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32X

THE

BLACK ROBE

THE

BLACK ROBE;

i fiobd.

^ -■&

M^ILKIE COLLI As' s,

ACHOH 0. ..M.. ..n WXK.." '> pook mxss kikch," " xhk .uv ... .„,
I.Aln.' "THBNEW MAGDALENK ETC. ETU

CANADIAN COPYRIGHT EDITION.

ROSE-BELFORD PUBLISHING COMPANY.

MncccLxxxi.

19 i I

)8t'^

■i 'Ml )

Entered according to the Act of tbe Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand
eight hundred and eight>-cne by Wilkie Com.ins, in the Olfiee of the Minlhiw
of Agriculture. -

»■ •m" f ' <>* i ' < mmBti ''-

J sand

CONTENTS.

^cfove the ^{ovii,

PACE

^'^ FiusT ScENK — Luuloone-Sl'u-Mer — TllK DlF.t 1

Secohi) Scbke — Yange AnnEV — The Forswakntn'os 13

CHAPTPJR I.

Tin: Confii)i:nx:!ES 33

CHAPTER ir.
The Jesuits '11

CHAPTER III.
The Intuoduction to Romayne -i)

CHAPTER IV.
Fatueu Tjexwell Hits 5(5

CHAPTER V.

Fatuek Cenwelt. Mkssem 58

viii CONTENTS.

CHAPTER Vr.

The Order of the Disiiem 6fi

CHAPTER Yir.
The Influenck op Stella 72

CHAPTER VIII.
The Priest ok the Woman 77

CHAPTER IX.
The Public and the Pictures 85

CHAPTER X.
Father Benwell's Coruespondexce " 88

CHAPTER Xf.
Stella Asserts Herself 95

CHAPTER XII.
The General's Family 101

CHAPTER Xlir.
Father Benwell's Correspondence 102

^oofe the ^crcud

CHAPTER I.
The Pic-NIC Dance 114

CHAPTER ir.

The Question of Marriage 121

CONTFNTS. ix

e'MArTER I If.
Thk End of thb Ball 128

CHAPTER IV.
In Tin; .Small 1Ioi?rs 133

^aoU the (ihivrt.

CHAPTER I,
The HoxKYMooy 141

CHAPTER II.

EvEi.Ts AT Ten Acrbs 144

CHAPTER III.
Father Beitw'ell and the Book 151

CHAPTER IV.
The End of the Honeymoon 157

CHAPTER V.
Father Bbnwell's Corkespondbnoe 165

§00ft the gOiXtth.

CHAPTER I.
The Breach is Wideukd , 186

X CT) NIK NTS.

CHAITER II.
A CiiKisriAN Jksuit ; I'lO

CilAlTER HI.

WiNTKRFlELD HeTUKNS 1!)1)

CHAPTER IV

FaTIIKU ReNWELl'.S CoitUEKPONDENCE 200

CHAPTER V.

BeRNAUD WiNTERFlELb's CoUUESrONDENCE 211

CHAPTER YI.
The Sapdest op all Wouds 213

CHAPTER VII
The Impt^lsive Sex 218

CHAPTER VIII.
Fatiieii Benwell\s Correspondence 22B

^aofe the jmu.

CHAPTER I.
Mrs. Eyrkcourt's Discovery , 227

CHAPTER II.
The Seed is So wn 234

CHAPTER III.
The Harvest is Reaped 238

CONTENTS. xi

CHAPTER IV.
247

^ftct the j^totij.

Extracts from Berxard Winterfibld's Diary : —

1.— Winterfiold Defends Himself 255

2. — Winterfiold makes Extracts 25(»

3. — Winterfield's Diary Concluded 295

Pfie Diary Resumed 21)5

'>fOTE 308

If )

i; !

THE BLACK ROBE.

^tt0Xt the <^tcinj.

FIRST SCENE : BOULOGNE-SUR MEIl — THE DUEL.

ri'^HE doctors could do no more for the Dowager Lady Berrick.
JL Wlieii the medical advisers of a lady who lias reached
seventy years of a/re recommend the mild cliaiate of tlie South
of France, they mea,^. in plain language that they have arrived
at the end of their resources. Her ladyship gave the mild climate
& fair trial, and then decided (as she herself expressed it) to
* die at liomw.' Travelling slowly, she had reached Paris at the
date when I last heard of her. It was then the beginning of
November. A week later, I met with her nephew, Lewis
llomayne, at the club.

* What brings you to London at this time of the year ? * I
asked.

• The fatality that pursues me,' he answered grimly, • I am
one of the \inluckiest 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 ralations; and he was one of the hand-
somest 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 c burden of tif ty years on my back.
B

THE BLACK ROBE.

no one will be surprised to hear that I answered lloniayne, with
bitter sincerity, in these words :

* I wish to heaven I could change places with yon ! '

* I wish to heaven you could ! ' he bui'st out, with equal sin-
cerity, on his side. ' Read this,'

He handed me a letter addressed to him by the travelling
medical attendant of Lady Berrick. After resting in Paris, the
patient had continued her homeward journey as far as Bou-
logne. In her suffering condition, she was liable to sudder. lits
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 1 The reply had been so immediately favourable, that
the doctor lost no time in communicating with Mr. Lewis Bo-
mayne. This was the substance of the letter.

It was needless to ask any more questions — Romayne was
plainly on his way to Boulogne. I gave him some useful in-
formation. * Try the oysters,' I said, ' at the restaurant on the
pier.'

He never even thanked ma He was thinking entirely of
himself.

* Just look at my position,' he said. ' I detest Boulogne ; I
cordially share my aunt's horror of the channol passage ; I had
looked forward to some months of happy retirement in the
country among my books ; and what, happens to me 1 I am
brought to London in this season of fogs, to travel by the tidal
train at seven to-morrow morning — and all for a wonian with
whom I hfve no sympathies in common. If I am not an un-
lucky man — who is 1 '

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 system — sorely tried by
night study and strong tea — of my friend Romayne. * It's only
a matter of two days,' I remarked, by way of reconciling him
to his situation.

* How do I inow that 1 * he retorted. * In two days the
weather may b< stormy. In two days she may be too ill to be

liEFORE THE STORY— FIRST SCENE. S

iriovotl. Unfortunately, I am her Iieir ; and I am tolil 1 must
sulimit to any whim that seizes her. I'm rich enough already ;
T don't want her money. Besides, I dislike all travelling — and
especially travelling alone. You are an idle man. If you were
a good (iiend, you would oflfer to go with me.' He added, with
the delicacy which was one of the i*edeeming points in his way-
ward character, * Of couree, as my guest.'

1 had known him long enough not to take offence at his re-
minding 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 at-
traction of getting away from home. The end of it was that
I accepted Romayne's invitation.

I had
the
[ am
tidal
with
1 un-

d to
my
by
nly
ua

the
be

SHORTLY after noon, on the next day, we were e.stal»lishod
at Boulogne — near Lady Berrick, but not at her hotel.
' If we live in the same house,' Romayne reminded me, * we
sliall 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,' lie made a shocking answer
— he said, 'in the company of dogs.'

I waited for him on the pier while he went to see her lady-
ship. He joined me again with his bitterest smile. 'What
did I tell you ? She is not well enough to see me to day. 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 latter 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, aiid
that abuse o£ tea, to which I have already alluded, had sadly
injured his stomach. The doctors warned him of serious con-
sequences to his nervous system, unless he altered his habita
He had little faith in medical science; and he greatly over- rated

THE KLACK ROBE.

the restorative capacity of his constitution. So far as I know,
he had always neglected the doctor's advice.

The weather cleared towards evening, and we went out for a
walk. We passed a church—a Roman Catholic church, of course
— the doors of which were still open. Some poor women were
kneeling at their prayei*s in the dim light. * Wait a minute,'
said Romayne, * I am in a vile temper. Let me try to put
myself in a better frame of mind.*

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; bvit, so far as outward
practice was concerned, he belonged to no religious community.
1 had often heard him speak with sincere reverence and admira-
tion of the spirit of Christianity — but he never, to my know-
ledge, attended ai.y place of worship. When we met again
outside the church, I asked him if he had been converted to the
Roman Catholic faith.

* No,' he Sc.id, * I hate the inveterate striving of that priest-
liood 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 fellow-creatures 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 receives me to-morrow ? *

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 towards the pier, and met
with a man who asked me to hire bis 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 harbo.ur, the tide had turned against us. It was
nix o'clock when I arriv; d at the hotel. A little open carriage

BEFORE THE STORY — FIRST SCI NE.

was waiting at the door. I found Roniayne impatifntly ex-
pecting me, and no signs of dinner on the table. He informed
me that he had accepted the invitation, in which I was included,
and promised to explain everything in the carriage.

Our driver took the road that led towards the High Town.
I subordinated my curiosity to my sense of politeness, and
asked for news of his aunt's health.

' 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 thi& 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 extreme — became need-
lessly distrustful of himself, and needlessly eager in seizing las
opjiortunity of making atonement In this latter mood he v/as
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, 1 thought of going to the beach, but the
smell of the harbour drove me back into town, — and there,
oddly enough, I met with a man, a certain Captain P^terkin,
who had been a friend of mine at college.'

' A visitor to Boulogne 1 ' I inquired.

' Not e^-acUy.'

'Areadentr

'Yes. The fact is, I Ipst sight of Peterkin when I left
Oxford — and, since that time, he seems to have drifted into
dilHculties. We had a long talk. He is li ang here, he tells
me, until his afiairs are settled.'

I needed no further enlightenment — Captain 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 e man of that sort I Couldn't you have passed him with
a bow 1 '

Bomayne smiled uneasily, ' I dare say you're right,' he an-

THE BLACK ROBE.

swered. * 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 Feterkin at a distance 1 His present position
may be as much his misfortune, poor fellow, as his fault. I
was half inclined to pass him as you say — but I distrusted my
own judgment. He held out his hand, and he was so glad to
boe me. It can't be helped now. I shall be anxious to hear
your opinion of him.'

* Are we going to dine with Capt. Peterkin 1 '
Ye& I happened to mention that wretched dinner yester-
day, at our hotel. He said, " Come to my boarding-house.
Out of Paris, there isn't such a table d'hdte in France." I tried
to get off it — not caring, as you know, to go among strangers —
I said I had a friend with me. He invited you most cordially
to accompany me. More excuses on my part only led to a pain-
ful result I hurt Peterkin's feelings. "I'm down in the
world," he said, "and I'm not fit company for you and your
friendo. I beg your pardon for taking the liberty of inviting
you ! " He turned away, the tears in his eyes. What could I
dor

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 captain — or, if we had met him,
my presence would have prevented the confidential talk, and
the invitation that followed. I felt I was to blame — and yet,
how could I help it 1 It was useless to remonstrate ; the mis-
chief was done.

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 stone walls. 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 watch-dogs. Was the pro-
prietor afiuid of thieves 1

•'

BEFORE THE STORY — FIRST SCENE.

III.

THE moment we were introduced to the drawing-rocni my
suspicions of the company we were likely to meet with
were fully confirmed.

'Cards, billiards, and betting' — there was the 'nscription
legibly written on the manner and appearance of Captain Peter-
kin. The bright-eyed yellow old lady who kept the boarding-
house would have been worth five thousand pounds, in jewellerv
alone, if the ornaments wliich profusely covered her had been
genuine precious stones The younger ladies present had their
cheeks as highly rouged and their eyelids as elaborately pen-
cilled in black as if they were going on the stage, instead of
going to dinner. We found these fair creatures drinking Ma-
deira as a whet to their appetites. Among the men, there were
two who struck me as the most finished and complete black-
guards 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,
travelling 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
greasy looking hands, made this man so repellant to me that I
privately longed to kick hii_i. 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 dining-room, 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 i.'.ost temperate of men,
Romayne was tempted by his neighbours into drinking freely.
I was, unfortunately, seated at the opposite extremity of the
table, anil I had no opportunity of warning him. The dinner
reached its conclusion ; and we all returned together, on the

THE BLACK ROBE.

foreign plan, to coffee and cigars in the drawing-room. The
women smoked, and drank li(|ueurii 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 in-
nocent-looking table, with a surface of rosewood, suddenly
develop a substance of green cloth. At the same time, a neat
little roulette- table made its appearance from a hiding place in
a sofa. Passing near the venerable landlady, I heard her ask
the servant, in a whisper, * if the dogs were loose 1 ' 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 Peterkin
for his hospitality, and to take our leave.

' We have had enough of this,' I whispered to Romayne in
English. * Let us go.'

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), ard sug-
gested vvaiting until it cleared up. The hideous General waved
his greasy hand in the direction of th^ card-table, and said,
♦ The game is waiting for us.'

Romayne was excited, but not stupefied, by the wine he had
drunk. He answered, discreetly enough, * I must beg you to
excuse me ; I am a poor card-player.'

The General suddenly looked grave. 'You are speaking, sir,
under a strange misapprehension,' he said. * Our game is lans-
quenet — essentially a game of chance. With luck, the poorest
player is a match for the whole table.*

Romayne persisted in his refusal. As a matter of course,
I supported him, with all needful care to avoid giving offence.
The General took offence, nevertheless. He crossed his arms on
his breast, and looked at us fiercely.

* Does this mean, gentlemen, that you distrust the company ? '
he asked.

The broken-nosed Commander, hearing the question, imme-
diately joined us, in the interests of peace — bearing 'with him
the elements of persuasion, under the form of a lady on his
arm.

BEFORE THE STORY — FIRST SCENE.

The lady stepped briskly forward, and tapped the General
on he shoulder with her fan. */ am one of the company,' she
said ; ' and I am sure Mr. Komayne doesn't distrust me f ' She
turned to Romayne with her most in'esistible smile. * A gen-
tleman always plays cards,' she resumed, 'when he has a lady
for a partner. Let us join our interests at the table — and, dear
Mr. Romayne, don't risk too much 1 ' 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, ssisted by wine, produced
the inevitable result. Romayne allowed himself to be led to
the card-table. For a moment, the General delayed the begin-
ning 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 honourable men,' he began.

'And brave men,' the Commander added, admiring the
General.

* And brave men,' the General admitted, admiring the Com-
mander. * Gentlemen, if I have been led into expressing my-
self with unnecessary warmth of feeling, I apologise, and re-
gret it.'

' Nobly spoken ! ' the Commander pronounced. The General
put his hand on his heart and bowed. The game began.

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 pro-
ceedings of the evening. Small stakes were allowed, I found,
at roulette ; and, besides, the heavy chances in favour of the
table made it hardly worth while to run the risk of cheating,
in this case. I placed myself next to the least rascally-looking
man in the company, and played roulette.

For a wonder, I was successful at the first attempt. My
neighbour 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

THE BLACK ROBE.

of blacking, three dozen handkerchiefs, two pictures V)y unknown
musters, two shawls, one hundred maps, and — five francs.'

We went on playing. My luck deserted me ; I lost, and lost,
and lost again. From time to time, I looked round at the curd-
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, us I afterwards discovered) lay
before him. As for my neighbour, the unhappy po.ss(;ssor of
the buttles of blacking, of j)ictures 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
risen to follow his example when a furious uproar burst out
at the card-table.

I saw Romayne spring up and snatch the cards out of the
General's hand. * You scoundrel,' he shouted, * you are cheat-
ing ! ' 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 answered — and spat on him. In an in-
stant, Romayne knocked him down.

The blow was dealt straight between his eyes ; he was a gi'oss
big-boned man, and he lell 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 land-
lady's smelling-salts, brought the General to his senses after a
while. He whispered something to one of his friends, who im-
mediately turned to me. * The General challenges Mr. Ro-
mayne,* he said. ' As one of his seconds, I demand an ap-
pointment for to-morrow morning.' I refused to make any ap-
pointment, 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 hotQl without us, there will be an inquiry.'
This latter consideration had its effect. On their side the doors
were opened. On our side the appointment was made. We
left the house, ^

BEFORE THE STORY — FIRST SCENE,

IV.

. >
■8

IN consenting to receive the General's representatives, it is
needless to say that I merely desired to avoid provoki»g
another quarrel. If those persons were really impudent enouj^h
to cull 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 mo with a feeling of uneasiness.
The filthy insult of which he had been made the object, seemed
to be rankling in his mind. H j went away thoughtfully to
his own room. 'Have you nothing to say to mo?' 1 asked.
He only answered, ' Wait till to-morrow.'

The next day the seconds appeared.

I had expected to see two of the men with whom wo had
dined. To my astonishment the visitors proved to be olHcers
of the General's regiment. They brought proposals for a hostile
meeting the next morning ; the choice of weapons being left to
Romayne as the challenged man.

It was now quite plain to me that the General's peculiar
method of card-play i^ig had, thus far, not been discovered and
exposed. He might keep doubtful company, and might (as I
afterwards heard) be suspected in certain quarters. But that
he still had, formally speaking, 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 would be accepted, even if an
apology were offered. «

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 awa^

Tllii: BLACK KOBIi:.

>vith him in his ix)ckot), and offered them as a formal jtroof that
my friend had not been mistaken.

The seconds — evidently prepared for this circumstance V»y
their principal — declined to examine the cards. In the first place,
they said, not even the discovery of foul play (supposing the dis-
covery to have been really made) could justify Romayne's con-
duct. In the second place, the General's high character made
it impossible, under any circumstances, that Ae could be res-
ponsible. Like ourselves, he had rashly associated with l)ad
conipaiiy ; and he had been the innoccmt victim of an error or
a fiaud, committed by some other person present at the table.

Diiven to my last resources, I could now only base my refusal
to receive the challenge on the ground that we were Knglish-
men, and that the practice of duelling had been abolished in
England. Both the seconds at once declined to accept this state-
ment in justification of my conduct.

' 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. liomayne's behalf. Be prepared with another second to
meet us, and reconsider your decision before we call again.'

Tiie Frenchmen had barely taken their departure by one door,
when Iloraayne entered by another.

* I have heard it all,' he said quietly. * Accept the challenge.'

I declare solemnly that I left no means untried of opi)osing
my friend's resolution. No man could have felt more strongly
convinced than I did, that nothing could justify the courae he
Mas taking. My remonstrances were completely thrown away.
He was deaf to sense and reason, from the moment when he had
beard an imputation on his courage suggested as a possible re-
sult 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 at-
tempt to prevent the meeting, the duel will take place elsewhere
—and our friendship is at an end from that moment'

TiKroiiR Tin: stouy — first scion k.

After thia, I suppoHo it is noedlosa to adtl that I accompanied
him to the gi'oiind the next morning as his second.

That night he made his will — in preparation for tha worst
that could happen. What actually did ho2)pen was eipially
beyond his anticipations and mine.

so,

WE were punctual to the appointed hour — eight o'clock.
The second who acted with me was a French gentle-
man, a relative of one of the ofticers who had brought the chal-
lenge. At his suggestion, we had chosen the pistol as our
wea[)on. Romayne, like most Englishmen at the present time,
knew nothing of the use of the swjrd. He was almost equally
inex[)erienced with the pistol.

Our opponents were late. Tliey kept us waiting for more
than ten minutea It was not pleasant weather to wait in. The
day ha<l dawned damp and drizzling. A thick white fog was
slowly rolling in on ns from the sea.

When they did appear, the General was not among them.
A tall, well-dressed young man saluted Eomayne with stern
courtesy, and said to a stranger who accompanied him, ' Ex-
plain 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 fit — the 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 ajiproval.

We instantly refused to allow the duel to take place ; Ro-
mayne loudly declaring that he had no quarrel with the
General's soti. Upon this Maurice broke away from his sec-
onds ; drew off one of his gloves ; and, stepping close up to
Romayne, struck him on the face with the glova • Have you
no quarrel with me now 1 ' the young Frenchman asked. * Must
X spit on you as my father did \ * Hia seconds dragged him

THE BLACK JLOM.

away, and apologised to us for the outbreak. But the miscbief
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 other course
to take.

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 sea-fog so
completely enveloped us, that the duellists were unable to see
each other. We were obliged to wait for the chance of a par-
tial clearing in the atmosphere. Romayne's temper had become
calm again. The generosity of his nature spoke in the words
which he now addresed to his seconds.

* After all,* he said, * th-^ young man is a good son — he is bent
on redressing, what he believes to be his father's wrong. Does
his flipping his glove in my face matter to Me 1 I think I shall
fire in the air.'

* 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 did — he means to kill you. Defend your
life, sir ! ' I spoke quite as strongly, to the same purpose when
my t rn came. Romayne yielded — he placed himself unreserv-
edly in our hands.

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 sideways, in a position, which in
some degree lessened his danger, by lessening the surface ex-
posed 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 side — and fire.' We could do no mere for him. As we
drew aside — I own it — my tongue was like a cinder in my
mouth, and a horrid ir^ner cold crept through me to the mar>
row of my bones.

liEFORE THE STORY — FIRST SCENE.

The signal was given, and the two shots were fired at the
same time.

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 lite-
rally escaped by a hairbreadth.

While I was congraculating him, the fog gathered again
more tl lickly than ever. Looking anxiously towards the ground
occupied by our adversaries, we could only see vague, shadowy
forms hurriedly crossing and re-crossing ea'^h other in the mist.
Something had bappened ! My French colleague took my arm
and pressed it significantly. * Leave me to inquire,' he said.
Komayne tried to follow ; I held him back — we neither of us
exchanged a word.

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 covild 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 youl* Was it a woman 1 or was it a
boy 1 W« heard nothing more. The efiect upon Romayne
was terrible to see. He who had calmly confronted the weapon
lifted to kill him, shuddered dumbly like a terror-stricken ani-
mal. 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 surgeon
would follow him.

The duel had ended fatf*ily. The chance course of the bullet,
urged by Romayne's \inpractised hand, had struck the General's
son just above the right nostril — had penetrated to the back
of his neck — and had communicated a fatal shock to the spinal
marrow. He was a dead man beiore they could take him back
to his father's house.

So far, our fears were confirmed. But there was something
else to tell, for which our worst presentiments had not prepared

US. '

tllE BI,ACK tlOBB!.

A younger brother of the fallen man (a boy of thirteen years
old) had secretly followed the duelling party, on their way from
his father's house — had hidden himself — and had seen the dread-
ful 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 in-
visible 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 him.

' Your life was at your opponent's mercy,' I said. ' It was
Ae who was skilled in the use of the pistol ; your risk was in-
finitely greater than hia Are you responsible for an accident ?
Rouse yourself, Romayne I Think of the time to come, when
all this will be forgotten.'

' Never,' he said, * to the end of my life.*

He made that reply in dull monotonous tones. His eyes
looked wearily and vacantly straight before him. The extra-
ordinary change in him startled me. He showed no signs of a
coming loss of consciousness — and yet, all that was most brightly
animated in his j.hysical life seemed to have mysteriously faded
away. I spoke to him again. He remained impenetrably si-
lent ; ke 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 ob-
served Romayne attenti 'ely, and then drew me fiway into the
next room.

* Your friend is suffering from a severe nervous shock,' ho
baid. * Can you tell me anything of his habits of life V

I mentioned the prolonged night-studies, and Uie 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 mo your ad-
dress in London.*

I felt that the best thing I could do was to follow his advice.
The boat crossed to Folkestone at an early hour that day — we

BEFORK THE STORY — FIRST SCENE.

had no time to lose. Romayne offered no objection to our re-
turn to England ; he seemed perfectly careless what became of
himself. * Leave me quiet.' he said; 'and do as you like.' I
wrote a few lines to Lady Berrick's medical attendant, inform-
ing him of the circumstances. A quarter of an hour afterwards
we were on board the steamboat.

There were very few passengers. After we had left the har-
bour, ray attention was attracted by a young English lady —
travelling, 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 sutii-
ciently over the torpor that possessed him to induce him to look
at our fellow-passenger.

* Do you know that charming person 1 ' I asked.

* No,' he replied, with the weariest indifference, * I never saw
her before. I'm tired — tired — tired — tired! Don't speak to
me; leave me by myself.*

I left him. His rare personal attractions — of which, let me
add, he never appeared to be conscious — had 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 sex — as I
myself well knew — to be the object, not of admiration only, but
of true and ardent love. He had never reciprocated the passion
— had never even a »peared to take it seriously. Marriage
might, as the phrase, is, be the salvation of him. Would ho
ever many 1

Leaning over the bulwark, idly pursuing this train of thought,
I was recalled to present things, by a low, sweet voice — the
voice of the lady of whom I had be<jn thinking.

* Excuse me for disturbing you,' she said, * I think your
friend wants you.'

She spoke with the modesty and self-possession of a highly -
bred woman. A little heightening of her colour made her, to
my eyes, more beautiful than ever. I thanked her, and has-
tened back to Romayne.
n

THE BLACK ROBE.

Ho was standing by the barred sky-light which guarded the
machinery. I instantly noticed a change in him. His eyes
wandering here and there, in search of me, had more than re-
covered their animation — there was a wild look of terror in
them. He seized me roughly by the arm, and pointed down
to the engine-room.

' What do you hear there 1 ' he asked.

* I hear the thump of the engines.'

* Nothing else r

'Nothing. What do 2/OM hear 1 '
He suddenly turned away.

* I'll tell you,' he said, * when we get on shore.*

SECOND SC;ENB \ VANGE ABBEY — THE FOREWARNINGS.

VI.

AS we approached the harbour at f'olkestone, Romayne's
agitation appeared to subside. His head drooped ; his
eyes half-closed — he looked like a weary man quietly falling
asleep.

On leaving the steamboat, I ventured to ask our charming
fellow-passenger 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 Folke-
stone. 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 it — he 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 once into profound sleep.

We drove to the hotel, at which my friend was accustomed to

BEFORE THE STORY — SECOND SCENE.

Sfi

eside when he was in London. His 1 ng sleep on the j ourney
eemed, in some degree, to have relieved him. We dined toge-
her 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 me 1 *

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 sea-side. 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 memory.

* We were looking into the engine-room,' I said, * and you
asked me what I heard there. You promised to tell me what
you heard, as soon as we got on shore '

He stopped me before I could say more.
• • I begin to think it was a delusion,' he answered. * You
ought not to interpret too literally what a person in my dread-
ful situation may say. The stain of another man's blond is on
me '

I interrupted him in my turn. ' I refuse to hear you speak
of yourself in that way,' I said. * You are no more respon-
sible 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 doctor.' I really felt irritated with
him — and I saw no reason for concealing it.

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 irri-
tability. He took my hand.

* Don't be hard on me,' he pleaded, * I will try to think of it
SLd 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 to-morrow morning. Is
it agreed 1 ' ,

It was agreed, of course, There was a door of communication

I !

THE BLACK ROBE.

betveen 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 you.'

Three times in the night I woke, and, seeing the light burn-
ing in his room, looked in at him. He always carried some of
his books with him when he travelled. On each occasion when
I entered the room, he was reading quietly. * I suppose I fore-
stalled 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. 1 am used to wakeful nights. Go back to bed, and
don't be uneasy about me.'

The next morning the deferred explanation was put off again.

* Do you mind waiting a little longer 1' he asked.

* Not if you particularly wish it.'

' Will you do me another favour 1 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 confusion.

* Since I found you looking into the engine-room 1 ' I asked.

* 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 good shooting, as you
know.'

In an hour more, we had left London.

VIL

VANGE Abbey is, as I suppose, the most solitary country
house in England. If Komayne wanted quiet, it was
exactly the place for him.

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 j)oints of the compasa There are traditions of
thriving villages clustering about the Abbey, in the days of the
monks, and of hop^elries 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.

BEFORE THE STORY — SECOND SCENE.

Lf-

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 dwelling-
house, helping himself liberally from the solid stone walls of
the monastery. With some unimportant alterations and re-
pairs, 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 reached the Abbey.

Years had passed since I had last been Bomayne's guest.
Nothing, out of the house or in the house, seemed to have un-
dergone any change in the interval. Noither the good North
coii'>'iry butler, nor his buxom Scotch wife, skilled in cookery,
looked any older ; they received me at. if I had left them a day
or two since, and had come oack again to live in Yorkshire.
My well-remembered bed-room was waiting for me ; and the
matchless old Madeira welcomed us when siy host and I met
in the inner-hall, which was the ordinary dinuigroom of the
Abbey.

As we faced each other at the well-spread tab!e, I began io
hope that the familiar influences of his country hoTi»e were be-
ginning already to breathe their blessed quiet over the dis-
turbed mind of Komayne. 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 once
more in the old house.

When we were near the end of our meal, something happened
that startled me. I had just handed the rvine to Romayne, and
he had filled his glass, when 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
old-fashioned hand-bell which stood by him on the table. The
servant was directed to close the door.

* Are you cold ? ' I asked.

THE BLiCK ROBE.

* No.* lie reconsidered that brief answer, and contradicted
himself. * Yes — the library fire has burnt low, I suppose.'

In my position at the table I had seen the fire : the grate
was heaped witn blazing coals and wood. I said nothing. The
pido change in his face, and his contradictory reply, roused
doubts in me which I had hoped never to feel again.

He pushed away his glass of wine, and still kept his eyes
fixed on the closed door. His attitude and expression were
l)lainly suggestive of the act of listening. Listening to what?

After an interval, he abruptly addressed me. * Do you call
it a quiet night 1 ' he said.

* As quiet as quiet can be,* I roplied. ' The wind has dropped
— and even the fire doesn't crackle. Perfect stillness, indoors
and out.'

* Out ! ' he replied. For a moment he looked at me intently,
ar 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. In-
stead ot answering me, he started out of his chair with a cry of
terror, and left the room.

I hardly knew what to do. It was impossible, unless he re-
turned 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 1 ' he asked.

I could only answer that he had left the table suddenly, with-
out a -wed 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, if he wants me.*

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. It was the groom who
entered the room.

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

The house — extending round three sides of a square — was
only two storeys uigh. 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

BEFORE THE STORY — SECOND SCENE.

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 laughter — that saddest false
laughter which is true trouble in disguise.

* Here's something to amuse you ! ' he cried. ' I believe old
Gai-thwaite thinks I am drunk — he won't leave me up here by
myself.'

Letting this strange assertion remain unanswered, the butler
withdrew. As he passed me on his way to the ladder, he whis-
pered, * 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 sus-
pected that the master was nothing less than mad !

Romayne took my arm when we were alone — we walked
slowly from end to end of the Belvidere. The moon was, by
this time, low in the heavf ns ; but her mild mysterious light
still streamed over the roof of the house and the high heathy
ground round it. T looked attentively at Romayne. He was
deadly pale ; his hand shook as it rested on my arm — and 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 done.
i determined to clear up that doubt immediately.

* You left the table very suddenly,' I said. * Did you feel
ill?'

* Not ill,' he replied. * I was frightened. Look at me — I'm
frightened still.'

' What do you mean 1 '

Instead of answering, he repeated ihe strange question which
he had put to me down staira

' Do you call it a quiet night V

Considering the time of the year, and the exposed situation
of the house, the night was almost preternaturally quiet.
Throughout the vast optn country all round us, not even a
breath of air could be heard. The night-birds were away, or
were silent at the time. But one sound was audible, when we
stood still and listened — the cool quiet bubble of a little stream,
lost to view in the valley-ground to the south.

* I have told you already,* I said, ' so still a night I never
remember on this Yorkshire moor.'

THE BLACK ROBE.

He laid his Land lieavily on my shoulder. * What did the
poor boy say of me, whose brother I killed ? ' he asked. ' What
words did we hear through the dripping darkness of the mist 1 '

* I won't encourage you to think of them. I refuse to repeat
the words.*

He pointed over the northward parapet.

* It doesn't matter whether you accept or refuse,' he said, * I
hear the boy at this moment— — there ! '

He repeated the horrid words — marking the pauses in the
utterance of them with his finger, as if they were sounds that
he heard.

* Assassin ! Assassin ! where are you V

* Good God 1 ' I cried, * you don't mean that you really hear
the voice '? '

' Do you hear what I say 1 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 sea-fog. Again and agair.
It's all roiind 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 thing in the morning. We leave Vange
Abbey to-morrow.'

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 resignation — he seemed
like a prisoner snbmitting 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
imaginary figure under the form of a boy.

' I see nothing,' he said ; ' I only hear. Look yourself. It
is in the last degree improbable — but let us make sure that
nobtdy has followed me from Boulogne, and is playing me a
trick.

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 pool or tarn. Northward and southward, there was no-
thing to be seen but the open moor. Look where I might,
with the open moonlight to make the view plain to m'^, the
solitude was as void of any living creature as if we had been
surrounded by the awful dead world of the moon.

BEFORE THE STORY — SECOND SCENE.

* Was it the boy's voice that you heard on the voyage across
tlie channel 1 * I asked.

* Yes, I heard it for the first time — down in the engine-room ;
rising and falling, rising and falling, like the sound of the en-
gines themselves.'

* And when did you hear it again 1 *

* I feared to heav 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 me — that 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 again — behind 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 fol-
lowed me. We may as well go down again into the hall. I
know that there is no escaping from it My dear old home has
become horrible to me. Do you mind returning to London to-
morrow 1 *

What I felt and feared in this miserable state of things mat-
ters little. The one chance that I could see for Romayne was
to obtain the best medi cai advice. I sincerely encouraged his
idea of going back to London the next day.

We nad sat together by the hall fire for about ten minutes,
when he took out his handkerchief, and wiped away the perspi-
ration from his forehead, drawing a deep breath of relief. ' It
has gone ! ' he said faintly.

* When you hear the boy's voice,' I asked, ♦ do you hear it
continuously ! '

' No, at intervals; sometimes longer, sometimes shorter.'

* And, thus far, it comes to you suddenly, and leaves you
suddenly ? '

* Yes.'

' Do my questions annoy you ? '

' I make no complaint,' he said sadly. * You can see for your-
self — I patiently suffer the punishment that I have deserved.'

I contradicted him at once. * II is nothing of the sort ! It's
a nervous malady, which medical science can control and cure.
Wait till we get to London.'

This expression of opinion produced no effect on him.

THE BLACK ROBE.

' I have taken the life of a fellow-creature,' he said. *I have
closed the career of a young man who, but for nio, might have
lived long and happily and honourably. Say what you may, I
am of the race of Cain. He had the mark set on his brow. I
have mij ordeal. Delude yourself, if you like, with false hopoa
I can endure — and hope for nothing. Good night'

VIIT.

EARLY the next morning, the good old butler came to mo,
in great perturbation, for a word of advice.

* Do come, sir, and look at the master ! I can't find 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 im-
pressed 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 interrui)tion, which I am
warned not to pass over without a word of record in this nar-
rative.

We had returned from a rida Romayne had gone into the
library to read ; and I was just leaving the stables, after a look
at some recent improvements, when a pony-chaise with a gen-
tleman 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 tra-
vellers who were adventurous enough to cross the heathy
desei-t that surrounded the Abbey. On this occasion, the
stranger was informed that Mr. Romayne was at home. He
at once apologised — with an appeai-ance of disappointment,
however, which induced me to step forward, and speak to him.

* Mr. Romayne is not very well,* I said ; ' and I cannot ven-
ture to ask you into the house. But you will be welcome, I

HEFOllE THE STORY— SECOND SCENE.

niii sure, to wjilk round tho grounds, and to look at the ruins
of tl ' Abboy.'

He tlianked me and accepted tho invitation. I find no gro.'it
jliffieulty in describing him generally. Ho was elderly, fat and
cheerful ; buttoned up in a long black frock coat, and present-
ing that closely shaven face, and that inveterate expression of
watchful humility about the eyes, which we all associate with
the reverend personality of a priest.

To my surprise, ho 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 incomprehensible to me,
that I own I watched him.

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 i)lace attractive failed to claim his attention. He
walked past lawn, shrubs and flower-beds, and only stopped at
an old stone fountain, which tradition declared to liave 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 tho house and grounds, or it might
not — I can only report that he took tho path which led him, by
the shortest way, to the ruined Abbey church.

As he entered the roofless enclosure, 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 e;cpected
to find me in the place that I occupied.

* I have been deeply interested in all that I have seen,' ho
said. * May I venture to ask, what is perhaps an indiscreet
question on the part of a stranger ? '

I ventured on my side, to inquire what this question might be.

* Mr. Romayne is indeed fortunate,' he resumed, * in the pos-
session of this beautiful place. He is a young man, I think ! '

' Yea.'

* Is he married?'
'No.'

THE BLACK ROBE.

' Excuse my curiosity. The owner of Vange Abbey is an
interesting person to all good antiquaries like myself. Many
thanks again. Good day.'

His pony-chaise took him away. His last look rested — not
on nie — but on the old Abbey.

;* , IX. ,...;.

MY record of events approaches its conclusion.
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 oager to know if any
communication had been received from the French surgeon.

"When the messenger returned with my letters, the Boulc^e
post mark was on one of the envelopes At Romayne's en-
treaty, this was the letter that I opened first. The surgeon's
signature was at the end.

One motive for anxiety — on my part — was 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 duellists 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 him—the charge
of ' homicide by premeditation.* Homicide by misadventure,
occurring in a duel, was not a punishable offence by the French
law. My correspondent cited many cases in proof of it, strength-
ened by .the publicly-expressed opinion of the illustrious
Berryer himself. In a word, we had nothing to fear.

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 much bejewelled old land-
lady had been sent to prison for the offence of keeping a gam-
bling-house. It was suspected in the town that the General
was more or less directly connected with certain disreputable
circumstances, discovered by the authoritiea In any case, he
bad retired from active service. He and his wife and family

BEFORE THE STORY — SECOND SCENE.

had left Boulogne, and hpd gone away in debt No investiga-
tion had thus far succeeded in discovering the place of their
retreat

Reading this letter aloud to Romayne, I was interrupted by
him at the last sentence.

*The inquiries must have keen carelessly made,' he said.
* They ought to have applied to the police. I will see to it
myself.'

' What interest can ymh have in the inquiries ? ' I exclaimed.

* 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 childi-en
are in distressed circumstances (which seems to be only too
likely) I may place them beyond the reach of anxiety — ancay-
mously, of course. Give me the surgeon's address. I shall
write instructions for tracing them at my expense — merely an-
nouncing that an Unknown Friend desires to be of service to
the General's family.'

This appeared to me to be a most imprudent thing to do. I
said so plainly — and quite in vain. With his customary im-
petuosity 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 favour. . .

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 visit — of no great im-
port*»'-';e in itself — led, as I have since been informed, to very sq*

THE BLACK ROBE.

rious events in Romayue's later life. For this reason T briefly
relate what took place within my own hearing.

Lord Loring — well known in society as the head of an old
English Catholic family, and the possessor of a magnificent gal-
lery of picitures — was distressed by the change for the worse
which he perceived in Komayne, when he called at the hotel. I
was present when they met, and rose to leave the room, feeling
that the two fi lends might perhaps be embarrassed by the pre-
sence of a third person. Romayne called me back. ' Lord Lor-
ing 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 doctora.* 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 moral remedy
inllomayne'scase, might prove to be the best remedy.

' With submission to what the doctors may decide,' his lord-
ship 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 1 A woman's influence,
by merely giving a new tarn to his thoughts, might charm away
that horrible voice which haunts him. Perhaps you think this a
merely sentimental view of the c:se? Look at it practically, if
you like, and come to the same conclusion. With that fine estate
— and with the fortune which he has now inherited from his
aunt — it is his duty to marry. Don't you agree with me 1 '

* I agree most cordially. 3ut I see serious difficulties in your
lordship's way. Romayne dislikes society ; and, as to marrying,
his coldness tov/ards women seems (so far as I can judge) to be
one of the incurable detects of his character.'

Lord Loring smiled. ' My dear sir, nothing of that sort is in-
curable, if we can only find the right woman.'

The tone in which he spoke suggested to me that he had got
*the right wo' ^n ' — and I took the liberty of saying so. He at
once acknowledged that I had guessed right.

' Romayne is, as you say, a diflicult subject to deal with,' he
resumed. ' If J commit the slightest imprudence, I shall excite
his suspicion — and there will be an end of my hope of being of
service to him. I shall proceed carefully, I can tell you. Luck-

BEFORE THE STORY — SECOND SCENE.

ily, poor dear fellow, he is fond of pictures ! It's quite natural
that I should ask him to see some recent additions to my gallery
— isn't it 1 There is the trap that I set 1 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 up-
stjiiiu She may well happen to look in at the galleiy (by the
merest accident), just at the time when Roniayne is looking at
my new pictures. The rest depends, of coui*se, on the eflect she
produces. Jf 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
exi)eriment. No one, however, could doubt Lord Loring's admi-
rable devotion to his friend — and with that I was fain to be con-
tent.

When Romayne returned to us, it was decided to submit his
case to a consultation of physicians at the earliest possible mo-
ment. 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 ad-
mired 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 for-
ward, and looked up from a book that he was reading. To my
astonishment, I recognised the elderly, fat, and cheerful priest,
who had shown such a knowledge of localities, and such an ex-
traordinary interest in Vangc Abbey !

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 perhaps have reck-
oned the circumstance among the wisely-improved opportunities
of my life.

li i

: I

THE BLACK ROBE.

To return to the serious interests of the present narrative, I
may now announce that my evidence as an eye-witness of events
has come to an end. The day after Lord Loring's visit, domestic
troubles separated me, to my sincere regret, from Romayne. I
have only to add, that the foregoing narrative of personal expe-
rience has been written with a due sense of responsibility, and
that it may be depended on throughout as an exact statement of
the truth.

- John Philip Hynd

(late Major, 110th Regiment).

£
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CHAPTER I.

THE COXFIDENCES.

IN an upper room of onn of tlie])aliitial liousos whicli are situ-
ated on the north side of Hyde Pjuk, two ladies sat at
breakfast, and gossiped over their tea.

The elder of the two was Lady Loring — still in the prime of
life ; possessed of the golden hair and the clear blue eyes, the de-
licately florid complexion, and the freely developed fig le, which
are among the favourite 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, incom-
pletely developed in substance and strength — she presented an
almost complete contrast to Lady Loring. Two more opposite
types of beauty it would have been hardly possible to place at
the same table.

The servant brought in the letters of the morning. Lady
Loring ran through her correspondence rapidly, pushed /iway the
letters in a heap, and poured herself out a second cup of tea.

* Nothing interesting this morning for me,' she said. * Any
news of your mother, Stella? '

The young lady handed an opyn letter to her hostess, with a
faint smile. ' See for yomself, Adelaide,' she answered, with
the tender sweetness of tone wliich made her voice irresistibly
charming, * and tell me if there wore ever two women so utterly
unlike each «»ther as my mother and myself V

THE BLACK ROBE.

Lady Loriiig 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 houso— twenty-seven
at dinner every day, without including the neighbours — a little
carpet dance every evening — we play billiards, and go into the
smoking-room — the hounds meet three times a week — all sorts
of celebrities among the company, famous beauties included —
such dresses ! such conversation ! — and serious duties, my dear,
not neglected — high church and choral service in the town on
Sundays — recitations in the evening from Paradise Lost, by an
amateur elocutionist — oh, you foolish, headstrong child! why
did you make excuses and stay in London, when you might have
accompanied me to this earthly Paradise V — are you really ill » —
my love to Lady Loring — and of course, if you are ill, you
must have medical advice — they ask after you so kindly here —
the first dinner bell is ringing before I have half done my letter
— what am I to wear 1 — why is my daughter not here to advise
me, &c., &c., &c.*

* There is time for you to change your mind, and advise your
mother,' Lady Loring remarked with grave irony as she returned
the letter.

* Don't even speak of it 1 ' 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 oflered me a happy refuge in your house ? My " earthly
Paradise " is here, where 1 am allowed to dream away my time
over my drawings and my books, and to resig-n myself to poor
health and low spirits, without being dragged into society, and
(worse still) threatened with that " medical advice " in which
my poor dear mother believes so implicitly. I wish you would
hire^me as your "companion," and let me stay here for the rest
of my life.'

Iiady Loring's bright face became grave while Stella was
speaking. .

* My dear,* she said kindly, * I know well how you love retire-
ment, and how differently you think and feel from other young
women of your age. And I am far from forgetting what sad cir-
cumstances Lave encouraged the natural bent of your disposition.
But, since you have been staying with me this time, I gee some-
thing in you which my intimate knowledge of your character

THE CONFIDENCES.

fails to explain. We have l)een friends since we were together
at school — and, in those old days, we never had any secrets from
each other. You are feeling some anxiety, or broo<ling over
some sorrow, of which I know nothing. I don't ask for your
confidence ; I only tell you what I have noticed — and 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 youl ' She laid her hand tend-
erly upon Stella's shoulder, waiting for the reply. Stella lifted
the hand and kissed it with passionate fondness.

* 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 self-contained 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 con-
solations of the feminine heart They are the noblest — and but
too often the unhappiest of their sex.

' Will you wait a little before you go out ? ' Stella asked
softly. She had conquered her tears, but her head still drooped
while she spoke.

Lady Loring silently returned to the chair that she had left
— hesitated for a moment — and then drew it nearer to Stella.

• Shall I sit by you ? ' she said.

* 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 youngest — ^nd you were the eldest, or nearly
the eldest, I think ) '

* Quite the eldest, my dear. There is a difference of ten years
between ua But why do you go back to that 1 '

* 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 in my old way, and tell my
Btory ? •

She was new the calmest of the two. The elder woman turned
a little pale, and looked down in silent anxiety at the darkljr
beautiful head thht rested on her shoulder.

THE BLACK ROBE.

* After such an oxpericnco as mino has bncn,' said Stella,
* would you think it jjossiblo that I could ever again feel my
heart troubled by a man — and that man a stranger ? *

'My dear 1 I think it quite possible. You are only now in
your twenty- third year. You were innocent of all blame, at
that wretched bygone time which you ought never to speak of
again. Love and be happy, Stella — if you can only find the
man who is worthy of you. But you frighten me when you
speak of a stranger. Where did you meet with him 1 '

» On my way back from Paris.'

* Travelling in the same carriage with you ? '

' No — it was in crossing the Channel. There were few tra-
vellers in the steamboat, or I might never have noticed him.'

