your husband, if you wish for a happy married life."

Stella was not quite convinced yet. "Suppose Romayne finds it out?" she said.

"He can't possibly find it out. I detest Winterfield, but let us do him justice. He is no fool. He has his position in the world to keep up--and that is enough of itself to close his lips. And as for others, there are only three people now in England who _could_ betray you. I suppose you can trust your mother, and Lord Loring, and me?"

It was needless to answer such a question as that. Before Stella could speak again, Lord Loring's voice was audible outside the door. "What!

talking still," he exclaimed. "Not in bed yet?"

"Come in!" cried his wife. "Let us hear what my husband thinks," she said to Stella.

Lord Loring listened with the closest attention while the subject under discussion was communicated to him. When the time came to give his opinion, he sided unhesitatingly with his wife.

"If the fault was yours, even in the slightest degree," he said to Stella, "Romayne would have a right to be taken into your confidence.

But, my dear child, we, who know the truth, know you to be a pure and innocent woman. You go to Romayne in every way worthy of him, and you know that he loves you. If you did tell him that miserable story, he could only pity you. Do you want to be pitied?"

Those last unanswerable words brought the debate to an end. From that moment the subject was dropped.

There was still one other person among the guests at the ball who was waking in the small hours of the morning. Father Benwell, wrapped comfortably in his dressing gown, was too hard at work on his correspondence to think of his bed. With one exception, all the letters that he had written thus far were closed, directed and stamped for the post. The letter that he kept open he was now engaged in reconsidering and correcting. It was addressed as usual to the Secretary of the Order at Rome; and, when it had undergone the final revision, it contained these lines:

My last letter informed you of Romayne's return to London and to Miss Eyrecourt. Let me entreat our reverend brethren to preserve perfect tranquillity of mind, in spite of this circ.u.mstance. The owner of Vange Abbey is not married yet. If patience and perseverance on my part win their fair reward, Miss Eyrecourt shall never be his wife.