* Did he speak to you V

* He never even looked at me.'

* That doesn't say much for his taste, Stella. '

* 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 face — such pati-
ence ! 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 feels — oh, 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 done — I burn
when I ♦ihink 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 as plainly as
I see you now. Don't despise me, Adelaide! '

* My dear, you interest me indescribably. Do you suppose he
was in our rank of life 1 I mean, of course, did he look like a
gentleman V

* There could be no doubt of it.'

* Do try to describe him, Stella. Was he tall and well dres-
sed ?'

* Neither tall nor short — rather thin — quiet and graceful in
all his movements — dressed plainly and 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 thoughtfullv to«

THE CONFIDENCES.

wards the sea. Such eyes I never saw before, Adelaide, in any
human face — so divinely tender and sad — and the colour of
them tha*j dark, violet blue, so uncommon and so beautiful —
too beaunful for a man. I may say the same of his hair. I saw
it completely. For a minute or two, he removed his hat — his
head was fevered^ I think — and 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 Bame colour ; short
and curling, like the beards of the Roman heroes one sees in
pictures. I shall never see him again — and it is best for mo
that I shall not. What can I hope from a man who never onc(i
noticed me 1 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 colour ;
her grand dark eyes brightened — she looked her loveliest at
that moment.

* I am far more inclined, Stella, to cry over you than to laugh
at you,' said Lady Loring. * There is something to my mi)\d,
very sad about this adventure of yours. I wish I cou' I find
out who the man is. Even the best description of a person
falls so short of the reality ! '

* I thought of showing you something,' Stella continued,
* which might help you to see him as 1 saw him. It's only mak-
ing one more acknowledgment of my own folly.'

* You don't mean a portrait of him ! * Lady Loring exclaimed.

* The best that I could do from recollection,' Stella answered,
sadly.

* Bring it here directly ! '

Stella left the room, and returned with a little drawing in
[)encil. The instant Lady Loring looked at it, she recognised
Romayne, and started excitedly to her feet.

* You know him ! ' cried Stella.

Lady Loring had placed herself in an awkward j)osition. Her
husband had described to her his interview with Mnjor Hynd ;
and had mentioned his project for bringing Romayne and Stella
together, after first exacting a promise of the strictest secresy
from his wife. She felt herself bound — doubly bound, ufttu'

■ !

THE BLACK ROBE,

what she had now discovered — to 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 truth
out of the whole, and answered harmlessly without a moment's
hesitation.

' I have certainly seen him,' she said — ' probably at some
[)arty. 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 to my asking him,' she added
slily.

Stella snatched the drawing away from her, in terror. * You
don't mean thut you will tell Lord Loring 1 ' she said.

* Mv dear child ! how can vou be so foolish? Can't I show
him the drawing without mentioning who it was done by 1 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 once —
he may even remenil)er the name. Of course, if you like to be
kept in suspense, you have only to say so. It rests with you to
decida*

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 it — not
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 avereion.

* I beg your pardon, Father Benwell,' said Lady Loring ; ' I
hope I don't interrupt your studies ? '

Father Benweli rose and bowed, with a pleasant paternal
smile. ' I am only trying to oiganise an improved arrangement
of the library,' he said simply. ' Books are companionable
creatures — members, as it were, of his family — to a lonely old
priest like myself. Can I be of .my service to your ladyship 1 '

THE CONFIDENCES.

* Thank you, Father. If you can kindly tell me where Lord
Loring'is '

♦ To be sure ! His lordHJiip was here five minutes since — he 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 library, and
opened the door which led into the gallery.

' 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 picture gal-
lery.

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 improve
every victory.

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. 1 know he is
young — but we have to set against the drawback of his youth,
the counter-merits of his incorruptible honesty and his true
religious zeal. No better man is just now within my reach —
and there is no time to lose. Romayne has recently inherited
a large increase of fortune. He will be the object of the basest
conspiracies — conspiracies 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 instruiitions, and have found the meai ^ of
favourably introducing him to Romayne, I shall have the honour
of forwarding a statement of our prospects so far.*

THK BLAf'K TinUK.

Having signed thobo linos, ho adilicmed the letter to 'The
Iveverend tho Secretary, Society of Jesus, Rome.' As he closed
and sealed the envelope, a servant opened the door communi-
cating with the hall, and announced :

* Mr. Arthur Penrose.'

CHAPTER II.

THE JESUITS.

FATHER Ben well rose and advanced to meet the visitor
with his j)aternal smile. * I am heartily glad to see you,'
he said — and held out his hand with a becoming mixture of
dignity and cordiality. Penrose lifted the offered hand respect-
fully 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.*

'Thank you, Father — I am as well as usual.'

♦ Depression of spirits, perhaps?' Father Benwell persisted.

Penrose admitted it with a passing smile. * My spirits are
not very lively,' he said.

Father Benwell shook his nead in gentle di8ai)proval of a
depressed ktate of spirits in a young man. ♦ This must be cor-
rected,' he remarked. * Cultivate cheerfulness, Arthur. I am
myself, thank God, a naturally cheerful man. My mind re-
flects, 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 cultivated — I 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 agree-
able, or you will fail to justify the trust. This is Father Ben-
well's little sermon. I think it has a merit, Arthur — it is a
sermon soon over,'

Penrose looked up at his superior, eager to hear more.

He was a very young man. His large, thoughtful, well-

TRK BLACK ROBE.

Dpened gray eyes, and his habitual )'etinement and modesty of
manner, gave a certain attraction to his personal appearance,
of which it stood in some need. In statu ro he was little and
lean ; his hair had become prematurely thin over his broad fore-
head ,^ 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 needless despair of
himself and his prospects. With all this there was something
in him bO irresistibly truthful and sincere — so suggestive, even
where he might be wrong, of a purely conscientious belief in
his own errors — that he attached people to him without an ef-
fort, and often without being aware of it himself. "What wovild
his friends have said if they had been told that the religious
enthusiasm of this gentle, self-distrustful, melancholy man
might, in its very innocence of suspicion and self-seeking, bo
perverted to dangerous uses in unscrupulous hands 1 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 to control his temper for the first time in his life.

* May I ask a question, without giving ofience 1 ' he said,
timidly.

Father Ben well took his hand. * My dear Arthur, let us
open our minds to each other without reserve. What is your
question 1 '

'You have spoken. Father, of a great trust that is about to be
placed in me.'

* Yes. You are anxious, no doubt, to hear what it is 1 *

* I am anxious to know, in the first place, if it requires me
to go back to Oxford.'

Father Ben well dropped his young friend's hand. * Do you
dislike Oxford 1 ' he asked, observing Penrose attentively. '

* Bear with me, Father, if I speak too confidently. I dislike
the deception which has obliged me to conceal that I am a
Catholic and a priest.'

Father Benwell set this little difficulty right, with the air of
a man who could make benevolent allowance for unreasonable
scruple& ' I think, Arthur, you forget two important consid-
erations,' he spid. * 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 practised. In the

(

THE JESUITS.

spcoinl place, we could only obtain information of the progress
which our Church is silontly making at the University, by em-
ploying you in the capacity of — let me say, an indepen<lcnt
Observer. However, if it will contribute to your ease of mind,
I see no objection to informing you that you will not be in-
structed to return to Oxford. Do I relieve you 1 '

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 acknow-
ledge that you are a Catholic, it will be absolutely necessary
that you should do so. But you will continue to wear the or
dinaiy dress of an English gentleman, and to preserve the
strictest secrecy on the subject of your admission to the priest-
hood, until you are further advised by myself. Now, dear
Arthur, read that paper. It is the necessary preface to all that
I have yet to say to you.

The ' paper * contained a few pages of manuscript, relating to
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, and his detestation of the King.

'Compose yourself, Arthur,' said Father Benwell, smiling
pleasantly. ' We don't mean to allow Henry the F-^fhth to
have it all his own way for ever.'

Penrose looked at his superior in blank bewilderment. His
sui)erior withhold any further information for the present.

' Everything in its turn,' the discreet Father resumed ; * the
tiirn of explanation has not come yet. I have something else
to shew you first. One of the most interesting relics in Eng-
land. Look here.*

He unlocked a flat mahogany box, and di8[)layed to view
some writings on vellum, evidently of great age.

* You have had a little sermon already,' he : ail. ' You shall
have a little story now. No doubt you have heard of Newstead
Abbey — famous among the readers of poetry as the residence
of Byron ? King Henry treated Newstead exactly as he treated
Vange Aboey? Many .fears since, the lake at Newstead was

THE BLACK ROBE.

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 title-deeds of the Abbey
were found in it. The monks had taken that method of con-
cealing the legal proofs of their rights and privileges, in the
hope — a vain hope, I need hardly say — that 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, ad-
uiiiiisteriug a northern diocese, spoke of these circumstances to
a devout Catholic fiiend, 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, 1 should
tell you, was an enthusiast. Saying nothing to the bishop
(whose position and responsibilities he was bound to respect),
ho took into his confidence persons whom he could trust. One
moonlight night — in the absence of the present proprietor, or I
should rather say, the present usurper of the estate — the lake
at Vange was privately dragged, with a result that proved the
bishop's conjecture to be right. Kead those valuable docu-
ments, Arthur. Knowing your strict sense of honour, 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
title-deeds. 'Any doubt on your mind?* he asked, when the
reading had come to an end.

* Not the shadow of a doubt.'

* Is the Church's right to the property clear V

* As clear. Father, as words can make it.'

* Very good. We will lock up the documents. Arbitrary
confiscation, Arthur, even on the part of a king, cannot over-
ride the law. What the Church once lawfully possessed, the
Church has a right to recover. Any doubt about that in your
miud 1 *

* Only the doubt of /low the Church can recover. Is there
anything in this particular case to be hoped from the law 1 '

* Nothing whatever.'

* And yet, Father, you speak as if you saw some prospect of

THE JESUITS.

the restitution of the property. By what means can the resti-
tution be made 1 '

' By peaceful and worthy means/ Father Ben well answered.
* By honourable restoration of the confiscated property to the
Church on the part of the pei-son who is now in possession of it.'

Penrose was surprised and interested. 'Is the person a
Catholic 1 ' he asked, eagerly.

' Not yet' Father Benwell laid a strong emphasis on thoss
two little words. His fat fingers drummed restlessly on the
table; his vigilant eyes rested expectantly on Penrose. 'Surely
you understand me, Arthur 1 ' he added, after an interval.

The colour rose slowly in the worn face of Penrose. * I am
afraid to understand you,' he said.

* Why 1 '

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

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 honour. 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 is — in
your hands — no more than a matter of time.'

* May I ask what his name is ' '

* Certainly. His name is Lewis Romayne.*

* When do you introduce me to him?'

* Impossible to say. I have not yet been introduced myself.'

* You don't know Mr. Romayne ? '

* I have never even seen him.'

These discouraging replies were made with the perfect com-
posure of a man who saw his way clearly before him. Sinkinj;
from one depth of perplexity to another, ' enrose ventured on
putting a last question. * How am I to approach Mr. Ro-
mayne ] ' he asked.

* I can only answer that, Arthur, by admitting you still fur-
ther 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
coffeoi to help ub through the coming extract from Father Ben-

THE SLACK ROBE.

well's autobiograi)liy ? Don't look so serious, my son ! When
the occasion permits it, let us take life lightly.' He rang the
bell and ordered the coffee, as if he were the master of the
house. The servant treated him with the most scrupulous re-
spect. 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 1 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 him with interest

CHAPTER III.

,. ■ (

THE INTRODUCTION TO ROMAYNE.

* "mXCEPTING my employment here in the library,' Father
J-Li 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 honour of being personally acquainted
with Lord Loring. I was also aware that he was an intimate
and trusted friend of llomayne. Under these circumstances,
his lordship presented himself to our point of view, as a means
of approaching the owner of Vange Abbey without exciting dis-
trust. 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 Lad'^ Loring
was attached, in some inferior capacity, to a mission abroad.
And here I am in his place ! By -the- way, 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
house — I am one of the inferior clergy.'

Penrose looked at him with admiration. * It is a great sacri-
fice to make, Father, in your position, and at your age.'

• 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 thinking — avoids
me so carefully, poor soul, that I have never seen her yet.
These rebufTti are wholesome reminders of his fallible human
nature, to a man who has occupied a place of high trust and

THE BLACK ROBE.

encrgiea

command. Besides, tLcre liave been obstacles in my way
which have had an excellent effect in rousing my
How do you feel, Arthur, when you encounter obstacles 1 '

' I do my best to remove them. Father. But I am some-
times conscious of a sense of discouragement.*

* Curious,' said Father Benwell, * I am only conscious, my-
self, of a s*nse of impatience. What right has an obstacle to
get in my way ? — that is how I look at it. For example, the
lirst 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 )iiean
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 re-arrangement
of the library. From that moment, I came and went as often
as I liked. Whenever Lord Loring was disj 0S3d for a little
talk, there I was, to lead the talk in the right direction. And
what is the result 1 On the first occasion when Romayne pre-
sents himself, I can place you in a position to become his daily
companion. All due, Arthur, in the first instance, to my im-
patience of obstacles. Amusing, isn't it ? *

Penrose was perhaps deficient in the sense of humour. In-
stead of being amused, he appeared co be anxious for more in-
formation. ' In what capacity am I to be Mr. Romayne's coui-
panion 1 ' he asked.

Father Benwell poured himself out another cup of coffee.

* Suppose I tell you first,' he suggested, 'how Romayne is
marked out, by habits and disposition, as a promising subject
for conversion. He is young ; still a single man ; romantic,
sensitive, highly cultivated. No near relations are alive to in-
fluence him — he is not compromised by any illicit attachment.
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 remorse — Lord Loring did
aot mention what it was — has told seriously on his nervous

THE INTRODUCTION TO ROMAYXE

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
Abbey — the very place, as I should have thought, for a studious
man.'

Penrose began to be interested. * Have you been to the
Abbey 1 ' he said.

' I made a little excursion to that part of Yorkshire, Arthur,
not long since. A very pleasant trip — apart from the painful
associations connected with the luin 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 Roi a,yne, and to your position as
his future companion. He hai^ 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 physicians was held on
his case the other day.'

* Is he so ill as that ! ' Penrose exclaimed.

* So it appears,' Father Benwell replied, * Lord Loring is
mysteriously silent about the illness. One result of the con-
sultation I extracted from him, in which vou are interested. The
doctors protested against his employing himself on the proposed
book. He was too obstinate to listen to them. There was
but one concession that they could gain from him — he consented
to spare himself, in some small degree, by employing an aman-
uensia 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 to be his
friend and companion. Your part is there, Arthur— you are
the future amanuensis. How does the prospect strike you now 1 *

' I beg your pardon. Father ! I fear I am unworthy of the
confidence which is placed in me.'
' In what way 1 '
Penrose answered with unfeigned humility.

* 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

THF, BT-ACK ROBE.

his own soul's sake. However righteous the cause may bo, I
cannot find in the restitution of the Church property a sutfi*
cient motive for persuading him to change his religio\i8 faith.
Tlicre 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 towards Mr. Komayne
when I first see him ; if he wins upon me little by little, until
I love him like a brother — then, indeed, I can promise that his
conversion shall be the dearest object of my life. But, if there
is not this intimate sympathy between us — forgive me if I say
it plainly — I implore you to pass me over, and to commit the
task to the hands of another man.'

His voice trembled ; his eyes n oistened. Fathrr Benwell
handled his young friend's rising emotion with the dexterity of
a skilled angler humi^uring the struggles of a lively lish.

' Uood Arthur ! ' he said, * 1 see much — too much, dear boy
—of self-seeking people. It is as refreshing to me to hear you,
as a draught of water to a thirsty man. At the same time, let
mo suggest that you are innocently raising difficulties where no
diriiculties exist. I have already mentioned as one of the neces-
sities 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 1 I am a sanguine man ;
and I believe you will like each other. Wait till you see him.'

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

He looked quickly round him — apparently in search of some
person who might, perhaps, be found in the room. A transient
shade of annoyance showed itself in his face, and disappeared
again as he bowed to the two Jesuita

* Don't let me disturb you,* he said, looking at Penrosa * Is
this the gentleman who is to assist Mr. Romayne ? '

Father Benwell presented his young friend. * Arthur Pen-
rose, my lord I ventured to suggest that he should call here
to-day, in case you wished to put any questions to him.'

* 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
has paid us a visit to-day — he is now in the picture gallery.'

The priests looked at each other. Loi 1 Lorinsj left them as

THE INTRODUCTION TO ROMAYNE.

•Is

bnng

I here

has

|m as

'f1

he spoke, lie walked to the opjKJsito door of the library —
o])ened it — glanced round the hall, and at the stairs — and re-
turned again, with the passing expression of annoyance visible
once more. * Come with me to the gallery, gentlemen,' ho said,
* I shall bo happy to introduce you to Mr. llomayne.'

Penrose accepted the proi)Osul. Father Benwell })ointcd with
a smile to the books scattered about him. * With permission, I
will follow your lordship,' he said.

* Who was my lord looking for 1 * 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 frit some stronger emotion, on this
occasion, if he had known t) at the conspiracy in the library to
convert Romayne, was matched by the conspiracy in the picture
gallery to marry him.

Lady Loring's narrative of the conversation which had taken
place between Stella and herself had encouraged the husband
to try his proposed experiment without delay. ' I shall send
a letter at once to Romavne's hotel,' he said.

' Inviting him to come here to-day ? her ladyship inquired.

' Yes. I shall say I particularly wish to consult him about
a pictura Are we to prepare Stella to see him I or would it
be better to let the meeting take her by surprise ? *

* Certainly not ! ' said Lady Loring. * With her sensitive dis-
position, 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 picture to-day — and leave
the rest to me.'

Lady Loring's suggestion was immediately carried out. In
the first fervour of hpv agitation, Stella had declared that her
courage was not equal to a meeti'^g with Romayne on that day.
Becoming more composed, she yielded to Lady Loring's persua-
sion so far as to promise that she would at least make the at-
tempt 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 ua I can't bear even to think of that ! Let me look
in by myself, as if it was by accident.' Consenting to this ar-

THE BLACK JlOBE.

rangement, Lady Loring liad proceeded alone to the gallery,
when Romayne's visit was announced. The minutes passed,
and Stella did not appear. Lord Loring thought it possible
that she might shrink from openly j)rcsenting herself at the
main entrance to tho gallery, and might prefer — especially it"
she was not aware of the priest's presence in the room — to slip
in quietly by the library door. Failing to find her, on putting
this idea to the test, he had discovered Penrose, and so hastened
the introduction of the younger of the two Jesuits to Romayne.

Having gathered his papers together, Father Benwell crossed
the library to the deep bow-window which lighted the room,
and opened his desj)atch-box, standing on a small table in the
recess. Placed in this position, he was invisible to any peraon
entering the room by the hall door.

He had secured his papers in the despatch-box, and had just
closfd and locked it, when he heard the door cautiously opened.

The instant afterwards 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 lady crossed his range of
view.

The priest observed with cold attention her darkly-beautiful
eyes and hair, her quickly-changing colour, her modest grace of
movement. Slowly, and in evident agitation, she advanced to
the door of the picture gallery — and paused, as if she was afraid
to open it. Father Benwell heard her sigh to herself softly, * Oh,
how shall I meet him V She turned aside to the looking-glass
over the tire-place. 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, Stella — come in ! Here is a new picture for you
to see ; and a friend whom I want to present to you, who must
be your friend too — Mr. Lewis Romayne.'

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 hie custom-

THE INTRODUCTION TO HOMAVNE. 5.3

ary doIilxTation of moveinont, ho snatcbed a sheet of paper out
of the case, nnd, frowning heavily, wrote these lines on it •—

Since my letter was sealed, 1 have made a discovery which
mnst be communicated without a Joss of post. I greatly fe u-
there may be a woman in our way. Trust me to combat th'is
obstacle as I have combatted other obstacles. In the meantime
th. work goes on. Penrose has received his first instructions,
and has to-day been presented to Romayne ' "v,tiuuH,

Headdressed this letter to Rome, as he had addressed the
letter preceding it ' Now for the woman ! ' he said to himself
-and opened the door of the picture gallery.

CHAPTER IV.

FATHER BENWELL HITS.

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 pre-occupied by selfish and
HOC )t cares. On entering Lord Loring's gallery, Father Ben-
well found but one person who was not looking at the pictures
under false pretences.

Innocent of all suspicion of the conflicting interests whose
struggle now centred in himself, Romayne was carefully study-
ing 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 secretary — and then
he had turned to the picture, as if Stella and Penrose had
ceased from that moment to occupy his mind.

' In your place,' he said quietly to Lord Loring, * I should
not buy this work.*

'Why not r

* It seems to me to have the serious defect of the modem
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 manufactures — he 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 lo be presented, he turned to her

w 1

FATIIKU IIKNWKLL IHI'S.

r,:*

■with tho air of fatherly interest uid chastened a(hniralion
which he well knew how to assume in his intercourse with

wonion.

' May I ask if you agree with Mr. Romayne's estimate of
the pictuie 1 ' he said, in his gentlest tones.

She had heard of him, and of his petition in the houso. It
was quite needless for liady Loring to whisper to lier, ' Fatluu-
Uonwoll, my dear!' Jin- antipathy idcntitiod him as readily
as her sympathy might have identified a man who had pioduccd
a favourable impression on lier. * I have no pretensions to he
a critic,' she answered, with frigid jjoliteness. * 1 only know
what I personally like or dislike.'

The reply exactly answered Father Ben well's purpose. It
diverted llomayne's attention from the picture to Stella. Tho
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 cri-
ticism,' 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 person-
ally pleases or repels us. My poor opinion of that picture
means tliat it says nothing to Me. Does it say anything to
Your

He smiled gently as he put the question to her ; but there
was no betrayal of emotion in his eyes or in his voice. Rrlievrd
of anxiety so far as Romayne was ©oncerned, Father Bon well
looked at Stella.

Steadily as she controlled herself, the confc^ssion 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 influv^nce of Romayno's voice
and Romayne's look. Without any positive change of colour,
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 iigure seemed insensibly to strengthen
and expand, like the leaf of a flower under a favouring 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 to speak to her and still to look at her, which

tUE BLACK ttOBE.

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 ex-
pressed to him in the honest bluo 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 Bomayne
and Stella needlessly severe. Lady Loring, as usual, agreed
with her husband. While the general attention was occupied
in this %vay. Father Benwell said a word to Penrose — thus far
a silent listener to the discourses on Art.

' Have you seen th> famous portrait of the first Lady Loring,
})y Gainsborough 1 ' he asked. Without waiting for a reply,
he took Penrose by tlie arm and led Iiim away to the picture
— which had the .additional merit, under present circumst9.nces,
of hanging at the other end of the gallery.

* How do you like Romayne ] * Father Benwell put the ques-
tion in low peremptory tones, evidently impatient for a reply.

• He interests me already,' said Penrose. ' He looks so ill
and so sad, and he spoke to me so kindly — '

' In short,' Fathei Benwell interposed, ' Romayne has pro-
duced a favourable ii^ipression on you. Let us get on to the
next thing. You must produce a favourable impression on
Romayne.*

Penrose sighed. * With the best will to make myself agree-
able to the people v/hom I like,' he said, sadly, * I seldom kuc-
ceed. They used to tell me at Oxford that I was shy — and I
am afraid that is against me. I wish I possessed some of your
social advantages, Father 1 '

' Leave it to me, son ! Are they still talking about the pic-
ture r

*Yes.*

* I have something more to say to you. Have you noticed
the young lady 1 '

* I thought her beautiful — but she looks a littla ccld.'
Father Benwell smiled. * When you are as old cjs I am/ he

said, ' you will not believe in appearances where women are
concerned. Do you know what / think of her 1 Beautiful, if
you like — and dangerous as well.*

• Dangerous ! In what way ?'

• This is for your private ear, Arthur. She ia in love with

FATHER BENWELL HITS.

) to keep Mr. Roniayne away

' I am afraid I should hardly
* But I should naturally, as

Koiuayne. Wait a minute ! And Lady Loring — unless I an\
entirely mistaken in what I observed — knows it p-nd favours
iti The beautiful Stella may be the destruction of all our hopes,
unless we keep Romayne out of her way.'

These words were whispered, with an earnestness and agita-
tion which surprised Penrose. His superior's equanimity was
not easily overthrown. ' Are you sure, Father, of what you
say 1 ' he asked.

* I am quite sure — or I should not have spoken,'

' Do you think Mr. Romayne returns the feeling I *

* Not yet, luckily. You must use your first friendly influence
over him. What is her name ? Her surname, I mean.'

* Eyrecourt. Miss Stella Eyrecourt'

' Very well. You must use your influence (when you are
quite sure that it is an influen " - - -

from Miss Eyrecourt.'

Penrose looked embarrassed,
know hov/ to do that,' he said
his assistant, encourage him to keep to his studies.'

Whatever Arthur s superior might privately think of Ar-
thur's reply, he received it with outward indulgence. * That
will come to the same thing,' he said. * Besides, when f get
the information I want — that is htrictly between ourselves — I
may be of some use in placing obstacles in the lady's way.'

Penrose started. * .information ! ' he repeated. ' What in-
formation 1 '

'Tell mf^ something before I answer you,' said Father Ben-
well. * How old do you take Miss Eyrecourt to be i '

* I am not a good judge in such matters. Between twenty
and twenty-five, perhaps ' '

* We will take her age at that estimate, Arthur. In former
years, I have had opportunities of studying women's charactfi'S
in the confessional. Can you guess what my experience tells
me of Miss Eyrecourt ? '

* No, indeed I '

' A lady is not in love for the first time, when she is be-
tween twenty and twenty-five years old — that is my experience,
said Father Benwell. * If I can find a person capable of in-
forming 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.'

CHAPTER V.

FATHER BEXWELL MISSES.

TTIE group before the picture which had heen the subject of
dispute was broken up. I^ ^ne part of tlie gallery, Lady
Loring and Stella were whispering together on a sofa. In an-
other part, Lord Loring was speaking privately to Ilomayne.

' Do you think you will like Mr. Penrose 1 ' his lordship
asked.

'Yes — so far as I can tell at present. He seems to be modest
and intelligent.*

* You are looking ill, my dear Romayne. Have you again
heard the voice that haunts you 1 '

Romayne answered with e\ident 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, 1 came here in the
hope that the change might relieve me.'

* Has it done soV
' Yes — thus far.'

* 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 ordeal
— but I hate speaking of it'

* Let us speak of something else then,' said Lord Loring.
* What do you think of Miss Eyrecourt 1 '

' A very striking face ; full of expression and character.
Ijoonardo would have painted a noblo ])ortrait of her. But

there is something in her niannnr * He stoi)ped, unwilling

or unable to finish the sentence.

' Something you don't like ? ' Lord liOring suggested.

* No j something I don't quite understand. One doesn't ex-

FATHER BENWELL MISSES.

of
in-
lip

jst
in

ifc
lal

It
g

reel to find any enil)arraHsment in the manner of a well-bred
woman. And yet, she seemed to be embarrassed when she
spoke to me. Perhaps I produced an unfortunate impression
on her.'

Lord Loring laughed. * In any man but you, Romayne, I
sliould call that affectation.'

' Why 1 ' Romayne asked sharply.

Lord Loring looked unfeignedly surprised. * IViy aear fellow,
do you really think you are the sort of man who impresses a
woman unfavourably at first sight? For once in your life, in-
dulge in the amiable weakness of doing yourself justice — and
find a better reason for Miss Eyrecourt's embarrassment.'

For the f" ' time since he and his friend had been talking
together, Romayne turned towards 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 dropped ; 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.
He roused himself, and spoke to Lord Loring in lowered tones.

* Have you known Miss Eyrecourt for a long time 1 *

* She is my wife's oldest and dearest friend. I think, Ro-
mayne, you would feel interested in Stella, if you saw more of
her.'

Romayne bowed in silent submission to Lord Loring's pro-
phetic remark. * Let us look at the pictures,' he said quietly.

As he moved down the gallery, the two priests met him.
Father Berwell saw his opportunity of helping Penrose to pro-
duce a favourable im]iression.

* Forgive the curi 'ty of an old student, Mr. Romayne,' ho
said in his pleasant, Liieerful way. * Lord Loring tells me you
have sent to the country for your books. Do you find a Lon-
don hotel favourable to study 1 '

' It is a very quiet hotel,' Romayne answered ; * and the
people know my ways.' Ue turned to Arthur. * I have my
own set of rooms, Mr. Penrose,' he continued — * with a room
at your disposal. I used to enjoy tlie solitti'le of my house in
the country. My tastes have lately changed — there are times
now when I want to see the life in the stici^ts, as a relief.
Though we are in au hotel, I can promise that you will not be

THE IJLACIK ItOlJE.

troubled by interruptions, when you kindly lend me the use of
your pen.'

Father Ben well answered before Penrose could speak. ' You
liiay perhaps find my young friend's memory of some use to you,
Mr. lloniayne, as well as his pen. Penrose has studied in the
Vatican Libraiy. If your reading leads you that way, he
knows more than most men of the rare old manuscripts which
treat of the early history of Jhristianity.'

Tlii.s delicately-managed reference to Romayne's projected
work on ' The Origin of lleligions' produced its effect. He be-
came instantly interested iii Penrose and his studies. ' I
should like very much to speak to you about those manuscripts,'
he said. ' Copies of some of them may perhaps be in the
British Museum. Is it asking too much to inquire if you are
disengaged this morning 1 *

• I am entirely at your service, Mr. Romayne.'

•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 you with a
list of titles and data's. There is the address.'

With those woi-ds, he advanced to take his leave of Ladv
Loring and Stella.

Father Benwell was a man possessed of extraordinary power
of foresight — but 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 wa» nothing further to be gained by
remaining in the gallery. In arriving at this conclusion, he
was additionally influenced by })rivate and personal considera-
tions. 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
Romayne, when he had sufliciently established himself in the
confidence of his employer. There might, no doubt, be future
opportunities for accomjilishing this object — but Father Benwell
was not a man to trust too implicitly in the future. The
present occasion was, in respect of its certainty, the occasion
that he preferred. Making one of his ready and plausible ex-
cuses, he returned with Penrose to the library — and so com-
mitted (as he himself discovered at a later time) one of the few
luistakes in the long record of his life.

FATHER BENWELL MISSES.

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 en-
thusiastic 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 in)portant enterprise of opening his heart to the
influence of the sex.

* Stay, and lunch with us,* she said, ^ hen he held out his
hand to bid her good-bye.

* Thank you, Lady Loring, I never take lunch.

* Well then, come and dine with us — no party ; only our-
selves. To-morrow, and next day, we are disengaged. Which
day shall it be T

Romayne still resisted. ' You are veiy kind. In my state
of health, I am unwilling to make engagements which I may
not be able to keep.'

Lady Loring was just as resolute on her side. She appealed
to Stella. * Mr. Romayne persists, my dear, in putting me ofT
with excuses. Try if you can persuade him.'

* / am not likely to have any iifiuence, Adelaide.'

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, and that was most
deeply and sensitively felt in her aspiratioi^s, 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 observed him attentively.

' Perhaps you underrate ycur influence, Stellal ' she suggested.

Stella reD)ained 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 favour-
able impression on any one on so short a tima'

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

'Perhaps we have begun, Miss Eyrecourt, by misinterpreting
one another,' he said. ' We may arrive at a better understand-
ing, when I have the honour of meeting you again.'

THE BLACK ROBE.

lie hesitated, and looked at Lady Loring. She was not the
woman to let a fair opportunity escape her. * Wo will say to-
morrow evening,' she resumed, *at seven o'clock.'

* To morrow,' said Romayne. He shook hands with Stella,
and left the picture gallery.

Thus far, the conspiracy to marry him piomised 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 the"ir progress, mark the march of events
as surely as they mark the march of time. The day passed, the
evening came — and, with its coming, the prospects of the con-
versation brightened in their turn.

Let Father Benwell himself relate how it happened — in an
extract from his report to Rome, written the same evening.

* ... I had arranged with Penrose that he should call at
s^ my lodgings, and tell me how he had jn-ospered at the first per-

formance of his duties as secretary to Romayne.

* 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 Ro-
mayne and himself.

* He repeated the word with eveiy appearance o? surprise.
" Disagreement 1 " he said. ** No words can tell how sincerely I
feel for Mr. Romayne, and 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 answering my
question.

' *' I have innocently surprised a secret," he said, " on which
I had no right to intrude. All that I can honourably tell you,
shall be told. Add to your many kindnesses, Father — and don't
command me to speak, when it is my duty towards a sorely-
tried man to be silent, even to You."

*Itis needless to say that I abstained from directly answering
this strange appeal. If I found it necessary to our interests to
assert my spiritual authority, I was, of course, resolved to do it.
" Let me hear what you can tell," I replied, " and then we
shall sea"

* Upon this, he spoke. I need hardly recall to your memory

FATHER BENWELL MISSES.

how careful we were, in first planning the attempt to recover
the Vange property, to assure ourselves of the promise of suc-
cess, which the peculiar character of the j)re8ent owner held
out to us. In reporting what Penrose said, I communicate a
discovery, which I venture to think will be as welcome to you
as it was to mo.

' lie began by reminding me of what I had myself told hiiu
in 8i)eaking of itomayno. " You mentioned having heard from
Lord Loring of a groat sorrow or remorse from which he was
suffering," Penrose said; ** and you added that your informant
abstained from mentioning what the nature of that remorse, or
of the nervous malady connected with it, might be. I know
what he suffers, and why he suffers, and with what noble resig-
nation he submits to his affliction."

'There Penrose stopped. You know the emotional nature of
the man. It was only by a hard struggle with himself that he
abstained from bursting into tears. I gave him time — and then
I asked how he made the discovery.

• He hesitated, but he answered plainly, so far. " We were
sitting together at the table, looking over his notes and memo-
randa," Penrose said, "when he suddenly dropped the manu-
scri[)t 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
stop|)ed me ', he spoke in faint gasping tones, forbidding mo to
call anyone 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 ho
would treat me. Sooner or later (those were his exact words)
I must be taken into his confidence— and 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 con-
version — and, in my inmost soul, I feel the conviction that T
shall succeed I "

THE BLACK ROBR.

' To this effect, and in this tone, Penrose spoke. I abstained
from pressing him to reveal Romayne's confession. The con-
fession is of no consequence to us. You know how the moral
force of Arthur's earnestness and enthusiasm fortifies his other-
wise weak character. I, too, believe he will succeed.

' But, before I close th(!se lines, there is a (juestion which I
must submit to your consideration.

' You are already informed that there is a woman in our way.
She shall not succeed in her designs on Uoniayne, if I can pre-
vent it. Bub other women may try their temj)tations on him.
Even the conversion, from which we hope and ex[)ect so much,
cannot be relied on to secure the restitution of the Vange pro-
perty. It is not enough for us that the property is not entailed,
and that there is no near relation with any pretensions to in-
!ierit it. While Romayne remains a marriageable man, there
is always the danger of an heir to the estate being born. In
my humble opinion, the one safe course is so to impress his
mind, by means of Penrose, as to cultivate in him a vocation
for the priesthood. As a priest, we are sure of him. Be so
good as to present this idea at head-quarters, and let me know
the result, at the earliest possible opportunity.'

Having conqileted his report, Father Benwell reverted to the
consideration of his i)rcpo.se(l inquiries into the past history of
Stella's life.

Reflection convinced him that it would be unwise to at-
tempt, no matter how guardedly, to obtain the necessary in-
formation from Lord Loring or his wife. If he assumed, at his
Hge, to take a strong interest in a Protestant young lady, who
had notoriously avoided him, they would certainly feel surprise
— and surprise might, in due course of development, tuin to
suspicion.

There was but one other person under Lord Loring's roof to
whom he could address himself — and that person was the house-
kee[)er. As an old servant, possessing La ly Loring's confidence,
she might prove a source of information ; and, as a good Ca-
tholic, she would feel flattered by the notice of the spiritual
director of the household.

* It may not be amiss,' thought Father Benwell, * If I try the
housekeeper.'

CHAPTER VI.

THE ORDER OF THE DISHES. -

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 repre-
sented by the wearing of a youthful wig, and the erroneous con-
viction that she still possessed a fine figure. The ruling idea
in hernarrow little mind was the idea of her own dignity. Any
offence offered in this direction oppressed her memory for days
together, and found its way outwards in speech to any human
being whose attention she could secure.

At fire o'clock, on the day w' ich followed his introduction
to Romayne, Father Benwell sat drinking his coffee in the
housekeeper's room — to 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 lib-
rary of devotional works lay on the table, and bore silent wit-
ness 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 title-page.

• Is your coffee to your liking, Father 1 '

* A little more sugar, if 3'ou please.*

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

THE liLACK EOBE.

; 1

me in this way,' sliesiid — with the appearance of sixteen super-
induced upon tlm reality of sixty.

Father Benwell was an adept at moral disguises of k1i kinds.
On tliis 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 any househoUl (luties?'

' I generally enjoy my duties,' Miss Notman answered. • To-
day they have not V)een 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 offenct! offered to her dignity, and she was invariably ready
to state her grievance at full length. Ignorant of this pecu-
liarity. Father Benwell committed a fatjil error. JTe inquired,
with courteous interest, what the housekeeper's * trials ' might
be.

'Oh, sir, they are beneath youi oticf^ ! ' said Miss Notman,
modestly. 'At the same time, I should feel it an lionour to
have the benefit of your opinion — I sliould so like to know
that you did not altogether di.sapprove of my conduct, und^^r
sonie 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 person like myself.*

• A large dinner paity, Miss Notman ? '

*0h, dear, no ! Quito the reverse. Only one gentleman —
Mr. Bomayne.'

Father Benwell set down his cup of coffee, half way to his
lips. He at once drew the correct conclusion, that the invita-
tion to Romayne must have been given and accepted, after he
had left the picture gallery. That the object was to bring Ro-
mayne and Stella together, under circumstances which would
lapidly improve their acquaintance, was as plain to him as if he
had heard it confessed in so many words. If he only had re-
mained in thi gallery, he might have become acquainted with
the form of persuasion used to induce a man so un80( ial as
llomayne ^o accept an invitation. * I have myself to V»lame,*
he thought ulcterly, * for being left in the dark.'

THK ORDi:U OF illE DISHES.

'Anything wrong with the coffee'?' Miss Notman aakcd anx-
iously.

He rushed on his fate. lie salJ, * Nothing whatever, pray
go on.'

Mi.ss Notman 'vent on.

' You see, Father Lady Loriiig was unusually particular
about the dinner, on this occii-sion. She snid, " Loi<l Loring
reiniiulb nie that Mr. l^)mayne is a very little eater, and yet
very dilhcult to please in what he doos eat." Of course I con-
sulted my exj)erience, and suj^gcsted 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 din-
ner 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 shud-
dered over the private and poignant recollections which the
order of the dis' ^s called up.

By this time, Fatlier Benwell had discovered his misfake.
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 peoplti only. Lord
and Lady Loring, two; Mr. Romayne, three — oh ! perha[>3 I am
mistaken ] Perhaps Miss Eyrecourt makes a fourth ? '

' Certainly, Father ! '

* A very charming person. Miss Notman. I only speak as a
stranger. You, no doubt, are much better acquainted with INUss
Eyrecourt 1 '

* Much better, indeed — if I may presume to say so,' Miss
Notman replied. * She is my latiy's intimate friend ; we have
often talked of Miss Eyrecourt, during the many years of inv
residence in this house. On such subjects, her ladyship trea -i
me quite on the footing of an humble friend. A complete con-
trast 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, divei'gence of opinion, as I
may call it, on the subject of the dishes to follow. Her lady-
ahip said, "Firat the sweetbreads, and then the cutlets." I ven-

tHE BLACK UOHE.

tnred to suggest that the sweetbreads, as white moats, hnd
better not immediately follow the turbot, as white fish. •' The
brown meat, my lady," I said, " as an agreeable variety pro-
sonted to the eye, and then the white meat, recalling pleasant
remembrances of the white fish." You see the point, Father ! '

• I see, Miss Notman, that you are a consumniate mistresH of
an art which is quite beyond poor me. Was Miss Eyrecourt
)resent at the little discussion 2 '

' Oh, no ! Indeed I should have objected to her presence ; I

should have said she was a young lady out of her proper place.'

' Yes, yes ; I understand. Is Miss Eyrecourt an only child 1 *

'One of her two sisters is in a convent. The other is dead.'

• Sad for the father and mother, Miss Notman ! '

• Pardon me, sad for the mother, no doubt. The father died
long since.

'Aye? aye? A sweet woman, the mother? At least, I
think I have heard so.'

Miss Notman shook her head. *I should wish to guard my-
self 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 essentially a frivolous
person.'

A frivolous person is, in the vast majority of cases, a person
easily pereuaded to talk, and not disposed to be reticent in
keeping secrets. Father Ben well began to see his way already
to the necessary information. ' Is Mrs. Eyrecourt living in
London V he inquired.

•Oh, dear, no! At this time of year she lives entirely in
other people's houses — goes frojn 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 op-
position — well ! well ! I won't dwell on that I will only ask
l/ou, Father, at what part of a dinner anoyster-oroelette ought
to be served ?'

Father Benwell seized his opportunity of discovering Mra
Eyrecourt's present address. ' My dear lady,' he said, * J know
uo more when the omelette ought to be served than Mrs.

TIIK ORDER OF TIIK DISIIKS.

ought

: Mrs.

know

IVJrs.

Eyrecourt bonielf ! It must ho very jilfasant, to a lady of hor
way of thinking, to enjoy the heauti«\s of Nature inexpensively
— as seen in other people's houses, from the point of view of a
welcome guest. I wonder whether she is staying at any c )uu-
try seat which I happen to have seen?'

' She may be in England, Scotland, or Ireland, for all I kn )w,'
]Mi83 Notman answered, with an unaflected ignorance w'lich
jihii'Hd hor good faith beyond doubt. ' Consult your own t»8te,
Father. After eating jelly, cream and ice-pudding, could you
even look at an oyster-omelette, without shuddering ? Would
you believe it? Her ladyship j)roposed to serve the omelette with
the cheese. Oysters, after sweets ! I am not (as yet) a married
w,)in m — '

Father Bonwell made a last desperate effort to pave the way
for one more question, before he submitted to defeat. ' That
must be yoiir fault, my dear lady !' he interposed, with his per-
suasive smile.

Miss Notman sim[)ered. • You confuse me, Father i* she said
softly.

* 1 speak from inward conviction, Miss Notman. To a looker-
on, like myself, it is sad to see how many swee^ women, who
might bo angels in the households of worthy men, prefer to lead
.1 single life. The Church, I know, exalts the single life to the
iiighest place. But even the Church allows exceptions to its
rule. Uu'ler tliis roof, for exam})le, I think I see two excep-
tions. One of them my unfeigned respect* (he bowed to Mi.ss
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 V

The trap had been elaborately set ; Father Benwell had every
reason to anticipate that Miss Notman would walk into it. This
disconcerting housekeeper walked up to it — and then proved
unable to advance a stej) farther.

* I once made the same remark myself to Lady Loring,* she
said. • And her ladyship,' Miss Notman proceeded, * did not en-
courage 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 coufidenoo

%
II

THE BLACK KOBE.

in mj prudence wiuch I felt gratefully. Such a contrast to her
tone when the omelette 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 oyster-omelette 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 cheese-omelette
might be in its proper place, if it followed the sweets. " An
oyster-omelette," I suggested, "surely comes after the birds V*
I should be borry to say that her ladyship lost her tamper — I
will only mention that I kept mine. Let me repeat what she
saiti, and leave you. Father, to draw your own conclusiona
She said, "Which of us is mistress in this house. Miss Notman ?
I order the oyster-omelette to come in with the cheese." Tliere
was not only irritability, there was conteuipt — oh, yes ! con-
tempt — in her ton^.. Out oi respect for myself, I made no reply.
As a Christian, I can forgive ; as a wounded gentlewoman, I
may not find it so easy to forget'

Miss Notma'^ laid herself back in her easy chair — she 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 his feet

* You are not going away already, Father V

' Time flies fast in your society, dear Miss Notman. I liave
an engagemenvr— and I am late for it already.'

The housekeeper smiled sadly. ' At least let me hear that
you don't disapprove of ray conduct under trying circum-
stances,' she said.

Father Benwell took her hand. * A true Christian only feels
offences to pardon them,' he remarked, in his priestly and
)>aternal character. * You have shown ri;>e, Miss Notma i, that
you are a true Christian. My evenrng h\^ indeed been well
spent. God bless you ! '

lie pressed her hand ; he shed on her the light of his fatherly
Gmile ; he sighed, er.d took his leave. Miss Notman's eyes fol-
lowed him out with devotional admiration.

Father Benwell still preserved his serenity of temper when
he was out of the housekeeper's sight One important discovery
he hud made, in spite of the difiic'iiltics placed in his way. A

THE ORDER OF THE DISHES.

compromisi/)g circumstance had unquestionably occurrfd
Stella's pr.3t life ; and a man was, beyond all doubt, in some way
connected with it. * My evening has not been entirely thrown
away,' he thought, as he ascended the stairs which led from
the housekeeper's room to the hall.

CHAPTER VII.

THE INFLUENCE OF STELLA.

ENTERING the hall, Father Benwell heard a knock at the
house door. The servants appeared to reeogr 'se the knock
— the porter adiiiittec Loid Loring.

Father Benwoll advanced, and ^'^dehia bow. It was a per-
fect obeisance of its kind — respect for Lord Loring, unoV)tru-
sively accompanied by res^pect for himself. • Has your lordship
been walking in the park 1 ' he inquired.

' 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
niinuttis, come ir»to the library. Some time since,' )ie resumed,
wlten the door v/as closed ' i think I mentioned that my friends
had been speaking to m ) ov a subject of some importance — the
subject of opening my picture gallery occasionally to the public'

* I remember,' siiid Father Benwell. * Has your lordship de-
cided what to do ? '

* Yes. I have decided (as the })hrase is) "to go with the
times," and follow the example of other owners of picture gal-
leries. Don't suppose 1 ever doubted that it is my duty to ex-
tend, to the best of my ability, the civilising influence? of Art.
My only hesitation in the matter arose from a dread of some
accident happening, or some injury being done, to the pictur3S.
Even now, I can only persuade myself to try the experiment,
under certain restrictions.'

' A wise decision, undoubtedly,' said Father Benwell. * In
such a city as this, you could hardly open your (gallery to every-
body who happens to pjiss the house-door.

' I am glad you agree with me. Father. The gallery will be
opened for the first time on Monday. Any respectably- dressed
person, presenting a visiting card at the offices of the librarians
in Bond Street an . Regont Street, wi'l receive a free ticket of

THE INFLUENCE OF STELLA.

admission; the number of the tickets, it is needless to say, being
limited, and the gallery being only opened to the public two
days in the week. You will be here, I suppose, on Monday 1 '

* Certainly. My work in the library, as your lordship can see,
has only begun.'

* I am very anxious about the succeso of this experiment,'
said Lord Loring, * Do look in at the gallery, once or twice in
the course of the day, and tell me what your own impression is.'

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 dinner-table.
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 deliven d
a letter for Lord Loring, in which Father Benwell's interests
were directly involved. The letter was from Romayne ; it con-
tained his excuses for breaking his engagement, literally at an
hour's notice.

' Only yesterday,' he wrote, *I had a reuirnof what you, my
dear friend, call "the delusion of the voice." The nearer the
hour of your dinner approaches, the more I feel the dread that
the same thing may happen in your house. Pity me, and for-
give me.'

Even good-natured 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 exorcising some sel^'-control. Poor Stella!
And what will my wife say 1 '

He walked up and down the librr. y, with Stella's disapi)oiiit-
ment and Lady Loring's indignation prophetically present in his
mind. There was, however, no help for it — he must accept his
responsihility, and be the bearer of the bad newa

He was on the point of leaving the library, when a visitor
appeared. The visitor was no less a person than Romayne him-
self. * Have I arrived before my letter 1 ' he asked, eagerly.

Lord Jjoring showed him the letter.

* Throw it into the fire,' he said ; • and let me try to excuse
myself for having written it You remember the happier dnys

THE BLACK ROBE.

when you used to call me the creature of impulse? An impulso
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 when the physicians consulted on my Cfise 1 I want you
to check me if I misrepresent their opinion^. Two of thera
were physicians. The third, and last, was a surgeon, a personal
friend of your's ; and he, as well as I recollect, told you how the
consultation ended?'

* Quite right, Roniayne — so far.'

' The first of the two physician.s,' Romayne proceeded, ' de-
clared my cise to be entirely attributable to nervous derange-
ment, and to be curable by purely medical means. He propofftd,
first of all, to restore *' the tone of my stomach," and, this done,
to administer certain medicines, having a direct influence on the
brain and the nervous system. I speak ignorantly ; but, in
plain English, that, 1 believe, was the substance of what he
said]'

' The substance of what he said,' Lord Loring replied, * and
the substance of his prescriptions — which, I think you after-
wards tore up 1 '

* 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 difiered 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, and
mingling the two opposite forms of treatment in one harmonious'
result r

Lord Loring remarked that this was not a very respectful way
of describing the conclusion of the medical proceedings. That
it was the conclusion, however, he could not honvistly deny.

' As long as I am right,' said Romayne, * nothing else ap-
pears 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 1 ' -

* Are you sure that I shall not distress you ? '

* On the contrary, you may help me to hope.'

THE INFLUENCE OF STELLA.

' As I remember it,' sa^d Lord Lorinor, * tlie doctor did not
dop^ the influence of the body over the mind. He was "inilo
willing to admit that the state of your aurvous system might be

one, among other, predisposing causey^ which led you 1

really hardly like to go on.'

' Which led me,' Romayne continued, finishing the sentence
for his friend, *to feel that I never shall forgive myself — acci-
dent or no accident — for having taken that man's life. Now
go on.'

* The delusion that you still hear the voice,' Lord Loring pro-
ceeded, ' 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 physic-
ally, of course, by means of certain nerves. But it is essentially
a moral influence ; and its power over you is greatly maintained
by the self-accusing view of the circumstances which you per-
sist in taking. That, in substance, is my recol) action of what
the doctor said.'

* And when he was asked what remedies he proposed to try,'
Romayne inquired, ' do you remember his answer] " The mis-
chief which moral influences have caused, moral influences alone
can remedy."'

' I remember,' said Lord Loring. * And he mentioned, as
ftxamplei^' 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 thought — or perhaps some influence
exercised over you, by a person previously unknown ; appearing
under unforeseen circumstances, or in scenes quite new to you.'

Romayne's eyes sparkled.

* Now you are coming to it ! * he cried. • Now I feel sure
that I recall correctly the last words the doctor said : — " If Mr.
Romayne follows my advice, I should not be surprised to hear
that the recovery which we all wish to see, had found its be-
ginning 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 exctise. I
spare you the course of other rcjcollections that followed, to come
at once to the result. For the tirst time, I have the hope, r,he
faint ho|>e, that the voice which haunts me has been once already

THE BLACK UOliE,

controlled by one of the influences of which the doctor spoke —
the influence of a look.'

If he had said this to I^ady Loring, instead of to her hus-
band, she would have understood him at once. Lord Loring
asked for a word more of explanation.

' 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 tiying
if change would relieve me. While 1 was in the gallery, 1 was
free from the dread, and free from the voice. When 1 re-
turned to the hotel, it tortured me — and Mr. Penrose, 1 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 nmn like nae. Keniember the
doctor's words, Loring. Think of a lew 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 mantel-
piece. The hands pointed to the dinner hour.

' Miss Eyrecourt ? ' he whispered.

' Yes — Miss Eyrecourt.'

The library door was thrown open by a servant. Stella her-
self entered the room.

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CHAPTER VIII.

THE PRIEST Oa THE WOMAN.

JORD Loring hurried away to his dressing-room. * I won't
-^ be more than ten minutes/ he said — and left Romayne
and Stella together.

She was attired with her customary love of simplicity. White
lace was the only ornament on her dress of delicate silvery grey.
ITer 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 the first time she had seen
him in evening dress.

It may be that women have no positive appreciation of what
is beautiful in form and colour — or 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 thou-
sand 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 stiflT 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
herself — she begun turning over the photographs on the table.

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.

THE BLACK ROBE.

' I thought I heard my name when I came in,' she said. '"Were
you and Lord Loring speaking of me 1 '

Romayne owned without hesitation that they had been speak-
ing of her.

She smiled, and turned over another photograph. But when
did sun-pictures ever act as a restraint on a woman's curiosity.
The words passed her lips in spite of her. * I suppose I musn't
ask what you were saying ? '

It was impossible to answer this plainly without entering into
explanations from which Romayne shrank. He hesitated.

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 ray faults, if you will
tell me what they are.*

Romayne felt that he had no alternative but to tell the truth
— under certain reserve* * Indeed you are wrong,' he said. * We
were talking of the influence of a tone, or a look, on a sensitive
person.'

* The influence on Me V she asked.

* No. The influence which you might exercise on another
person.'

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

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

* Certainly for good.*

* You speak positively, Mr. Romayne. Almost as positively
— only that can hardly be — as if you were speaking from expe-
rience.'

He might still have evaded a dii'ect reply, if she had been
content with merely saying this. But she looked at him while
she spoke. He answered the look.

* Shall I own that you are right 1 * he said. ' I was thinking
of my own experience yesterday.'

She returned to the photograph* * It sonnds impossible,' she
rejoined softly. There was a pause. ' Was it anything I said 1 '
she asked.

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

THE PRIEST OR THE WOMAN.

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 tliink I like to be llattored 1 '

Romayne answered with an earnestnese that instantly satis-
fied her.

' I should think it an act of insolence to flatten" you,' he said.
' If you knew the true reason why I htwitated to accept Lady
Lorin«?'8 invitation— if I could own to you the now hope for
myself that has brought nie here — you would fwl as I feel, that
I have been only speaking tho truth I daivn't say yet that I
owe you a debt of gratitude, for MUch a little tiling a« a look. I
must wait till time puts certain strange fancies of ni' ic to the
proof. '

* Fancies about me, Mr. Uomayne ]'

Before he could answei, the dinner bell rang. Lord and Lady
Lorini,' entewd tkt> library together.

The diiuiev having pursued its ap|)ointed course (always ex-
cepting the case of the omelette), the head servant who had
waited at table was graciously invited to rest, after his laboura,
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 gentlefolk upstairs had enjoyed their din-
ner. So far, the report was, on the whole, favourable. But
the conversation was described as occasionally flagging. The
burden of the talk ha I been mainly borne by my lord and my
lady ; Mr. Romayne and Miss Eyrecourt contiibuting but little
to the social enjoyment of the evening. Receiving this infor-
mation 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
oyster-omelette (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 Eyrecouri 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 sur-
prised by the eflfect which it produced on the housekeeper, bho

THK BLACK m^RK.

leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, with an appear-
ance of unutterable enjoyment. That night there was one su-
premely happy woman in London. And her name was MisH
Nutman.

Ascending from the housekeeper's room to the drawing room,
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
us usual. At the other end of the . oom Koniuyne and Stella sat
together, listening to the music. I^ord Loring walking backwards
and forwards, with a restlessness which was far from being
charac eristic of hira in his after-dinner hours, was 8to{)ped
when he reached the neighbourhood of the piano by a private
signal from his wit'a

' What are you walking about for 1 ' Lady Loring asked in a
whisper, without interrupting her musical performance.

' I'm not quite easy, my dear.*

*Turn over the music. Indigestion? '

* Good heavens, Adelaide, what a question.'

* Well, what is it then ? '

Lord iioring looked towards Stella and her companion. *Tl»cy
don't seem to get on together as well as I had hoped,' he paid.

* I should think not — when you an; walking about and dis-
turbing them ! Sit dtiwn there behind me.'

* What am I to do 1 '

* Am I not playing ] Listen to me.'

* My dear, I don't understand modern German music'
' Then read the evening )).'i per.'

The evening paper had its attractions. Lord Loring took his
wife's advice.

licft entirely by themselves, at the other end of the room,
Komayne 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.

* Do you pass most of your evenings alone, Mr. Komayne 1 '
'Not quite alone. I have the company of my books.'

* Are your books the companions that you like best ? '

* I have been true to those companions, Miss Eyrecourt, for
many years. If the doctors are io be believed, my books have
not treated me very well in return. They have broken down

Tin: iMUKST on tiik woman.

ni} lirulUi, and imvu inadH tue, I am afraid, a very unnocial man.'
llo seemed about to say more, and suddenly check '^d the im-
pulse. 'Why am I talking of myself 1' he resumed with a
smile. < I never do it at other timea Is this another result of
your indut'Tico over niel'

He put the qn(>Htion with an assumed gaiety. Stella made no
eflurt, on her siile, to answer him in the siime tone.

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

•Why]'

♦1 should try to induce you to shut up your "nooks, and clioose
some living companion who might restore you to your happier
self.'

' It is already done,' said Romayne ; ' I have a new companion
in Mr. Penrose.'

* Penrose 1 ' she repeated. ' He is the friend — is he not — of
the priest here, whom chey call Father Bon well ] '

* Yes.'

' I don't like P'ather Ben well.*

* Is that a reason for disliking Mr. Penrose ?*

* Yes,' she said boldly, * because he is Father Benwell's friend.'
' Indeed you are mistaken, Miss Eyrecourt. Mr. Penrose

only entered yesterday on his duties as my secretary ; and I
have already had reason to think highly of him. Many men,
after that experience of me,' he added, speaking more to himself
than to her, * might have asked me to tind another secretary.'

Stella heard those last words, and looked at him in astonish-
ment. * Were you angry with Mr. Penrose ? ' she asked inno-
cently. ' Is it possible that you could speak harshly to any per-
son in your employment V

Romayne smiled. ' It was not what I said,' he answered. ' I
am subject to attacks — to sudden attacks of illnesa 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 something ? ' she said
timidly.

' It is impossible I can be angry with you 1 *

* Mr. Romayne, I think I have seen what your aecretmy saw,
I know how you suffer, and how patiently you bear it,'

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(716) S72-4S03

THE BLACK ROBE.

* You ! ' he exclaimed.

' I saw you with your friend, when yon came on board the steam-
boat at Boulogne. Oh, no, you never noticed me ! You never knew
how I pitied you. And afterwards, when you moved away by
yourself, and stood by the place in which the engines work— -
you are sure you won't think the worse of me, if I tell it 1 '

' No ! no ! '

' Your face frightened me — I can't describe it — I went to your
friend, and took it on myself to say that you wanted him. It
was an impulse — I meant well.'

' I am sure you meant well ' As he spoke, his face darkened
a little, betraying a momentary feeling of distrust. Had she
put indiscreet questions to his travelling companion ; and had
the Major, under the persuasive influence of her beauty, been
weak enough to answer them. 'Did you speak to my friend 1'
he asked.

* Only when I told him that he had better go to you. And I
think I said afterwards I was afraid you were very ill. We were
in the confusion of arriving at Folkestone — and, even if I had
thought it right to say more, there was no opportunity.'

Romayne felt ashamed of the suspicion by which he had
wronged her. * You have a generous nature,' he said earnestly.
* Among the few people whom I know, how many would feel
the interest in me that you felt 1 '

' Don't say that Mr. Romayne ! You could have had no kinder
friand than the gentleman who took care of you on your journey.
Is he with you now, in London ? '

'No.'

' I am sorry to hear it You ought to have some devoted
friend always near you.*

She spoke very earnestly. Romayne shrank, v/ith 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

with a sincere interest in m}' welfare. He little thinks how he

distresses me,'

' Why should he distress you 1 '

' He reminds me — live as long as I may — that I must live
alone, Can I ask a woman to share such a dreary life as mine t

THE PRIEST OR THE WOMAN.

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. *! 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 caress-
ingly on Lady Loring*8 shoulder.

* Will you sing, Stella V

She sighed and turned away. * Not to-night,' she answered.

Romayne took his leave rather hurriedly. He seemed to We
out of spirits and eager to get away. Lord Loring accompanied
his guest to the door. * You look sad and care-worn,' he said.
* Do you regret having left ;'Our books to pass an evening with
usl*

Romayne looked up absently, j nd answered, 'Idon't know yet,'

Returning to report this extraordinary reply to his wife and
Stella, Lord Loring found the drawing-room empty. Eager for a
little private conversation, the two ladies had gone upstairs.

' "Well ? * said Lady Loring, as they sat together over the fire,
« What did he say 1*

Stelia only repeated what he had said before she rose and left
him.

* What is there in Mr. Romayne's life,' she asked, ' which
made him say that he would be selfish and cruel if he expected
a woman to marry him ? It must be something more than mere
illness. If he had committed a crime, he could not have spoken
more strongly. Do you know what it is 1 *

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

* It is nothing degrading, Adelaide — I am sure of that.'

' And you are right, my dear. I can understand that he has
surprised and disappointed you ; but if you knew his motives

' she stopped, and looked earnestly at Stella. * They say,'

she went on, ' the love that lasts longest is the love of slowest
growth. This feeling of yours for Romayne is of sudden growth.
Are you very sure that your whole heart is given to a man —
the best, the noblest of men — but still a man of whom you
know little ? '

S'j

THE BLACK ROBE.

' I know that I love him,' said Stella, simply.

' Even thougli he doesn't seem, as yet, to love you f ' Lady
Loring asked.

' All the more because he doesn't. I should be ashamed to
make the confession to anyone but you. It is useless to say any
more. Good night.*

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 you to see Komayne again. Are you strong enough
to do that V

*Yes, if I am convinced that it ought to be done.'

' 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 person — I 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 mo, it^is my
fondness for you that misleads me. Sit down again. You she",
know what the misery of Bomayne'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 oC release him from the torment
that he suffers, with nothing to help her but love 1 Determine
for yourself.'

Stella answered instantly :

' I determine to be his wife ! *

With the same pure enthusiasm, Penrose had declared that
he too devoted himself to the deliverance of Komayne. The
loving woman wa."< not more resolved to give her whole life to
him, than the fanatical man was resolved to convert him. On
the same common battle-ground the two were now to meet, in
unconscious antagonism. Would the priest or the woman win
the day 9

CHAPTER IX.

THE PUBLIC AND THE PICTURES.

ON the memorable Monday, when the picture-gallery was
opened to the public for the first time, Lord Loring and
Father Benwell met in the library.

'Judging by the number of carriages already at the door,* said
Father Benwell, * your lordship's kindness is largely appreciated
by the lovers of Art'

* All the tickets were disposed of in three hours,' Lord Loring
answered. * Everybody (the librarian told me) is eager to see
the pictures. Have you looked in yet 1 '

' Not yet. I thought I would get on first with my work here.*

* 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 beau^ful copies of Baphael'a
Cupid and Psyche designs 1 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.'

' Do the ladies propose paying a visit to the gallery 1 '

* Of course, to see the people ! I have recommended them to
wait, until they are ready to go out for their drive. In their in-
door costume, they might become the objects of general observa-
tion, 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 in the gallery. Good morning.*

Father Benwell rang the bell when Lord Loring had left him.

' Do the ladies drive out to-day at their usual hour 1 ' he in-
quired, when the servant appeared. The man answered in the
atfirmative, The carriage was ordered ^t three o'clock,

THE BLACK RODE.

At half- past two, Father Ben well slipped quietly into the
gallery. He posted himself midway between the library door
and clie grand entrance : on the watch, not for the civilizing in-
fluences 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 valuablo information, on tho
subject of her daughter's earlier life. The first step towards
attaining this object was to discover Mrs. Eyrecourt's present ad-
dress. Stella would certainly know it — and Father Ben well felt
a just confidence in his capacity to make the young lady service-
able, in this respect, to the pecuniary interests of the Church.

After an interval of a quarter of an hour. Lady Loring and
Stella entered the gallery by the library-door. Father Benwell
at once advanced to pay his respects.

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 visitors — and Father Ben-
well waited by them, and listened, with the resignation of a
modest young man. Patience, like virtue, is sometimes its own
lewnrd. Two gentlemen, evidently interested in the pictures,
approached the priest. He drew back, with his ready polite-
ness, to let them see the picture before which he happened to
be standing. The movement disturbed Stella. She "turned
sharply— noticed one of the gentlemen, the taller of the two —
became deadly pale— and instantly quitted the gallery. Lady
Loring, looking where Stella had looked, frowned angrily, and
followed Miss Eyrecourt into the library. Wise Father Ben-
well let them go, and concentrated his attention on the person
who had been the object of this startling recognition.

Unquestionably a gentleman — with light hair and complexion
— with a bright benevolent face, and keen intelligent blue eyes
— apparently still in the prime of life. Such was Father Ben-
well's first impression of thd 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.

THE PUBLIC AND THE PICTURES.

He turned to his friend. * This place is hot,' he saxd ; * lot us
getout of it ! '

* 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 evening.
Come and dine with me. The same address as usual — Derwent's
Hotel.'

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

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 ! *

He took -up his pen, and made a little memorandum, * Winter-
field, D'^^'went's Hotel.'

CHAPTER X. 1 •

FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE.

* rr\0 Mr. Bitrake. Private and Confidential. Sir, — I undor-
J- stand 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
enclosed letter of introduction will satisfy you that I am in-
capable of employing your experience in a manner unbecoming
to you, or to myself.

' 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 tlie
present date. His place of residence is on the North Devonshire
coast, and is well known in that locality by the name of Beau-
park House.

' The range of my proposed inquiry dates back over the last
four or five years — certainly 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 ^tella Eyrecourt. If this proves to be
the case, it is essential that I should be made acquainted with
the whole of the circumstancea

* 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 the friend whose letter I
enclose.

FATHER BENWELLS CORRESPONDENCE.

* I beg your acceptance — as time is of importance — of a cheque
for preliminary expenses, and remain, sir, your faithful servant,

'Ambrose Benwell.'

'To the Secretary. Society of Jesus. Rome.

* I enclose 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 protect Romayne from the
advances of the woman who is bent on marrying him.

' 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 towards the conversion of
Romayne. I am happily able to gratify their wishes, as you shall
now see.

* 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 Penrof e,
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 tbe
confidence of his employer. I said I would wait. The hote>
servLnt knows me by sight. I was shown into the waiting-room.

* This room is so small as to be a mere cupboard. It is lit
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 ven-
tilator in a second door, which communicates with Romayne'p
study. Looking about me, so far, I crossed to the other end c£
the study, and discovered a dining-room and two bed-rooms
beyond — the 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 that you may under-
stand the events that followed.

' I returned to the waiting-room, 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

■!

THE BLACK ROBE.

tlie persons entering the room reached me through tlie ventilator.
I recognised Romayne, Penrose — and Lord Loting.

* The first words exchanged among them infoimed me that
Homayne and his secretary had overtaken Lord Loving in tlie
street, as he v/as approaching the hotel door. The three had
entered the house together — at a time, probably, when the ser-
vant who had admitted me was out of the way. However it
may have happened, there I was, forgotten in the waiting-room !

* Could I intrude myself (on a private conversation perhaps)
— as . 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 1 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 as I can remember them.

' 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 ypu nor heard from you.
Why have you neglected us 1 "

' Here, judging by certain sounds that followed, Penrose got
up discreetly, and left the room. Lord Loring went on.

* He said to Romayne, " Now we are alone, I may speak to
you more freely. You and Stella seemed to get on together ad-
mirably, that evening when you dined with us. Have you
forgotten what you told me of her influence over you ? or have
you altered your opinion — and is that the reason why you keep
away from us 9 "

* Romayne answered, *' My opinion remains unchanged. All
that I said to you of Miss Eyrecourt, I believe as firmly as ever."

' His lordship remonstrated, naturally enough. " Then why
remain away from the good influence 1 Why — if it really can
he controlled — risk another return of that dreadful nervous
delusion 1 "

* " I have had another'return."

* " 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 friend — of two evils, choose the least.

FATHER BENWELLS COHRESPONDENCE.

I bear ray sufforings as one of two evils, and the least of the
txo."

* Lord Loring appeared to feel the necessity of touchin<» a
delicate subject with a light hand. He said in his pleasant way,
" Stella isn't the other evil, I suppose 1 "

' " Most assuredly not ! " - •

*" Then what is it 1"

* Romayue answered, almost passionately, ** My own weak-
ness 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 Mies Eyrecourt — I believe her
to be a woman in a thousand — don't ask me to see her again !
Where is Penrose? Let us talk of something else."

* Whether this wild way of speaking oflended Lord Loring,
or only discouraged him, I cannot say. I heard him take hii?
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 him-
self.

* Solitude was apparently not to his taste just then. I heard
him call to Penrose. I heard Penrose ask, " Do you want me ] "

* Romayne answered, " God knows I want a friend — and I
have no friend near me but you 1 Major Hynd is away, and
Lord Loring is offended with me."

' Penrose asked why.

' Romayne, thereupon, entered on the necessary explanation.
As a priest, writing to priests, I pass over details utterly unin-
teresting to U8. The substance of what he said amounted to this :
Miss Eyreoourt had produced an impression on him, which
was new to him in his experience of women. If he saw more
of her, it might end — I ask your pardon for repeating the ridi-
culous expression — in his " falling in love with her." In this
condition of mind or body, whichever it may be, he would pro-
bably be incapable of the self-control which he had hitherto
practised. If she consented to devote her life to him, he might
accept the cruel sacrifice. Rather than do this, he would k«ep
away from her, for her dear sake — no matter what he might
suffer, or whom he might offend.

* Imagine any human being, out of a lunatic asylum, talking
in this wajr. Shall I own to you, my reverend colleague, how

THE BLACK ROBE.

ibis curious self-expoBure struck me 1 As I listened to Ro-
mayne, 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 Romayne — and prieotB might have become instruments
in the hands of women.

* But you will be anxio".^ to hear what Penrose did under the
cii'cumBtance& For the moment, I can tell you this, he startled
nie.

' Instead of seizing the opportunity, and directing Romayne's
mind to the consolations of religion, Penrose actually encou-
raged him to reconsider his decision. All the weakness of my
poor little Arthur's character showed itself in his next words.

* He said to Romayne, " It may be wrong in me to speak to
you as fi'eely as I wish to speak. But you have so generously
admitted me to your confidence — you have been so considerate
and so kind towards me — that I feel an interest in your happi-
ness, 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 mar-
riage 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 matter — so serious a matter for you — suffici-
ent thought?"

* Make your mind easy, reverend sir ! Romayne's answer set
everything rightw

' He said, " I have thought of it till I could think no long'^r.
I still believe that sweet woman might control the torment of
the voica But could she deliver me from the remorse perpe-
tually gnawing at my heart 1 I feel as muraerers feel. In
taking another man's life — a man who has not even injured me!
— I have cv'tmmitted the one unatonable and unpardonable sin.
Can any hunan creature's influence make mo forget that 1 No
more of it — no more. Come ! Let us take refuge in our book&"

' Those words touched Penrose in the right placa Now, as I
understand his scrupleSj he felt that he might honourably speak

•

„ >»

FATHER BEN WELLS CORRESPONDENCE.

9.S

out. His zeul more than balanced his woHkness, as you will
presently sea

* 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 for ever, 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 man ! "

' 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 conviction — using the necessary arguments
with a force and feeling which I have rarely heard equalled.
Komayne's silence vouched for the effect on him. He is not the
man to listen patiently to reasoning which he thinks he can
overthrow.

* Having heard enough to satisfy me that Penrose had really
begun the good work, I quietly slipped out of the waiting room,
and left the hotel.'

* To-day being Sunday, I shall not lose a post if I keep my
letter open until to-morrow. I have already sent a note to Pen-
rose, asking him to call on me, at his earliest convenience.
There may be more news for you before post time.'

* Monday, 10, a.m.

* There is more news. Penrose has just left me.

< His first proceeding, of course, was to tell me what I had
already discovered for mysell He is modest, as usual, about
the prospect of success which awaits him. But he has induced
Komayne to suspend his historical studies for a few days, and
to devote bis attention to the books which we are accustomed
to recommend for perusal, in such cases as his. This is unques-
tionably a great gain at starting.

* But my news is not at- an end yet Romayne is actually
playing our game — he has resolved definitely to withdraw him-
self from the influence of Miss Eyrecourt ! In another hour, he
and Penrose will have left London, Their destination is kept a

r ' j; ■ v-^ - j. - iij. ' j- ' . ' m r -!!

tHt: BLACK ttOB£.

profound secret All letters addressed to Eomayne are to be
sent to his banker&

' The motive for this sudden resolution is directlv traceable to
Lady Loring.

' 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 Eyre«iOurt'8 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 (ii is really nothing less) speaks
for itself as to the impression produced on him, and the danger
from which, for the time at least, we have escaped.

'Yes! I say " for the time at least." Don't let our Reverend
Fathers suppose that the money expended on my private inqui-
ries has been money thrown away. Where these miserable love
affairs are concei'ned, women are daunted by no adverse circum-
stances and warned by no defeat. Romayne has left London in
dread of his own weakness — we must not forget that The day
may yet come wh«n nothing will interpose between us and
failure but my knowledge of events iu Miss Eyrecouct's life.

* For the present, there is no more to be said ? '^

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CHAPTER XI.

STELLA ASSERTS HERSRLF.

TWO days after Father Ben^v^jll had posted his letter to
Borne, I^ady Loring entered her husband's study, and
asked eagerly if he had heard any news of Komayne.

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 address to anybody. How does Stella bear it 1 *

♦ In the worst possible way,* Lady Loring answered * In
silence.'

* Not a v'ord even to you 1 '

♦ Not a word.'

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 added in pencil — * On busineas
connected with Mr. Romayne.'

* Show him in directly ! ' cried Lady Loring.

Lord Loring remonstrated. ' My dear 1 perhaps I had better
see this gentleman alone ? '

' Certainly not — unless you wish to c.rive mo into committing
an act of the most revolting meanness ! If you send me away,
I shall lisien at the door.'

Major Hynd was shown in, and was duly presented to l^dy
Loring. After making the customaiy apologies, he said, ' I re-
turned to London last night, expressly to see Romayne on a
matter of importance. Failing to discover his present address

^ »

THE BLACK ROBK.

at the hotel, I had the hope that your lordship might be able to
direct me to our friend.'

' 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 theiv 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 V sh. asked.
* I am almost as old a fr'end of Komayne as my husband — and
1 am very anxious about him.'

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

Lady Loring's impatience interrupted the Major's apologiea
' 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, as far as Romayne is
concerned. If yoxi still wish to speak to me privately, I will ask
you to accompany me into the next room.'

Major Hynd's embarrassment vanished. * After what you
tell me,' he said, * I hope to be favoured with Lady Loring's
advica You both know that Romayne foughf. the fatal duel
with a son of the French General who had challenged him.
When he returned to England, we heard that the General and
hia family had been driven away from Boulogne by pecuniary
difilcultiea 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.
Will you kindly read it to Lady Loring 1 '

He handed the letter to Lord Loring. Translated from the
French i ran as follows : —

* Sir,- -I am at last able to answer Mr. Romayne's letter defi-
nitely ; v^itb the courteous aBsistfmce of the French Consul in

bTELlJL ASSERTS HERSELF.

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 France 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 Marillac.

* You will perhaps be surprised to find that I address these
lines to you, instead of to Mr. Romayne. The reason is soon
told.

' I was acquainted with the late General — as you know
— at a time when I was not aware of the company that he kept,
or oi the deplorable errors iiito which his love of gambling had
betrayed liim. Of his widow and his children, I know abso-
lutely nothing. Whether they have resisted the contamin-
ating influence of the head of the household — or whether
poverty and bad example combined have hopelessly degraded
them — I cannot say. There is at least a doubt whether they
are worthy of Mr. Romayne's benevolent intentions towards
them. As an honest man, I cannot feel this doubt, and re-
concile 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 you
would do right to communicate this information to Romayne.'

Lady Loring was not quite of her husband's opinion. ' While
there is a doubt about these people,' she said, 'it seems oi?ly just
to find out what sort of character they bear in the neighbour-
hood. In your place. Major Hynd, I sliould 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 myreturn,I will certainly follow your ladvshi;^'s advice.'

' And you will let us know the result 1 '

* With the great3«t pleasure.'

tHE BLACK ROBE.

Major Hynd took his leave. * I think you will be responsible
for wasting the Major's time/ said Lord Loring, when the visitor
had retired.

' I think not,' said Lady Loring. »

She rose to leave the room. * Are you going out ? ' her hus-
band asked.

* No. I am going upstairs to Stella.'

Lady Loring found Miss Eyrecourt in her own room. The
little portrait of Romayne which she had drawn from recollec-
tion lay on the table before her. She was examining it with
the closest attention.

* Well, Stella, and what does the portrait tell you 1 '

* What I knew before, Adelaide. There is nothing false
and nothing cruel in that face. '

* And does the discovery satisfy you ? For my part, T despise
Romayne for hiding himself from us. Can you excuse him V

Stel' 1 locked up the portrait in her writing case. * I can
wait,* she said qiiietly.

This assertion of patience seemed to irritate Lady Loring.

* What is the matter with you this morning,' she asked. ' You
are more reserved than ever ? '

* No ; I am only out of spirits, Adelaide. I can't help
thinking of that meeting with Winterfield. — I feel as if some
misfortune was hanging over my head.'

* Don't speak of that hateful man ! ' her ladyship exclaimed.

* I have something to tell you about Romayne. Are you com-
pletely absoi'bed in your presentiments of evil ? or do you think
you can listen to me 1 '

Stella's face answered for her. Lady Loring described the in-
terview with Major Hynd in the minutest detail — including, by
way of illustration, the Major's manners and personal appear-
anca * He and Lord Loring,' she added, ' both think that Ro-
mayne will never hear the last of it, if he allows these foreign-
ers to look for money. Until something more is known about
them, the letter is not to be forwarded.'

* I wish I had the letter ! ' cried Stella.

* Would you send it to the bankers?'

* Instantly 1 Does it matter whether these poor French peo-
ple are worthy o^ Romayne's generosity ) If it restores his tran-

STELLA ASSERTS HERSELF.

quility to help them, who cares whether they deserve the lm\\)1
They are not even to know who it is that assists them — Ro-
mayne is to be their unknown friend. It is he, not they, whom
we have to think of — his peace of mind is everything ; their
merit is nothiiig. I say it's cruel to him to keep him in ignor-
ance of what has happened. Why didn't you ts.ke the letter
away from Major Hynd 1 '

* Gently, Stella ! The Major is going to make i:aquiries about
the widow and children, when he returns to London.*

* 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 1 Tell me
the address again — it was somewhere in Islington, you said.'

' Why do you want to know it 1 ' 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 so ! '

It was spoken sharply. Lady Loring's reply betrayed a cer-
tain loss of temper on her side. * Manage j/our own affairs,
Stella — I have done meddling with them.' Her unlucky visit
to Romayne at the hotel had been a subject of dispute between
the two friends — and 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 swlkiness, 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 reconcilia-
tion. The interval passed and nothing happened. * Have I really
of ended her?* Lady Loring asked herself. The next moment,
she was on her way back to Stella. The room was empty. Slie
rang the bell for the maid.
* Where is Miss Eyrecourt V
' Gone out, my lady.'

' Did she leave no message 1 ' •

' No, my lady. She went away in a great hurry.*
Lady Loring at once drew the conclusion that Stella had
rashly taken the affair of the General's family into her own

100

THE BLACK KOBE.

liands. Was it possible to say how this most imprudent pro-
ceeding might end ? After hesitating and reflecting, and hesi-
tating 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 men-servants with
her, in case of emergency 1

•

t,<^

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"Y-^ * i3fe2M

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[^>^^i^r^^#H

CHAPTER XII.

taE GENERAL S FAMILY.

"VrOT always remarkable for arriving at just conclusions,
-L 1 Lady Loring had drawn the right inference this time.
Stella had stopped the first cab that passed her, and had di-
rected the driver to Camp's Hill, Islington.

The aspect of the miserable little street, closed at one end,
and swarming with dirty children quarrelling 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 in alone. Stella
thought of Romayna Her firm pei-suasion 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 knocked on it with her parasol.

The tangled grey hair and grimy face of a hideous old woman
showed themselves slowly, at the end of the passage, lising from
the 'strong-smelling obscurity of the kitchen regions. * What
do you want?* said the half-seen witch of the London slums.
* Does Madame Marillac live here ? ' Stella asked. * Do you
mean the foreigner 1' 'Yea' 'Second floor.' With those in-
structions the upper half of the witch sank and vanished. iStella
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 .'ler way to the
rooms on the higher flight, Here there w^as a change for the
better — here, at least, there was silence. She knocked at the
door OQ the landing of the second floor. A gentle voice a^-

102

THE BLACK KOBE.

swered, in French, * Entrez * — then quickly substituted the
En<2:H8h equivalent, * Come in.' Stella opened the door.

The wretchedly furnished room was scrupulcusly 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-propoitioned j)arts — her dim eyes
rested on Stella with an expression of piteous entreaty. * Have
you come for the work, madam T she asked, in English, spoken
with a strong foreign accent. ' Pray forgive me ; I have not
finished it yet.'

The second of the two workwomen suddenly looked up.

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, i,nd set me to
work. I am a selfish wretch — anrl my mother is an angel ! '
She dashed away the tears gathering in her eyes, and proudly,
fiercely, resumed her work.

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 Mariljac — if
you will not be offended with me, for plainly owning it — to
offer you some little help.'

* Charity ] ' asked the daughter, looking up again sternly
fr-jm her needle.

'Sympathy,' Stella answered gently.

The girl resumed her work. * T beg your pardon,' she said ;
• 1 shidl learn to submit to my lot in time.' The quiet long-
suffering mother placed a chair for Stella. * You have a kind
beautiful face, Miss,' she said ; ' and I aui sure you will make
allowance for my poor girl. I remember the time I was as quick
to feel as she js, Mav 1 ask how you came to hear of us 1 '

THE GENERALS FAMILY.

103

* I hope you will excuse me ; ' Stella replied. * I am not at
liberty to answer that question.'

The mother said nothing. The daughter asked sharply/ Why
not?'

Stella addressed the answer to the mother. ' I come from a
person who desires to be of sei'vice to you as an unknown
friend,' she said.

The wan face of the widow suddenly brightened. *0h !'
she exclaimed, * has my brother heard of the General's death 1
and has he forgiven me my marriage at last 1 '

' 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 assumed the name in his exile
here. Perhaps, if I told you *

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 represent V

* Certainly, or I should not be here.'

* You know the person's family connections, in that case 1 and
you can say for certain whether they are French connections or
notr

' I can say for certain,' Stella answered, ' that they are Eng-
lish connections. I represent a friend who feels kindly towards
Madame Marillac ; nothing more. '

' You see, mof'her, 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 1 You
are a stranger to us — you cannot have given the information 1 '

Stella's eyes were now opened to the awkward position in

104

THE BLACK ROBE.

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 duubt,
mademoiselle, when you advised your mother to conceal her true
name,' she rejoined. ' Be just enough to believe that your "an-
onymous 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 means well.'

Blanche took up her needle again, with dogged submission.
' If we are to accept charity, mother, I should like to know the
hand that gives it' she answered. * I will say no more.'

' 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 learnt some hard lessons,' she proceeded, turning
to Stella, ' and I hope I am the better for them. My life has
not been a happy one '

* Your life has been a martyrdom ! ' said the girl, breaking
ou^< again, in spite of herself. ' Oh, my father ! my father ! '
She pushed aside the work, and hid her face in her hands.

The gentle mother spoke severely for the first time. * Respect
your father's memory ! ' she said. Blanche trembled, and kept
silence. ' I have r-.o false pride,' Madame Marillac continued.
' I own that we are miserably poor ; and I thank you, my dear
young lady, for your kind intentions towards us, without em-
barrassing you by any inquiries. We manage to live. While my
eyes last, our work helps to support us. My good eldest daugh-
ter has some employment as a teacher of music, and contributes
her little share to assist our poor household. I don't distrust
you — I only say, let us try a little longer if we cannot help
ourselves.'

She had barely pronounced the last words, when % 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; 'I'm hungry. Bread ! bread ! '

The daughter started to her feet * Think of his betraying
us at this moment 1 ' she exclaimed indignantly. The mother
rose in silence, and opened a cupboard. Its position was oppo*

1. ..::=:

THE QENEnALS FAMILY.

^. -u

* ,

site to tLe place in which Stella was sitting. She saw two or
three knives and forks, some cups and saucers and plates, and a
folded table cloth. 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 said
— and closed the cupboard door again as patiently as ever.

Blanche 1^46 them. Stella opened her pocket-book as the
door c'oded. * For God's sake, take something ! ' she cried. ' I
viier it with the sincerest respect — I offer it as a loan 1 '

Madame Marillac gently signed to Stella to close the pocket-
book 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 work — and my daughter knows it. If you
can tell me nothing else, my dear, will you tell me your Chris-
tian name 1 It is painful to me to speak to you, quite as
a stranger.'

Stella at once complied with the request. Madame Mar! 'lac
smiled as she repeated the name.

' There is almost another tie between us,' she said. * We have
your name in France — it speaks with a familiar sound to me
in this strange place. Dear Miss Stella, when my poor boy
startled viu by that cry for food, La 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 olie
pocket-book. I am incapable of the shameless audacity of bor-
rowing a sum of money which I could never repay. Let mo
tell you what my trouble is, and you will understand that I
am in earnest. I had two sons. Miss Stella. The elder — the
most lovable, the most affectionate of my children — was killed
in a duel.'

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 mak-
ing ezcusea

' I am sorry to have frightened you, my dear,' she said. * In
your happy country such a dreadful death as my son's is un-

106

THE BLACK KOBE.

known. I am obliged to mention it, or you might not under-
Rtand what I have still to say. Perhaps I had better not go
onr

Stella roused herself. * Yes I yes I 'she answered eagerly.
' Pray go on ! '

* My son in the next room/ the widow resumed, ' is only
fourteen years old. It has pleased God sorely to afflict a harm-
less creature. He has not been in his right mind since — since
the miserable day when he followed the duellists, and saw his
brother's death. — Oh I 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 self-control, Stella tried to re-assure
TM adame Marillac by a gesture. She had heard the voice which
haunted Romayne — the conviction of it shook her with super-
stitious terror from head to foot. Not the words that had
pleaded hunger and called for bread — but those other words,
' Assassin ! assassin ! where are you 1 ' — 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 I ' she repeated. * Pray
go on ! '

* 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 violent —
and he is the most beautiful of all my children. "Would you like
to see him 1 '

* No 1 I would rather hear you speak of him. Is he not con-
scious of his own misfortune ? '

* For weeks together, Stella — I am sure I may call you
Stella 1 — he is quite calm ; you would see no difference, out-
wardly, 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 our vigilance.' >

* Do you mean that he leaves you and his sisters 1 '

' Yes, that is what I mean. For nearly two months past he
has been away from us. Yesterday only, his return relieved us

TIIK rJENKllALS FA M IF A'.

107

from a state of suspense which I cannot att«>mpt to descrilie.
We don't know where he has been, or in the company of what
persons he 1ms passed the time of his ahscnce. No persuasion
will induce him to speak to us on the subject. This morning,
we listened while he was talking to himself.'

Stella felt the thrill of sudden fear. Was it part of the boy's
madness to repeat the words which still echoed in Romayne's
ears 1 ' Does he ever speak of the duel ? ' she asked.

* Never 1 He seems to have lost all memory of it. We only
heard, this morning, one or two unconnected words — something
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 waistcoat —
and that he snatched away from me, and put it under his pillow.
We have no hope of bein^ able to examine the waistcoat, with-
out his knowledge. His sleep is like the sleep of a dog ; if you
only approach him, he wakes instantly. Forgive me for troub-
ling you with these trifling details, only interesting to ourselvea
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 him — I mean to place him under
medical care.'

The mother's face saddened. ' I have enquired 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

among

peo[)le of good blood t\nd

breeding — I can't take my own boy to the workhouse !

Stella took her hand. ' I feel for you with all my heart,*
she said. * Place him privately, dear Madame Marillac, under
skilful and kind control — and let me, do let me open the pocket-
book again ! *

The widow steadily refused even to look at the pocket-book.
'Perhaps,* Stella persisted, 'you don't know of a private asylum
that would satisfy you 1 *

* 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

108

THE BLACK ROBE.

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 afterwards pay it back. But a larger sum — never ! '

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 been silenced by another interruption from the
next room. ^

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 I ' 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 communica-
tion between the rooms, she quickly took from her pocket-book
the bank notes with which she had provided herself, and folded
them so that they could be easily concealed in her hand.

She followed the widow into the little room.

The boy was sitting on his bed. He laid down his flageolet
and bowed to Stella. His long silky hair flowed to his shouldei-s.
But one betrayal of a deranged mind presented itself in his
delicate face — his large soft eyes had the glassy vacant look
which it is impossible to mistaka * Do you like music, mademoi-
selle?' he asked gently. Stella asked hiui to play his little
vaudeville air again. He proudly complied with the request.
His sister seemed to resent the picsenco of a stranger. • The
work is at a standstill,' she said — and 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 bank-notes 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 tempt ition. She could resist much
— but she could not resist her son.

The boy nodded, to show that he understood her. The moment
after, ho laid down his flageolet with an expression of surprise,

* You are trembling !' he saifl. ' Are you frightened 1 '

THE general's FAMILY.

109

ook

lent
ise.

She was frightened. The mere sense of touching him made
her shudder. Did she feel a vague presentiment of some evil
to come from that momentary association with him 1 Madame
Marillac, turning away again from her daughter, noticed Stella's
agitation. ' Surely, my poor boy doesn't alarm you 1 ' she said.
Before Stella could answer, some one outside knocked at the
door. Lady Loring's servant appeared, charged with a carefully-
worded messaga * If you please, Miss, a friend is waiting for
you below.' Any excuse for departure was welcome to Stelii
at that moment. She promised tu call at the house again in a few
daya Madame Marillac kissed her on the forehead as she took
leave. Her nerves were still shaken by that momentary con-
tact 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 t

Lady Loring's carriage was waiting at the entrance of the
street, with all the children in the neighbourhood 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 1
Take my smelling bottle and tell me all about it.*

The fresh air, and the reassuring presence of her old friend, re-
vived 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 Romayne 1 *

* I am going to write to him, the moment we get home.
The answer seemed to alarm Lady Lcring. * You won't be-
tray me)' she sa* J.

* What do you mean 1 '

' You won't let Romayne discover that I have told you about
the duel ? '

* Certainly not. You shall see my letter before I send it to
be forwarded.'

Tranquillized so far. Lady Loring bethought herself of Major
Hynd. ' Can we tell him what you have done 1 * her ladyship
asked.

< Of course we can tell him,' Stella replied. * I shall conceal

THE BLACK BOBE.

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 favourable result
to Mr. Romayne.'

' It's easy enough to write the letter, my dear. Bui it's not
so easy to say what Major Hynd may think of you.*

* Does it matter to me what Major Hynd thinks ] '

Lady Loring looked at Stella with a malicious smile. * Are
you equally indifferent,' she said, ' to what Romayne's opinion of
your conduct may be 1 '

Stella's colour rose. ' Try to be serious, Adelaide, when you
speak to me of Romayne,' she answered gravely. * His good
opinion of me is the breath of my life.'

An hour later the all-important letter to Romayne was writ-
ten. Stella scrupulously inforn.ed him of all that had happened
— with 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 hisyounger 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.

The letter endeu in these lines :

' If I have taken un undue liberty in venturing, unasked, to
appear as your re^irtsentative, 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 beforehantl. In forming your
opinion of my conduct, pray remember tliat 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, not-
withstanding this, you disapprove of what I have done, I must
not conceal that it will grieve and humiliate me — I have been
BO eager to be of use to you, when others appear to hesitate. I
must find my consolation in remembering that I have become
acquainted with one of the sweetest and noblest of women,
und that I have helped to preserve her afflicted son from dangera

tHE general's family.

Ill

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 matter — and I shall
gratefully remember the day when I took it on myself to be
Mr. Romayne's almoner.'

Lady Loring read these concluding sentences twice over.

' I think the end of your letter will have its effect on him,'
she said.

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

' If it does anything,' Lady Loring rejoined, * it will do more
than that'

♦ What more can it do f

* My dear, it can bring him back to you.'

Those hopeful words seemed rather to startle Stella than to
encourage her.

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

' Send the letter to the post/ said Lady Jjoringi * and we
shall see.'

^•'

pm>F

^ 1

CHAPTER XIII.

FATHSR BENWELLS CORRESPONDENCE,

Arthur Penrose to Father Benwell.

* TJEVEREND and dear Father,— When I last had the hon-
-Lv our of seeing you, I received your instructions to re-
port, 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 ob-
jections, 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 tran-
quillity — in other and worthier words, of effecting his conver-
sion — than I can tell you in any words of mine. I respect and
admire, I may almost say I love, Mr. Romayne.

* The details which are wanting in this brief report of pro-
gress, 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 sake, to see that the reading of it has made
him happy.

FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE.

113

you.

* By tomorrow evening, I hope to present my respects to

Mr. Bitrdke to Father Senwell.

* Sir, — The 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 young lady,
named Miss Stella Eyrecourt.

* The attendant circumstances, however, are not so easy to dis-
cover. Judging by the careful report of the person whom I em-
ploy, 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 discovery.

* Be pleased to preserve your confidence in me, and to give
5 time — and I answer fot the rest*

The End or the First j500s.

CHAPTER I.

THE PIC-NIC DANCE.

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 Picnic Dance.
The invitations were issued for 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 guesta In a word,
Lady Loring's bsJl was designed as a bold protest against late
hours and heavy midnight meals. The younger people were all
in favour of the proposed reform. Their elders declined to give
an opinion beforehand.

In the small inner circle of Lady Loring's most intimate
friends, it was wh speied that an innovation in the matter of
refreshments was contemplated, which would put the tolerant
principles of the guests to a severe test. Miss Notraan, the
housekeeper, politely threatening retirement on a small annuity,
since the memorable affair of the oyster omelette, 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 somewhere — and
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, doubtful

THE PIC-NIC DANCE.

115

, promisee?
imong the
IS excited,
,er the big
) be given
mic Dance,
ur ; and it
onplace as
In a word,
gainst late
le were all
led to give

) intimate
matter of
le tolerant
)tman, the
11 annuity,
decided on
was to be
ar a great
ely gives a
rhere — and
!Totman as
ixperimeni

On the appointed evening, the guests made one agreeable dis-
covery when they entered the reception rooms. They were left
perfectly free to amuse themselves as they liked.

The drawing-rooms were given up to dancing ; the picture-
gallery was devoted to chamber music. Chess-players and card-
players. found remote and quiet rooms especially prepared for
them. People who cared for nothing but talking were accom-
modated to perfection, in a sphere of their own. And lovers (in
earnest or not in earnest) discovered, in a dimly-lit conservatory
with many recesses, that ideal of discreet retirement, which
combines solitude and society under one roof.

But the ordering of the refreshments failed, as had been fore-
seen, to share in the approval conferred on the arrangement of
the rooms. The first impression was unfavourable. Lady Loring,
however, knew enough of human nature to leave results to two
potent allies — experience and time.

Excepting the conservatory, the astonished guests could go
nowhere without discovering tables prettily decorated with flow-
ers, 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 flavour quite new to
them. Other persons less easily pleased, wei e tempted by sand-
wiches of p4t6 de foie 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 sandwichea Anchovies and sar-
dines appealed, in the same unexpected way, to men who desired
to create an artificial thirst — after having first ascertained that
the champagne was something Uj be fondly remembered and
regretted, at other parties, to the end of the season. The hospi-
table profusion of the refreshments was all pervading and in-
exhaustible. Wherever the guests might be, or however they
were amusing themselves, there were the pretty little white plates
perpetually tempting them. People ate as they had never eaten
before, and even the inveterate English prejudice against any-
thing new was conquered at last. Universal opinion declared the
Pic-nic Dance to be an admirable idea, perfectly carried out.

116

THE BLACK ROBE.

Many of the guests paid their hostess the compliment of ar-
riving at the early hour mentioned in the invitations.. One of
them was Major Hynd. Lady Loring took her first opportunity
of speaking to him apart.

* I hear you were a little angry,' she said, * when you were told
that Miss Eyrecourt had taken your inquiries out of your
hands.'

' I thought it rather a bold proceeding, Lady Loring,' the
Major replied. * But as the General's widow turned out to be
a lady, in the best sense of the word, Miss Eyrecourt's romantic
adventure has justified itself. I wouldn't recommend her to run
the same risk a second time.'

' I suppose you know what Romayne thinks of it ? '

* Not yet. I have been too busy to call on him, since I have
been in town. Pardon me, Lady Loring, who is that beautiful
creature in the pale yellow dress 1 Surely, I have seen L.
somewhere before ] '

' That beautiful creature. Major, is the bold young lady of
whose conduct you don't approve.'

* Miss Eyrecourt V

«Yes.' ^ • ^

* I retract everything I said ! ' cried the Major, quite shame-
lessly. 'Such a woman as that may do anything. She is look-
ing this way. Pray introduce me.*

The Major was introduced, and Lady Loring returned to her
guests.

' I think we have met before, Major Hynd,' said Stella.

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 Folkestone — and my
friend was with me. You and he have no doubt met since
that time V He put the question as a mere formality. The
unexpressed thought in him was, 'Another of them in love with
Ex)mayne ! and nothing, as usual, likely to come of it.'

' 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

L^^

•

THE PIC-NIC DANCE.

117

has been lost in relieving these poor people — and your {lOwers
of persuasion have succeeded, where mine might have failed.
Has Eomayne been to see them himself since his return to
London 1 '

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

* For the present 1 ' Major Hynd repeated.

A faint flush passed over her delicate complexion. * I have
succeeded,' she resumed, * in inducing Madame Marillac to ac-
cept the help, offered through me, to her son. The poor creature
is safe, under kind superintendence, in a private asylum. So far,
I can do no more.'

* Will the mother accept nothing 1 '

* 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 way — and 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
time, while I am away.*

' I will do it with pleasure. Miss Eyrecourt. Is Romayne
likely to be here to-night 1 '

She smiled brightly, and looked away. The Major's curiosity
was excited — he looked in the same direction. There was
Romayne, entering the room, to answer for himself.

What was the attraction which drew the unsocial student to
an evening party 1 Major Hynd's eyes were on the watch.
When Romayne and Stella shook hands, the attraction stood
self-revealed to him, in Miss Eyrecourt. Recalling the momen-
tary confusion which she had betrayed when she spoke of pos-
sibly 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 I ' he said,
mischievously, * since we met last.'

Stella gently moved away, leaving them to talk freely. Ro-

118

THE BLACK ROBE.

mayne 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 Irept secret
thus far. ' My health has been a little better lately,' was the
only reply he made.

The Major dropped his voice to a whisper. ' Have you not
had any return 1 * he began.

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 meana'

* Any discoverable reason for the improvement 9 ' persisted
the Major, still bent on getting evidence in support of his own
private conclusion.

' None ! ' Romayne answered sharply.

But Major Hynd was not to be discouraged by shai.'p repliea
' 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
to-night. I wish / knew her well enough to shake hands as you
did.'

* Hynd ! When a young man talks nonsense, his youth is his
excuse. At your time of life, you have passed the excusable age
— even in the estimation of your friends.'

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
fnends to wish you happiness ! ' He, too, turned away — in the
direction of the champagne and sandwiches.

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, sad-looking little man, and
did all she could to set him at his ease.

* 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

?:-!i
'%

THE PIC-NIC DANCE.

119

which was new to her experience of him. * Has Roma3me told
him 1 ' alie wondered inwardly.

' It is a very beautiful scene, Miss Eyrecourt/ he said, in his
low, quiet tonea

' Did you come here with Mr. Romayne ) ' she asked.

* Yes. It was by his advice that I accepted the invitation
with whica Lady Loring has honoured me. I am sadly out of
place, in such an assembly as this — but 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 anziety to dis-
cover a subject which might interest him, she overcame her
antipathy to the spiritual director of the household. < Is Father
Ben well coming to us to-night f ' she inquired.

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

* Has he been long away V

* Nearly a week.'

Not knowing what else to say, she still paid Penrose the Com-
pliment of feigning an interest in Father Ben well.

' Has he a long journey to make in returning to London T she
asked.

'Yes — all the way hxMa Devonshire,*

* From South Devonshire 1 *

'No. North Devonshire — Clovelly.*

The smile suddenly left her face. She proceeded composedly,
but without quite concealing the effort that it cost her, or the
anxiety with which she waited for the reply to her next ques*
tion.

* I know something of the neighbourhood of Clovelly,' she
said. ' I wonder whether Father Benwell is visiting any friends
of mine there 1 '

' I am not able to say, Miss Eyrecourt. The reverend father's
letters are forwarded to the hotel — I know no more than that*

With a gentle inclination of her head, she turned towards
other guests — looked back — and, with a last little courteous
attention offered to him, said, ' If you like music, Mr. Penrose,
I advise you to go to the .picture gallery. They are going to play
a Quartette by Mozart*

Penrose tiianked her, noticing that her voice and manner had

120

IHE BLACK ROBE.

become strangely subdued. She made her way back to the room
in which the hostess received her guesta Lady Loring was foif
the moment alone resting on a sofa. Stella stooped over her, and
spoke in cautiously lowered tones.

' If Father Benwell comes here to-night/ she said, ' try to find
out what he has been doing at Clovelly.'

' Clovelly 1 ' Lady lioring repeated. * Is that the village near
Winterfield's house 1 '

'Yes.'

lot
nd

iar

CHAPTER II.

THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE.

AS Stella answered Lady Loring, she was smartly tapped on
the shoulder by an eager guest with a fan.

The guest was a ^ery 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
colour, shape and workmanship never appeared, even in a milli
ner's picture-book. 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 ua There was noth-
ing exactly young or exactly old about her, except her voice —
which betrayed a faint hoarseness, attributable possibly to ex-
haustion produced by untold years of incessant talking. It
might be added that she was as active as a sijuirrel, and as play-
ful as a kitten. But the lady must be treated with a certain for-
bearance of tone, for this good reason — she was Stella's mother.

Stella turned quickly at the tap of the fan. ' Mamma 1 ' she
exclaimed, * how you startle me ! *

* My dear child,* said Mrs. Eyrecourfc, * you are constitu-
tionally indolent, and you want startling. Go into the next room
directly. Mr. Romayne is looking for you.'

Stella drew back a step, and eyed her mother in blank sur-
prise. ' Is it possible that you know him 1 ' she asked.

' Mr. Romayne doesn't go into society, or we should have met
long since,' Mrs. Eyrecourt replied. * He is a striking pei*son
— and I noticed him when he shook hands with you. That was
quite enough for me. I have just introduced myself to him, as
vour mother. He was a little stately and stiff, but most charm-

122

THE BLACK KOBE.

ing when he knew who I waa I volunteered to find ycu. He
was quite astonished. I think he took me for your elder sister.
Not the least like each other — are we, Lady Loring 1 She takes
after her poor dear father. He was constitutionally indolent.
My sweet child, rouse yourself. You have drawn a prize in the
f^reat lottery at last. If over 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,
t once drove that way when I was visiting in the neighbourhood.
Superb. And another fortune (eight thousand a year and a
villa at Highgate) since the death of his aunt. And my daugh-
ter may be mistress of this, if she only plays her cards properly.
What a compensation, after all that we suffered through that
luon&ter, Winterfield ! '

* Mamma ! Pray don't ! '

' Stella I will not be interrupted, when I am speaking to you
for your own good. I don't know a more provoking person,
Ijady Loring, than my daughter — on certain occasions. And
yet I love her. 1 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 crammed to the dcor& A hun-
dred at the wedding-breakfast. The bride's lace — there! no
language can describe it. Ten bridesmaids in blue and silver.
Keminded me of the ten virgins. Only the proportion of foolish
ones this time wes 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 aro artificial improvements. At least, I
am told so. What a house this would be — a broad hint isn't it,
dear Lady Loring 1 — what a house for a wedding, with the
drawing-room 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 consti-
tutional indolence. If you had only my energy, as I used to
say to your poor father. WiU you go ? Yes, dear Lady Loring,
I should like a glass of champagne, and another oil those deli-

THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE.

123

oious chicken sandwiches. If you don't go, Stella, I shall forget
every consideration of propriety, and big as you are, I shall
push you out'

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 care-
worn and irritable — but brightened directly, when she ap-
proached him.

' My mother has been speaking to
afraid *

you,* she said, • I am

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

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

Romayne led her away. Neither of them noticed Penrose as
they left the room.

He had not moved since Stella had spoken to him. There
he remained in his corner, absorbed in thought — and 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. Tlie colour rose on his
haggard face. Like most-^men who are accustomed to live alone,
he had the habit, whea he was strongly excited, of speaking to
himself. * No,' he ssid, as the unacknowledged lovers disap-
peared through the door, ' it is an insult to ask me to do it ! ' He
ti med the other way ; escaped Lady Loring's notice in the
reception-room ; and left the house.

Romayne and Stella passed through the card-room and the
chess-room, turned into a corridor, and entered the conservatory.

For the first time the place was a solitude. The air of a
newly-invented dance, faintly audible through the open windows
of the ball-room above, had proved an irresistible tetoptation.
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 towards the latter end of the nineteenth cen-
tury, the youths and maidens of society can still be in earnest
— when the object in view is a new dance.

124

THE BLACK ROBE,

What would Major Hynd have said if he had seen Roraayne
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 too was one of the spectators
in the ball-room.

* I wonder,' said Stella, 'whether you know how I feel those
kind words of yours, when you spoke of my mother. Shall I
tell you r

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 exqui-
site softness in the touch of her lips, the delicious fragrance of
lier breath, intoxicated him. Again and again he returned the
kiss. She drew back ; she recovered her self-possession and with
a suddenness and a certainty incomprehensible to a man. From
the depths of tenderness she passed to shallows of frivolity. In
her own defence she was almost as superficial as her mother, in
less than a moment.

* What would Mr. Penrose say if he saw you 1 'she whispered.

* Why do you speak of Penrose ! Have you seen him to-
night]'

* Yes — looking sadly out of his element, poor man. I did my
best to set him at his ease — because I know you like him.'

'Dear Stella!'

' No, not again 1 I am speaking seriously now. Mr. Penrose
looked at me with a strange kind of interest — I can't describe it.
Have you taken him into our confidence 1 '

'He is

Romayne — ' I really felt ashamed to treat him like a stranger.
On our journey to London, I did own that it was your charm-
ing 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

so devoted — he has such a true interest in me,' said

gentle 'onsidei'ate wg,y. " I understand yon, too," he said —
and that was all that passed between us.'

' Nothing more, since that time ] '

•Nothing.'

' Not a word of what we said to each other, when we were alone
last week in the picture gallery V

•Not a word. I am self- tormentor enough to distrust my-
self, even now. God knows I have concealed nothing from

THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE.

125

^.1

you ; and yet Am I not selfishly thinking of my own

happiness, Stella, when I ought to be thinking only of You 1
You know, my angel, with what a life you must associate
yourself, if you marry me. Are you really sure that you have
love enough and courage enough to be my wife t '

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 more — I have love enough and courage
enough to be your wife ; and I knew it, Lewis, the first tijne I
saw you ! Will that confession satisfy your scruples 1 And will
you promise never again to doubt yourself, or me 1 '

Romayne promised, and sealed the promise — unresisted this
time — with a kiss. ' When are we to be married ? ' he whis-
pered.

She lifted her head from his shoulder with a sigh. * If I am to
answer you honestly,' she replied, * I must speak of my mother,
before I speak of myself.'

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 1 ' he said. ' In that case, is it my duty
or yours — I am very ignorant in these matters — to consult her
wishes 1 My own idea is, that I ought to ask her, if she ap-
proves of me as her son-in-law, and that you might then speak
to her of the marriage.'

Stella thought of Romayne's tastes, all in favour of modest re-
tirement, and of her mother's tastes, all in favour of ostentation
and display. She frankly owned the result produced in her own
mind. ' I am afraid to consult my mother about our marriage,'
sbe said.

Romayne looked astonished. * Do you think Mrs. Eyrecourt
will disapprove of it » ' he asked.

Stella was equally astonished on her side. * Disapprove of it 1*
she repeated. * I know for certain that my mother will be de-
lighted 1'

* Then where is the difficulty ? *

There was but one way of definitely answering that question.
Stella boldly described her mother's idea of a wedding — includ-
ing the Archbishop, the twelve bridesmaids in green and gold,
and the hundred guests at breakfast in Lord Loring's picture-

126

THE BLACK ROBE.

li. ,,

gallery. Romayne's consternation literally depiived 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 Ms shock with-
out flinching ; and, in proof of his composure, celebrates his wed-
ding with the gallows by a breakfast which he will not live to
digest.

' If you think as your mother does,' Homayne began, as soon
as he had recovered his self-possession, ' 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 : bis voice
faltered, in spite of himself.

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 '^ommon. Marriages, as I
think, ough' ^o be celebrated as privately as possible — the
near and dea. 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
have — but 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 1 '

Stella knew her mother too well to share the opinion thus ex-
pressed. Mra Eyrecourt's capacity for holding to her own little
ideas, and for persisting (where her social interests were con-
cerned) in trying to insinuate those ideas into the minds of
other persons, was a capacity which no resistance, short of ab-
solute 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 weddinga Putting this view
of the case with all possible delicacy, in speaking of her mother,
Stella expressed herself plainly enough, nevertheless, to enlighten
Romayne.

^^S1

him, for
looked at
ve looked
3n, would
ock with-
s his wed-
Lot live to

1, as soon
of mine
her. His
desmaids,
his voice

think aa
Y to say,
ges, as I
ible — the
lere must
let theaa
leymoon.
roman to

sess your

' Surely

th of one

I thus ey-
>wn little
y^ere con-
minds of
3rt of ab-
apable of
e utmost
b she was
g, to the
this view
r mother,
enlighten

THE QUESTION OF MAERIAGE.

127

He made another suggestion. ' Can we marry privately/ he
said, 'and tell Mrs. Eyrecourt of it afterwards.*

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 and distressed my mother
would be! She must be present at the marriage.*

An idea of a compromise occurred to Komayne. * What do
you say,' he proposed, 'to arrange for the marriage privately —
and then telling Mrs. Eyrecourt only a day or two before-hand,
when it would be too late to send out invitations ? If your mo-
ther would be disappointed '

' She would be ang**y,' Stella interposed.

'Very v^ell — lay all the blpme on nie. 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 ? '

'Object? I wouldn't be without them, at my wedding, for
the whole world.'

' Anyone else, Stella ? '

'Any one, Lewis, whom you like.*

' Then I say — no one else. My own love ! When may it be 1
My lawyers can get the settlements ready in a fortnight, or less.
Will you say in a fortnight 1 *

His arm was round her waist ; his lips were touching her
lovely neck. She was not a woman to take refuge in the com-
monplace coquetteries 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 ball-room ceased. Stella ran out of
the conservatory.

The first person she encountered on returning to the recep-
tion room, was Father Ben well

> i;l

CHAPTER III.

;-.A

THE END OF THE BALL.

,.!;■% ;

THE priest's long journey did not appear to Imve fatigued
him. He was as cheerful and as polite as ever — and 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 de-
lightful party. Mr. Komuyne, for instance. Perhaps he is not
one of the guests V , ' ,

'Oh, yes.' ' - . ' .• -/ ^ '

* Has he gone away V «
' Not that I know of.'

The tone of her replies warned Father Benwell to let Ro-
mayne be. He tried another nanne. * And Arthur Peirose 1 '
he inquired next.

*I think Mr. Penrose has left us.' ~ ' ■<■

As she answered she looked towards Lady Loring. The
hostess was the centre of a circle of ladies and gentlemen. Be-
fore 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
he defeated than not to try at all.

* 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 neigh-
bourhood of Clovelly.'

Not the faintest change passed over the priest's face; his
fatherly smile had never been in a better state of preservation.

— jgf||i|lgg||jlijBiil«ili»

THE END OP THE BALL.

129

' Isn't it a charming place ? ' he said, with enthusiasm. * Clo
velly is the most remarkable and most beautiful village in Eng-
land. 1 have BO enjoyed my little holiday — excursions by sea
and excursions by land — do you know I feel quite young again ! '

He lifted his eyebrows playfully, and rubbed his plump hands
one over the other with such an intolerably innocent air of en-
joyment that Stella positively hated him. She felt her capacity
for self-restraint failing her. Under the influence of strong emo-
tion, her thoughts lost their customary discipline. In attempt-
ing to fathom Father Benwell, she was conscious of having un-
dertaken 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 appeared — eager for news of the conquest of Komayne.

• My dear child, how pale you look ! ' said Mrs. Eyrecourt
' Come with me directly — you must have a glass of wine,'

This dexterous device for entrapping Stella into a private
conversation failed. * Not now, Mamma, thank you,' she said.

Father Benwell, on the point of discreetly withdrawing,
stopped, and looked at Mrs. Eyrecourt with an appearance of
respectful interest. ' Your mother 1 ' he said to Stella. ' I should
feel honoured if you will introduce me.'

Having (not very willingly) performed the ceremony of pre-
sentation, Stella drew back a little. She had no desire to take
any part in the conversation that might follow ; but she had her
own reasons for waiting near enough to hear it

In the meantime, Mrs. Eyrecourt turned on her inexhaustible
flow of small-talk, 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 1 I
mean when we welcomed the Cardinal back from Rome. Dear
old man — if one may speak so familiarly of a Prince of the
Church. How charmingly he bears his new honours. Such pa-
triarchal simplicity, as every one remarked. Have you seen
him lately 1 '

The idea of the Order to which he belonged feeling any spe-
cial interest in a Cardinal (except when they made him of somQ
I

130

THE BLACK ROBE.

use to them) privately amused Father Benwell. ' How wise
the Church was,' he thought, ' in inventing a spiritual aristo-
cracy. 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 Duke's.'

' Your charming daughter and I have been talking about Clo-
velly,' he continued. * I have just been spending a little holiday
in that delightful place. It was a surprise to me, Mrs. Eyi*e-
court, to see so many really beautiful country seats iu the neigh-
bourhood. I was particularly struck — you know it, of course 1 —
by Beaupark House.*

Mr& Eyrepourt's little twinkling eyes suddenly became still
and steady. It was only for a moment. But even that trifling
change boded ill for the purpose which the priest had in view.
Having the opportunity of turning Stella's mother into a
valuable source of information actually placed in his hands,
Father Benwell reasoned with himself, as he had reasoned at
Miss Notman's tea table. A frivolous person was a person easily
persuaded to gossip, and not likely to be reticent in keeping
secreta In drawing this conclusion, the reverend Father was
justified by every wise man's experience of human nature—
but he forgot to make allowance for the modifying influence
of circumstances. 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 selBsh
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 words : — * Be careful for Stella's
sake 1 '

' Oh, yes ! ' said Mrs. Eyrecourt, * I know Beaupark House j
but—- ^— May I make a confession V she added with her sweetest
smile.

-'• Mi"il»iiiiiiiii lirtil*

THE END OF THE RALti.

1.01

Father Benwcll caught her tone, with his customary tact.
' A confession at a ball is a novelty ; even in my experience/ he
answered, with his sweetest smile.

* How good of you to encourage me ! ' proceeded Mrs. Eyre-
court. ' No, thank you, I don't want to sit down. My confes-
sion won't take long — and I really must give that poor pale
daughter of mine a glass of wine. A student of human nature
like you — they say all priests are students of human nature j
accustomed of course to be consulted in difficulties, and to hear
real confessions — must know that we poor women are sadly sub-
ject to whims and caprices. We can't i-esist 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 capricea
Oh, dear, I speak carelessly ; I ought to have said, the place
represents one oi my Ci\])vicoH. In short. Father Benwell, Beau-
park House is perfectly odious to me ; and I think Clovelly the
most over-rated place in the world. I haven't the least reason
to give, but so it is. Excessively foolish of me. It's like hys-
terics, 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, ta 'e my ad-
vice. Try the Continent.'

* I should like it of all things,' said Father Benwell. * Only
I don't speak French. Allow me to get Miss Eyrecourt a glass
of wine.'

He spoke with the most perfect temper and tranquillity.
Having paid his little attention to Stella, and having relieved
her of the empty glaas, he took his leave, with a parting request
thoroughly characteristic of the man.

* Are you staying in town, Mra Eyrecourt 1 ' he asked.

* Oh, of course, at the height of the season ! '

'May I have the honour of calling on you— and talking a
little more about the Continent 1 '

If he had said it in so many words, he could hardly have in-
formed Mrs. Eyrecourt more plainly that he thoroughly un-
derstood 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 o'clock tea on Wednesdays, Father Benwell. Don't forget |'

132

THE BLACK ROBE.

The moment he was gone, she drew her daughter into a quiet
comer. * 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 I '

* Oh, hush ! hush ! Hate him as much as you like ; but
always be civil to him. Tell me have you been in the con-
servatory with Romayne 1 '

•Yes.'

' All going on well 1 *

•Yea'

* My sweet child 1 Dear, dear me, the wine has done you no
good ; you're as pale as ever. Is it that priest 1 Oh, pooh, pooh,
leave Father Benwell to me^'

liet
bas

fOVL

but
on-

CHAPTER IV.

L no
)oh,

IN THE SMALL HOURS.

"TTTHEN Stella left the conservatory, the attraction of the
VV 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 faca ' Has
anything happened 1 ' he inquired.

♦ Nothing of any importance,' Penrose answered, in sad, sub-
dued tones, * I only wanted to ask you for leave of absence.*

' Certainly. Is it for a long time 1 '

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 1 ' Romayne repeated. ' My dear Penrose,
if you forget how many happy days I owe to your companion-
ship, 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 r

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 enligh-
ten me further. Don't think me ungrateful. I have reasons
for saying what I have just said — I cannot mention wliat they
are — I can only tell you they are serious reasons. A'ou have
spoken of my devotion to you. If you wish to rew ad me a
hundredfold more than I deserve, bear in mind our con\ ersations
on religion ; and keep the books J asked you to read, m gifts

THE BLACK llOBE.

«Why

him go.
Give me

from a friend who loves you with his whole heart. No new
ilutiea that you can undertake are incom)»atible with the higher
intereHts of your soul. Think of mo sonietimes. Whyn 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-bye for ever. And what is my one consolation? What
helps me to bear my hard lot 1 The Faith that I hold ! Re-
member that, Komayne. Tf there comes a time of sorrow in
the future, remember that.*

Romayne was more than surpi... 1, he was shocked,
must you leave me?' he asked.

* It is best for you and for Aer,* said Pen'oso, ' that I should
withdraw myself from your new life.'

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

Penrose smiled sadly. ' You know that my career in life de-
pends wholly on my superiors,' he answered. ' But '" I am still
in England — and if (which God forbid !) you ha' 'tows in
the future that I can share and alleviate — only L- uie know
it. There is nothing within the compass of my power v/hich I
will not do for your sake, God bless and prosper you ! Good
byel*

In spite of his fortitude, the tears rose in his eyes. He hur-
ried 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 integiity no
evil influence could corrupt. By what inscrutable fatality do
some men find their way into spheres that are unworthy of
tliem 1 • 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 fir. t hours of the morning. The
books of which his lost friend had spoken were close by him on
the table. He op< ned one of them, and turned to a page marked
by pencil llnea His sensitive nature was troubled to its inmost
depths. The confession of that Faith which had upheld Penrose

IN THE SMALL HOURS.

135

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. AVhilo
he was still reading, the ball at Lady Loring's house caiiio 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 neighbourhood. Is there a little Protestant
prejudice in this new if' of yours ? '

Stella made no re^ .he seemed to be lost in her own
thoughts.

Lady Loring went on.

* I am open to convi tion, my dear. If you will only tell me
what interest Father iJenwell 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 1 '

* 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 suf-
fered. Think of the humiliation of even speaking of it to Ro-
mayne ! '

' I daren't think of it,' cried Stella, passionately. ' 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

136

THE BLACK ROBE.

if ^ou had told him the whole truth. I speak with the expe-
rience of a married woman. Don't place yourself in that posi-
tion towards your husband if you wish for a happy married life.'

Stella was not quite convinced yet. ' Suppose Eomayne finds
it out 1 ' she said.

' He can't possibly find it out. I detest Winteriield, 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 1 '

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
yetr

' 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 sub-
ject 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 Bomayne in
every way worthy of him, and you know that he loves you. If
you did tcl\ him that miserable story, he could only pity you.
Do you wa.it to be pitied 1 '

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
Benweli, 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 coutained these lines :—

IN THE SMALL HOURS.

137

* Mj last letter informed you of Romayue's return to London
and to Miss Eyrecourt. Let me entreat our reverend brethren
to preserve perfect tranquillity of mind, in spite of this circum-
stance. 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.

' But let me not conceal the truth. In the uncertain future
that lies before us, I have no one to depend on but my*<elf.
Penrose is no longer to be trusted ; and the exertions of the
agent to whom I committed my inquiries are exertions that
have failed.

' I will dispose of the case of Penrose first.

* The zeal with which this young man has undertaken the
work of conversion entrusted to him has, I regret to say, not
been fired by devotion to the interests of the Church, but by a
dog-like affection for Komayne. Without waiting for my per-
mission, 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 Eyrecourt — he hets deli-
berately closed his ears to the confidence which Romayne wished
to repose in him, on the ground that I might have ordered him
to repeat that confidence to me.

' To what use can we put this man's ungovernable sense of
honour and gratitude 1 For the present he has left London to
assist in the spiritual care of a country district. It will be a
question for the future whether we may not ^um his enthusiasm
to good account, in a mission to foreign part& But, as it is
always possible that his influence nay still be of use to us, I
venture to suggest keeping him within our reach, until Romayne's
conversion has actually taken place.

' I may now proceed to the failure of my agent, and to the
course of action that I have adopted in consequenca

' The investigations appear to have definitely broken down at
the seaside village of Clovelly, in the neighbourhood of Mr.
Winterfield's country seat. Knowing that I could depend upon
the information which associated this gentleman with Miss Eyre-
court, vnder compromising circumstances of some sort, I decided
on seeing Mr. Winterfield, and judging for myselC

' The agent's report informed me that the person who had
finally bafiidd his inquiries was an aged Catholic priest, long resi*

' ?i

'■#■-

138

THE BLACK ROBE.

dent at Clovelly. His name is Newbliss, and he is much re-
spected among the Catholic gentry in that part of Devonshire.
After due consideration, I obtained a letter of introduction to
my reverend colleague, and travelled to Clovelly — telling my
friends here that I was taking a little holiday, in the interests
of my health.

* I found Father Newbliss a venerable and reticent son of
the Church — with one weak point, however, to work on, which
was entirely beyond the reach of the otherwise astute person
charged with my inquiriea My reverend friend is a scholar,
and is inordinately proud of his learning. I am a scholar too.
In that capacity I fii'st found my way to his sympathies, and
then gently encouraged his pride. The result will appear in
certain discoveries, which I number as follows : —

* 1. The events which connect Mr. Winterfield with Miss
Eyrecourt happened about two years since, and had their begin-
ning at Beaupark House.

'2. At this period, Miss Eyrecoiut and her mother were stay-
ing at Beaupark House. The general impression in the neigh-
bourhood was, that Mr. Winterfield and Miss Eyrecourt were
engaged to be married.

' 3. Not long afterwards. Miss Eyrecourt and her mcwer sur-
prised the neighbourhood by suddenly leaving Beaupark House.
Their destination was supposed to be London.

* 4. Mr. Winterfield himself next left his country seat for the
Continent His exact destination was not mentioned to any one.
The steward, soon afterwards, dismissed all the servants ; and the
house was left empty for more than a year.

* 5. At the end of that time, Mr. Winterfield returned alone
to Beaupark House, and told nobody how, or where, he had
passed the long interval of his absence.

* 6. Mr. Winterfield remains, to the present day, an unmar-
ried man.

* Having arrived at these preliminary discoveries, i^ was time
to try what I could make of Mr. Winterfield next.

* Among the other good things which this gentleman has inher-
ited, 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 CM 1^ matter ot qourse,

3BSB

IN THE SMALL HOURS.

139

' I am about to surprise you, as I was myself surprised. In
all my long experience, Mr. Winterfield is, I think, the most fas-
cinating person I ever met with. Genial, unassuming manners,
a prepossessing personal appearance, a sweet temper, a quaint
humour delightfully accompanied by natural refinement — such
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 capable of a cruel or dishonour-
able action. I never was so puzzled in my life.

' You may be inclined to think that I am misled by a false
impression, derived fxom the gratifying welcome that I received
as a friend of Father Newblis& I will not appeal to my know-
ledge of human nature — I will refer to the unanswerable evi-
dence of Mr. Winterfield's poorer neighboura 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 ckn be such
another to the end of the world." Such was a fisherman's de-
scription of him ; and the one cry of all the men and women
near us answered, " That's the truth."

' And yet there is something wrong — for this plain reason,
that there is a secret to keep, in the past lives of Mr. Winterfield
and Miss Eyrecourt.

' Under these perplexing circumstances, what use have I
made of my opportunities 1 I am going to surprise you again —
I have mentioned Romayne's name to Mr. Winterfield ; and I
have ascertained that they are, so far, perfect strangers to one
another — and that is all.

' The little incident of mentioning Komayne arose out of my
examination of the library. I discovered certain old volumes,
which may one day be of use him, if he continues his con-
templated work on the Origin of Religions. Hearing me express
myself to this efiect, Mr. Winterfield replied with the readiest
kindnesa

' " I can't compare myself to my excellent father," he said ;
"but I have at least inherited his respect for the writers o£
books. My library is a treasure which I had in trust for the
interests of literature. Fray say so, from me to your ^ead,
Mr, Komayne,**

ill

f '

140

THE BLACK ROBE.

* And what docs tbis amount to 1 — you will ask. My reve-
rend friend, it offers me an opportunity, in the future, of bring-
ing Komayne and Winterfield together. Do you see the compli-
cations 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 valuable obstacle in the way of a marriage.

* Mr. Winterfield has kindly invited me to call on him, when
he is next in London. I may then have opportunities of put-
ting 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 you — what Penrose ought to have dis-
covered — whether Bomayne has been already entrapped into a
marriage engagement, or not

* Farewell for the present Remind the Reverend Fathers,
with my respects, that I possess one of the valuable qualities of
an Englis^ap. — I never know when I am beaten.'

The Eno of the Second Book.

look tbe SbirA.

CHAPTER I.

THE HONEYMOON.

MORE than six weeks bad passed. The wedded lovers were
still enjoying their honeymoon at Vange Abbey.

Some offence 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 ap-
peared in the newspapers. Foreseeing the unfavourable impres-
sion that might be produced in some quarter 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 that 'the master had just left the Belvidere, and
had gono into his study.'

Crossing the inner hall, on her way to the study, Stella noticed
an unopened letter, addressed to Romayne, lying on a table in a
comer. He had probably laid it aside and forgotten it. She
entered his room with the letter in her hand.

The only light was a reading lamp, with the shade so lowered
that the comers of the study were left in obscurity. In one
of these corners Romayne was dimly visible, sitting with his

142

tHE BLACK BOBBl.

head sunk on his breast He never moved when Stella opened
the door. At first she thought he might be asleep.
' Do I disturb you, Lewis 1 ' she asked softly,

* No, my dear.

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

' I am a little tired after our long ride to-day. Do you want
to go back to the Belvidere t '

* Not without you. Shall I leave you to rest here? '

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 cares-
singly on his head. It was burning hot. ' Oh ! ' she cried, ' you
are ill, and you are trying to hide it from me.'

For a moment, he was still silent ; taking out his handker-
chief, and passing it rapidly over his face. * Nothing is the
matter with me,' he said, with an uneasy laugh. He put his
arm round her waist, and made her sit on his knee. ' What
have you got in your hand 1 ' he asked. ' A letter 1 '

* Yes. Addressed to you, and not opraied yet'

He took it out of her hand, and threw it carelessly on a sofa
near him. * Never mind that now I Let us talk.' He paused,
and kissed her, before he went on. * My darling, I think you
must be getting tired of Vange t '

' Oh, no ! I can be happy anywhere with you — and especially
at Yange. You don't know how this noble old house interests
me, and how I admire the glorious country all around it'

He was not convinced. ' Vange is very dull,' he said obstin-
ately ; ' and your friends will be wanting to see you. Have you
heard from your mother lately f '

' No. I am surprised she has not written.'

* 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 Highgato t '

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 wiUi you wherever you like.' She said those words iu
(ones of sad submission, and gently got up from his knee.

THE HONEYMOON.

143

He rose also, and took from the sofa the letter which he had
thrown on it. ' Let us see what our friends say,' he resumed.
' The address is in Loring's handwriting.'

As he approached the table on wliich 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 preventof^ 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 daughtera" Bead it.'

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 back — but 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. Tn
an instant she was on her knees at his feet. ' Oh, my darling,'
she cried, 'it was cruel to keep t?uit seci-et from your wife i
You have heard it again ! '

She was too irresistibly beautiful, at that moment, to be re-
proved. He gently raised her from the floor — and owned the
truth.

* Yes,* he said ; *I heard it after you left me on the Belvidere
— just 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 had a long release.'

She threw her arms round his neck. * We will leave Vange
to-morrow,* she said.

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 ?

CHAPTER II.

»3Si

EVENTS AT TEN ACRES.

THERE was no obstacle to the speedy departure of Romayne
and his wife from Vange Abbey. The villa at Highgate
— called T'^n Acres Lodge, in allusion to the measurement of the
grounds surrounding the house — had been kept in perfect order
by the servants of the late Lady Berrick, now in the eraploj-
ment of her nephew.

On the morning after their arrival at the villa, Stella sent a
note to her mother. The same afternoon, Mra Eyrecourt arrived
at Ten Acres — on h')r way to a garden party. Finding the hous'^,
to her great relief, a modern building, supplied with all the
newest comforts and luxuries, she at once began to plan a grand
party, in celebration of the return of the bride and bridegroom.

* 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 wedding —
five 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 coloured lamps ; Tyrolese singers among the
trees, relieved by military music — and, if there are any African
or other savages now in London, there is room enough in these
charming grounds, for encampments, dances, squaw.., scalps, and
all the rest of it, to end in a blaze of fireworks.'

A sudden fit of coughing seized her, and stopped the further
enumeration of attractions at the contemplated ball Stella had
observed that her mo^er looked unusually worn and haggard,
through the disguise of paint am! powder. This was not an un-
common result of Mrs. Eyrecourt^' devotion to the demands of

i».

EVENTS AT TEN ACRES.

145

Society ; but the cough was something nev, as a symptom of
exhaustion.

' I am afraid, Mamma, you have been over-exorting 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 delightful naughty little French vlay) — and I caught a
slight cold. A glass of water is all I want. Thank you. Ko-
mayne, 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 to morrow — you are
within such a nice easy drive from town — and I'll bring my
visiting-book, and settle about the invitations and the day. Oh,
dear me, how late it i& I have nearly an hour's drive before I
get to my garden party. Good-bye, my turtle-doves, good-bya*

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 speak—
and skipped into the carriage like a young girl.

* Your mother is killing herself,' said Romayne.

' If I could persuade her to stay with us a little while,' Stella
suggested, ' the rest and quiet might do wonders for her. Would
you object to it, Lewis 1 '

* My darling, I object to nothing, except giving a ball and
burning my book& If your mother will yield on those two
points, my house is entirely at her disposal.'

He spoke playfully — he 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 ; but she was bold enough to
hope. To her surprise, Ec layne himself referred to the General's
family.

* I have written to Hynd/ he began. *Do you mind his dining
with us to-day 1 '

* Of course not I *

* I want to hear if he has anything to tell me — about those
French ladies. He undertook to see them, in your absence, and

• (

146

THE BLACK ROBE.

to ascertain — * He was unable to overcome bis reluctance to
pronounce tbe next words. Stella was quick to understand wbat
he meant. She finished the sentence for him.

< Yes/ he said, ' I wanted to hear bow tbe boy is getting on,
and if there is any hope of curing him. Is it — ' be trembled as
be put tbe question — * Is it hereditary madness 1 *

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 his chances of recovery
for yourself 1 '

' You suppose 1 ' be 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, after a moment of
silence. * You or I '< *

' It was my fault, love — he is so harmless and so gentle, and
he has such a sweet face — I thought it might soothe you to see
bim. Forgive me ', we will never speak of him again. Have
you any notes for me to copy 1 You know, Lewis, I am your
secretary now.'

So she led Romayne away to his study and his book& When
Major Hynd arrived, she contrived to be the first to see bim.
* Bay as little as possible about tbe Qeneral's widow and her son,'
she whispered.

The Major understood her. * Don't be uneasy, Mrs. Romayne,'
be answered. * I know your husband well enough to know what
you mean. Besides, the news I bring is good news.'

Bomayne came in before he could speak more particularly.
When the servants had left the room, after dinner, the Major
made his report

' I am going to agreeably surprise you,' be began. * All re-
sponsibility towards the General's family is taken ofif our hand&
The ladies are on their way back to France.'

Stella was instantly reminded of one of the melancholy inci-
dents asiiociated with her visit to Camp's HilL * Madame Maxil-
lae spoke of a brother of her's who disapproved of the mar-
riage,' she said. ' Has be forgiven her 1 '

< That is exactly what he has done, Mrs. Romayne. Natur-
ally enough, be felt the disgrace of his sister's marriage to such

EVKNTS AT TEN ACRES.

147

ye to
what

Bd as

Itella
taint
i^ould
jverj

You
Oh,

I him

Qt of

, and
)o see
Elave
your

hen
him.
son/

yne,
nrhat

arly.
ajor

1 re-
jid&

inoi-
aril-
nar-

,tur-
luch

a man as the General Only the other day he heard for the
first time that she was a widow — and he at once travelled to
England. I bade them good-bye yesterday — most happily re-
united — on 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
circumstances — he is as good a fellow as ever lived/

* Have you seen him 1 ' Stella asked eagerly.

* I have been with him to the asylum.'

* Does the boy go back to France V

* No. We took the place by surprise, and saw for ourselves
how well conducted it was. The boy has taken a jstrong liking

to the proprietor — a 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 away — and his mother burst out crying at the idea of
leaving him. It was a melancholy scene. You know what a
good mother is — no 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. By-the-way, Komayne, his uncle
desires me to thank you '

* Hynd, you didn't tell the uncle my name 1 '

' Don't alarm you rself. He is a gentleman, and when I told
him I was pledged to secresy he made but one inquiry — he asked
if you were a rich man. I told him you had eighteen thousand
a year/

♦Welir

* Well, he set that matter right between us with perfect taste.
He said, " I cannot presume to ofier repayment to a person so
wealthy. Wa gratefully accept our obligation to our kind un-
known friend. For the future, however, my nephew's exj^enses
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, Romayne — now
that the General's family have left England — I don't see why
the proprietor might not make his report directly to yourself.'

* No ! ' Romayne rejoined, positively. * Let things remain as
they are.'

' Very well. The asylum is close by, at Haropstead — that
was what made me think of it, Will you give us some music,

, ;

¥■

148

THE BLACK ROBE.

Mrs. Romayne 1 Not to-night 1 Then let us go to the billiard-
room ; and as I am the worst of bad players, I will ask you to
help me to beat your accomplished husband. '

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

* Dearest Stella, — Matilda must bring you my excuse for to-
day. I don't in the least understand it, but I seem to have
turned lazy. It is most ridiculous — I really cannot get out of
bed. Perhaps I did do just a little too much yesterday. TL«
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 1 Make my ai)ologie8 to our dear dismal Romayne —
and 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.'

Stella turned to the maid with a sinking heart ' Is my
mother very ill 1 ' she asked.

* So ill, ma'am, that I begged and prayed her to let me send
for the doctor. You know what my mistress is ; she wouldn't
hear of it. If you would please to use your influence '

*I will order the carriage instantly, and take you back with me.*

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 th t he shared his wife's apprehensions. ' Go
at once,' were his last words to her ; ' and, if I can be of any
use, send for me.*

It was late in the evening before Stella returned. She
brought sad news.

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 mo-
ther at night. The experience of the next twenty-four 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, Mra Eyrecourt was still
drowsily equal to herself. ' You are a fidgety my dear, and
Matilda is a fidget — I can't have two of you at my bedside.

EVENTS AT TEN AGUES.

140

Good ni^lit.' Stella stooped over her and kissed her. She whis-
pered, 'Three weeks' notice, remember, for the party ! '

13y the next evening the malady had aHSumed so formidable
an aspect, that the doctor had his doubts of the patient's chance
of recovery. With her husband's full ajiproval, Stella remained
night and day at her mother's bedside.

Thus, in little more than a month from the day of his mar-
riage, Romayne was, for the time, a lonely man again.

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 oc-
casions Stella was abl^ to return to her husband for a few boura
— subject always to a message which recalled her to her mother,
when the chances of life or death appeared to be equally ba-
lanced. 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 fami-
liar 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 ever-welcome sympathy with his work. Stella had done
all that a wife could do to fill the vacant place ; and her hus-
band's fondness had accepted the efibrt 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 brain-work of a man, devoted to an absorbing intellec-
tual pursuit ? She can love him, admire him, serve him, believe
in him beyond all other men— hrt (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 1 ' Even other
friends were not available as a resource in the solitary evening
hours. Lord Loring was absorbed in social and political engage-
ments. And Major Hynd — true to the principle of getting away
as often as possible from his disagreeable wife and his ugly
children — had once more left London.

150

THE BLACK IIOBE.

One day, while Mrs. Eyrecourt still lay between life and
death, Eoir<>yne found his historical labours suspended by the
want of a certain volume which it was absolutely necessary to
consult. He had mislaid the references written for him by Fen*
rose, and he was at a loss to remember whether the book was
in the British Museum, in the Bodleian Library, or in the
Biblioth^que at Paria In this emergency, a letter to his former
secretary would furnish him with the information that he re-
quired. But he was ignorant of Penrose's present addresa The
Lorings might possibly know it — so to che Lorings he resolved
to apply

CHAPTER TIT.

FATHER BENWELL AXD THE BOOK.

EOMAYNE'S first errand in London was to see his 'vite,
and to maV; inquiries at Mrs. Eyrecourt's house. The
report was more favourable than usual. Stella wliispered, as she
kissed him, * I shall soon come back to you, I hope i *

Leaving the horses to rest for awhile, he proceeded to Lord
Loring's residence on foot. As he crossed a street in the neigh
bouihood, lic WAS nearly run over by a cab, carryin;^ a gentle-
man and hLs luggage. The gentleman was Mr. Winterfield on
his wav to Derwent's Hotel.

Lady Loring very kindly searched her card basket, as the
readiest means of assisting Roujayne. Penrose had loft his card,
on his departure from London ; but no address was written on
it Lord Loring, unable himself to give the required informa-
tion, suggested the right person to consult.

' 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 1 '

' 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 Ben-
well ; 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
borrow it from the library of a friend of mine, residing in the
country/

By return of post the answer, afFectionatoly and gratefully
written, arrived from Penrose. He regretted that he waa not

152

THE BLACK ROLE.

able to assist Plonmyne jiersonally. But it was out of his power
(in plain words, lie had lieen expressly forbidden by Father Ben-
well) 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. lie had only met with it himself, in the National Library
at Paris,

This iiiff.rmnt'on led Komtiyne to London again, immediately.
For the (irst time he called at Father Benwell's lodgings. The
priest wiis at home, expecting the vi.sit. His welcome was the
lierfection of unussimiii.;; |>olitenes3. He a.sked for the last news
of * poor Mrs. Eyrecourt'a health,' with the sympathy of a true
friend.

*I had the honour of drinking tea with Mrs. Eyrecourt, some
little time since,' he said. * Her flow of conversation was never
more d('liL;litful — it seemed impossible to associate the idea of ill-
ness wit!) so bright a creature. And how well she kept tlie
secret of your contemplated marriage I May I offer my humble
i^ongriitulations and good wishes?*

Roninvne thought it needless to say that Mrs. Eyrecourt had
not been t' usted witli the secret, until the wedding day was close
•»t hand. ' My wife and I agreed in wishing to be married as
(juietly IS possil»l<',' he answered, after making the oubtomary
icknowledtjmeiitH.

'An<l iMis. Ivomayne 1 ' pursued Father Benwell. 'Thin is a
sad trial for her. Slu' is in attendance on her mother, I suppose?'

' In constant attendance ; I am (piite alone now. To change
the subject, may I ask you to look at the reply which I have re-
ceived 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 habitiial self-control, Ir's vigilant ejes brightened
as he handed it V»ack.

The priest's well {)lanned scheme (like Mr. Bitrake's clever
inquiries) had failed. Ho had not even entrapped Mrs. ICy re-
court into rev(\'iling tli^e marriage engagenu'iit. Her uncon-
querable small-talk liad foiled him at every point. Even when
he had deliberntely kept his seat after the other guests at the
tea-table had taken their departure, she rose with the most im-
'uertuibable coolness, and left him. 'I have a dinner and two

FATHER BENWELL AND THE BOOK.

153

ion.
led

ever
,yi*e-
cnn-
lieu
ithe
im-
two

parties to-night ; and this is just the time when I take my little
restorative nap. Forgive me — and do come again ! ' When he
sent the fatal announcement of the marriage to Kome, 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 defeat — but he was not beaten yet. *I counted on
Romayne's weakness, and Miss Eyrecourt counted on Komayne's
weakness ; and Miss Eyrecourt has won. So let it he. My turn
will come.' In that manner he had reconciled himself to his
position, and now — he knew it when he handed back the letter
to Romayne — his turn had come !

You can hardly go to Paris to consult the book,* he said, ' in
the present state of Mrs. Eyrecourt's health.'
' Certainly not ! '

* Perhaps you will send somebody to search the catalogue at
the British Museum ?'

* I should have done that already, Father Benwell — but for
the very kind allusion in your note to your friend in the coun-
try. 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 your friend will trust me with it*

* I am certain he will trust you with it. My friend is Mr.
Winterfield, of Beaupark House, North Devon. Perhaps you
may have heard of him 1 '

* No ; the name is quite new to me.'

* Then come and see the man himself. He is now in London
— and I AV' entirely at your service.'

In half-, hour more, Romayne was presented to a well-bred,
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 re-
poseo 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 f.nd forward it to your ad-
dress by passenger train this af temovin,' 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 may be of use to you.'

'■^.^

r«

154

THE BLACK ROBE.

With those Mrords, be despatched the telegram to the office.
Romayne attempted to make his acknowledgmenta Mr.Winter-
field would hear no acknowledgments.

* 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 as-
sociate himself w* ;h the productiob 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. Fray, con-
sider me as a haudy little boy who runs on errands for the Muse
of History. Do you smoke 1 *

Not even tobacco would soothe Komayne's wasted and irrit-
able nerves. Father Benwell — • all things to all men * — cheer-
fully accepted a cigar from a box on the table.

' Father Benwell possesses all the social virtues,' Mr. Winter-
field ran on. * He shall have his coffee, and the largest sugar-
basin that the hotel can produce. I can quite understand that
your literary labours have tried your nerves,' he said to Ro-
mayne, when he had ordered the coffee. 'The mere title of your
work overwhelms an idle man like me. " The Origin of Reli-
gions" — what an immense subject! How far must we look
back, to find out the first worshippers of the human family ?
Where are the hieroglyphics, Mr. Romayne, that will give you
tlie earliest information 1 In the unknown centre of Africa, or
among the ruined r^Hies of Yucatan 1 My own ideas, 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 Benwell — I con-
fess I have a certain sympathy with sun-worship. In the East
especially, the rising of the sun is surely the grandest of a'l ob-
jects — the visible symbol of a beneficent Deity, who gives life,
warmth, and light to the world of his creation.'

* Very grand, no doubt,' remarked Father Benwell, sweeten-
ing 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'a*

* 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 noble sight ? '

* Certainly — at p proper distance,' Father Benwell briskly
replied. * Ah, you heretics only know the worst side of that

FATHER BENWELL AND THE BOOK.

155

most unhappy pontiff ! Mr. Winterfield, we have every reason
to believe that he felt (privately) the truest remorse.'

* I should require very good evidence to persuade me of it.'
This touched Romayne on a sad side of his own personal ex-
perience. * Perhaps,* he said, * you don't believe in remorse 1 '

* Pardon me,' Mr. Winterfield rejoined, * I only distinguish
between false and true remorse. We will say no more of Alex-
ander the Sixth, Father BenweU J?, we want an illustration, I
will supply it, and give no offence. True remorse depends, to
my mind, on a man's accurate knowledge of his own motives —
by no means a common knowledge, in my experience. Say, for
instance, that I have committed some serious offence '

Romayne could not resist interrupting him. ' Say you have
killed one of your fellow creatures,' 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 fol-
lows) I am really capable of feeling the enormity of my own
crime — ^that 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 man — if his death was my misfor-
tune as well as his — and if (as frequently happens) I am never-
theless troubled by remorse, the true cause lies in my own in-
ability fairly to realize my own motives — before I look to resulta
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 apprecia-
tion of my own importance, which is nothing but egotism in
disguise.'

< I entirely agree with you,' said Father Benwell, ' I have had
occasion to say Sue same thing in the confessional.'

Mr. Winterfield looked at his dog, and changed the subject.
' Do you like dogs, Mr. Romayne 1 ' he asked. * I see my span-
iel's eyes saying that he likes you, and his tail begging you to
take some notice of him.'

Romayne caressed the dog rather absently.

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 irre-
sistibly to Romayne's sensitive nature. The favourable impres-

156

THE BLACK ROBE.

sion was now greatly strengthened by the brief, 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 spaniel.

Father Benwell's trained observation followed the vivid
changes of expression on Bomayne'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 opportunity, and took it.

' Do you remain long at Ten Acres Lodge 1 ' he said to Eo-
mayne.

* I hardly know as yet. We have no other plans at present.'
' You inherit the place, I think, from your late aunt, Lady

Berrick?'

»Yes.'

The tone of the reply was not encouraging; Bomayne felt no in-
terest in talking of Ten Acres Lodge. Father Benwell persisted.

* 1 was told by Mrs. Eyrecourt,' he went on, * that Lady Ber-
rick had some fine pictures. Are they still at the Lodge 9 '

* Certainly. I couldn't live in a house without picturea'
Father Benwell looked at Winterfield. * Another taste in com

mon between you and Mr. Bomayne,' he said, ' besides your lik-
ing for dogs.'

This at once produced the desired result. Bomayne eagerly
invited Winterfield to see his pictures. * There are not many of
them,' he said. ' But t'ley are really worth looking at. When
will you come V

* The sooner the better,' Winterfield answered, cordially. * Will
to-morrow do — by the noon-day light 1 '

* Whenever you please. Your time is mine.'

Among his other accomplishments, Father Benwell was a chess-
player. If his thoughts at that moment had been expre&*^dd in
language, they would have said, ' Check to the queen.'

CHAPTER IV.

. THE END OP THE HONEYMOON.

ON thd next morning, Winterfield arrived at Bomayne's
house.

Having been included, as a matter of course, in the invitation
to see the pictures. Father Ben well 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 men — in the absence of Stella.
He had it, on Romayne's own authority, that she was in con-
stant attendance on her mother, and that her husband was
aione. ' 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 super-subtle intellect to trust too
implicitly to calculation, and to leave nothing to chance. Once
or twloe already. Father Benwell had been (in the popular
phrase) a little too clever — and 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 nuntbers and
size, the pictures collected by the late Lady Berrick were mas-
terly works^of modem 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 living-rooms of the villa. Turner, Constable, Collins,

"ST

158

THE BLACK ROBE.

Danby, Calcott, Linnell — the mAster of Beaupark House passed
from one to the other with the enjoyment of a man who tho-
roughly 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 good-humoured way. * I can't part with those
pictures when I say go-bye to day. You will find me calling
here again and again, till you are perfectly sick of ma 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 lovely — I could kiss that
picture.'

They were in Romayne's study when this odd outburst of en-
thusiasm escaped Winterfield. He happened to look towards
the writing-table next. Some pages of manuscript, blotted and
interlined with corrections, at once attracted his attention.

* Is that the forthcoming history 1 ' he asked. ' You are not
one of the authors who perform tho process of correction men-
tally — you revise and improve with the pen in your hand.'

^Romayne looked at him in surprise. * I suspect, Mr. Winter-
field, you have used your pen for other purposes than writing
ivHtera'

' No, indeed ; you pay me an undeserved compliment When
you come to see me in Devonshire, I can show you some manu-
scripts, and corrected proofs, left by our great writers, collected
by my father. My knowledge of the secrets of the crnft 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 fervour of composition yesterday, is the same
man who sits in severe and merciless judgment to-day, on what
he has himself produced. What a fascination there must be in
the Art which exacts, and recei ^^es, such double labour as this! '

Romayne thought — not unkindly — of 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 won-
der. ' Why do you take all that trouble ! ' she had gently re-
monstrated. * It would be just the same to the people, darling,
if you did it in half the time.'

THE END OF THE HONEYMOON.

159

By way of changing the topic, Komayne led hia yisitor into
another room. < 1 have a picture here,' he said, ' which be-
longH to a newer school of painting. You have been talking of
hard work in one Art ; there it ia in another.'

' Yes,' said Wiaterfield ; * there it is — the misdirected hard
work, which has been guided by no critical faculty, and which
doesn't Vnow where to stop. I try to admire it ; and I end in
pitying U\e poor artist Look at that leafless felled tree in the
middle distance. Every little twig, on the smallest branch, is con-
scientiously painted — and the result is like a coloured 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 Thole in Na-
ture, 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 your shrubbery there, with an ungrateful sense of
reliel*

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 the rolling wheels became audible on the drive. An open car-
riage appeared at the turn in the road. Winterfield called Ro-
mayne to the window. ' A visitor,' he began — and suddenly drew
back, without saying a word more.

Bomayne looked out, and recognised his wifa

* Excuse me for a moment,' he said, ' it is Mrs. Romay.ae.'

On that morning, an improvement in the fluctuating state of
Mr& Eyrecourt's health had given Stella another of those oppor-
tunities of passing an hour or two with her husband, which she
so highly prized. Bomayne withdrew, to meet her at the door
— too hurriedly to notice Winterfield, standing in the corner, to
which he had retreated, like a man petrified.

Stella had got out of the carriage, when her husband readied
the porch. She ascended the steps that led to the hall, as slowly
and painfully as if she had been an infirm old woman. The de-
licately-tinted colour in her face had faded to an ashy white. She
had seen Winterfield at the window.

For a moment, Bomayne looked at her in speechless oonster*
nation. He led her into the nearest room that opened out of
the hall, and took her in his arms. * My love, this nursing of

( .

IGO

THE BLACK ROBE.

your mofher has completely broken you doim !' he said, with
the tenderest pity for her, ' If you won't ^ hink of yourself,
you must think of me. For my sake remain here, and take the
rest you need. I will be a tyrant, Stella, for the first time ; I
won't let you go back.'

She roused herself, and tried to smile — and hid the sad resutt
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
words — so trivial and so terrible — that must, sooner or later be
pronounced. * You have a visitor,' she said.

' Did you see him at the window ? A really delightful man
— I know you will like him. Under any other circumstances, I
should have introduced him, you are not well enough to see
strangers to-day,'

She was too determined to prevent Winterfield from ever en-
tering the house again, f brink from the meeting. ' I am not
so ill as you think, Lewir,,' she said bravely. * When you go to
your new friend, I will go wilh you. I am a little tired — that's
all.'

Romayne looked at her anxiously. ' Lot me get jou a glass
of wine,' he said.

She consented — she rnally felt the need of it. As he turned
away to ring the bell, she put the question which had been in
her mind, from the moment when she had seen Winterfield.

* How did you become acquainted with this gentleman 1 '

'Through Father Ben well.'

She was not surprised by the answer — her 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 iiieet him 1 The impulse of the moment
pointed to the shortest way out of the dreadful position in which
she was placed — it was to treat him like a stranger. She
drar k her glass of wine, and took Romayne's arm. * We mustn't
kef p your friend waiting any longer,' she resumed * Come ! '

As ^>hey crossed the hall, she looked suspiciously towards tho
houBe-dpor. Had he taken the opportunity of leaving the villa 1

THE END OF THE HONEYMOOI^.

161

!«

At any oilier time, she would have remembered that the plainest
laws of good breeding compelled him to wait for Uoiuayne's re-
turn. His own knowledge of the world would tell him that an
act of gross rudeness, committed by a well-bred man, would ine-
vitably t ..oite suspicion of some unworthy motive — and mi^^ht^
perhaps, connect that motive with her uiif>x))ected appearance
at the house. Romayne opened the door, uud they entered the
room together.

' Mr. Winterfield, let me introduce you to Mrs. Romayne.*
They bowed to each other ; they spoke the conventional
words proper to the occasion — but the effort that it c* t them
showed itself. Romayne perceived an unusual formality in his
wife's manner, and a 8tran<;o disappearance of Winterfield's
easy grace of address. Was he one of the few men, in t]»ese
days, who are shy in t'le presence of women? And was the
change in Stella attributable, perhaps, to the state of her health ?
The .xplanation might, in either case, be the right ona Ue
tried to set them at their ease.

* Mr. Winterfield is so pleased with the pictures, that he
means to come and see them again,' he said to his wife. ' And
one of his favourites happens to be your favourite, too.'

She tried to look at Winterfield ; but her eyes sunk. She
could turn towards him, and that wa^ all. ' Is it the sea piece
in the study ? ' she said to him faintly.

* Yes,' he answered with formal politeness ; * it seems to me
to be one of the painter's finest worka'

Romayne looked at him in unconcealed wonder. To what flat
common place Winterfield's lively enthusiasm had sunk in
Stella's presence 1 She perceived that some unfavourable im-
pression had been produced on her husband, and interposed
with a timely suggestion. Her motive was not only to divert
Romayne's attention from Winterfield, but to give iim a reason
for leaving the room.

* The little water-colour drawing in my bed -room is by the
same artist,' she said. ' Mr. WinterfielH might like to see it. If
you will ring the bell, Lewis, I will send my maid for it.'

Romayne had never allowed the servants to touch his works
of art, since the day when a zealous housemaid bad tri(Kl to wash
one of his plaster oasts. He made the reply which his wifa hR4
Anticipated.

t*^

lOS

TBI BLACK ROBB.

"* No ! no !' be aaid, ' I will fetch the drawing myaelf* He
turned gaily to Winterfield. * Prepare yourself for another work
that you would like to kiss.' He smiled, and left the room.

The instant the door was closed, Stella approached Winter-
oeld. Her beautiful face became distorted by a mingled ex-
pression 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 moat
complete contrast between his face and hers. Compassionate
sorrow was in his eyes, tender forbearance and respect spoke in
Lis tones as he answered her.

' I have more than consideration for you, Stella *

She angrily interrupted him. ' How dare you call me by my
Christian name?'

He remonstrated, with a gentleness that might have touched
the heart of any woman. * Do you still refuse to believe that I
never deceived you ) Has time not softened your heart to me
yetr

She was more contemptuous towards him than ever. ' Spare
me your protestations,' she said ; ' I heard enough of them two
years since. Will you do what I ask of you 1 '

* You know that I will.'

* Put an end to your acquaintance with my husband. Put an
end to it,' she repeated vehemently, ' from this day, at once
and for ever I Can 1 trust you to do it 1 '

' Do you think I would have entered this house if I had
known he was your husband V He made that reply with a sud-
den change in him — with a rising colour, 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 than you ask/ he resumed. * You have
made a mistake.'

* What mistake ? '

' When Mr. Romayne introduced us, you met me like a
stranger — and you left me no choice but to do aa you did.'

' I wish you to be a stranger.'

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

THE END OF THE HON EV MOON.

lO.-J

* You forget that you and your mothor were my gtiestH at
Beaupark two years ago — '

Stella understood what ho meant — and more. In an instant
she remembered that Father Benwell had l)een at Beaupark
House. Had he heard of the visit 1 She clasped her hands in
8))eechless terror.

Winterfield gently re-assured her. ' You must not be fright-
ened,' he said. ' It is in the last degree unlikely that Mr. Jlo-
mayne will ever find out that you were at my house. If lie
does— and if you deny it — I will do for you what I would do
for no other human creature ; I will deny it too. You are suf©
from discovery. Be happy — and forget me.'

For the first time, she showed signs of relenting — she turned
her head away, and sighed. Although her mind was fidl 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 do vou
think of it r

' 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, most sincerely.'

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 bear the lamp light ? '

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

Romayne was unwilling to part with him on these terms,
< You will let me know when you are next in town 1 ' he said.

* Certainly I '

With that short answer he hurried away.

164

THE BLACK ROBE.

lik^

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 at-
tractions of a man so unaffectedly agreeable ? It was not won-
derful that Winterfield's cordiality should have been chillod 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. Alchough 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 towards the
wall. She vas 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 on the table, waiting for him.

Father Benwell had losu nothing by not being present at the
presentation of Winterfield to Stella. He had witnessed a
plainer betraya,! of emotion, when they met unexpectedly in
Lord Loring's picture-gallery. IJut it he had seen Romayne
readinc: in his study, and Stella crying secretly on the sofa, he
might have written t» Rome by that day's post, and might
have announced that he had sown the fii*st seeds of disunion
between husband and wife.

CHAPTER V.

rATIIKU KENWELLS CORRESPONDENCE.

To the Seci'etarij. S. J. Home.

* TN my last few hasty lines, I was only able to inform you
JL of the unexpected arrival of Mrs. Roinayne, while Win-
terfield 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 to me are as safe as ever in my
hands.

* I have paid three visits at certain intervals The firt't 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 important results.

' We will revert to Winterfield first. I found him at his hotel,
enveloped in clouds of tobacco smoke, and looking like a gloomy
and dissatisfied man. Assuming not to notice this, £ asked how
he liked Romayne's pictures.

* ** I envy him his pictures." That was the only answer.

* " And how do you like Mrs. Romayne 1 " I inquired next.
' 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
telling me a part (perhaps a very small part) of the truth.

i ,7

1G6

THE BLACK ROBE.

' '* Can you account for such a reception as you describe V* I
asked. He answered shortly, " No."

■ " Perhaps / can account for it," I went on. " Did Mr. Ro-
mayne tell his wife that I was the means of introducing you to
him 1 "

* He fixed another searching loo'*- on me. " Mr. Romayne
might have said so when he lef*^ ine to receive his wife at the
door."

' " Ir that case, Mr. Winterfield, the explanation is as plain
as the sun at noon-day. Mrs. Romayne is a strong Protestant,
and I am a Catholic priest. "

* He accfc^ited 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 friend-
liest way, " are never taken seriously by a sensible man. You
have placed Mr. Romayno under obligations to your kindness —
he is eager to improve his acquaintance with you. You will go
again to Ten lores Lodge 1 "

* He gave me axiother short answer. " I think not."

* I said I was sorry to hear it. ** However." I added, " you
can always see kim here when you are in London." He puffed
out a big volume of smoke and made no remark. 1 declined to
be put down by silence and smoke. •* Or perhaps," I persisted,
"you will honour me by meeting him at a simple little dinner at
my lodgings 1 " Being a gentleman, ho was of course obliged
to answer this. He said, '• You are very kind ; I would rather
not. Shall we talk of something else, Father Benwell ? "

* We talked of something else. He was just as amiable as
ever — but 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 1 " I asked.

* " Oh, no ! call in a week or ten days — and you will find me
here again."

' Whv^n 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
favour? The first is, not to let Mr. Romayne know that I am
still in
tions,"

joudon. The second is, not to ask me for any explana-

FATHER BENWELLS CORRESPONDENCE.

167

' The result of our interview may be stated in very few
words. It has advanced me one step nearer to discovery. Win-
terfield's voice, look and manner satisfied me of this — the true
motive for this sudden change of feeling towards Komayne, is
jealousy of the man who mamed Misi Eyrecourt. Tiiuse
compromising circumstances which baffled the inquiries of my
agent are associated, in plain English, with a love affair. Ke-
member all that I have told you of Romayue's peculiar disposi-
tion — and 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 him — but 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. Tlie physician in attendance trusts en-
tirely to her daughter to persuade her to persevere witi) the
necessary course ot meaicine. Don't fuppose that I trouble
you, by mentioning these trumpery circumstances, without a
reason. We shall have occasion to return to Mrs. Eyrecourt
and her doctor.

* Before I had been five minutes in his company, Romayne
asked me if I had seen Winterfield since his visit to Ten Acres
Lodge.

* I said I had seen him, and waited, anticipntin;^ the next
question. Romayne fulfilled my expectations. He inquired if
Winterfield had left London.

!,. -

,) -j

168

THE BLACK ROBE.

* There are certain cat -^s (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 sys-
tem 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 witli you. He asked
me to conceal from you that he is still in London."

' Romay lie'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 reaso-i for not continuing his acquaintance with me 1 '*

' I told the truth once more, with courteous expressions of
regret. " Mr. Winterfield spoke of an ungracious reception on the
part of Mrs. Romay ne."

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

' The truih had served its purpose by this time. I affected
not to have heard him. ^ Did you speak to me 1 " I asked.

* He used a milder form of expression. "It is most unfor-
unate," 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 consulting — and 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 sympathised with my pursuits. There is something ko
cheering and attractive in his manner — and hs 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 forward to ; and
it must be sacrificed — and to what 1 To a woman's oaprice.'^

* From our point of view, this was a frame of mind to be en-
couraged. I tried the experiment of modestly taking the blame
on myself. I suggested that I might be (quite innocently) an-
swerable for Romayne's disappointment.

' He looked at me, thoroughly puzzled. I repeated what I
had said to Winterfield. " Did you mention to Mrs. Romayne
that I was the means of introducing you ? "

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

^ -jS<ci.vxsi::^j!t-:uj-iMKJii

FATHER BENWELLS CORRESPONDENCE,

169

'"Pardon me for reminding you that Mrs. Romajne has Pro-
testant prejudices," I rejoined, " Mr. Winterfield would, I fear,
not be very welcome to her as the friend of a Catholic priest."

' He was almost angry with me for suggesting the very expla-
nation which had proved so acceptable to Winterfield.

* *' Nonsense ! " he cried. ** My wife is far too well-bred a
woman to let her prejudices express themselves in that way.
Winterfield's personal ap{)earance 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 t<o realize as yet I did my best to encourage the
new train of thought.

'"What other reason can there bel" I asked.

*He turned on me sharply. "I don't know. Do you 1 "

' I ventured on a courteous remonstrance. " My dear sir ! if
you can not 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 assuming that Mi*8. Ro-
mayne and Mr. Winterfield are strangera 1 "

' His eyes flashed w?th a sudden sinister brightness — the new
idea had caught light in his mind. " They met as strangers," h«
said.

* There he stopped again, and returned to the window. 1 f(^lt
that I might lose the place 1 had gained in his confidence if I
pressed the subject any farther 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 Mndest regards to his dear friend and master in a
postcript.

' 1 gave the message. Romayne looked round, with an in-
stajib change in his race. 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 don't know how I
miss the dear, gentle little fellow," he said, sadly.
. ' " Why not write to him 1 " I suggested. '* He would be
glad to hear from you again."

* " I don't know where to write,"

170

THE BLACK ROBi

* " Did I not send you his address when I forwarded your
letter to himt"
"'No."

* " Then let me atone for my forgetfulness at once."

* I wrote down the address, and took my leave.

* 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. 1 thought that
a good sign — but I said nothing.

* Romayne pressed my hand at parting. " You have been
very kind and friendly, Father Benwell," he said. ** I shall be
glad to see you again."

* 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 marriage — and his marriage has disappointed him. He
was even reduced to be friendly with Me.

* Of course, when the time comes, I shall give Penrose leave
of absence. Do you foresee, as I do, the speedy return of '* the
dear gentle little fellow " t- iiis 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 1 Patience, my reverend colleague ! In my view
of the future scene, the Vange property begins to look a little
nearer to the Church already.

* The next day, I called to inquire how Mrs. Eyrecourt was
getting on. The report was favourable. Three days later I
called again. The n ^ )rt wa,s still more encouraging. I was
also informed that Mxs. Romayne had returned to Ten Acres
Lodge.

' Much of my success in life has been achieved by never being
in a hurry. I was not in a hurry now. Time sometimes brings
opportunities — and opportunities are worth waiting for.

* Let me make this clear.

* Thus far the chances had only been in my favour, in the
one case of the meeting between Winterfield and Miss Eyre-
court in the picture gallery. The time was surely ripe for ano-

FATHER BEN well's CORRESPONDENCE.

171

ther chance 1 Besides, I recognised the necessity of not dis-
turbing the renewal of relations between Penrose and Komayne
by any premature proceeding. There you have two of my rea-
sons for not being in a hurry 1 A man of headlong disposition,
in my place, would have probably spoken of Miss Eyrecourt's
marriage at the first meeting between Winterfield and Komayne,
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 stra i-
ger. In the meanwhile I give Penrose ample opportunity for
innocently widening the breach between husband and wife.

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

'After an interval of a few days more I decided on making
further inquiries at Mrs. Eyrecourt's house. This time, whcm
I left my card, 1 sent a message, asking if the lady could receive
me. Shall I own my weakness 1 She possesses all the informa-
tion that I want ; and she has twice baffled my inquiries. Un-
der these humiliating circumstances, it is part of the priestly
pugnacity of my disposition to inquire again.

* I was invited to go upstairs.

* The front and back drawing rooms of the house were thrown
into one. Mrs. Eyrecourt was being gently moved backwards
and forwards 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 revived — while the moral part, in the
strongest contrast, was just as lively as ever.

* •' 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 ? Rettirning to first prin-
ciples, 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 ci these days. Are you
tired, Matilda ? No 1 Then gi ve me another turn, there's a

172

THE BLACK ROBE.

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, Ma-
tilda, Let me introduce you to my friends, Father Benwell, In-
troducing is out of the fashion, I know. But I am one of the
few women who can resist the tyranny of fashion. I like intro-
ducing people. Sir John Drone — Faiher Benwell. Father Ben-
well — Dr. Wybrow. Ah, yes, you know the doctor by reputa-
tion ? 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, Matilda — and a little faster this time. Oh, how
I wish I was travelling by railway."

* There, her breath failed her. She reclined in her chair, and
fanned herself silently — for awhile.

* I was now able to turn my attention to the two visitors.
Sir John Drone, it was easy to see, would bo no obstacle to con-
fidential 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 society — there you have the true description of Sir
John. But the famous physician was quite another sort of man.
I had only to look at iiim, 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 now —
I had forgotten the law of chances. Capricious Fortune, after
a long interval, was about to declare herself again in my favour,
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
again.

' '* Dear me how dull you are " she said to us. " Why don't
you amuse a poor prisoner confined to the house ? Best 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 come here
to day only as a friend."

I :

FATHER BEN well's CORRESPONDENCE.

173

A'.

* " You best of men ! Do me another favour. Enliven our
dulness. 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 consulting room is like your confes-
sional, 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 1 We don't
want names and places — we are good children ; we only want a
story."

* Dr. Wybrow looked at me with a smile.

' •' It is impossibl*' to persuade ladies," he said, " that we,
too, are father-confessors, in our way. I'he first duty of a doc-
tor, Mrs. Eyrecourt — — "

* " Is to cure people, of course/' she interposed, in her smart-
est manner.

* The doctor ans\ ered, 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 pat«»^nt to-day, under circumstan-
ces which the rules of professional uonour 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
is in a madhouse."

'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 you — I won't look at you — I positively re-
fuse to be frightened out of my wits. Matilda ! wheel me away
to the farthest 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 honour, now, I cannot.
Something funny, oh, yes. But such a subject, oh, no."

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

I >i

174

THE BLACK ROBE.

needless explanationa 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 gentle-
man named Winterfield 1 "

' I have always considered the power of self-control 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 com-
j)letely mastered me tl it I sat self-betrayed to Dr. Wybrow, as
the man who could answer his question.

' In the meanwhile, Sir John took hia time to consider, and
discovered that he had never heard of a person named Winter-
field. Having acknowledged his ignorance, in his own eloquent
language, he drifted away to the window-box 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 to you f "

' I admitted that I knew a gentleman named Winterfield.

* Dr. Wybrow got up directly. " Have you a few minutes to
spare 1 " 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
good-bye to our friend, Miu IJy^'ecourt, I have something to say
to you which I think you ought to know."

* We took our departure at once. Mrs. Eyrecourt (leaving
some of the colour 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 would " never do it
again." In five minutes more, we were in Dr.^Wybrow's study.

* My watch tells me thati cannot hope to finish this letter by
post-time. Accept what I have written thus far — and be assured

that the conclusion of my report shall follow a day later.

« # « « « « •

* 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

FATHER BINWELL S CORRESPONDENCE.

17^

man of whom I am in search. Do you oniy know him by name 1
or are you a friend of his ? "

* I answered, of course, that I was a friend.

' Doctor Wybrow went on. ** Will you pardon me if I ven-
ture on an indiscreet question 1 When you are acquainted with
the circumstances, I am sure you will, understand and excuse
me. Are you aware of any — what shall I call it 1 — any romantic
incident in Mr. Winterfield's past lifel"

' This time — feeling myself, in all probability, on the brink
of discovery — I was careful to preserve my composure. I said,
quietly, '* Some such incident as you describe has occurred in
Mr. Winterfield's past life." There I stopped discreetly, and
looked as if I knew all about it

' The Doctor showed no curiosity to hear more. " My object,"
he went or " was merely to be reasonably sure that I was speak-
ing to the right person, in speaking to you. I may now tell
you that I have no personal interest in trying to discover Mr.
Wint^irfieldj I only act as the representative of an old friend of
mine. He is the proprietor of a private asylum at Hampstead
— a man whose integrity is beyond dispute, or he would not be
my friend. You understand my motive in saying this ] "

* Proprietors of private asylums are, in these days, the objects
of very general distrust in England. I understood the doctor's
motive perfectly.

* 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 fourteen years old, by a serious fright. When
he was placed in the asylum, he was not idiotic, and not d m-
gerously mad — it was a case (not to use technical language) of
deficient intelligence, tending sometime towards acts of unreason-
ing mischief and petty theft, but never approaching to acts of
downright violence. My friend was especially interested in the
lad — won his confidence and afiection by acts of kindness — and
80 improved his bodily health aa 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 baa
fallen ill of a fever, and the fever has developed to typhua So

I-

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IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

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23 WESY MAIN STREET

WEBSTEI, N.Y. 14580

(716)4:72-4503

■

176

THE BLACK ROBE.

far, there has been little to interest you— I 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 become perfectly sane and reasonable ! "

* I looked at him when he made this amazing asseition, with a
momentary doubt of his being in earnest. Doctor Wybrow un-
derstood me.

' " 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 drove to Hamp-
stead and examined the case myself."

'"Did the examination satisfy youl"

* " Thoroughly. When I saw him yesterday, 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 ilhiess brought
with it the strange mental recovery which I have mentioned to
^ou?"

* 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 1 " I ventured to ask.

' '* In this caje, there is no necessity to enter into the ques-
tion," the Doctor answered. " The boy's lapse of memory refers,
as I told you, to his past life — that 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 thom fail him, so far
as I can see. His new memory (if I may «.ill it so) preserves
the knowledge of what has happened since his illness. You
may imagine how this problem in brain lisease interests me;
and you will not wonder that I am going back to Hampstead
to-morrow afternoon, when I have done with my^ professional

FATHER BENWELLS CORRESPONDENCE.

177

iO,

visits. But you may be reasonably suqirised at my troubling
1/ou with details which are mainly interesting to a medical

m*in.

* Was he about to ask me to go with him to the asylum 1 I
replied very briefly ; merely saying that the details were inter-
esting to every student of human nature. If he could havei
felt my pul'ie at that moment, I am afraid he might have thought
that 1 was in a fair way of catching the fever too.

'"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 ac-
count for the discovery of an envelope, found sewn up in the
lining of the lad's waistcoat, and directed to Mr. Winterfield
without any addresa "

* I leave yom to imagine the e.v^ect which those words pro-
duced on me.

* " Now," said the doctor, ** you will understand why I put
such strange questions to you. My friend and I are both hard-
vforking men. We go very little into societyj as the phrase is ;
and neither he nor I had ever heard the name of Winterfield.
As a cert,ain proportion of my patients happen to be people
with a large experience of society, I undertook to make in-
quiries, so that the packet might be delivered, if possible, to the
right person. You heard how Mra Eyrecourt (surely a likely
lady to assist me 1) received my unlucky reference to the mad-
house; and you saw how I puzzled Sir John. I consider myself
most fortunate, Father Benwell, in having had the honour of
meeting you. Will you accompany me to the asylum to-mor-
row? And can you add to the favour by bringing Mr. Winter-
field with you 1 "

' This last request it was out of my power — really out of my
power — to grant Winterfield had left London that morning,
on his visit to Faria 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 casa Will you
kindly call here at five, to-morrow afternoon 1 "

:ti'

.^vy--^ Sfe"

178

THE BLACK ROBE.

' I was punctual to my appointment. We drove iDgether to
the asylum.

' Tliere is no need for me to trouble you with a narrative of
what I saw — favoured by Doctor Wybrow's introduction — at
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 under-
standing 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 memory."

* But I have something else to * 11 you, which is deserving
of your best attention. The envelope and its enclosures (ad-
dressed to " Bernard Wintertield, Esqre.,") are in my posses-
sion. The Christian name sufficiently identifies the inscription
with the Winterfield whom I know.

* 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
laut occasion when he had returned from one of his vagrant out-
breaks.

' On his first night at the asylum he became excited by finding
himself in a strange place. It was necessary to give him a com-
posing draught. On going to bed, he was purposely not pre-
vented from hiding his waistcoat under the pillow, as usual.

' When the sedative had produced its efiect, 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 broken.

* ** I would nt't have broken the seal myself," our host added.
" But, as things were, I thought it my duty to look at the en-
closures They refer to private affairs of Mr. Winterfield, in
which he is deeply interested, and they ought to have been long
since placed in bis possession. I need hardly say that I con-

1^*^

^i-*;

.1^

FATHER BENWELL S CORRESPONDENCE.

179

fiider myself bound to preserve the strictest silence as to what I
had 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 ho awoka The original enve-
lope and enclosures (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 dis-
cover 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 to get rid of
my responsibility on honourable terms."
^' ' All this was said in the boy's presence. He lay listening to

it as if it had been a stoiy told of someone else. I could not
resist the Uociess desire to question him. Not speaking French
myself (although 1 can read the language), I asked Doctor Wy-
brow and his friend to interpret for me.

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

* There was no discoverable motive for suspecting him of im-
posing on ua When I said, " Perhaps, you stole it 1 " he an-
swered 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 1
Or perhaps feeling ashamed of what you had done, and mean-
ing 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 reve-
lation to him that he had been anywhere. With evident inter-
est, he applied to us to tell him where he had wandered to, and
what people he had seen !

* So our last attempts at enlightenment ended. We came to
the final question of how to place the papers, with the least
possible loss of time, in Mr. Winterfield's lands.

ii! I

180

THE BLACK ROBE.

• His absence in Paris having been mentioned, I stated plain-
ly my own position towards him, at the present time.

' " Mr. Winterfield has made an appointment with me to call,
in a few days, at his hotel in London," I said. " I shall prob-
Hbly be the first friend who sees him on his return from Paris.
If you will trust me with your sealed packet, in consideration
of these circumstances, I will give you a Tormal receipt for it in
Doctor Wybrow's presence — and I will add any wi-itten pledge
that you may require on my part, acting as Mr. Winterfield's
representative and friend. Perhaps, you would like a reference,
as well ? "

'He made a courteous reply. "A friend of Doctor Wy-
brow's," he said, " requires no other reference."

* " Excuse me," I persisted, " I had the honour of meeting
Doctor Wybrow, for the first time, yesterday. Permit me to
refer you to Lord Loring, who has long known me as his spiri-
tual director and friend."

• This account of myself settled the matter. 1 wrote the ne-
cessary securities — and I have all the papers lying before me on
my desk at this moment.

* You remember how seals were broken and impressed again,
at the Roman post office, in the revolutionary days when we
were both young men 1 Thanks to the knowledge then obtained,
the extraordinary events which once associated Mr. Wintertield
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 the Means.

* 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 ai'e at the disposal of my
reverend brethren at head-quarters.

•■ • - • • • »- » ■■■ ♦

. "f

FATHER BENWELL's COHRESPONOENCBX

181

it'

'■

The Stolen Papers (Copied).
Number One, — From Emma fVinterJield to Bernard Wiriierjidd.

* i, Maidwell Buildings, Belhaven.

* How shall I address you 1 Dear Bernard, or Sir 1 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 death bed.

* Yes — I have met with another accident. Shortly after the
date of our separationj'fyou heard, I think, of the fall in tlie
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
to-morrow, or live till next week. Any -way, the doctor has con-
fessed it, — my time has come.

' Mind one thing. The drink — that vile habit which lost me
your love and banished me from your house — the drink is not
to blame for this last misfortune. Only the day before it hap-
pened I had taken the pledge, under persuasion of the good rec-
tor 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 parson — and when you proposed, in joke, to marry
me before the registrar, how I took it in downright earnest,
and kept you to your word 1 We poor horse-riders and acrobats
only knew clergymen as the worst enemies we had — always
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 been !

* Well, regrets of that kind are useless now. I am truly sorry,
Bernard, for the evil that I have done. to you ; and I ask your
pardon with a contrite heart.

* You will at least allow it in my favour that your drunken
v/ife 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, 1 returned to my
profession under an assumed name, and never troubled you.

':'i

182

THE BLACK ROBE.

The one thing I could not do was to forget you. If you were
infatuated by my unhicky beauty, I loved devotedly on my
side. The well-born gentleman who had sacrificed everything
for my sake, was something more than mortal in my estima-
tion ; he was — no ! I won't shock the good man who writes
this by saying what he was. Besides, what do you care for my
thouf^hts of you now ?

* If you had only been content to remain as I left you — or
if I had not found you out paying your addresses to Miss Eyre-
court, when you believed that death had released you from me
— I should have lived and died, doing you no other injury than
the first great iryury of consenting to be your wife.

' But I made the discovery — it doesn't matter how. Our
circus was in Devonshire at the time. My jealous rage mad-
dened 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
favour lay througli 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 wedding breakfast.

' I own it, to my shame. I triumphed in the mischief I had
done.

* But I had deserved to sufier ; and I did suffer when I heard
that Miss Eyrecourt's mother and her two friends took her away
from you — with her own entire approval — at 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 law-
yer's letter, and was advised in my own interests to hold my
tongue. The rector has since told me that the marriage 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

;

■1

FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE.

18f<

keep tlieir own secrets, and avoid exposure to which the poor, in
their places, must submit.

* One more duty (the last) still remains to be done.

' I declare solemnly, on my death-bed, that you acted in per-
fect good faith when you married Miss Eyrecourt. You have
not only been a man cruelly injured by mo, 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 shameless deceit.

' It is my conviction that tiiese people might have done more
tfean misinterpreted your honourable submission to the circum-
stances in which you were placed. They might have prosecuted
you for -bigamy — if they could have got me to appear against
you. I am comforted when I remember that I did make some
small amends. I kept out of their way and yours from that day
to this.

' I am told that I owe it to you to leave proof of my death
behind me.

' Wh«n 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 ar.d
burial. The rector, who will close and seal these lines, as 8'>on
as the breath is out of my body, will add what he can to ic'en-
tify me ; and the landlady of this house is ready to answer any
questions that may be put to her. This time you may be realiy
assured that you are free. When I am buried, and they shovr
you my nameless grave in the churchyard, I know your kind
heart — I die, Bernard, in the firm belief that you will forgive me.

* There was one thing more that I had to ask of you, relatin,^
to a poor lost creature who is in the room with us at this mo-
menti. But, oh, I am so weary ! Mr. Fennick will tell you
what it ia Say to yourself sometimes — perhaps when you have
married some lady who is worthy of you — There was good as
well as bad in poor Emma. Farewell.'

Number Two. From The Reverend Charles Fennick to Bernard
Winterjield.

* The Rectory, Belhaven.

' Sir, — It i'j my sad duty to inform you that Mrs. Emma Win-
terfield died this morning, a little before five o'clock. I will add no

1 i

184

THE BLACK ROBE.

comment of mine to the touching language in which she has ad*
dressed you. God has, I most sincerely believe, accepted the poor
sinner's repentance. Her contrite spirit is at peace, among the
forgiven ones in the world beyond the grave.

* 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 enclose. You will see that the remains are identified by
the description of a small silver plate, on the right parietal bone
of the skull.

< I need hardly add that all the iuformation 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 state, she was
unable to address to you in her own worda

* 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, whose early life I under-
stand to have been passed 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 of her death — and
lie appeared to be gratefully attached to her.

* I say " appeared," because an inveterate reserve marks one
of the peculiarities of the mental affliction from which he suffer&

' 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 them-
selves. The effect of her death has been to intensify that reserve
to wh ich I have already alluded. He is sullen and irritable —
and the good landlady at the lodgings does not disguise that she
shrinks from taking care of him, even for a few day& Until I
hear from you, he will remain under the charge of my servants
at the rectory.

' You have, no doubt, anticipated the request which the poor
sufferer wished to address to you, but a few hours before her
dea^. She hoped that you might be wiHing to place this help-

FATHER BENWELLS CORRESPONDENCE.

18.3

less and friendless creature under competent protection. Failinj^
your assistance, I shall have no altonuitive, howevca* 1 may re-
gret it, but to send him to the workhouse of this town, on his
way, probably, to the public asylum.

* Believe me, sir, your faithful servant,

' Charles Fennick.

* P.S. — I fear my letter and its enclosures may be delayed in
reaching you.

' Yesterday evening, 1 had returned to my house, before it oc-
curred to me that Mrs. Winterfield had not mentioned your ad-
dress. My only excuse for this forgetf ulness 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 peraon 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 pa-
pers. For security's sake, I shall seal them at once, and write
your name on the envelope.'

Added hy Fattier Benwell.

* How the boy contrived to possess himself of the sealed pac-
ket, we shall probably never know. He was in the room — as
the confession mentions — while the rector was writing from the
dying woman's dictation. On the next day, he might have seen
Mr. Fennick employed over his own letter, and might have piit
the two writings together in his crazy brain. Any how, we
know that he must have escaped from the rectory, with the
papers in possession, and that he did certainly get back to his
mother and sister in London.

* With such complete information as I now have at ray dis-
posal, the prospect is as clear again as we can desire. The
separation of Komayne from his wife, and the alteration of his
will in favour of the Church, seem to be now merely questions of
time.'

Thb End of the Tuird Book.

CHAPTER I.

THE BREACH IS WIDENED.

A FORTNIGHT after Father Benwell's discovery, Stella fol-
lowed her husband one morning into his study. * Have
you heard from Mr. Penrose 1 ' she inquired.

* Yes. He will be here to-morrow.'
' To make a long visit 1 '

* I hope so. The longer the better.'

She looked at him with a mingled expression of surprise and
reproach.

'Why do you say that?* she asked. 'Why do you want
him so much — when you have got Me 1 '

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 remem-
bered on the day when they met on the deck of the steamboat,
was again visible — not softened and chastened now by the touch-
ing resignation of the by-gone time, but intensified by the dog-
ged and despairing endurance of a man weary of himself and
his life. Her Beart ached for him. She said softly, * 1 don't
mean to reproach you.'

* Are you jtalous of Penrose'?* he asked, with a bitter smile.
She desperately told him the truth. ' I am afraid of Penrose,'

she answered.

He eyed her with a strange expression of suspicious surprise.
' Why are you afraid of Penrose 1 '

THE BREACH IS WIDENED.

187

ol-

n
n
).
11

It was no time to run the risk of irritating him. The tortiieiit
of the vice had returned in the past night. The old gnawing
remorse of the fatal day of the duel had betrayed itself in th(i
wild words that e8ca[)ed him, when he sank into a broken slum-
ber as the morning dawned. Feeling the truest pity for him,
she was still resolute to assert herself against the coming intt-r-
ference of Penrose. She tried her ground by a dangerous means
— the means of an indirect rei)ly.

' I think you might have told me,' she said, 'that Penro.se was
a Catholic priest.'

He looked down again at his book. * How did you know Pen-
rose was a Catholic priest 1 '

' I liad only to look at the direction on your letters to him.'

* Well, and what is there to frighten you in his being a priest 1
You told nie at the Lorings' ball that you took an interest in
Penrose, because I liked him.'

* I didn't know then, Lewis, that he had concealed his profes-
sion from us. I can't help distrusting a man who does that '

He laughed — not 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 superior — and, moreover, he frankly owned to me that he was
a priest. If you blame anybody, you had better blame me for
respecting his confidence.'

She drew back from him, hurt by the tone in which he spoke
to her. *I remember the time, Lewis,' she said, ' when you
would have been more indulgent towards my errors — even if I

am wrong.

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 1 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.
Come, Stella, give me a kiss — and let us, as the children say,
make it up I '

He rose from his writing-table. She met him more than half
way, and pressed all her love — and perhaps a little of her fear —
on his lips. He returned the kiss as warmly as it was given; and

188

THE BLACK ROBE.

then, unhappily for both of them, he went back to the subject.

• My own love,' he said, ' try to like my friend, for my sake ;
and be tolerant of other forms of Christianity besides the form
which happens to be your's.*

Her smiling lips closed ; she turned from him. With the sen-
sitive sel6shiiOss of a woman's love, she looked on Penrose as a
robber who had stolon the sympathies which should have been
wholly her'a As she moved away, her quick observation noticed
the o])en book on the desk, with notes and lines in pencil on the
margiin of the page. What had Bomayno been reading which
interested him in that way 1 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 withdrawal from him.
He spoke — and his tone was colder than ever.

' I won't attempt to combat your prejudices,' he said. * But
one thing I must seriously ask of you. When my friend Pen-
rose comes here to-morrow, 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 him firmly,
with steady eyea

' Why do you refer again to that ? * she asked * Is ' (she

hesitated, and recovered hei'self) — ' is Mr. Winterfield another
devoted friend of your's V

He walked to the door, as if he could hardly trust his temper
if he answered her — stopped — and thinking better of it, turned
towards her again.

' 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 hi;.ve assisted my literary laboura
You were ill at the time, and anxious about Mrs. Eyrecourt I
respected your devotion to your mother. I remember your tell-
ing me, when you first went away to nurse her, that your consci-
ence 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 ycu
surprised and disappointed me. Don't do it again ! Whatever

THE BREACH IS WIDENED.

189

you may privately think of Catholic priests, I once more seri-
ously request you not to let Penrose see it.*

He left the room.

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 word& With a heavy
sigh she roused herself. The vague dread with which his tone
rather than his words had inspired her, strangely associated it-
self with the momentary curiosity which she had felt, on notic-
ing 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 Pro-
testantism, from the Roman Catholic point of view. With
trembling hands, she turned back to the title-page. It presented
this written inscription : — <To Lewis Romaynefrom his attached
friend and servant, Arthur Penrose.'

* God help me ! ' she said to herself, ' the priest has got
between UE already! '

CHAPTER II.

A CHRISTIAN JESUIT.

ON the next day, Penrose arrived on bis visit to Romayne.
The affectionate meeting between the two men tested
Stella's self-control as it had never been tried yet. She sub-
mitted to the ordeal, with the courage of a woman whose hap-
piness depended on her outward graciousness of manner to-
wards 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.

She only bowed to him, and took refuge in her own room.

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 seri-
ous deceptions, intended to protect her dearest domestic inter-
ests, the mischief is increased in proportion. Deceit, which is
th« natural weapon of defence used by the weak creature against
the strong, then ceases to be confined within the limits assigned
by the tjense of self-respect, 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 person. Stella had already begun the progress of self-
degradation by writing secretly to Winterfield. It wasonly to warn
him of the danger of trusting Father Ben well — but it was a let-
ter, claiming him as her accomplice in an act of deception. That
morning she had received Penrose with the outward cordialities
of welcome vhich are offered to an old and dear friend. And
now, in th> safe solitude of her room, she had fallen to a lower
depth still. She was deliberately considering the safest means

A CHRISTIAN JESUIT.

191

of acqtiainting 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 defence.'
With that thought, she reconciled herself to an action which she
would have despised, if she had heard of it as the action of ano-
ther woman.

It was a beautiful autumn day, brightened by clear sunshine,
enlivened by crisp air. Stella put on her hat, and went out for
a stroll in the grounds.

While she was within view from the windows of the servants'
offices, she walked away from the house. Turning the comer
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 thera She took one of
them, and seated herself — after a last moment of honourable
hesitation — where she could hear the men's voices through the
open window above her.

Penrose was speaking at the time.

' Yea 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.'

Romayne sighed. ' Ah, if you knew how I have missed you.'

(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. )

Penrose only said, * How is the great work getting on 1 '

The answer was sternly spoken in one word : — * Badly I '

' I am surprised to hear that, Romayne.*

* Why 1 Were you as innocently hopeful as I was 1 Did
you expect my experience of married life to help me in writing
my book 1 '

Penrose replied after a pause, speaking a little sadly. ' I ex-
pected your married life to encourage you in all your highest
aspirations,' he said.

(Stella turned pale with suppressed anger. He had spoken
with perfect sincoritj. The unhappy woman believed that he
lieu, for the express purpose of rousing irritation against her,

192

THE BLACK ROBE.

zai^d. She listened anxiously for

in her husband's irritable
Romavne's answer.)

He made no answer. Penrose changed the subject. * You
are not looking very well,* he gently resumed. * I am afraid
your health has interfered with your work. Have you had any
return ? '

It was one of the characteristics of Romayne's nervous irrita-
bility, that he never liked 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 fellow-creature. Another
destruction of my illusions, when I married ! *

* E-omayne I I don't like to hear you speak of your marriage
in that way.'

* 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
ambit' on 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 di-
plomacy. There is something in directing the destinies of na-
tions, 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 cf 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 Por-
tugal 1 '

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 1 ' 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 question which you force
me to ask.'

A CHRISTIAN JESUIT.

193

of
in
th

ht
ce

'What is it r

' "When you speak of your married life,' said Penrose, * your
tone is the tone of a disappointed man. Have you any serious
reason to complain of Mrs. Romayne V

(Stella rose to her feet in her eagerness to hear what her hus-
band's answer would be.)

* Serious reason 1 ' Komayne repeated. ' How cun such an
idea have entered your head 1 I only complain of irritating tri-
fles 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 1 or Indulgence 1 Stella was ignorant of the indi-
rect methods of irritation, by means of which Father Benwell
had encouraged Romayne's doubts of his wife's motives 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

' Romayne,' he proceeded quietly. * I want you to be happy.'

' How am I to be happy V

' I will try and tell you. I believe your wifg to be a good
woman. I believe she loves you. There is something in her
face that speaks for her— even to an inexperienced person like
myself. Don't be impatient with her ! Put away from you
that bef*>tting temptation to speak in irony — it is so easy to
take i/hat tone, and sometimes so cruel. I am only a looker-on,
I knov. Domestic happiness can never be the happiness of
my lif J. But I have observed my fellow creatures of all degrees
— and this, I tell you, is the result TJ\e largest number of
happy men are the husbands and fathen. Yes ; I admit that
they have terrible anxieties — but they ure 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 afllictions so calmly
thnt he surprised me. "What is the secret of your philosophy 1"
I asked. He answered, " I can bear anything while I have my
wife and my children." Think of that, and judge for yourself
M

1 I

194

THE BLACK ROBE.

Low much happiness you may have left yet^ungathered in your
married life.'

(Those words touched Stella's higher nature, as the dew
touches the thirsty ground. Surely they were nobly spoken I
How would her husband receive them 1)

* 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 1 ' That was .ill he said — and he
said it despondingly.

Penrose understood, and felt for him.

* 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 self-discipline 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 suffi-
cient consolation which helped me to bear my lot. And— if
there came a time of sorrow in the future — I entreated you to
remember what I had said. Have you remembered it 1 '

* Look at the book here on my desk — look at the other books,
within easy reach, on that table — are you satisfied ] '

* More than satisfied, Tell me — do you feel nearer to an un-
derstanding of the Faith to which I have tried to convert you V

There was a pause. * Say that I do feel nearer,' Eomayne
resumed — 'say that some of my objections are removed — are you
really as eager as ever to make a Catholic of me, now that I am
a married man V

' 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 confirmed in my belief. As God
is my witness, I speak sincerely. Hesitate no longer ! Be con-
verted, and be happy.*

* Have you not forgotten something, Penrose ! '

* What have I foi-gotten ? '

* A serious consideration, perhapa I have a Protesatnt wife.*
' I have bomb that in mind, Romayne, throughout oujr con-
versation.'

* And you gitill say-— what you hare just laid 1 '

A CHRISTIAN JESUIT.

19:

* 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 n
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 them — well and good. If I fai! — if you cannot act
on purely conscientious conviction — I not only advise, I entreat
you to remain as you are. I shall be the first to acknowledge
that you have done right. '

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 inter-
ested motives for pleading her cause 1 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 in-deors on this beautiful
day 1 I am sure Mr. Penrose would like a walk in the grounds.'

Penrose appeared aloce at the window. * You are quite right,
Mra Romayne,' he said ' we will join you directly.'

In a few minutes he turned the comer of the house, and met
Stella on the lawn. Romayne was not with him. ' Is my hus-
band not coming with us 1 ' she asked.

* He will follow us,* Penrose answered. ' I believe he has
some letters to write.'

Stella looked at him, suspecting some underhand exercise of
influence oa her husband.

If she had been able to estimate the noble qualities in the nature
of Penrose, she might have done hiL\ the justice to arrive at a truer
conclusion. It was he who had asked leave to take the oppor-
tunity of speaking alone with Mrs. Romayne. He had said to
his friend, * If I am wrong in my view of the effect of your
change of religion on your wife, let me find it out from herself.
Hy one object is to act justly towards you and toyrards her. I

' .UJJB i m ' BfW '^

196

THE BLACK ROBE.

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 all-
sufficient reason that he was a Catholic priest. She had drawn
the conclusion that her husband (on the point of conversion
himself) had deliberately left her alone with Penrose, to be per-
suaded or deluded into giving her sanction to aid the influence
of the priest. * They shall find they are mistaken,' she thought
to herself.

* Have I interrupted an interesting conversation 1 ' she in-
quired, abruptly. ' When I asked you to come out, were you
talking to my husband about his historical work 1 '

' No, Mrs. Romayne ; we were not speaking at that time of
the book.'

' May I ask an odd question, Mr. Penrose 1 '
'Certainly!'

* Are you a very zealous Catholic 1 '

' Pardon me. I am a priest Surely my profession speaks
for me.'

* I hope you have not been trying to convert my husband 1 '
Penrose stopped and looked at her attentively. 'Are you

strongly opposed to your husband's conversion 1 ' he asked.

* As strongly,' she answered, * as a woman can be.'
' By religious conviction, Mrs. Romayne 1 '

* No. By experience.'

Penrose started. * Is it indiscreet,' he said, gently, * to in-
quire 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 doc-
trine are quite beyond me. But this I do know. A well-mean-
ing and zealous Catholic shortened my father's life, and separated
me from an only sister whom I dearly loved. I see I shock
you — and I dare say you think I am exaggerating V

* I hear what you say, Mra Romayne, with very great pain
— I don't presume to form any opinion thus far.'

* My sad story can be told in a few words,' Stella proceed-
ed. * When my elder sister was still a young gii'l, an aunt
of our's (my mother's sister) came to stay with us. She had
married abroad, and she was, as I have said, a zealous Catholic.

A CHRISTIAN JESUIT.

197

Unknown to the rest of ua, she held conversations on religion
with my sister — worked on the enthusiasm which was part of
the girl's nature — and accomplished her conversion. Other in-
fluences, of which I knew nothing, were aft'Twards brought to
bear on my sister. She declared her intention of entering a con-
vent. As she was under age, my father had only to interpose
his authority to prevent this. She was his favourite child. Ho
had no heart to restrain her by force — he could only try all that
the kindest and best of fathers could do to persuade her to re-
main at home. Even afte. 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 inter-
fere, 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 enter-
ing the convent — she is so happily absorbed in her religioco'
duties, that she has not the slightest wish to see her mother or
rae. My mother's patience was soon wonx 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 in-
fluence you — but I may perhaps ask you, as a gentleman, to tell
me the truth. Do you come here with the purpose of convert-
ing my husband ? *

Penrose owned the truth, without an instant's hesitation.

* 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 husband to the Catholic Faith. '

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 arm,
' Speak plainly ! ' she cried.
He obeyed her to the letter,

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wmmmm-

198

THE BLACK UOB£,

' The happiness of my friend's wife, Mrs. Romayne, is sacred
to me for his sake. Be the good angel of your husband's life. I
abandon the purpose of converting him.*

He lifted her hand from his arm, and raised it respectfully to
his lipa Then, when lie had bound himself by a promise that
was sacred to him, the terrible influence of the priesthood shook
even that brave and lofty soul. He said to himself as h« left
her, ' God forgive me if I have done wrong !'

red
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lat
>ok
eft

CHAPTER IIL

WINTERFIELD RETURNS.

TWICE Father Ben well 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 re-
warded. Mr. Winterfield had written, and was expected to
arrive at the hotel by five o'clock.

It was then half-past four. Father Benwell decided to wait
the return of his friend.

He was as anxious to deliver the packet entrusted to him, as
if he had never broken a seal, or used "A counterfeit to hide the
betrayed of a trust. The resea!«^d packet was safe in the pocket
of his lo': g black frock-coat. His own future proceedings de-
pended, in some degree, on the covfrse which Winterfield might
take, when he had read the confession of the unhappy woLoan
who had once been his wife.

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 desirable — if the thing could be done —
so to handle circumstances, as that Komayne might be present,
unseen, and might discover the truth for himself ) In the other
event — that is to say, if Winterfield abstained from oommuni-
eiting the confession to Stella — 1)he responsibility of making the
necessary disclosure must remain with the priest. In his pre-
sent uncertainty, he could only decide to pay another visit at
Ten Acres Lodge, and discover how Penrose was prospering in
the all-important matter of Romayne's conversion.

Father Benwell- walked softly up and down the room, look-
ing about him with quietly-observant eyes. A side table in a
corner wa« cpvered with letters, waiting Winterfield's return.

200

THE BLACK KOBE.

Alwayfl ready for information of any sort, lie even looked at the
addresses on the letters.

The handwritings presented the customaiy variety of charac-
ter. All but three of the envelopes showed the London district
post-marks. Two of the other letters (addressed to Winterfield
at his club) bore foreign post-marks ; and one, as the altered
direction showed, had been forwarded from Beaupark House to
the hotel.

This last letter especially attracted the priest's attention. '

The address was apparently in a woman's handwriting. And
it was worthy of remark that she appeared to be the only per-
son among Winterfield's correspondents who was not acquainted
with the address of his hotel or of his club. Who could the
person be 1 The subtly-inquiring intellect of Father Benwell
amused itself by speculating, even on such a trifling problem as
this. Ho 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 Benweil himself 1

It was nearly half-past five before quick footsteps were aud-
ible outside. Winterfield entered the room.

' This is friendly indeed ! ' he said. • I expected to return to
the worst of all solitudes — solitude in a hotel. You will stay
and dine with me 1 That's right. You must have thought I
was going to settle in Paris. Do you know what has kept mo
so long 1 The most delightful theatre in the world — the Opera
Comique. I am so fond of the byegone school of music, Father
Benwell — the flowing, graceful delicious melodies of the com-
posers 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, beat-
ing time with their wrinkled hands to the tunes which were
associated with the happiest days of their lives. What's that
I hear 1 My dog ! I was obliged to leave him here, and he
knows I have come back ! '

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
bis master's outstretched arms. Winterfield returned bis cai--

WINTERPIELD RETURNS.

201

esses, and kissed him as tenderly as a woman might have kissed
her pet

* Dear old fellow ! it's a shame to have left you — I won't do
it again. Father Ben well, 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 !
Thia creature's faithful love is mine, do what I may. I might
be disgraced in the estimation of every human creature J know
— and he would be as true to me as ever. And look at his
physical qualities. What an ugly thing, for instance, — I won't
say your ear — 1 will say my ear is ; crumpled and wrinkleil and
naked. Look at the beautiful silky covering of his ear ! What
are our senses of smelling and hearing, compared to his 1 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 1 If we both want to run down stairs in a hurry,
which of us is securest against breaking his neck — I 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 1 '

Father Benwell listened to this rhapsody — so characteristic
of the childish simplicity of the man — with an inward sense of
impatience, which never once showed itself on the smiling sur-
face 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 Winterfield notice the side table, and open his
letters t

The tick-tick of the clock on the mantelpiece steadily regis-
tered the progress of time — and Winterfield's fantastic atten-
tions were still lavished on his dog.

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 Traveller, and I will tell you why. When he was only

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202

THE BLACK ROBE.

I ^

a puppy he strayed into the garden at Beaupark, so weary and
foot sore that we concluded he had come to us from a great dis-
tance. We Advertised him ; but he was never claimed — and
here he is ! If you don't object, we will give Traveller a treat
to-day. 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
Ben well 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 Winter-
field's attention to the letters by scattering them on the floor.

Father Benwell rose politely, to assist in picking up the pros-
trate correspondence. But Traveller was beforehand with him.
Warning the priest, with a low growl, not to interfere with ano-
ther person's business, the dog picked up the letters in hia
mouth, and carried them by instalments to his master's feet.
Even then, the exasperating Winterfield went no further than
patting Traveller. 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 letters.'

Winterfield carelessly gathered the letters together; tossed
them on the dining-table at his side ; and took the uppermoiit
one of the little heap.

Fate was certainly against the priest on that evening. The
first letter that Winterfiold opened led him off to another sub-
ject of conversation before he had read it to the end. Father
Benwell's hand, already in tis coat pocket, appeared again —
empty.

* Here's a proposal to me to go into Parliament,' said the
Squire. * What do you think of representative institutions,
Father Benwell 1 To my mind, reprHseutaiive institutions are
on their last leg& They vote away more of our money every
year. They sit 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 honour
to pass a social law among themse'ves, which makes it as dis-
graceful in a gentleman to buy a seat Ijy bribery as to cheat at
cards. I declare I think the card-sharper fclie 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

WINTERFIELD liETURNS.

203

in this world — and why should the House of Commons be an
exception to the rule ? *

He picked up the next letter from the heap. As he looked
at the address, his face changed. The smile left his lips, the
gaiety died out of his eyes. Traveller, entreating for more no-
tice with impa'jient fore-paws applied to his master's knees, saw
the alteration, and dropped into a respectfully-recumbent pori-
tion. Father Benwell glanced sidelong off the columns of tho
newspaper, and waited for eventp with all the discretion, and
none of the good faith, of the dog.

* Forwarded from Beaupark 1 ' Winterfield said to himself.
He opened the letter — read it carefully to the end — thought
over it — and read it again.

* Father Benwell ! ' he said suddenly.

The priest put down the newspaper. For a few moments
more, nothing was audible but the steady tick-tick of the clock.

' We have not been very long acquainted,' Winterfield re-
sumed. ' 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 igno-
rant prejudice against the Catholic priesthood is not one of my
prejudicea'

Father Benwell bowed, in silence.

' You are mentioned,' Winterfield proceeded, * in the letter
which I have just read.'

* Are you at liberty to tell me the name of your correspond-
ent ? ' 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 intercourae with you.
Your object (I am told) is to make yourself acquainted with
events in my past life, and you have some motive v/hich 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 unheard — least of all, a man whom I have had
the honour of receiving under my own roof.'

He spoke with a certain simple dignity. With equal dignity,
Father Benwell answered. It is needless to say that he now
knew Winterfield's correspondent to be Romayne's wife.

' Let me sincerely thank yoU; Mr. Winterfield, for a candour

204.

THE BLACK ROBE.

which does honour to us both,' he said. • You will hardly ex-
pect me — if I may use such an expression — to condescend to
justify myself against an accusation, which is an anonymous
accusation so far as I am concerned. I prefer to meet that let-
ter by a plain proof ; and I leave you to judge whether I am
still worthy of the friendship to which you have so kindly al-
luded.'

With this preface, he briefly related the circumstances under
which he had become possessed of the packet ; and then handed
it to Winterfield — with the seal uppermost.

* Decide for yourself,' he concluded, * whether a man bent
on prying into your private affairs, with that letter entirely at
his mercy would have been true to the trust reposed in him.'

He rose and took his hat, ready to leave the room, if his
honour 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 Ben well,
and forgive me if my sense of duty has hurried me into hurt-
ing your feelings. No man ought to know better than I do how
often people misjudge and wrong each other.'

They shook hai^ds 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 the exemple.

' You actually believe in a priest I ' he said, gaily. * We
shall make a good Catholic of you yet.'

' Don't be too sure of that,' Winterfield replied. ' I respect
the men who have given to humanity the inestimable blessing of
quinine — to say nothing of preserving lea^rning and civilisation
— but I respect still more my own liberty as a free Christian.'

• Perhaps a free thinker, Mr. Winterfield ] '

' Anything you like to call it, Father Benwell, so long as it
is free.'

They both laughed. Father Benwell went back to his news-
paper. Winterfield broke the seal of the envelope and took
out the enclosures.

The confession was the first of the papers at which he hap-
pened to look. At the opening lines he turned pale. He read
more, and his eyes filled with tears. In low, broken tone^ he

WINTERFIRLD RETUBNS.

205

said to the priest, * You have innocently brought me most dis-
tressing newa I entreat your pardon if I ask to be left alone.'

Father Benwell said a few well-chosen words of sympathy,
and immediately withdrew. The dog licked his master's hand,
hanging listlessly over the arm of the chair.

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 desti-
nation was the town in which his wife had died.

His object in taking the journey, was not as the priest sup-
posed, to address inquiries to the rector and the landlady, who
had been present at the fatal illness and the death — but to jus-
tify his wife's last expression of belief in the mercy and com-
passion 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 life-time.
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 re-
membered for many a year afterwards ; and then, with a heart
relieved, he went back to London.

Other mt n might have made their sad little pilgrimage alone.
Winterfield took his dog with him. • I must have something to
love/ he said to the rector, ' at such a time as this.

CHAPTER IV.

1 1

FATHER BENVTELL's CORRESPONDENCE.

To tJie Secretary, S. J., Rome.

* "TXT* HEN I wrote last, I hardly thought I should trouble
VV 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 I informed you that I decided to defer my pro-
posed 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. Ro-
maine.

* My visit to the Lodge was duly paid this aftamoon

* I asked first, of course, for the lady of the house ; and hear-
ing she was in the grounds, joined her there. She looked ill and
anxious ; and she received me with rigid politeness. Fortu-
nately, 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 oppor-
tunity of referring, in the most innocent manner possible, to
Winterfield's favourable opinion of Romayne's pictures. I need
hardly say that I looked at Romayne's wife, when I mentioned
the name. She turned pale — probably 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

FATHER BENWELI/S CORRESPONDBlNCE.

207

would have turned red. Such, at least, is my experience, drawn
from recollections of other days.*

' 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 ua. His
manner told me plainly that there was something wrong. £
asked no questions — waiting on the chance that Komayue might
enlighten me.

* ** 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 at the two
ladies in the grounds.

' It occurred to me that Mrs. Eyrecourt might be occupying
the customary false position of a mother-in-law. I was mistaken.
He was not thinking of his wife's mother — he was thinking of
his wife.

* " I suppose you know that Penrose had an idea of convert-
ing me 1 " he said suddenly.

* I was perfectly candid with him — I said I knew it, and ap-
proved of it. " May I hope that Arthur has succeeded in con-
vincing you 1 " I ventured to add.

* " He might have succeeded. Father Ben well, if he had chosen
to go on."

' This reply, as you may easily imagine, took me by surprise.

* " Are you really so obdurate that Arthur despairs of your
conversion V 1 asked.

' "Nothing of the sort ! I have thought and thought of it —
and I can tell you I was more than ready to meet him half
way."

* " Then where is the obstacle ? " I exclaimed.

* 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 1 knew it, I at last under-
stood what had happened. For a moment, I felt really angry.

• Father Benwell's experience had, in this case, not misled him. If Stella
had remained unmarried, Winterfield might have justified himself. But ha
was honourably unwilling to distvu>b her relations with her husband, by satis-
fying her tjiat ne had never been unworthy of thts affection which hM onc«
uidtodthwu.

IBI

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208

THE BLACK ROBE.

I !

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Under these circumstances the wise course was to say nothing,
until I could be sure of speakinj; with exemplary moderation.
It doesn't do, for a man in my position, to show anger.

* Eoniayne went on :

' " We talked of my wife, Father Benwell, the last time you
were Jiere. You only knew, then, that her reception of Mr.
VVinterfield had determined him never to enter my house again.
I'y way of adding to your information on the subject of * pet-
ticoat government,' I may now tell you that Mrs. Romayne has
forbidden Penrose to proceed with the attempt to convert me.
l^y common consent, the subject is never mentioned between
ua." The bitter irony of his tone, thus far, suddenly disap-
peared. He spoke eagerly and anxiously. " I hope you are
not angry with Arthur 1 " he said.

* By this time my little fit of ill-temper was at an end. I
answered — and it was really in a certain sense true — " I know
Arthur too well to be angry with him."

* Romayne seemed to be relieved. •* I only troubled you with
this last domestic incident," he resumed, *' to bespeak your in-
<lulgence for Penrose. 1 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 sub-
mits to Mr& Romayne — against his own better conviction — in
the honest belief that he consults the interests of our married
life."

' I don't think I misinterpret the state of Romayne's mind,
and mislead you, when T express my belief that this second in-
discropt 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 hira — this new irritation
of Komavne's sensitive self-respect will hasten his conversion.

* 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 Ro-
mayne. It is he, if I can manage it, who must invite me to
complete the work of conversion — and, besides, nothing can be
done until the visit of Penrose has come to an end. Romayne's
secret sense of irritation may be safeiy left to develope itself,
"with time to help it.

FATHER BENWELLS CORRESPONDENCE.

209

*So I changed the conversation to the subject of his literary
laboura The present state of his mind is not favourable to
work of that exacting kind. Even with the help of Penrose to
encourage him, he does not get on to his satisfaction — and 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 favour, my reverend friend — all in our favour !

' I took the liberty of asking to see Penrose alone for a mo-
ment ; and, this request granted, Romayne and I parted cordi-
ally. 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, by-the bye, that the property has a little declined of
late in value 1 It is now not 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. Dis-
pensing with all formality, I took his arm, and led him into the
front garden.

*" 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 done — but you may trust me
to put it favourably. 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 improv-
ing the position which I have already gained in his estimation.
Do you know, I really believe I meant it at the timel The
poor fellow gratefully kissed my hand, when I oflfered it to him
— he was really not able to speak. I almost fancy I am weak
about Arthur ! Say a kind word for him, when his conduct
comes under notice — but pray don't mention this little frailty
of mine ; and don't suppose I have any sympathy with his
weak-minded 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 Winter-
field would have effectually extinguished it. There is something
quite revolting to me in a deceitful woman.

*In closing this letter, I may quiet the minds of our reverend
brethren, if I assure them that my former objection to associat-
N

210

THE BLACK ROBE.

; .' ' :

i
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1

!ng myself directly with the conversion of Bomayne no longer
exists.

' Yos ! even at my age, and with my habits, I am now resigned
to hearing, and confuting, the trivial arguments of a man who
is young enough to be my son. I shall write a carefully-guarded
letter to Romayne, on the departure of Penrose ; and I shall
send him a book to read, from the influence of which I expect
gratifying results. It is not a controversial work (Arthur has
been beforehand with me there) — it is Wiseman's * Recollec-
tions of the Popes.' I look to that essentially readable book to
excite Romayne's imagination, by vivid descriptions of the
splendours 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 1

'It means, my friend, that I see our position towards Romayn^
in an entirely new light. Forgive me, if I say no more for the
present. I prefer to be silent, until my audacity is justified by
events.'

Qger

3;ned
who
rded
shall
:pect
' has
)llec-
)kto
the
er of
oiine
latit

ayn^
rthe
dby

CHAPTER V.

BERNARD WINTERFIELD's CORRESPONDENCR.

From Mrs. Romayne to Mr. Winterjield.

* TUTAS my letter failed to reach you 1 I directed it (as I direct
-L-L this) to Beaupark ; not knowing your London address.

* Yesterday, Father Ben well 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 fancy — but I thought I saw, in his
eyes, th&t he was conscious of having me in his power, and that
ne might betray me to my husband at any moment.

* I have no sort of claim on you. And, heaven knows, I have
dttle reason to trust you. But I thought you meant fairly by
me, when we spoke together at this housa In that belief, I en~
treat you to tell me if Father Ben well has intruded himself into
your confidence — or even if you have hinted anything to him
which gives him a bold over me.'

' IL

• -

From Mr. Winterjield to Mrs. Romayne.,

* Both vour letters have reached me.

* I have good reason for believing that you are entirely mis-
taken in your estimate of Father Benwell's character. But I
know, by sad experience, how you hold to your opinions when

212

THE BLACK ROBE.

I J

they are once formed ; and I am eager to relieve you of all anx-
iety, so far as I am concerned. I have not said one word — I
have not even let slip the slightest hint — which could inform
Father Ben well 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 byegone time.
You say, " Heaven knows I have little reason to trust you."

* I have reasons, on my side, for not justifying myself — except
tinder certain conditions. If you are ever in a position of trou-
ble or peiil — and God forbid it should ever be so — which you
might blamelessly confide to a devoted friend or brother, I under-
take, in that case, to prove even to you that it was a cruel in-
justice ever to have doubted me, and that there is no man living
whom you can more implicitly trust than myself.

' My address, when I am in London, is at the head of this page.'

III. -

From Doctor Wyhrow to Mr. Winterjield.

* Dear sir, — I have received your letter, mentioning that you
wish to accompany me, at my next visit to the asylum, to see
the French boy, so strangely associated with the letter delivered
to you by Father Benwell.

* Your proposal reaches me too late. The poor creature's trou-
bled life has come to an end. He never rallied from the ex-
hausting effect of fever. To the last he was attended by his
mother. I write with true sympathy for that excellent lady —
but I do not conceal from you or from myself that this death is
not to be regretted. In a case of the same extraordinary kind
recorded in print, the patient recovered from the fever ; and his
insanity returned with his returning health. — Faithfully your?

'Joseph Wybrow.'

CHAPTER VI.

THE SADDEST OF ALL WORDS.

ON the tenth morning, dating from the despatch 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 them irritably into the fire.

* Don't trouble youraelf to wiite any longer,' he said to Pen-
rose. ' My dream is over. Throw ray manuscripts into the waste-
paper basket, and never speak to me of literary work again.'

' Every man devoted to literature has these fits of despond-
ency,' 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.

* I look worse and worse,' he said thoughtfully to himself.
It was true. His flesh had fallen away ; his face had withered

and whitened ; he stooped like an old man. The change for the
worse had been steadily proceeding from the time when he loft
Vange Abbey.

* It's useless to vj .1 It from me ! ' he burst out, turning to-
wards Penrose. * I am in some way answerable — though you
all deny it — for the French boy's death. Why not 1 His voice
is still in ray ears — and the stain of his brother's blood is on me.
I ara under a spell ! Do you believe in the witches — the merci-
less old women who made wax images of the people who injured
them, and stuck pins in their mock likenesses, to register the
slow wasting away of their victims day after day 1 People dis-
believe it in these times ; but it has never been disproved.' He
stopped; looked at Penrose; and suddenly changed his tone.

! i
i

THE BLACK ROBE.

'Arthur ! what is the matter with you 1 Have you had a bad
night 1 Has anything happened 1 '

For the first time in Romayne's experience of him, Penrose
answered evasively.

< Is there nothing to make me anxious/ he said, ' when I hear
you talk as you are talking now 1 The poor French boy died of
a fever. Must I remind you again that he owed the happiest
days of his life to you and your good wife ? '

Bomayne still looked at him, without attending to what he said.

* Surely you don't think I am deceiving you 1 ' Penrose re-
monstrated.

' No ; I was thinking of somethmg else. I was wondering
^/hether I really know you as well as I thought I did. Am I
mistaken in supposing that you are not an ambitious man 1 '

' My only ambition is to lead a worthy life, and to be as use-
ful to my fellow creatures as I can. Does that satisfy you ? '

Komayne hesitated. ' It seems strange ' he began.

* What seems strange 1 '

* I don't say it seems strange that you should be a priest,*
Bomayne 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 choico
of a vocation. It has been so with me. I am a member of a
Boman Catholic family. A Jesuit College was near our place
of abode ; and a near relative of mine — since dead — was one of
the resident priests.' He paused, and added, in a lower tone,
' When I was little more than a lad I suffered a disappointment,
which altered my char ?oter for life. I took refuge in the Col-
lege ; 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.

Bomayne held out his hand. ' I hope I have not thought-
lessly hurt you 1 ' he said.

Penrose took the offered hand, and pressedlt fervently. He
tried to speak — and suddenly shuddered, like a man in pain. < I
am not very well this morning,' he stammered ; * a turn in the
garden will do me good.'

THE SADDEST OF ALL WORDS.

215

Rotnayne's duubts were confirmed, by the manner in wliich
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 passed —
and he was still left alone. When the door was at last opened,
it was only Stella who entered the room.

' Have you seen Penrose 1 ' he asked.

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 con-
temptuous indifference whicU is the hardest penalty that a man
can inflict on the woman who loves him. Stella had submitted
with a proud and silent resignation — the most unfortunate
form of protest that she could have adopted towards 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 answer his first question, he hur-
riedly added another. ' Is Penrose really ill 1 '

' No. Lewia He is distressed.'

'About what?'

'About you, and about himself.'

' Is he going to leave us 1 '

'Yes.'

' But, he will come back again 1 '

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 consi-
deration of her happiness, might have provoked a sharp reply.
But by this time, Komayne had really become alarmed. * You
speak as if Arthur was going to leave England,' he said.

' He leaves England this afternoon,' she answered, 'for
Rome. '

' Why does he tell this to you and not to me 1' Romayne
asked.

^' He cannot trust himself to speak of it to you. He begged
me to prepare you '

:|,

■

216

THE BLACK KOBE.

Her courage failed her. She paused. Romayne beat his
hand impatiently on the desk before him. ' Speak out ! ' he
cried. * If Rome is not the end of the journey what is 1 '

Stella hesitated no longer.

'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 entrusted to them is to re-establish one of the
Jesuit missions destroyed by the savages years sinca 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 go — williigly go — to save the souls of
the Indians at the peril of their Lves.*

Romayne rose and advanced to the door. There he turned
and spoke to Stslla. ' Where is Arthur 1 ' he said.

Stella gently detained him.

* There was one word more he entreated me to say — pray
wait and hear it,' ahe pleaded. ' Hiri one grief is at leaving
You. Apart from that, he devotes himself gladly to the dread-
ful 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 tht carriage was waiting.

Penrose entered tiie room as the man left it.

* Have you spoken for me 1 ' he said to Stella.

She could only answer him by a gesture. He turned to Ro-
mayne, with a faint smile. ' The saddest of all words must be
spoken,' he said. * Farewell ! '

Pale and trembling, Romayne took his hand. ♦ Is this Father
Ben well's doings 1 ' he asked.

* No 1 ' Penrose answered, firmly. ♦ In Father Benwell's
position it might have been his doing, but for his goodness to
Die. 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 friond — my brothtr
in love 1 '

THE SADDEST OF ALL WORDS.

217

With a resolution which was nothing
in a man of his affectionate nature, he re-

Uis voice failea him.
less than heroic
covered his composure.

' Let us make it as little miserable as it can be/ he said. 'At
every opportunity we will write to each other. And, who
knows — I may yet come back to you 1 God has preserved his
servants in dangers as great as any that I shall encounter.
May that merciful God bless and protect you. Oh, ilomayne.
what happy days we have had together ! ' His last powers of re-
sistance 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, turn-
ing blindly towards the hall at 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 saw him no more.

She returned to the study.

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 full — she 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 expres-
sion of sorrow that fell from his lips showed that he was still
thinking of Penrose.

* Every blessing falls away from me,* he said. * I have lost
my best friend.'

Years afterwards, Stella remembered those words, and the
tone in which he had spoken them.

LIU-

CHAPTER VTI.

THE IMPULSIVE SEX.

AFTER a lapse of a few days, Father Benwell was again a
visitor at Ten Acres Lodge — by Romayne's invitation.
The priest occupied the very chair, by the study fireside, in
which Penrose had been accustomed to sit,

' It is really kind of you to come to me,' said Roma^n'", * so
soon after receiving my a«»,knowledgment 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 confess it, I had no idea
that you were so warmly attached to him.*

* I hardly knew it myself, Mr. Romayne, until our dear Ar-
thur was taken away from us.'

• If you used your inf lence, Father Benwell, is there no hope
that you might yet persuade him — — 1 *

' To withdraw from the Mission ? Oh, Mr. Romayne, don't
you j.know Arthur's character better than that ! Even his
gentle temper has its resolute side. The zeal of the first mar-
tyrs to Christianity is the zeal that burns in that noble nature.
The Mission has been the dream of his life — it 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 1 I might as soon persuade that statue in the gar-
den to desert its pedestal, and join us in this room. Shall we
cha: ^e the sad subject ? Have you received the book which I
sent you with my letter 1 '

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 th6 'morning
— wafting perfumes as she moved — appeared in the study. She

THE IMPULSIVE SEX.

219

looked at the priest, and lifted her many-ringed hands with a
gesture of coquettish terror.

' Oh, dear me ! I had no idea you were here. Father Ben well.
I ask ten thousand pardons. Dear and admirable Romayne,
you don't look as if you were pleased to see me. Good gracious I
I am not interrupting a confession, am I ? '

Father Benwell (with his paternal smile in perfect order) re-
pigned 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 ab-
sence of Penrose, and determined to interrupt it. Guided by
his subtle intelligence, Father Benwell penetrated her motive
as soon as 'she opened the door. Mra Eyrecourt bowed gra-
ciously, and took the offered chair. Father Benwell sweetened
his paternal smile, and offered to get a footstool.

* 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 cr^nfession ? As if Mr. Romayne was one of Us 1
Queen Elizabeth herself could hardly have said a sharper thing
to a poor Catholic priest ! *

* You clever creature ! * said Mrs. Eyrecourt. ' How easily
you see through a simple woman like me 1 There — I give you
my hand to kiss j we will make it up, as the children say. Do
you know, Father Benwell, a most extraordinary wish has sud-
denly come to me. Please don't be offended. I wish you were
a Jew.'

* May I ask why 9 ' Father Benwell inquired, with an aposto-
lic suavity worthy of the best days of Rome.

Mrs. Eyrecoort explained herself, with the modest self-dis-
tinist 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 Jews — may I say the amiable peculi-
arity ? — never to make converta It would be so nice if you
would take a leaf out of their book, when we have the happi-
ness of receiving you here. My lively imagination pictures
you in a double character. Father Benwell everywhere else ;
and — say, the patriarch Abraham at Ten Acres Lodge.*

Father Benwell lifted his persuasive hands in courteous pro-
test, * My dear lady ! pray make your mind easy. Not one

220

THE BLACK ROBE.

word on the subject of religion has passed between Mr. Ro-
mayne and myself '

* I beg your pardon,' Mrs. Eyrecourt interrupted ; ' I am
afraid I fail to follow you. My silent son-in-law, 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 alarm-
ing yourself, without any reason. Not one word, on any con-
troversial subject, has passed *

Mrs. Eyrecourt cocked her head, with the artless vivacity of
a bird. * Ah, but it might though ! ' she suggested slily.

Father Ben well once more remonstrated in dumb-show; and
Romayne lost his temper.

* Mrs. Eyrecourt ! ' he cried sternly.

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 ill-timed exhibition of, what I may call, domestic fero-
city. Father Benwell sets you an example of Christian moder-
ation. Do, please, follow it.'

Romayne refused to follow it.

' Talk on any other topic that you like, Mrs. Eyrecourt. I re-
quest you — don't oblige me to use a harder word — I request you
to spare Father Benwell and myself any further expression of
your opinion on controversial subjects.'

A son-in-law may make a request — and a mother-in-law may
decline to comply. Mrs. Eyrecourt declined to comply.

* No, Romayne, it won't do. I may lament your unhappy
temper, foi' my daughter's sake — but I know what I am about,
and you can't provoke me. Our reverend friend and I under-
stand 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 Benwell — a poor foolish
creature — was 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

THE IMPULSIVE SEX.

221

afterwards — but / know what King Lear felt, and / have strug-
gled with hyflterics just as he did. With your wonderful insight
into human nature, I am sure you will sympathise 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 prospect of our dear friend here becom-
ing a Catholic '

Romayne's temper gave way once more.

* If anything can make me a Catholic,' he said, ' your inter-
ference will do it.'

* Out of sheer perversity, dear Homayne ? *

' Not at all, Mrs. Eyrecourt. If I become a Cathoiic, I might
escape from the Sv.^ietj of the ladies, in the refuge of a monas-
tery.'

Mra Eyrecourt hit him back again, with the readiest dex-
terity.

* Remain a Protestant, my dear, and go to your club. There
is a refuge for you from the ladies — a monastery, with nice
little dinners, and all the newspapers and periodicals. Having
launched this shaft, sh'> got up, and recovert her easy courtesy
of look and manner. ' I am so much obliged to you, Father Ben-
well. I have not offended you, I hope and trust ? '

' You have done me a service, dear Mra Eyrecourt. But for
your salutary caution, I might have drifted into controversial
subjects. I shall be on my guard now.'

' 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 son-in-law may as
well come to an end. Please don't forget five o'clock tea at my
house.*

As she approached the door, it was opened from the outer side.
Her daughter met her half-way.

'Why are you here, Mammal' Stella asked.

* Why indeed, my love ! You had better leave the room with
me. Our amiable Romayne's present idea is lo relieve himself
of our society, by retiring to a monastery. Don't you see Father
Benwell 1 '

Stella coldly returned the priest's bow — and looked at Ro-
mayne. She felt a vague forewarning of what had happened.
Mra. Eyrecourt proceeded to enlighten her, as an appropriate

in]

222

THE BLACK ROBE.

m fi

■ 4 i

expression of gratitude. * We are indeed indebted to Father
Benwell, my dear. He has been most considerate and kind *

Romayne interrupted her without ceremony. * Favour me,*
he said, addressing his wife, ' by inducing Mra Eyrecourt to
continue her narrative in some other room.*

Stella was hardly conscious of what her mother or her hus-
band had said. She felt that the priest's eyes were on her.
Under any other circumstances, Father Ben well'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 Winter-
field's reassuring reply to her letter, Stella instinctively sus-
pected and dreaded the Jesuit Under the spell of those watch-
ful 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.'

E-ompyne attempted to speak, but Father Benwell was too
quick for him.

* Dear Mra Romayne, nothing has been said which needs any
disclaimer on your part.'

* I should think not f ' Mrs. Eyrecourt added. * Reallj , Stella,
I don't understand you. Why, may I not say to Fath 3r Ben-
well, what you said to Mr. Penrose 1 You trusted Mr. I'^nrose
as your friend. I can tell you this — I am quite sure you may
trust Father Benwell.'

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 mother ? '

With all her fear of him, the exasperating influence of his
tone and his look was more than Stella could endure. Before
she could restrain them, the rash words flew out '^f her lips.

■ I am not sufticiently well acquainted with you, Father Ben-
wick, to express an opinion.'

With that answer, she took her mother's arm, and left the
ruoiQ.

THE IMPULSIVE SKX.

223

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 peace-
making intentions. * Now don't — pray don't excite yourself ! '

Romayne was not to be pacified in that way. His anger was
trebly intensified by the long-continued strain on his nerves of
the effort to control himself.

* I must, and will, speak out at last ! ' he said. * Father Ben-
well, I hope you understand that nothing could have kej)t me
silent so long but the duty of courtesy towards women, on wliiili
the ladies of my household have so inexcusably presumed. 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 sincere expression of my
regret.'

* No more, Mr. Romayne ! As a favour to Me, I beg and
enti'eat you will say no more. Sit down and compose yourself.'

But Romayne was impenetrable to the influence of friemlly
and forgiving demonstrations. ' I can never expect you to enter
my house again ! ' he explained.

* My dear sir, I will come and see you again, with the greatest
pleasure, on any day that you may appoint — the earlier day the
better. Come ! come ! let us laugh. I don't say it disrespect-
fully, but poor dear Mra Eyrecourt has been more amusing than
ever. I expect to see our excellent Archbishop to-morrow ; and
I must really tell him how the good lady felt insulted, when her
Catholic daughter offered to pray Jfor her. There is hardly any-
thing more humorous, even in Moli^re. And the double chin,
and the red nose — all the fault of those dreadful Papists. Oh,
dear me, you still te\e it seriously. How I wish you had my
sense of humour I 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 gratefully — still bent, however, on making atonement.

' Let me first do myself the honour of calling on You,' he
said. ' I am in. no state to open my mind, as I might have wished
to open it to you — after what has happened. In a day or two
more '

* Sdy the day after to-morrow,' Father Benwell hospitably
suggested. < Do me a great favour. Come and eat your bit of

»..

224

THE BLACK llOBE.

mutton at my lodgings. Six o'clock if you like — and some re-
markably good claret, a present from one of ihe Faithful. You
will ? That's hearty 1 And do promise me to think no more of
our little domestic comedy. Relieve your mind. Look at
Wiseman's " RecoUectioni of the Popes." Good bye — God
bless you.*

The servant who opened the house door for Father Ben well
was agreeably surprised by the Papist's cheerfulness. * He isn't
half a bad fellow,' the man announced among his colleagues.
'Gave me half-a-crown, and went out humming a tuna'

CHAPTER VIII.

FATHER BENWELL's CORRESPONDENOfl.

To the Secretary, S.J., Borne.

( T BEG to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, mentioning
-i- that our Reverend Fathers are discouraged at not having
beard from me for more than six weeks.

♦ I am sorry forth is — and I am more than sorry to hear, that
my venerated brethren regret having sanctioned the idea of ob-
taining the restoration of the Vange property to the Church.
Let me humbly submit that the circumstances justified the idea-
An unentailed property , in the possession of a man of imagina-
tive temperament, without any near relatives to control him, is
surely a property which might change hands, under the favour-
ing circumstances of that man's conversion to the Catholic faith 1
It may be objected that the man is not yet converted. Also,
that he is now married, and may have an heir to his estate.
Grant me a delay oi another week — and I will undertake to
meet the first of these objections. In the meantime, I bow to
superior wisdom ; and I do not venture to add another word in
my own defence.

II.

* The week's grace granted to me has elapsed. I write with
humility. At the same time, I have something to say for my-
self.

' Yesterday, Mr. Lewis Romayne, of Vange Abbey, was re-
ceived into the community of the Holy Catholic Church. I on*

22G

THE BLACK ROBE.

close, an accurate newspaper report of the ceremoaies which at-
tended the conversion.

' Be pleased to inform me, by telegraph, whether our "Reverend
Fathers wiith me to go on, or not.'

THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOBL

3li at-
erend

M-^^l^^^l

V'^

"^^^n

*^ "-I , -^

'^^r^

gaok the ^iftb.

CHAITER I.

MRS. EYRECOURT's DISCOVER^.

THE leaves had fallen in the grounds at Ten Acres Lodge ;
and stormy winds told drearily that winter had come.

An unchanging dulness pervaded the house. Romayne was
constantly absent in London, attending to his new religious du-
ties, 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 burnt ; others were imprisoned in drawers and
cupboards — the 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 recon-
ciliation with her son-in-law) 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 once-lively lady sometimes openly
regretted that she had not been born a man — with the three
masculine resources of smoking, drinking, and swearing placed
at her disposal. It was a dreary existence, and happier influ-
ences seemed but little likely to change k. 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 grey morning, mother and daughter sat by the fire-
«ide, with another iong day before them.

i>2S

tub: IILACK RORE.

* Where is that oonteniptible husbaml of yours?' Mrs. Eyro
court asked, looking up from her book.

* Lewis is staying in town,' Stella answered listlessly.
' In company with Judas Iscariot 1 '

Stella was too dull to immediately understand the allusion.
' Do you mean Father Ben well ] ' she inquired.

' Don't mention his name, my dear. I have re-christened him
on purpose to avoid it. Even his name humiliates me. How
completely the fawning old wretch took me in — with all my
knowledge of the world, too ! He was so nice and sympathetic
— such a comforting contrast, on that occasion, to you and your
husband — I declare I forgot every reason I had for not trusting
him. Ah, we women are poor creatures — we may own it among
ourselvea If a man only has nice manners and a pleasant voice,
how many of us can resist him ? Even Romayne imposed upon
me — assisted by his property, which in some degree excuses my
folly. There is nothing to be done now, Stella, but to humour
him. Do as that detestable priest does; and tru*^*^ to your
beauty (there isn't as much of it left as I could wi to turn
the scale in your favour. Have you any idea wL .ue new
convert will come back 1 I heard him ordering a fish dinner for
himself, yesterday, because it was Friday. Did you join him
at dessert-time, profanely supported by meat? What did he
say?'

* What he has'said more than once already, Mamma. His peace
of mind is returning, thanks to Father Benwell. He was per-
fectly gentle and indulgent — but 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 suppose he is there now.*

' My dear, don't you remember your sister began in thv^ same
way ? She retreated. We shall have Romayne with a red nose
and a double chin, offering to pray for us next ! Do you recol-
lect that French maid of mine, Stella — the woman I sent away,
because she would spit when she was out of temper, like a cat?
I begin to think I treated the pocr '':eature harshly. When I
hear of Romayne and his Retreat, I almost feel inclined to spit
myself. There ! let us go on with our reading. Take the first
volume — I have done with it.*

* What is it, Mamma ? '

MRS. EYRECOURTfcJ DISCOVERY.

229

^eace
per-
il! a

iss a
iat it

jame
Inose
tecol-
jway,
cat]
lenl
spit
fir&t

' A very remarkable work, Stella, in the present state of light
literature in England — a novel that actually tells a story. It's
quite incredible, I know. Try the book. It has another ex-
traordinary merit — it isn't written by a woman.

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.'

* About Romayne 1 ' said her mother.

' No. When I think of my husband now, I almost wish I had
his confidence in Priests and Retreats. The conviction grows
on me. Mamma, that my worst troubles are still to come. When
I was younger, I don't remember being tormented by presenti-
ments of any kind. Did I ever talk of presentiments to you,
in the bye-gone days?'

' If you had done anything of the sort, my love (excuse mo,
if I speak plainly), I she Id have said, " Stella, your liver is out
of order ; " and I should liave opened the family medicine-chest.
I will only say now, send for the carriage ; let us go to a morn-
ing 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 of thought.
' I almost wish I had told Lewis — ' she said to hei-self absently.

' Told him of what, my dear 1 '

* Of what happened to me with Winterfield.'

Mrs. Eyrecourt's faded eyes opened wide in astonishment.

* Do you really mean it 1 ' she asked.
' I do, indeed.'

* Are you actually simple enough, Stella, to think that a man
of Romayne's temper would have made you his wife, if you had
told Lim of the Brussels marriage ? '

* Why not V

* Why not ! Would Romayne — would any man — believe
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 phenomenon ! It's well there were
wiser people than you to keep your secret.'

' Don't speak too positively, Mamma. Lewis may find it out
yet.'

3 nl

230

THE BLACK ROBE.

* Is that one of your presentiments 1 '

* Yes.'

* How is he to find it out, if you please 1 '

* I am afraid, through Father Benwell. Yes ! yes ! I know
you only think him a fawning old hypocrite — you don't fear
him as I do. Nothing will persuade me that zeal for his reli-
gion is the motive under which that man acts, in devoting him-
self to Romayne. He has some abominable object in view, and
nis eyes tell me that I am concerned in it.'

Mrs. Eyrecourt burst out laughing.

* What is there to laugh at 1 ' Stella asked.

* 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 to—
Money. If Romayne had turned Baptist or Methodist, the
reverend gentleman in charge of his spiritual welfare would not
have forgotten — as you have forgotten, you little goose — that
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 ; and — with no more abominable object in view than I
have, at this moment, in poking the fire — he would have ended
in producing his modest subscription list, and would have be-
trayed himpalf (just as our odious Benwell will betray himself)
by the two amiable little words, Please contribute. Is there
any other presentiment, my dear, on which you would like to
have your mother's candid opinion 1 '

Stella resignedly took up the book again.

* I dare say you are right,' she said. * Let us read our novel'
Before she had reached the end of the first page, her mind

was far away again from the unfortunate story. She was think-
ing of that ' other presentiment,' which had formed the sitbject
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 deiiision, which associated hira with some undefined evil
influence that might yet assert itself. A superstitious fore-
wmning of this sort was a weakness new to her in her expri-

MRS. EYRECOURTS DISCOVER V.

2?>i

of
in I
ided

be-
jel!)

ere
to

reV
kind
ink-
liect

)at&
jvil
)re-
?ri-

ence of herself. She was heartily ashamed of it — and yet, it
kept its hold. Once more the book dropped on her lap. She
laid it aside and walked wearily to the window, to look at the
weather.

Almost at the same moment, Mrs. Eyrecourt's maid disturbed
her mistress over the second volume of the novel, by entering
the room with a letter.

* For me 1 ' Stella asked, looking round from the window.
' No, ma'am — for Mrs Eyrecourt.'

The letter had been brought to the house by one of Lady TiOr-
ing's servants. In delivering it, he had apparently given ])ri-
vate instructions to the maid. She laid her finger significantly
on her lips when she gave the letter to her mistress.

In these terms Lady Txiring wrote :

* 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 cor-
respondent. She has always, poor dear, had an inveterate dis-
trust 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 us — with a well-framed excuse which satisfied
Lord Loring. It fails to satisfy Me. Not from any wonderful
exercise of penetration on my part, but in consequence of some-
thing I have just heard in course of conversation with a Catholic
friend. Father Ben well, 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 housa I have not the shadow of a reason for
associating this startling discovery with dear Stella's painful
misgivings — and yet there is something in my mind, which
makes me want to lear what Stella's mother thinku. Come
and have a talk about it as soon as you possibly can.'

Mrs Eyrecourt put the letter in her pocket, smiling quietly
to herself.

Applying to Lady Loring's letter the infallible system of so-
lution which she had revealed to her daughter, Mrs. Eyrecourt
solved the mystery o£ the priest's conduct, without a moment's
hesitation. I<ord Loring's cheque, in Father Benwell's pocket,
representing such a liberal subscription that my lord was reluc-

232

THE BLACK IIOBE.

tant to mention it to my lady — there was the reading of the
riddle as plain as the sun at noonday 1 Would it be desirable
to enlighten Lady Loring as she had already enlightened Stella?
]Mrs. Eyrecourt decided in the negative. As Boman Catholics,
and as old friends of Romayne, the Lorings naturally rejoiced
in his conversion. But as old friends of Romayne's wife, they
were bound not to express their sentiments too openly. Feel-
ing 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 without the slightest warning
of the catastrophe which was now close at hand.

Mrs. Eyrecourt joined Stella at the window.

* Well, my dear, is it clearing up 1 Shall we take a drive,
before luncheon '? '

• If you like, Mamma.'

She turned to her mother as she answered. 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 arvd at-
tentive scrutiny.

' Do you see any extraordinary change in mo ? ' Stella asked,
with a faint smile.

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 her daughter's face.
* Stella ! ' she said softly — and 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 tells me
something. Can you guess what it is 1 '

Stella's colour rose brightly, and faded again. She laid her
head in silence on her mother's bosom. Worldly, frivolous, self-
interested, Mrs. Eyrecourt's nature was the nature of a woman
— and the one great trial and triumph of a woman's life, ap-
pealing to her as a trial and a triumph soon to come to her own
child, touched fibrea under the hardened surface of her heart,

ced,

for

in
me

ap-
>\vn
irt,

MRS. EYRECOURT's DISCOVERY.

21VS

have

■which Wfere still unprofaned. * My poor darling,' she said,
you told the good news to your husband ? '

'No.'

•Why not r

* He doesn't care, now, for anything that I can tell hiin.'

* Nonsense, Stella ! You may win him back to you by a word
— and do you hesitate to say the word ? / shall tell him ! '

Stella suddenly drew herself away from her mother's arm.
' If you do,' she cried, * no words can say how inconsiderate and
how cruel I shall think you. Promise — on your word of hon-
our, promise you will leave it to me 1'

* Will you tell him, yourself — if I leave it to you V

* Yes — at my own time. Promise ! '

' 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 njy
vanity, Stella — the prospect of becoming a grandmother ! I
really must ring for Matilda, and take a few drops of red lav-
ender. 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 Retreat — after his fasting and flagellation, and
Heaven knows what besides- -then bring him to his senses ; tlien
is the time to tell him. Will you think of it ]'

'Yes; I will think ofit.'

* 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 practise with perfect impunity on
the ignorance of the men. Tell him you're sure it's going to b^
a boy ! *

Hi^

CHAPTER II.

THE SEED IS SOWN.

SITUATED in a distant quarter of the vast western suburb
of London, the house, called The Retreat, stood in the
midst of a well-kept garden, protected on all sides by a high
brick wall. Excepting the grand gilt cross on tlie 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 posses-
sion of him ; surrounded him with monastic simplicity in his
neat little bedroom; and dazzled him with devotional splendour,
when his religious duties called him into the chapel. The per-
fect taste — so seldom found in the modern arrangement and
decoration of convents and churches in southern countries —
showed itself here, pressed into the service of religion, in every
part of the housa The severest discipline had no sordid and
hideous side to it in The Retreat. The inmates fasted on spot-
less table cloths, and handled knives and forks (the humble
servants of half-filled stomacks) without a speck on their decent
brightnesa 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 receptioa room which were
really works of Art ; and trod on a carpet of studiously modest
pretensions, exhibiting pious emblems beyond reproach in colour
and design. The Retreat had its own artesian well ; not a per-
son in the house drank impurity in his water. A faint perfume
of inceiue was perceptible in the corridora The soothing and

THE SEED IS SOWN.

235

mysterious silence of the place was intensified rather than dis-
turbed by soft footsteps, and a 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 human nature, and its
inexhaustible dexterity in adapting the means to the end.

On the morning when Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter held
their memorable interview by the fireside at Ten Acres, Father
Ben well 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 of the house, named Mortleman.

Father Benwell's customary serenity was a little ruffled on
this occasion, by an appearance of anxiety. More than once, he
looked impatiently towards the door ; and he never even no-
ticed the last new devotional publications laid invitingly on the
table.

Mr. Mortleman made his appearance — a young man, and a
promising convert. The wild brightness of his eyes, and the
premature emaciation of his cheeks, revealed unat 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
Jesuit.

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 the chair.

* I think you have been Mr. Romayne's companion for a few
days, in the hours of recreation V the priest began.

* Yes, Father.'

* Does he appear to be at all weary of his residence in this
house ! '

' Oh, far from it ! He feels the benign influence of The Re-
treat ; we have had some delightful hours together,'

* Have you anything to report ? ' »

236

THE BLACK ROBE.

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. Ro-
mayne was, like myself, not married.'

* Did I tell you that he was not married V
' No, Father.'

' Then you have committed no sin. You have only made an
excusable mistake. How were you led into error 1 '

' 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 ap-
peared 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 done wrong]' ^

Father Ben well considered for a moment, * Did Mr. Ro-
mayne say anything more ?' he asked.

'No, Father.'

' Did you attempt to return to the subject f

• I thought it best to be silent.'

Father Benwell held out his hand. ' My young friend, you
have not only done no wrong — you have shown the most com-
mendable discretion. I will detain you no longer from yoar
duties. Go to Mr. Romayne, and say that I wish to speak
with him.'

Mr. Mortleman dropped on one knee, and begged for a bless-
ing. Father Benwell lifted the traditional two fingers, and
gave the blessing. The conditions of human happiness are
easily fulfilled, if we rightly understand them. Mr. Mortleman
retired perfectly happy.

Left by himself again. Father Benwell paced the room rapid-
ly from end to end. The disturbing influence visible in his face
had now changed from anxiety to excitement. * I'll try it to-
day ! ' he said to himself — and stopped and looked round him

THE SEED IS SOWN.

2:}";

., you
com-

doubtfully. 'No, not here,' he decided; *it may get taiknl
about too soon. It will be safer in every way at my lodgings.'
He recovered his composure, and returned to his chair.

Romayne opened the door.

The double influence of the conversion, and of the life in The
Retreat, had already changed him. His customary keenness
aad 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 inter-
val, if you wish it. But I have something to say to you first —
and 1 beg to ofier the hospitality of my lodgings. '

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 the great landholder left the place, with be-
coming humility in a cab.

* I hope I have not disappointed you 1 ' said Father Benwell.
' I am only anxious.* Romayne answered, * to hear what you

have to say,*

y^"

Ibless-
and
Is are
Leman

papid-
face

lit to-
him

' r?^' ^

tKt-^t

ii^^r>-^

•

CHAPTER III.

THE HARVEST IS REAPED.

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 thoughta To keep his companion's mind in a state
of suspense was, in certain emergencies, to exert a useful pre-
paratory influence over a man of Romayne's character. Even
when they reached his lodgings, the priest still hesitated to ap-
proach the object that he had in view. He made considerate!
inquiries, in the character of a hospitable man.

* They breakfast early at The Retreat,' he said. * What maj
I offer you.*

* I want nothing, thank you,* Romayne answered, with an
effort to control his habitual impatience of needless delay.

* Pardon me — we have a long interview before us, I fear.
Our bodily necessities, Romayne (excuse me if I take the
friendly liberty of suppressing the formal " M.") — 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 rheua
matic penalties of a winter residence in England 1 Ah, this
glorious country would be too perfect, if it possessed the deli-
cious climate of Rome ! *

The wine and biscuits were brought in. Father Benwell
filled the glasses, and bowed cordiaUy to his guest

* Nothing of this sort at The Retreat ! ' he said gaily. * Ex-
cellent water, I am told — which is a luxury in its way, espe-
cially in London. Well, my dear Romayne, I must begin by
ma^g my apologies. You, no douot thought me a little ab-

THE HAH VEST [S HEAPED.

239

Iked as
nothing
a state
ful pre-
Even
i to ap-
siderato

lat ma}

with an

I fear,
ike the
r bodily
famous
le rang
ir damp
le rheui
^h, this
he deli-

Jenwell

«Ex-
ly, espe-
legin by
Ittle ab-

rupt in running away with you from your retirement at a mo-
ment's notice 9 '

* I believed that you had good reasons, Father — and that
was enough for me.*

* Thank you — you do me justice — it was in your best inter-
ests that I acted. There are men of phlegmatic temperament,
over whom the wise monotony of discipline at The Retreat ex-
ercises a wholesome influence — I mean an influence which may
be prolonged with advantage. You are not 6ne of those per-
sona 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 be-
lieves unreservedly in the institution over which he presides.
Very good ! The Ketreat 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 in
some degree recovered your tranquillity V

* I feel like a different man. Father Ben well.'

* That's right ! And your nervous sufferings — I don't ask
what they are ; I only want to know if you experience a sense
of relief?'

* A most welcome sense of relief,* Romayna answered, with a
revival of the enthusiasm of other days. ' Ihe complete change
in all my thoughts and convictions, which I owe to you *

* And to dear Penrose,' Father Benwell interposed, with the
prompt sense of justice which no man could more becomingly
assume. ' We must not forget Arthur.'

' Forget him 1 ' Romayne repeated. ' Not a day passes with-
out my thinking of him. It is one of the happy results of the
change in me tha*. my mind does not dwell bitterly on the loss
of him, now. I think of P<?nrose with admiration, as of one
whose glorious life, with uU its dangers, I should like to share ! '

He spoke with a rising colour and brightening eyes. Already,
the absorbent capacity of the Roman Church had drawn to it-
self that sympathetic side of his character, which was also one
of its strongest sides. Already, his love for Penrose — hitherto
inspired b^ the virtues of the man — had narrowed its range to
sympathy with the trials and privileges of the priest. Truly and

ill

240

THE bLACK ROBE.

' !

deeply indeed had the physician consulted, in bygone days, rea-
soned on Romayne's case ! That 'occurrence of some new and
absorbing influence in his life/ of which the doctor had spoken
— that ' working of some complete change in his habits of
thought' — had found its way to him at last, after the wife's sim-
ple devotion had failed, through the subtler ministrations of
the priest.

Some men having Father Benwell's object in view would
liave taken instant advantage of the opening offered to them by
Komayne's unguarded enthusiasm. The illustrious Jesuit held
fast by the wise maxim which forbade him to do anything in a
hurry.

* No,* he said, * your life must not be the life of our dear
friend. The service on which the Church employs Penrose is
not the fit service for you. You have other claims on us. '

Romayne looked at his spiritual adviser with a momentary
change of expression — a relapse into the ironical bitterness of
the past time.

* 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 1 ' He paused for a moment, and continued with the
abruptness of a man struck by a new idea. ' Yes ! I have per-
haps one small claim of my own — the claim of being allowed to
do my duty.'

* In what respect, dear Komayne 1 '

' 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 shook his head. * No,' he replied ; * I can't
honestly say that.'

' Then yoa had a reason for your silence V

'Yes.'
, * May I not know it ? '

Father Benwell got up and walked to the fireplace. Now
there are various methods of getting up and walking to a fire-

ays, refi-
ne w and
I Rpoken
abits of
fe's siin-
itions of

w would
them by
mit held
ling in a

our dear
nrose is
us.'

mentary
irness of

lyman t '
)n claim
ps of the
with the
ave per-
owed to

money
vote to
e I am
at your
ver yet
money
part ? '
I can't

Now
a fire-

THE HARVEST IS REAPED.

241

place, 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
Ben well, from head to foot, expressed modest confusion, and
polite anxiety to hide it.

* My good friend,' he said, * I am afraid of hurting your feel-
ings.'

Komayne 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 answered a little sharply, ' if you are
not plain with me.'

* Then I will be plain with you,' Father Benwell rejoined.
' The Church — speaking through me, as her unworthy interpre-
ter — feels a certain delicacy in approaching You on the subject
of money. '

'Whyr

Father Benwell left the fireplace, without immediately an-
swering. He opened a drawer, and took out of it a flat maho-
gany box. His gracious familiarity became transformed, by some
mysterious process of congelation, into a dignified formality of
manner. The priest took the place of the man.

* The Church, Mr. Romayne, hesitates to receive, as benevo-
lent contributions, money derived from property of its own ar-
bitrarily taken from it, and placed in a layman's hands. No 1 ''
he cried, interrupting Romayne, who instantly understood the
allusion to Vange Abbey — ' No ! I must beg you to hear me
out. I state iuo case plainly, at your own reqaest. 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 perpe-
trated by Henry the Eighth. You have lawfully inherited
Vange Abbey from your ancestors. The Church is not unrea-
sonable enough to assert a merely moral right against the law
of the country. It may feel the act of spoliation — but it sub-
mits.' He unlocked the flat mahogany box, and gently drop-
ped his dignity : the man took the place of the priest. * As the
master of Vange,' he said, * you may be interested in looking at

!t^<

I..

242

THE BLACK ROBE.

a little historical curiosity which we have preserved. The title
deeds, dear Rornayne, by which the monks held your present
property, in tJieir time. Take another glass of wine.'

llomuynu looked at the title-deeds, and laid them aside un-
read.

Father Ben well had roused his pride, his sense of justice, his
wild and lavish instincts of generosity. He, who had always
despised money — except when it assumed its only estimable
character, as a means for the attainment of merciful and noble
ends — Ae was in possession of property to which he had no muiitl
riglit ; without even the poor excuse of associations which at-
tached him to the i)lace.

* I hope 1 have not offended you ? * said Father Benwell.

' You have made me ashamed of myself,' Komayne answered,
warmly. ♦ On the day when I became a Catholic, I ought to
have remembered Vange. Better late than never. I refuse to
to take shelter under the law — I respect the moral right of the
Church. I will at once restore the property which I have
usurped.'

Father Benwell took both Komayne's hands in his, and pressed
them fervently.

' I am proud of you ! * he said. * We shall all be proud of
you, when I write word to Home of what has passed between
us. But — no, Rornayne ! — this must not be. I admire you, I
feel with you ; and I refuse. On behalf of the Church I Kay it
— I refuse the gift.*

' 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 in-
come from that source is far larger than my income from the
Yorkshire property.*

'Romayne! it must not be.'

* Pardon me, it must be. I have more money than I can
spend — without Vange. And I have painful associations with
the house, which disincline me ever to enter it again.*

Even this confession failed to move Father Benwell. He ob-
stinately crossed his arms, obstinately tapped his foot on the
floor. * No ! ' he said. ' Plead as generously as you may, my
answer is. No.'

THE HARVEST IS REAPKI).

2tn

Romayne only became more resolute on his side. ' The i)ro-
perty is absolutely ray own,' ho persisted. * I am without a noiir
relative in the world. I have no children. My wife, if I die
before her, will be amply provided for. It is downright obsti-
nacy — forgive nie for saying so — to persist in your refusal.'

' It is downright duty, Romayne. If I gave way to you, J
should be the means of exposing the priesthood to the vilest
misinterpretation. I should be deservedly reprimanded, and
your proposed deed of gift would, without a moment's hesita-
tion, be torn up. If you have any regard for me, drop the
subject.'

Romayne refused to yield, even to this unanswerable appeal.

' 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 a)){)oint
you one of the trustees. You can't object to that.'

Even rigorous Father Benwell was now at a loss for any fur-
ther expression of honourable protest. He could only [>lead
sadly and submissively for an immediate change of subject. ' No
more, dear Romayne — you distress me I What were we talking
of, before this unfortunate topic turned up ? '

He filled the glasses ; he offered more biscuits — he was really,
and even perceptibly, agitated.

Noticing this unusual expression of feeling, Romayne began
to regret that he had not more gently expressed his intentions
to his sensitive and excellent friend. If he could have looked
into the })rie8t'8 mind, he might have become reconciled to his
own abruptness.

In offering the hospitality of his lodgings, the Vange property
had been the object which Father Benwell kept in view. He
had gained the victory for the Church, without (to do hitu jus-
tice) thinking of himself ; like Romayne, he cared nothing for
money, for its own sake. The necessity that now reraaiiied was
to make the victory secure. He had resisted the temptation to
accept the deed of gift, in Romayne's lifetime. The restoration
in that form — while there remained a j)ossibility of an heir
being bom to the estate — would, under those circumstances,
have led to a public scandal. On the other hand, a testamen-
tary legacy (especially in the absence of an heir) would be an
unassailable proof of the testator's attachment to the Church of

244

THE BLACK ROBE.

which he had become a member. Still, even with those pro-
spective advantages, adverse chances might lead, as things were,
to a revocation of the will — unless some serious obstacle could
be placed in the way of any future change of purpose on the
part of Romayna

Father Benwell had long since made up his mind as to the
choice of an obstacle. The agitation which he betrayed had its
origin in his own keen sense of the perils that threatened him,
in safely setting the example up. Under astute encouragement,
Romayne had become a Catholic, and !iad pledged himself to
restore t'.e Vange property. Under astute encouragement, there
remained one more act of bubinission — serious, und even for-
midable, in the corsequerces that it involved — into which it
was now necessary to lead the new convert. Even the Jesuit's
steady nerves were shaken by the prospect before him.

Romayne sat looking thoughtfully into the fire. Father
Benwell, walking up and down the room, was the first to break
the silence.

• Wb at was it I had to say to you ? ' he i*esumed. ' Surely, I
rras speaking on the subject of your future life, and the right
employment of your energies 1 *

' You are very kind, Father Benwell. The subject has little
interest for me. My future lif« is shaped out — domestic retire-
ment, ennobled by religious duties*

Still pacing the room. Father Benwell stopj d at that reply,
and put his hand kindly on Romayne's shoulder.

• We don't allow a good Catholic to drift into domestic retire-
ment, 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 m;in of your fitrict sense of honour
— of your intellect — of your high aspirations — of your personal
charm and influence — is not a man m horn we can allow to run
to waste. Open your mind, my f rien*!, fairly to me, and I will
open my mind fairly to you. Let me set the example. I say
it with authority ; an enviable future is before you.'

Romayne's pale cheeks fiushe<l with excitement. * What
future ) ' he asked eagerly. * Am I free to choose 1 Must I re-
mind you that a man with a wife cannot think only of himself 1'

mmm

THE HARVEST IS REAPED.

245

• Suppose you were not a man with a wife.'

• What do you mean 1 '

' Romayne ! I am trying to break my way through that in-
veterate reserve, which is one of tlie 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 luan, this conversation niu.st come to an end. You,
have found a I'efuge in the bosom of the Catholic Church. Is
there no yearning, in your inmost soul, for anything beyond the
position which you now occupy 1 *

There was a pause. The flush on liomayne's face faded
away. He was silent.

' You are not in the confessional,' Father Ben well i*omindt'd
him, with melancholy submission to circumstances. * Yo i
are under no obligat' i to answer mo.'

Ilomayne roused himself. He spoke in low, reluctant tones.
* I am afraid to answer you,' he said.

That apjjarently discouraging reply armed i^^ither Benwell
with the absolute contidence of success, which he had thus far
failed to feel. He wound his way deeper and deeper into Ko-
mayne's mind, with the delicate ingenuity of penetration of
which the practice of years had made him master.

• Perhaps I have failed to make myself clearly understood,' he
saitl. * I will try to ])ut it more plainly. You are no half hoartt'd
miui, Ilomayne. What you believe, you believe fervently. Im-
pressions are not dimly and slowly produced on your mind. As
tlie necessary result, your conversion being once accomplished^,
your whole soul is given to the Faith that is in you. Do I retul
your character rightly V

' So far as I know it — yea'

Father Benwell wont on.

' Bear in mind what I have just said,' ho resumed ; * and you
wil) underatand why I feel it my duty to press the quimtiou
which you have not answered yet You have found in the (Catho-
lic Faith the peace of mind which you have failed to obtain by
other meana If I had been dealing with an ordinary man, I
should have expected from the change no happier it^sult than
this. But I ask you, has that blessed inHueuce taken no deeper
and nobler hold on your heart ? Can vou truly say to me, ** 1
a'u content with what I have gained ; 1 wish foB no morel" '

246

THE liLACK UOBE.

* I cannot truly say it,' Romayne annwered.

The time had now come for speaking plainly. Father Ben-
wf 11 no longer advanced to his end under cover of a cloud of
words.

* 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
vodation, which has made Penrose one of Us.*

* No, Father Ben well ! Not open to every man.'
» I say, Yes ! '

' It is not open to Me ! '

' I say it is open to You. And more — I enjoiri, 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, Ro-
mayne ! Does your conscience tell you that you are that man 1 '

Romayne started to his feet, shaken to the soul by the sol-
emnity of the appeal.

* I can't dismiss the obstacles that surround me ! ' he cried,
passionately. * To a man in my position, your advice is abso-
lutely useless. The ties that bind me are beyond the limit of a
priest's sympathies.'

* Nothing is beyond the limit of a priest's sympathies. *

* Father Benwell, I am married ! '

Father Benwell folded his arms over his breast — looked with
immovable resolution straight in Romayne's face — and struck
the blow which he had been meditating for months past

* Rouse your courage,' he said sternly. * You are no moio
married than I am.'

CHAPTER IV.

THERE was not a sound in the room. Romayne stood look-
ing at the priest.

' Did you hear what I said ? ' Father Ben well asked.

♦Yes.'

' Do you understand that I really mean what I said ] '

He made no reply — he waited, like a man expecting to hear
more.

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 mjj^n. Don't ask me
how I know it — I do know it. You shall have positive proof,
as soon as you have recovered. Come ! rest a little in the easy
chair.'

He took Romayne's arm, and led him to the chair, and made
him drink some wine. They waited awhila Romayne lifted
bis head, with a heavy sigh.

* The woman whom I have married is the wife of another man.'
He slovk repeated the words to himself — and then looked at
Fatlier B» nwell.

* Who is the man 1 ' ho asked.

' I introduced you t ^ him, when I was as ignorant of the cir-
cumstances as you are,' the priest answered. ♦ The man is Mr.
Bernard Wintertield. '

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 stran-

r i :'

248

THE BLACK ROBE.

ger.' 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 been deceived and disgraced.'

Father Benwell unlocked his desk and placed two papers be-
fore Romayne. He did his duty with a grave indifference to all
minor considerations. The time had not yet come for expres-
sions of sympath;, and regret.

' The first paper,' he said, * is a certified copy of the register of
the marriage of Miss Eyrecourt to Mr. Wiaterfield, celebrated
(as you will see) by the English chaplain at Brussels, and wit-
nessed by three persona Look at the names.'

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, resid-
ing at Brussels. I will give you his name and address, if you
wish to make further inquiries.'

* Quite needless. What is this other paper? '

* This other paper is an extract from the shorthand writer's
notes (suppressed in the reports of the public journals) of pro-
ceedings in an English court of law, obtained at my request by
my lawyer in London.'

* What have I to do with it 1 '

He put the question in a tone of passive endurance — resigned
to the severest moral martyrdom that could be inflicted on him.

* I will answer you in two words,' said Father Benwell. 'In
justice to Miss Eyrecourt, I am bound to produce her excuse for
marrying you.'

Romayne looked at him in stern aniiazement.

* Excuse ! ' he repeated.

* Yes — excuse. The proceedings to which I have alluded de-
clare Miss Eyrecourt's marriage to Mr. Winterfield to be null
and void — by the English law — in 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 futui-e career, you must understand this revolting case
thoroughly, from beginning to end.'

THE BLACK ROBE.

249

With those prefatory words, he told the story of Winterfield'a
first marriage ; altering nothing ; concealing nothing ; doing the
fullest justice to Wiutertield'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 the
moral admiration of mankind.

' You were mortified, and I was surprised,' he went on,
'when Mr. Winterfield dropped his acquaintance with you.
We now know that he acted likn an honourable man.'

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 honour
and delicacy writhed under the outrage inflicted on it.

* And mind this,' Father Benwell persisted, ' poor human na-
ture has its right to all that can be justly conceded in the way
of excuse and allowance. Miss Eyrecottrt 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 de-
grading, must not be too severely judged, even when she does
wrong. I am bound to say this — and 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 look — so disdainfully expressive of
the most immovable unbelief, that it absolutely justified the
fatal advice, by which Stella's worldly-wise friends had encou-
raged her to vOnceal the truth. Father Benwell prudently
closed his li})s. He had put the case with perfect fairness — his
bitterest enemy could not have denied that.

Romayne took up the second paper, looked at it: and threw
it back again on the table with an expression of disgust.

* You told me just now,' he said, * that I was married to the
wife X)f another man. And there is the judge's decision, re-
leasing Miss Eyrecourt from her marriage to Mr. Winterfield.
May I ask you to explain yourself 1 '

* Certainly. Let me first remind you that you owe religious
allegiance to the principles which the Church has asserted, for

250

THE BLACK ROBE.

centuries past, with all the authority of its divine institution.
You admit that ] '

* I admit it.'

' Now, listen ! In our Church, Romayne, marriage is even
more than a religious institution — it is a sacrament We ac-
knowledge 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 acknow-
ledge the validity of the Emperor's second marriage to Maria
Louisa — while 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 celebra-
tion — and, this condition complied with, marriage is only to be
dissolved by death. You remember what I told you of Mr.
Winterfield 1 '

* Yes. His first marriage took place before the registrar.*

* In plain English, Romayne, Mr. Winterfield and the wo-
man-rider in the circus pronounced a formula of words before a
layman in an office. That is not only no marriage ; it is a blas-
phemous profanation of a holy rite. Acts of Parliament which
sanction such proceedings are acts of infidelity. The Church
declares it, in defence of religion.'

* I understand you,' said Romayne. ' Mr. Winterfield's
marriage at Brussels '

' Which the English law,' Father Benwell interposed, ' de-
clares 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 conse-
crated building — and Protestant marriages, so celebrated, are
marriages acknowledged by the Catholic Church. Under those
circumstances, the ceremony which afterwards united you to
Miss Eyrecourt — though neither you nor the clergyman were to
blame — was a mere mockery. Need I say more ) Shall I leave
you for awhile by yourself 1 '

* No ! I don't know what I may think, I don't] know what
I may do, if you leave me by myself. '

THE BLACK ROBE.

251

Father Benwell took a chair by Romayne's side. * It has
been my hard duty to grieve and humiliate you,' he said. * Do
you bear me no ill will V He held out his hand.

Romayne took it — as an act of justice, if not as an act of
gratitude.

'Can I be of any use in advising you?' Father BenwcU
asked.

* Who can advise a man in my position ]' Romayne bitterly
rejoined.

' I can at least suggest that you should take time to think
over your position.'

' Time 1 take time ? You talk as if my situation was endur-
able.'

' Everything is endurable, Romayne ! '

* It may be so to you, Father Ben well. Did you part with
your humanity, when you put on the black robe of the priest ] '

* I parted, my son, with those weaknesses of our humanity,
on which women practise. You talk of your position. I will
put it before you at its worst.'

* For what purpose 1 '

* To show you exactly what your position is. Judged by the
law of England, Mrs. Romayne is your wife. Judged by the
principles held sacred among the religious community to which
you belong, she is not Mrs. Romayne — she is Mrs. Winterfield,
living with you in adultei-y. If you regret your conversion '

* I don't regret it. Father Benwell. '

' If you renounce the holy aspirations which you have your-
self acknowledged to me, return to your domestic life. But
don't ask us, while you are living with that lady, to acknow-
ledge ) ou 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 affeotion found their opportiinity, 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 ! ' ho
cried, * I feel faint and giddy. Don't despise me Father Ben-
well — I was once so fond of l^er ! '

i»

252

THE BLACK ROBE.

The priest i)0\ired out the wine. * I feel for you/ he said.

* indeed, indeed, 1 feel for you.'

It was not all a lie — there were grains of truth in that out-
burst of sympathy. Father Benwell was not wholly merciless.
His farueeiug intellect, his daring duplicity, carried him straight
on to his end in view. But, that end once gained — and let it
be remembered, not gained wholly for himself — there were com-
passionate influences left in him which sometimes forced their
way to the surface. A man of high intelligence — however he
may misuse it, however unworthy he may bo of it — has a gift
from heaven. When you want to see unredeemed wickedness,
look for it in a fool.

' Let me mention one circumstance,' Father Benwell pro-
ceeded, * which may help to relieve you for the moment In
your present state of mind, you cannot return to the Ketreat'

* Impossible 1 '

* 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 i*esi
dence at Highgate *

' Don't speak of it ! '

Father Benwell sighed. ' Ah, I understand ! ' he said, sadly

* The house associated with Mr. Winterfield's visit '

Komayne again interrupted him — this time by gesture only.
The hand that had made the sign clenched itself, when it rested
afterwards on the tabla His eyes looked downward, under
frowning brows. At the name of Winterfield, remembiancea
that poisoned every better influence in him rose venomously in
his mind. Once more he loathed the deceit that had been prac-
tised 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 deceived you in one
thing ; why not in another 1

* Can I see my lawyer here 1 ' he asked, suddenly.

* My dear Komarne, you can see any one whom you like to
invite.'

* I shall not trouble you by staying very long. Father Ben well'
' Do nothing in a huny, my son. Pray do nothing in a hurry ! '
Romayne paid no attention to this entreaty. Shrinking from

the momentous decision that awaited him, his mind inutinctively

THE BLACK ROBE.

253

took refuge in the prospect of change of scene. * I shall leave
England !' he said, impatiently.

' Not alone,' Father Benwell remonstrated.

* Who will be my companion V
' I will,' the priest answered.

Roniayne'8 weary eyes brightened faintly. In his desolate
position, Father Benwell was the one friend on whom he could
rely. Pe »ro8e was far away; the Lorings had helped to keep
him deceived ; Major Hynd had openly pitied and despised him
as a victim to priestcraft

* Can you go with me at any time 1 ' he asked. * Have you
no duties that keep you in England 1 '

* My duties, Romayne, are already confided to other hands.'

* Then, you have foreseen this ? *

' I have foreseen it. Your journey may be long, or your
;oumey may be short — you shall not go away alone.'

* I can think of nothing yet ; my mind is a blank,' Romayne
■ lonfessed sadly. * I don't know where I shall go.'

' I know where you ought to go — and where you will go,'
taid Father Benwell, emphatically.
•Where?'

* To Rome.'

Romayne understoo"" the true meaning of that bHef reply. A
vague sense of dismay began to rise in his mind. While he was
still tortured by doubt, it seemed as if Father Benwell had, by
some inscrutable process of prevision, planned out his fut\ire be-
forehand. Had the Jesuit foreseen events? No — he 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.
Thus far, he had modestly described himself to his reverend
colleagues, as regarding his position towards Romayne in a new
light. His next letter might boldly explain to them what he
had really meant. The victory was won. Not a word more
passed between his guest and himself that morning.

Before post-time, on the same day, Father Benwell wrote his
last report to the Secretary of the Society of Jesus, in these
lines : —

t i

2r)4!

TllK BLACK IIOBE,

'Roniayno is free from the domestic ties that bound him. He
bequeaths Vange Abbey as a legacy to the Church ; and he
acknowledges a vocation for the priesthood. Expect us at Rome
in a fortnight's time.'

TuE End or the Fifth Book.

^tUx the ^toti).

Extracts from Bernard Winierjielirs Dianj.

1. — WINTERFIELl) DEFENDS HIMSELF.

'Beaupark House, June 17th, 18 — .

* "S^'OU and I, cousin Becminster, seldom meet. But I uc-
JL casionally bear of you, from friends acquainted with
both of u&

* I have heard of you last at iSir Philip's rent-day dinner, a
week since. My name happened to be mentioned by one of
the gentlemen present, a griest like yourself. Yon took up the
subject of your own free will, and sjioke of me in the8(» terms :

* " I am sorry to say it of the exisung head of the family —
but Bernard is really unfit for the position which he holds. He
has, to say the least of it, compromised himself and his relatives
(Ml more than one occasion. He began as a young man by
marrying a circus-rider. He got into some other .scrape, after
that, which he has contrived to keep a secret from us. \Ve only
know how disgraceful it must have been by the results — he was
a voluntary exile from England for more than a ycMr. And
now, to complete the list, he has mixed himself up in that mis-
erable and revolting business of Lewis Romayne and his wife,"

* If any other person had spoken of me in th s m.mner, 1
I should have set him down as a mischievous idiot — to be kickt- d
perhaps, ')ut not to be noticed in any nther way.

' With you, the case is different, if I die without male off-
spring, the Beaupark estate goes to you, us next heir.

*I don't choose to let a man in this position shmder me,
and those dear to me, without pvomptly contradicting him.
The namo I bear is precious to me, in memory of my father.

!' I

25G

THE BLACK ROHE.

Your unanswered report of me, 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 of, — and, 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 reputation — if she is a good woman — is not easily
compromised by telling the truth. The person of whom I am
thinking, when I write this, knows what I am going to do —
and approves of it.

' You will receive, with these lines, the most perfectly can-
did statement that I can furnish ; being extracts cut out of my
own private Diary. They are accompanied (where plain ne-
cessity seems to call for it) by the written evidence of other
persons.

* There has never been much sympathy between us. But you
have been brought up like a gentleman — and, when you have
read my narrative, I expect that you will do justice to me, and
to others — even though you think we acted indiscreetly under
trying and critical circumstances. K W.'

2. — WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

11 th April, 1859. — Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter have
left Beaupark to-day for London. Have I really made any
impression on the heart of the beautiful Stella ] Iii my miser-
able position — ignorant whether I am free or not — I have
shrunk from formally acknowledging that I love her.

12th. — I am becoming superstitious ! In the Obituary of to-
day's Times the death is recorded of that unhappy woman whom
I was mad enough to marry. After hearing nothing of her for
seven years — I am free 1 Surely this is a good omen 1 Shall
I follow the Eyrecourts to London and declare myself 1 I have
not confidence enough in my own power of attraction to run
the risk. Better to write first, in strictest confidence, to Mrs.
Eyrecourt

lith. — An enchanting answer from my angel's mother writ-
ten in great hasta They are on the point of leaving for Paris.
Stella 4s restless and dissatisfied ; she wants change of scene ;
and Mrs. Eyreaourt adds, in so many words : — ' It is you who

WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

257

liave upset her ; why did you not speak while we were at Beau-
park V I am to hear again from Paris. Good old Father
Newblisa said all along that she was fond of me, and wondered,
like Mra Eyrecourt, why I failed to declare myself. How
coiild I tell them of the hideous fetters which bound me in
those days 1

I8th, Parts. — She has accepted me 1 Words are useless to ex-
press my happiness.

I9th. — A letter from my lawyer, full of professional subtle-
ties and delays. I have no patience to enumerate them. Wo
move to Belgium to-morrow._ Not on our way back to England
— Stella is so little desirous of leaving the continent that we
are likely to be married abroad. But she is weary of the perpe-
tual gaiety and glitter of Paris, and wants to see the old Belgian
cities. Her mother leaves Paris with regret. The liveliest woman
of her age that I ever met with.

7th May^ Brussels. — 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 pri-
vate and unpretending way. She has only stipulated that Lord
and Lady Loring (old friends) shall be present. They are to
arrive to-morrow, and two days afterwards we are to be mar-
ried.

# # # # #

(An enclosure is inserted in this place. It consists of the
death-bed confession of Winterfield's first wife, and of the ex-
planatory letter written by the rector of Belhaven. The circum-
stances related in these documents, already known to the reader,
are left to speak for themselves, and the Extracts from the
Diary are then continued.)

Bingen on the Bhine, 29^A May. — 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, telling him that
the marriage is broken off; he writes back (good old manl) tk

258

THE BLAOK ROBE.

kind and comforting letter. It all seems safe, so far. Time will,
I suppose, help me to bear my sad lot. And perhaps a day may
come, when Stella and her friends will know how cruelly they
have wronged me.

London, 18</t November^ 1860. — The old wound has been
opened again. I met her accidentally in a picture-gallery. She
turned deadly pale, and left the place. Oh, Stella I Stella !

London^\2,th August, 1861. — Another meeting with her. And
another, and a worse shock to endure.

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 recognised Stella ! After two years, she has made
use of tLoi 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 ua But, when we were after-
wards left together for a few minutes — no ! I cannot write down
the merciless words she said to me. Why am I fool enough to
be as fond of her as ever 1

Beaupark, IQth November. — Stella's married life is not likely
to be a happy one. To-day's newspaper announces the conver-
sion 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
thao this proof of his weakness is a downright consolation to me.

Beauparky 27th January^ 1862. — A letter from Stella, so
startling and deplorable th& •; I cannot remain away from her
after reading it. Her husband has deliberately deserted her.
He has gone to Rome to serve his term of probation for the
priesthood. I travel to London by to-day's train.

Londoii, 27th January. — Short as it is, I looked at Stella's
letter agaiii 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, she concludes her letter
in these terms :

' Be under no fear that the burden of my troubles will be laid
on your shoulders. Sinoe the fatal day when we met at Ten

WINTEIIFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

250

Acres, you have shown forbearance and compassion towards nie.
I don't stop to inquire if you are sincere — it rests with you to
prove that. But I have some questions to ask, which no per-
son but you can answer. For the rest, my friendless position
will perhaps plead with you not to misunderstand ma'

Inveterate distrust in every sentence ! If any other woman
had treated me in this way, I should have put her letter into
the fire, and should not have stirred from my comfortable house.

29</t January. — A day missed out of my Diary. The events
of yesterday unnerved me for the tima

Arriving at Derwent's Hotel on the evening of the 27th, I
sent a line to Stella by messenger to ask when she could re-
ceive me.

It is strange how the merest trifles seem to touch women 1
Her note in reply contains the first expression of friendly feel-
ing towards me, which has escaped her since we parted at Brus-
sels. And this expression proceeds from her ungovernable sur-
prise and gratitude, at my taking the trouble to travel from
Devonshire to London on her account !

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. Komayne's behaviour to her ; and she
wished to see me, in the first instance, unrestrained by Mi*h.
Eyrecourt's interference.

There was little sleep for me that night. I passed most of
the time ir smoking, and walking up and down the room. My
one relief was afforded by Traveller — he begged so hard to go
with Aae, 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 think — and a thoroughly
unlovable man, too, from a dog's point of view.

Soon after ten, on the morning of the 28th, she entered my
sitting-room.

In her personal appearance, I saw a change for the worse ;
produced, I si^ppose, by the troubles that have tried her sorely,
poor thing. There was a sad loss of delicacy in her features,

260

THE BLACK ROBE.

and of puriiy in her complexion. Even her dress — I should
certainly not have noticed it in any other woman — seemed to
be loose and slovenly. Tn the agitation of the moment, I for-
got the long estrangement between us ; I half lifted my hand
to take her's, and checked myself. Was I mistaken in suppos-
ing that she yielded to the samf impulse, and resisted it as I
did ? She concealed her embar.' ^osment, if she felt any, by pat-
ting the dog.

* I am ashamed that you should have taken the journey to
London in this wintry weather ' she began.

It was impossible, in h situation, to let her assume this
commonp ace tone with me. ' I sincerely feel for you,' I baid,
*and sincerely wish to help y©u, if I can.'

She looked at me for the first time. Did she believe me ? or
did she still doubt 1 Before I could decide, she took a letter from
her pocket, opened it, and handed it to me.

* Women often exaggerate their troubles,' she said. * It is
perhaps an unfair trial of your patience — but I should like you
to satisfy yourself that I have not made the worst of my situa-
tion. That letter Avill place it before you in Mr. Romayne's
own worda Ivead it, except where the page is turned down.'

It was her husband's letter of farewell.

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 h& took her for his wife.
Hhe had afterwards persisted in that concealment, under circum-
stances which made it impossible that he could ever trust her
again.' (This no doubt referred to her ill-advised reception of
me, as a total stranger, at Ten Acres Lodge.) ' In the miser-
able break-up of his domestic life, t'ae Church to which he now
belonged offered him, not only her divine consolation, but the
honour, above all earthly distinctions, of serving the cause of re-
ligion in the sacred ranks of tho priesthood. Before his de-
parture for Rome he bade her a last farewell in this world, and
forgo '0 her the injuries that she had inflicted on him. For her
sake lie asked leave to say some few words mora In the first
place, he desired to do her every justice, in a worldly sense. Ten

WINTERFIEM) MAKES EXTRACTS.

261

Acres Lodge was offered to her as a free gift for her lifetime,
with a sufficient income for all her wants. In the second plac*-,
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
pei*8onal feeling aside, he felt religious scruples (connected with
his marriage), which left him no other alternative than the sepa-
ration on which he had resolved. He would brietly explain
those scruples, and mention his authority for enteriaiiiing thorn,
before he closed his letter.'

There the page was turned down and the explanation wa»
concealed from me.

A faint colour stole over her face as I handed the letter back
to her.

' It is needless for you to read the rest,' she said. ' You know,
under his own hand, that he has left me ; and (if such a thing
pleads with you in his favour), you also know tJiat he is libcin;
in providing for his deserted wife.*

I attempted to speak. She saw in my face how I despised
him, and stopped me.

' Whatever you may think of his conduct,' she continued, ' 1
beg that you will not speak of it to me. May I ask your opin-
ion (now you have read his letter) on another matter, in which
my own conduct is concerned ? In former days '

She paused, poor soul, in evident confusion and distresa

* Why speak of those days ? ' I ventured to say.

* I must speak of them In former days, I think you were
told that my father's will provided for my mother and for me.
You know that we ha^e enough to live on 1 *

I had heard of it, at the time of our betrothal — when the mar-
riage-settlement was in preparation. The mother and flaughter
had each a little income of a few hundreds a year. The exact
amount had escaped my memory.

After answering her to this effect, I waited to hear more.

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 beax ; I forget things ' she made an ef-
fort to finish the sentence, and gave it up, and called to the dog

I -^

262

THE BLACK ROBE.

to oome to her. The bears were in her eyes, and that was the
way she took to hide them from ma

In general, I am not quick at reading the minds of others —
but 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 in-
clined to follow it. I hesitated no longei*. The time for which
I had waited — the time to prove, v/ithout any indelicacy on my
side, that I had never been luiworthy of her — had surely come
at last

* Do you remember my reply to your letter about Father Ben-
well 1 ' I asked.

' Yes — every word of it'

' I promised, if you ever had need of me, to prove that I had
never been unworthy of your eonfidence. In your present situa-
tion, I can honourably keep my promise. Shall I wait till you
are calmer 1 or shall I go ou at once 1 *

' 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 en-
treat you.'

I opened the writing-case in which I kept 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 be for both of us.

* Since we parted at Brussels,' I said, * my wife has died.
Here is a copy of the medical certificate of her death.'

SteUa refused to look at it. * I don't understand such things,*
she answered, faintly. ' What is this 1 '

She took up my wife's deathbed confession. * Read it,' I
said.

She looked frightened. * What will it tell meV she asked.

' 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 farther end of the room ; bo that she might not see me while
she readf

„

WINTERFIELD MAFES EXTRACTS.

263

After a time — how much longer it seemed to be than it really
was I — 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 'hat she was forgiven. She seized my
hands, and held them over her face — they were wet with her
tears. ' I am ashamed to look at you,' she said. • Oh, Bernard,
what a wretch I have been ! '

I never was so distressed in my life. I don't know what 1
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 attempt-
ed 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 Traveller jealous* She let me raise
her. Ah, if she could have kissed me — but 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 these pages. While I live,
there is no fear of my forgetting those words.

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 contain-
ing evidence that the confession was genuine. But I hesitated,
for her sake, to speak of it just yet

* Now you know that you have a friend to help and adviao
you * I began.

* No,' she interposed ; ' more than a friend ; say a brother.*
I said it. * You had something to ask of me,' I resumed,

'and you never put the question.'
She understood me.

* I meant to tell you,* she said, ' that 1 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. Ro-
mayne's money. My mother — though she knows that we have
enough to live on — tells me that I have acted with inexcusable
pride and folly. I wanted to ask if you blame me, Bernard, as
she does 1 '

1 dare say I was inexcusably proud and foolish, too. It was
the first time she had called me by my Christian name since the
happy by -gone time, never to come again. Under whatever in-

■a

264

THE BLACK ROT ^

fluence I acted, I respected and admired her for that refusal —
and I owned it in so many words. This little encouragement
seemed to relieve her. She was so much calmer that I ventured
to speak of the rector's letter.

She wouldn't hea** of it. * Oh, Bernard, have I not learned to
trust you yet 1 Put away those papers. There is only one
thing I want to know. Who gave them to you 1 The rector ! '

'No.'

' How did they reach you then 1 *

'Through Father Ben well.'

She started to her feet like a woman electrified.

' I knew it ! ' she cried. ' It is the priest who has wrecked
my married life — and he got his information from those letters,
before he put them into your hands.* She dropped into her
chair again. * That was the first and foremost of the questions
I wanted to put to you,' she said. ' I am answered. I ask no
more.'

She was surely wrong about Father Ben well 1 I tried to show
her why.

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 1 This
view was entirely new to me; I was startled, but not convinced.
I never desert my friends — even when they are friends of no
very long standing — and 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 curi-
osity. She was eager to know how I had first become acquaint-
ed with the priest, and how he had contrived to possess himself
of information whit* was intended for my reading only.

There was but one way of answering her.

It was far from easy to a man like myself, unaccustomed to
(State circumstances in their proper order — but I had no other
choice Ihan 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.

WINTEBFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

26'

* Anything connected with that poor creature,' she said, ' has
a dreadful interest for me now.'

' Did you know him,' I asked, with some surprise.

' I knew him and his mother — you shall hear how, i^t 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 superstitious — but, after what you have said, it
is certainly true that he has Vieen the in<lirect cause of the mis-
fortune that has fallen on me. How came he to steal the
papers 1 Did you ask the rector, when you went to Belhaven]'

* 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 heai every word
of it,' she pleaded eagerly.

I felt some reluctance to comply with the request.

' Is it not fit for me to hear ? ' she asked.

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, Bernard — and^don't, for God's sake,
think that my heart is harder than yours.*

I kissed the hand that she had given to me— even her * bro-
ther * might do that 1

* 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 en-
tirely ignorant of the English language, there sticmed to be no
objection to letting him have his own way. He became inquisi-
tive as the writing went on. His questions annoyed the rector
— and, as the easiest way of satisfying hie 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 money — and the pretended explanation silen-
ced and satisfied hiuL *

' Did the rector understand it ? ' Stella asked.

' Yes. Like many other Englishmen in his position, although
he was not ready at speaking French, h^ could read the lan-
guage, and could fairly well understand it, when it was spoken.
After my wife's death, he kindly placed the boy, for a few days,

266

THE BLACK IIOBE.

under the oare of his housekoeper. Her early life had been
])as8ed in the island of Martinique ; and she was able to com-
municate with the friendless foreigner in his own hinguago.
When he disappeared she was the only person who could throw
any light on his motive for stealing the [)aper8. On thf; day
when he entered the house, she Ciiught him, peeping tlirough
the key hole of the study door. He must have seen where the
confession was placed, and the colour of the old-fashioned 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
him in "the will." She severely reproved him, made him replace
the paper in the desk from which he had taken it, and threat-
ened to tell the rector if his misconduct was repeated. He pro-
mised amendment — and the good natured woman believed him.
Two days afterwards, the locked door of the cabinet in which
the papers had been secured was found open — and they and the
boy were both missing together.'

' Do you think he showed the confession to any other person 1'
Stella asked. ' I happen to know that he concealed it from his
mother.'

'After the housekeeper's reproof,' I replied, 'hfi would be
cunning enough, in my opinion, not to run the risk of showing
it to strangera It is far more likely that he thought he might
learn English enough to read it himself.'

There the subject dropped. We were silent for a while. She
was thinking, and I was looking at her. On a sudden, she raised
her head. Her eyes rested on me gravely.

' It is very strange ! * she said.

* What is strange ] '

' I have been thinking of the Lorings. They encouraged n)e
to doubt you. They advised me to be silent about what hap-
pened at Brussels. And they too are concerned in my husband's
desertion of me. He first met Father Ben well at their house.
From that time, I see the circumstances in my mind, all follow-
ing one on another, until the priest and the French boy were
brought together — and the miserable end came, which left me
a, deserted wife.' Her head drooped again ; her next words were

i ?:

WINTEUFIRLU MAKFS R\ TRACTS,

267

nuirmured to herself. * I am still a young woman,' she said.
* Oh, God, what is ir\y fi\ture to be ?'

This morbid way of thinking distressed me. I reminded her
that she had devoted fri(;iul&

' Not one,' she answered, * but you.'

* Have you not seen Lady Loring 1 ' I asked.

' She and her husband have written most kindly, inviting me
to make their houm* my home. 1 have no right to blame them
■ — they meant well. lUit, after what has h:»j)pened, I can't go
back to them.'

* I am sorry to hear it,' I said.

* Are you thinking of the Loringii f ' Hhe asked.

*I don't even know tb^ fx>rini{8. 1 i;> . think of nobo<lv but

you.

I was still looking at her — ^and I am afraid ray eyes said
more than my words. If she had doubted it before, she must
have now known that I whs as fond of her as ever. She look((d
distressed rather than confused. I made an awkward attempt
to set myself right.

* Surely, your brother may speak plainly,' I said.

She agreed to this. But nevertheless she rose to go— with a
friendly word, intended (as 1 hoped) to .show me that 1 had got
my pardon for that time. ' Will you come and see us to-mor-
row 1 ' she said. ' Can ycu forgive niy mother as generously as
you have forgiven me 1 I will take care, Bernard, that she does
you justice, at last.*"

She held out her hand to take leave. How could I reply 1
If I had been a resolute man, I wight have remembered that it
would be best for me not to see too much of her. But I am a
poor weak creature — I accepted her invitation for the next day.

ZOth January. — I have just returned from my visit.

My thoughts are in a state of indescribable conflict and con-
fusion — and her mother is the cause of it. I wish I had not
gone to the house. Am I a bad man, I wonder 1 and have I
only found it out now ?

Mrs. Eyrecourt was alone in the drawing-room when I went
in. Judging by tlie easy manner in which she got up to receive
me, the misfortune that has befallen her daughter seemed to
have produced no sobering change in this frivoWus woaaau.

2G8

THE BLACK ROBE.

* My dear Winterfield,' she began, ' I have behaved infam-
ously. I won't say that appearances were against you — I will
only say I ought not to have trusted appearancea You are the
injured person ; please forgive me. Shall we go on with the
Buliject 1 or shall we shake hands and say no more about it 1 '

I shook hands of course. Mra Eyrecourt perceived that I
waH looking for Stella^

* Sit down,' she said ; * and be good enough to put up with no
nioro attractive society than mine. Unless I set things straight,
my good friend, you and my daughter — oh, with the best inten-
tions ! — will drift into a false position. You won't see Stella
today. Quite impossible — and I will tell you why. I am the
V. orldly old mother ; I don't mind what I say. My innocent
daughter would die before she would confess what I am going
to tell you. Can I offer you anything! Have you had lunch 1 '

1 begged her to continue. She perplexed — I am not sure
that she did not even alarm me.

* Very well,' she proceeded. * You may be surprised to hear
- it — but I don't mean to allow things to go on in this way. My

contemptible son-in-law shall return to his wife.'

This startled me ; and I suppose I showed it.

' Wait a little,* said Mrs. Eyrecourt. ' There is nothing to
be alarmed about. Romayne is a weak fool ; and Father Ben-
well's greedy hands are (of course) in both of his pocketa But
he has, unless I am entirely mistaken, some small sense of
shame, and some little human feeling still left. After the man-
ner in which he has behaved, these are the merest possibilities,
you will say. Very likely. I have boldly appealed to those possi-
bilities neverthelesa He has already gone away to Rome ; and I
need hardly add — Father Benwell would take good care of that
— he has left us no ada^'ess. 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 Ro-
mayne, under cover to one of my friends living in Rome.
Wherever he may be, there my letter will find him.'

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

■ :=/ ' ;-?^.fjtK5-icersn'fTa.uK3:.''frj^r'ij

WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

209

sure

to feel that the chances (with such a fa mtic as Romayne) were
a hundred to one against her.

This unworthy way of thinking was instantly checked by
Mrs. Eyrecourt's next word*

' Don't suppose that I am foolish enough to attempt to rofi-
Ron witli him/ she went on. * My letter begins and ends on
the first page. His wife has a claim on him which no newly-
married man can resist. Let me do him justice. He knew
nothing of it before he went away. My letter — my daughter
has no suspicion that I hare written it — tells him plainly what
the claim is.'

She paused. Her eyes softened, her voice sank low — she be-
came quite unlike the Mra Eyrecourt I knew.

* In a few months more, Wintertield,* she said, * my poor
Stella will be a mother. My letter calls Romayne back to his
wife — ancl his child.'

Mra Eyrecourt paused, evidently expecting me to offer an
opir.ion of some sort. For the moment 1 was really unable to
speak. Stella's mother never had a very high opinion of my
abilities. She now appeared to consider me the stupidest per-
son in the circle of her acquaintance.

* Are you a little deaf, Winterfield 1 * she asked.

* Not that I know of. '

' Do you understuud me 1 *

' Oh, yes. '

' Then why can't you say something ? I want a man's opin-
ion of our prospects. Good gracious how you fidget ! Put
yourself in Romayne's place, and tell me this. If you had left
Stella '

' I should never have left her, Mrs. Eyrecourt. '

' Be quiet. You don't know what you would have done, I
insist on your supposing yourself to be a weak, superstiti ous,
conceited, fanatical fool. You understand ] Now, tell me, tae'
Could you keep away from your wife, when you were called
back to her in the name of your first-born child 1 Could you
resist that ? '

* Most assuredly not ! '

I contrived to reply with an appearance of tranquillity. It
was not very easy to speak with composure. Envious, selfish,
contemptible — no language is too strong to describe the turn my

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270

THE BLACK ROBE.

thoughts now took, I never hated any human being as I hated
Romayne at that momen^/. * Damn him, he wUl corae back ! '
There was my inmost feeling expressed in words.

In the meantime, Mra Eyrecourt was satisfied. She dashed
at the next subject, as fluent and as confident as ever.

' Now, Winterfield, it is surely plain to your mind that you
must not see Stella again — except when I am present to tie the
tongue of scandal. My daughter's conduct must not allow her
husband — if 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 remem-
ber how they made Bishops and Archbishops here, in flat defi-
ance of our laws. Father Benwell follows thut example, and
sets our other laws at defiance. — I mean our marriage laws. I
am so indignant I can't express myself as cleariy as usual. Did
Stella tell you that he actually shook Romayne's belief in his
own marriage? Ah, I understand- -she kept that to herself,
poor dear, and with good reason too. '

I thought of the turned-down page in the letter. Mrs. Eyre
court readily revealed what her daughter's delicacy had forbid
den me to read — including the monstrous assumption which con«
nected my marriage before the registrar with her son-in-law's
scruples.

* Yes, ' she proceeded, * these Catholics are all alike. My
daughter — I don't mean my sweet Stella ; I mean the unnatural
creature in the nunnery — sets 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 ! N ow tdl me, Winterfield, don't you think — taking the
circumstances into consideration — that you will act like a tho-
roughly sensible man, if you go back to Devonshire, while we
are in our present situation ? What with foot-warmers in the
carriage, and newspapers and m^ gazines to amuse you, it isn't
such A very long journey. And then Beaupark — dear Beau-
park — is such a remarkably comfortable house in the winter ;
and you, you enviable creature, are such a popular man in the
neighbourhood. Oh, go back ! go back ! '

WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

271

I got up, and took my hat. She patted me on the shoulder.
I could havo throttled her at that moment. And yet ahe was
right.

* You will make my excusoe to Stella 1 ' I said.

* Yon dear, good fellow, I will do more than make your ex-
cuses ; I will sing your praises — as the poet saya' In her un-
governable 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 pltice about Mra Eyrecourt
uni)ainted, undyed, or unpowdered. I resisted temptation, and
opened the door. There was still one last request U»at I could
nut help making.

' Will you let me know,' I said, ' when you hear from Rome 1 '

' With the greatel»^ pleasure,' Mrs. Eyrecouif answered
briskly. * Goodbye, yju best of friends, goodbye ! '

1 write these lines, while the servant is packing my portman-
teau. Traveller know d 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 «rorld will do for me. I wish
to God I had never seen Stella !

^^ T* '^ T^ *!■ ^^

10th Fehructry. — News at last from Mrs. Eyrecourt.

Romayne has not even read the letter that she addressed to
him — it 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) to keep the secret — and sends me a copy of
Father Benwell's letter : -

' Dear Madam, — Mr. 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 for
ever. When a letter reaches him, it is his wise custom to look
at the signature first. He has handed your letter to me, unretid
' — with a request that I will return it to you. In his presence,
I iastanMy sealed it up. Neither he, nor I, know, or wish to
knoM , ou what subject you have addressed him. We respect-
fully advise you not to write again,'

272

THE BLACK ROBE.

i I

In those terms the Jesuit expressed himself. I shall have
lived Ic ng enough, if I live to see that man caught in one of his
own traps.

11 ^A February, — I was disappointed at not hearing from
Stella yesterday. This morning has made amends; it has
brought a letter from her.

She is not well ; and her mother's conduct sadly perplexes
lier. At one time, Mr& Eyrecourt's sense of injury urges her
to indulge in violent measures — she is eager to place her de-
serted daughter under t'le 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 ; de-
clares that it is impossible for her, in Stella's deplorable situa-
tion, 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
adoi)t. She proves it by asking for my advice, in a postscript ;
no doubt remembering the happy days when I courced her in
Paris, and the many foreign friends of mine who called at our
hotel.

The postscript gave me the excuse that I wanted. I knew
perfectly well that it would be better for me not to see her —
Hnd I went to London, for the sole purpose of seeing her, by
the first train.

12^/i February J — I found mother and daughter together in the
drawing-room. Tt was one of Mrs. Eyrecourt's days of depres-
sion. Her little twinkling eyes tried to cast on me a look of
tragic reproach ; she shook her dyed head, and said, ' Oh, Win-
terfield, I didn't think you would have done this 1 Stella, fetch
me my smelling-bottle.'

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 room — but her mother was in the room : I
had uo other choice than to enter on my business, as if I had
been the family lawyer.

Mrs. Eyrecourt began by reproving Stella for asking my ad-
vice, and then assured me that she had no intention of leaving
London. * How am I to get rid of my house 1 ' she asked, irrit«

WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

273

ably enough. I knew that * her house * (as she called it) was
the furnished upper part of a house belonging to another per-
son, and that she could leave it at a short notice. But I said
nothing. I addressed myself to Stella.

' I have been thinking of two or three places which you
might like,' I went on. ' The nearest place belongs to an old
trench gentleman and his wife. They have no children ; and
*.hey don't let lodgings ; but I believe they would be glad to re-
ceive friends of mine, if their spare rooms are not ali*eady occu-
pied. They live at St. Germain — close to Paria'

I looked at Mrs. Eyrecourt as I said those last words — I was
as sly as Father Benwell himself. Paris justified my conti-
dence ; 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 vent out. * My name is not mentioned, but ray misfortune
is alluded to in the newspapers,* she said. * Well-meaning
friends are calling and condoling with me ali'eady. I shall die,
if you don^t help me to get away among strangers ! *

I start for Paris, by the mail train, to-night.

Paris, IZth February. — It is evening. T have just returned
from St. Grermain. Everything is settled — with more slyness
on my part. I begin to think I am a bom Jesuit ; there must
have been some detestable sympathy between Father Benwell
and me-

My good friends, Monsieur and Madame Raymond, v ill 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 Raymond)
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. Mon-
sieur Raymond, 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 house-agent at St. Germain. His estimate
appeared to me to be quite treasonable. But it exceeded the pe-
cuniary limit mentioned by Mrs. Eyrecourt. I bad known the
Raymonds long enough to be in no danger of offending them,
R

274.

THE BLACK ROBE.

il!

by proposing a secret arrangement which permitted me to pay
the differeuce. 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 center I discovered one of those essen-
tially-French buildings, called a * pavilion ; ' a delightful little
toy house of three rooms. Anodier private arrangement made
me the tenant of this place. Madame Kaymond smiled. ' I
bet you,' she said to me in her very best English, ' one of these
ladies is in her fascinating first yo«th.' The good lady little
knows what a hopeless love afiair mine is. I m\ist see Stella
sometimes — I ask, and hope for, no more. Never have I felt
how lonely my life is, as I f<jlt it now.

1^ itt m m * m

L&ndon, Ist March. — St^la and her mother have set forth on
their journey to St. Qermain this morning, without allowing
me, as I had hoped and planned, to be their escort.

Mrs. Eyrecourt set up the old objection of the claims of pro-
priety. 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 brother —
especially when I don't live in the same house with her, and
when she has her mother, on one side, and Madame RaymiHid,
on the other, to take care of her }

No ! the influence that keeps me away from St. G^naMn is
the influence of Stella hersell

* 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 re-
duced me to obedience. Stupid as I am, I think (after what
passed between me and her mother) I can gness what she
meant.

' Am I never to see yrm again 1 ' I sisked.

* Do you think I am hard and ungrateful ? ' siie answered.
' Do you doubt that I shall be glad, more Uian glaa, to see you,
when 1 ' She turned away from me, and said no wora.

It was time to take leave. "We were under her mother's
superintendence ; we shook hands — and that was all.

Matilda (Mr& Eyrecourt's maid) followed me downstairs to
open the door, I 8uppos« I looked, as I felt, wretchedly enough.

WINTERFIELD MAXES EXTRACTS.

275

The good creature tried to cheer me. * Don't be anxious about
them,' she said ; * I am used to travelling, sir — and I'll take care
of them.* She was 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 mo from time
to time.

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 towards 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 ma * 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 friend. Whether she
is lady, or lady's maid, she is equally precious to me.

Cowes, 2nd Ma/rch. — I am in treaty with an agent for the hire
of a yacht.

I must do something, and go somewhere. Keturning to Beau-
park is out of the question. . People with tranquil minds can
find pleasure in the society of their country neighbours. I am
a miserable creature, with a mind in a state of incessant dis-
turbance. Excellent fathers of families talking politics to me j
exemplary mothers of families offering me matrimonial oppor-
tunities with their daughters — that is what society means, if I
go back to Devonshire No. I will go for a cruise in the Medi-
terranean ; and I will take one friend with me, whose company
I never weary of — my dog.

The vessel is discovered ^a fine schooner of three hundred
tons, just returned from a cruise to Madeira. "The sailing mas-
ter and crew only ask for a few days on shore. In that time,
the surveyor will have examined the vessel, and the stores will
be on board.

^rd March. — I have written to Stella, with a list of addresses
at which letters will reach m" ; and I have sent another list to
my faithful ally the maid. When we leave Gibraltar, our
counpe will bQ to Nicies — thence to Civita Yecchia, L^horn,

276

THE BLACK ROBE,

Genoa, Marseilles. From any of those places, I am within easy
travelling distance of St Germain.

7</i March At Sea. — It is half-past six in the evening. "We
l^ave just passed the Eddystone Lighthouse, with the wind
abeam. The log registers ten knots an hour.

Naples, lOth May. — 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 sea-boat
never waa built.

We are too late to find the post-office open. I shall send
ashore for letters, the first thing to-morrow morning. My next
movements will depend entirely on the news I get from St. Ger-
main. 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 weary of Rome— but I always did, and
always shall, dislike Naples.

i\th May. — 'My plans are completely changed. I am an-
noyed and angry ; the further I get away from Finance, the bet-
ter I shall be pleased.

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 1 He is my
worst enemy before he is out of his long clothes.

Stella writes kindly enough. Not a line in her letter, how-
ever, invites me, or holds out the prospect of inviting me, to St.
Germain. She refers to her mother very briefly ; merely in-
forming me that Mr& Eyrecourt is well, and is already enjoying
the gaieties of Paris. Three-fourths of the letter are occupied
with the baby. When I wrote to her I signed myself * your'«
affectionately.' Stella signs ' your's sincerely.' It is a trifle, I
daresay — but T feel it, for all that.

Matilda is faithful to her engageirent ; Matilda's letter tells
me the truth.

* Since the birth of the baby,' she writos, * Mrs. Romayne
has never onQe mentioned your name 3 she «.au talk of nothing,

WINTKUFIELD MAKES EXTllACTS.

277

wind

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 in not very grateful to have quite forgotten Mr. Winterfielil,
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
Mugle woman, I write ignorantly about mothers and babit-.s.
But I have my feelings ; and (though I never liked Mr. Ko-
mayne) I feel for i/ou, sir— if you will forgive the familiarity.
In my opinion, this new craze about the baby will wear out.
He is already a cause of difterence of opinion. My good mis-
tress, 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
money, to the prejudice of the child, unless stepB are taken to
shame him into doing justice to his own son. But Mra Ro-
mayne 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 ycu that they
offer sugar-plums as a sort of composing gift. My mistress ac-
cepts the gift, and has been to the theatre at Paris, viith Mon-
sieur and Madame Raymond, more than once already. To con-
clude, sir, if I might venture to advise you, I should recommend
trying the effect on Mrs. R. of absence and silence.'

A most sensibly-written letter. I shall certainly tike Ma-
tilda's advice. My name is never mentioned by Stella- -and not
a day has passed without my thinking of her.

Well I 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 mouse coloured women of Nubia.
A tent in the desert, and a dusky daughter of Nature to keep
house for mc — there is a new life for a man who is weary of the
vapid civilization of Europe ! I shall begin by letting my beard
grow.

278

TUli BLACK KOBE.

Civ'Ua Vecchia, 2Sth February, 18G3. — Back again on the
coast of Italy — after an absence, at sea and ashore, of nine
months !

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 world — I am more eager than ever
to see her Hgain, 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 sa-
cred to her, poor soul, as the one consolation of her melancholy
life ! I withdraw all that I wrote about her — and from the bot-
tom of my heart I forgive the baby,

Home, Ist Ma/reh. — 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 leav-
ing Naples) Stella sends me the long-desired invitation. * Pray
take care to return to us, dear Bernard, before the first anni-
versary of my boy's birthday, on the twenty-seventh of March.'
A f ter those words, she need feel no apprehension of my being
late at my appointment. Traveller — the dog has well merited
his name by this time — will have to bid good-bye to the yacht
(which he loves), and journey homeward by the railway (which
he hates). No more risk of storms and delays for me. Good-
bye to the sea, for one while.

I have sent the news of my safe return from the East by tele-
graph. But I must mot be in too great a hurry to leave Rome,
or I shall commit a serious error — I shall disappoint Stella's
mother.

Mrs. Eyrecourt writes to me earnestly re<yie8ting, if I return
by way of Italy, that I will get her some iaformation about Ro-
mayne. She is ea^er to know whether they have made him a
priest yet. I am also to discover, if I can, what are his pros-
pects — whether he is as miserable as he deserves to be — whether
he has been disappointed in his expectations, and is likely to be
brought back to his senses in that way — and, above all, whether

WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

279

Father Benwell is still at Rome with him. My idea is that Mrs.
Eyrecourt has not given up her design of making Komayne ac-
quainted with the birth of his son.

The right i>erson to apply to for information is evidently my
banker. He has been a resident in Rome for twenty years —
but he is too busy a man to be approached, by an idler like my-
self, in busineiis houra I have asked him to dine with me to-
morrow.

2nd March. — My guest hae just left me. I am afraid Mrs.
Eyrecourt will be sadly disappointed when she hears what I havo
to tell her.

The moment I mentioned Romayne's name, tke banker looked
at me with an expression of surprise.

' The man most talked about in Rone, ' he said ; ' I won-
der you have not heard of him already. '

' Is he a priest 1 '

* 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 nick-named 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 obtained. His wealth is only one of the minor
influences in his favour. 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 reputation here, is a moat eloquent
and convincing preacher ,*

' A preacher 'i ' I exclaimed. ' And a popolaa: reputation !
How do the Italians understand him 1 '

The banker looked puzzled.

' Why shouldn't they understand a man who addre«se« them
in their own Language? ' he said. ' Romayne could speak Italian
when he came here — and since that time he has learnt by con-
stant 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 possessea Out of the pulpit he is capable of
applying his mind auocfisafully to the political necessities of the

280

THE BLACK ROBE.

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 dit!iculties here between
the Church and the State, he wrote a memorial on the subject,
which the Cardinal-Secretary declared to be a model of ability
in applying the f.xperience of the past to the need of the pres-
ent time. If V.e doesn't wear himself out, his Italian nick-
name may pi*ove propJictically true. We may live to see the
now convert, Cardinal Romayne.'

' Are you acquainted with him yourself?' I asked.

* No Englishman is acquainted with him,' the banker an-
swered. * 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 unap-
proachable. I have even heard that he refuses to receive letters
from England. If you wish to see bim you must do as I have
done — you must go to church and look at him in the pulpit He
preaches in English — I think for the last time this season — on
Thursday evening next. Shall I call here and take you to the
church 1 '

If I had followed my inclinations, I should have refused. I
feel no sort of interest in Romayne — I might even say I feel a
downright antipathy towards him. But I have no wish to aj)-
pear 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 hti^xr the
gi'eat preacher — with a mental reservation on my part, which
contemplated my depouekire from the church before the end of
his sermon.

But, before I see him, I feel assured of one thing — especially
after what the banker J^as told me. Stella's view of his char-
acter is the right one. The man whc has deserted her, has no
heart to be touched by wife or child. They are separated for ever.

Zrd March. — I have just seen the landlord of the hotel ; he
c&n help me to answer one of Mr& Eyrecourt's questiona A
u< phew of his holds some employment at the Jesuit headquar-
ters h«re, adjoining their famous church II Gesu. I have re-
quested the young man to ascertain if Father Bfcciw^eJi is still
iu Borne.

WlNTKKriKl.D MAKES EXTRACTS.

281

4th Afdrch, — Good news tliiH time for Mrs, Eyreco\irt, so far
as it goes. Father Beiiwell has long sinoe left Rome, and has
returned to his reguUir duties in England. If he exercises any
further influence over Kouiayue, it must ho done by letter.

Tth 3farch. — I have returned from Roraayne's sermon. This
double renogiide — has ho 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 tlie
great amuscnnent of my friend, the banker) the moment wo got
back to the hotel.

We drove through the scantily-lighted streets of Rome to a
small church, in the neighbourLood of the Pia/za Navona. To a
more imaginative man than myself, the scene when we entered
the building would have been too impressive to be described in
words — though it might })erhap8 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 illum<
inating dimly a sculptured representation, in white marble, of
the crucified Christ, wrought to the size of life. In fi jnt 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 f,tr corners into impenetrable
gloom. The only sounds were the low wailing notes of the
organ, accompanied at intervals by the muffled thump of fan-
atic worshippers penitentially beating their breasts. On a sud-
den the organ ceased ; the self-inflicted blows of the penitents
were heard no more. In the breathless silence that foi )wed, a
man robed in black mounted the black platform, and faced the
congregation. His hair had become prematurely grey ; his face
was of the ghastly paleness of the great crucifix at his side.
The light of the caudle, 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 exoun)lary |>iety, whose funeral obsequies had been
celebrated in that church. The other was a criminal, charged

282

THE BLACK ROSE.

with homicide under provocation, who had died in prison, re-
fusing the services of the priest — impenitent 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.
Ear different was the effect produced when the preacher, filled
with the same overpowering sincerity of belief which had in-
spired bis description of the joys of Heaven, traced the down-
ward progress of the lost man, from his impenitent death-bed to
his doom in Hell. The dreadful superstition of everlasting tor-
ment became doubly dreadful in the priest's fervent worda He
described the retributive voices of mother and son, bereaved of
husband tuid father by the fatal deed, ringing incessantly in the
ears of the homicide. * I, who spe.. k to you, hear the voices,'
he cried. * Assassin ! assassin ! where are you ? I see him —
I see the assaassin hurled into ht^ place in the sleepless ranks
of the Damned — I see him, dripping with the flames that burn
for ever, writhing under the torments that are without respite
and without end.' The climax of this terrible effort of imagin-
ation was reached when he fell on his knees and prayed with
sobs and cries of entreaty — prayed, pointing to the crucifix at
his side — that 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 night sky, bright with th(, peaceful radiance of
the star&

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 luxAiries
to its remotest corner. And now I have seen what Kome had
made of him.

* Yes,' said my companion, * the Ancient Church not only finds
out the men who can best serve it, but developes qualities in
those men of which they have been themselves unconsciou&
The advance which Roman Catholic Christianity has been, and
is still, making has its intelligible reason. Thanks to the groat
Beformation, the papal scandals of past centuries have boon

WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

283

atoned for by the exeniplary lives of servants of the Church, in
high places and low places alike. If a new Luther arose auion^
u% where would he now find abuses sufliciently wicked an(l
widely spread to shock the sense of decency in Chri: *>endom 1
He would find them nowhere — and 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.

6th March. — I have been to Civita Vecchia, to give a little
farewell entertainment to the officers and crew, before they take
the yacht back to England.

In the 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
crew — and I don't chink it is vain in me to believe that they
return the feeling, from the sailing-master to the cabin-boy. My
future life, after all that has passed, is likely to be a roving life,
unless . No ! I may think sometimes of that happier pros-
pect, but I had better not put my thoughts into word& I have
a fine vessel ; I have plenty of money, and i like the sea. There
are three good reasons for buying the yacht.

Returning to Rome in the evening, I found waiting for me a
letter from Stella.

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 want() 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 Ben^ ell, 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 ^uch strong expres-
sions 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 tu the landlord's nephdw once more.

ft!

284

THE BLACK ROBE.

7th March. — 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 makes the chance of his safe return
dcubtf ul in the last degree.

The Mission to which he is attached was originally destined
to find its field of work in Central America. Rumours of more
fighting to come, in that revolutionary part of the world,
reached Home 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 re-
cently 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 mission-house and chapel are . now a heap of ruins ; and
the ferocious Apache Tndians keep the fertile valley a solitude
by the mere terror of their name. To this ill-omened 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 Christi-
anity. Nothing has been yet heard of them. At the best, no
trustworthy news is expected for months to come.

What will Stella say to this ] Anyhow, I begin to under-
stand her interest in Penrose now. He is one of a company of
heroes. I am already anxious to hear more of him.

To-morrow will be a memorable day in my calendar. To-
morrow 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 Mission at Arizona.

St. Germain, lAth March. — I arrived yesterday. Between
tlie fatigue of the journey and the pleasurable agitation caused
hv seeing Stella again, I was unfit to make'the customary entry
ia my diary when I retired for the night

WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

285

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 child — assisted, perhaps,
by the lapse of time and the peaceful life which she now leads
— but this at least is certain, such a change for the better I
never could have imagined as the change I find in Stella after a
year's absence.

As for the baby, he is a bright, good-humoured little fellow ;
and he has one great merit in my estimation — he bears no re-
semblance 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 Raymond 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. A.s
for Traveller,-! must interfere (in the interest of his figure and
his health) to prevent everybody in the house from feeding
him with every eatable thing, from plain bread to p4te de foie
gras.

My experience of to-day will, as Stella tells me, be my gene-
ral experience of the family life at St. Germain.

We begin the morning with the customary cup of coflfee. At
eleven o'clock, lam summoned from my 'pavilion' of three
rooms to one of those delicious and artfully-varied breakfasts
which prp only to be found in France and in Scotland. An in-
terval 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 g'^ out— with a pony
chaise \vhich carries the weaker members of the household — for
a ramble in the forest. At six o'clock, we assemble at the
dinner- tabla At coffee time, some of the neighbours drop in
for a game at carda At ten we all wish each other good night.

286

THE BLACK ROBE.

Such is the domestic programme, varied by excursions in the
country and by occasional visits to Paris. I am naturally a man
of quiet stay-at-home habita It is only when my mind is dis-
turbed 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 1

Nothing more, of course.

And yet — and yet — Stella has innocently made it harder
than ever to play the pai-t of her * brother.' The recovery of hei*
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 wo-
man whom I love 1 At least I can try.

The good old moral must be my moral : — * Be content with
such things as ye have.'

I5th Ma/rch. — It is eight in the morning — and I hardly know
how to employ myself. Having finished my coffee, I have just
looked a^ain at my diary.

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 drawback — it encourages egotism. "Well ! the remedy
is easy. From this date, I lock up my bool^ — only 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 page&

7 th June. — The occasion for opening my diary once more has
presented itself this morning.

News has reached me of Bomayne, which is too important to
be paMed over without notice. He has been appointed one of
the Pope's Chamberlains. It is also reported, on good autho-
rity, that he will be attached to a Papal embassy, when a va-
cancy occurs. These honours, present and to come, seem to re-

WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

287

move him farther than ever from the possibility of a return to
his wife and child.

< .;

Sih June. — In regard to Romayne, Mrs. Eyrecourt seems to
be of my opinion.

Being in Paris to-day, at a morning concert, she there met
with her old friend, Doctor Wybrow. Thd 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
Che 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 tlie
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 reaches Home.

9/^ June. — Madame Raymond has been speaking tc me confi-
dentially 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 lit-
tle record, I may gather the resolution to profit by her advice.
In brief, these were her words : —

' Stella has spoken to me in confidence, since she met you ac-
cidentally in the garden yesterday. She cannot be guilty of the
poor affectation of concealing what you 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 met — and she remembers regretfully
that other love, of years sinoe, which was love of steadier and
slower growth. To her shame she confesses that she failed to
set you the example of duty and self-restraiut, when you two
were alone. She leaves it to my discretion to tell you that you
must see her, for the futuie, always in the presence of some other
person. Make no reference to this when you next meet ; and
understand that she hae only spoken to me instead of to her mo<

288

THE BLACK ROBE.

ther, because she fears that Mrs. Eyrecourt might use harsh
words, and distress you again, as she once distressed you in Eng-
land. If you will take my advice, you will ask permission to go
away again on your travels.'

It macters nothing what I said in reply. Let me only relate
that we were interrupted by the appearance of the nursemaid
at the * pavilion ' door.

She led the child by the hand. Among his first efforts au
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 tri-
fling incident, but, at that moment, it cut me to the heart. I
could only take the boy in my arms — and look at Madame Ray-
mond. The good woman felt for me. I saw tears in her eyes.

No ! no more writing about myself. I close the book again

3rd July,, — A letter has reached Mrs. Eyrecourt this morning,
from Dr. Wybrow. It is dated, * Gastel Gandolpho, near Rome.'
Here the Doctor is established during the hot months — and 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 remain closed to per-
sons less widely known.

' 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. For the moment, I thought Ro-
mayne had been seized with a fit of catalepsy. His face, body,
and limbs presented the statue-like rigidity which is charac-
teristic of that form of disease. He moved, however, when I
tried to take his hand to feel his pulse — shrinking back jn 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 re-
questing me to hold no further communication with him, either

WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

289

personally or by letter. I wish 1 could have sent you a more
favourable report of my interference in this painful matter.
Perhaps you or your daughter may hear from him.'

A:th to 9.</a July. — No letter has been received. Mra. Eyre-
court is uneasy. Stella on the contrary, seems to be relieved.

\Oth July. — A letter has arrived from London, addressed to
Stella, by Ilomayne's English lawyers. The income which Mr.s.
liomayne has refused for herself is to be legally settled on her
child. Technical particulars follow, which it is needless to re-
peat her**

By retuvn 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, Mon-
sieur and Madame Rayniond — and even Matilda — entreated her
not to send the letter. . To my thinking, Stella had acted with
becoming spirit. Though Vange Abbey is not entailed, still the
estate is morally the boy's birtli-right — it is a cruel wrong to
offer him anything else.

Wth July. — 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 departure. * Nobody sympa-
thizes with me / she said, • but you.'

I am failing to keep my })romise to myself, not to write about
myself. But there is some little excuse this time. For the r'^-
lief of my own conscience, I may surely place it on record, that
I have tried to do right. It is not my fault if I remain at St.
Germain, insensible to Madame Raymond's warning.

was
id re-
3ither

13</i September. — Terrible news from Rome of the Jesuit
Mission in Arizona.

The Apache Indians have made a night attack on the mis-
sion-house. The building is burnt to the ground ; and the
missionaries have been massacred — witl. the exception of two
priests, carried away captive. The names of the priests are not

290

THE BLACK HOLE.

known. The 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 Ameri<ja.

Looking at .Tlie Times (which we receive regularly at St.
Germain), I found this statement confirmed in a shoi't para-
graph — ^but here also the names of the two prisoners failed to
appear.

Our one present hope of getting any further information
seems to me to dejjond 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 i-egions alike, if they meet with an adven-
ture 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 information ir
print.

Soon after my arrival here, Stella had told me of her memor
able conversation with Penrose, in the garden at Ten AcrcM
Lodge. I was well acquainted witii the nature of her obliga
tion to the young priest — but I was not prepared for the out-
l)ur8t of grief which escaped her when she read the telegram
fiom Rome. She actually went the length of saying, * I shall
never enjoy another happy moment, till I know whether Pen-
rose is one of the two living priests ! '

The inevitable third person with us, this morning, was Mon-
sieur Raymond. Sitting at the window with a book in his
hand — sometimes reading, sometimes looking at the garden with
the eye of a fond horticulturist — he discovered a strange cat
among his flower beds. Forgetful of every other consideration,
the old gentleman hobbled out to drive away the intruder, and
left us together.

I spoke to Stella, in words which I would now give every-
thing I possess to recall. A detestable jealousy took possession
of me. I meanly hinted that Penrose could claim no great
merit 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 insinuation — but she failed to
make me ashamed of myself. Is a woman ever ignorant of the

WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.

201

great

influence which her beauty exercises over a man ] I went on,
like the miserable creature I was, fiora bad to worse.

* £xcuse me,' 1 said, ' if I have unintentionally made you
angry. I ought to have known that I was treading oti delicate
ground Your interest in Penrose may be due to a warmer
motive than a sense of obligation.'

She turned away from me — sadly, not angiily — intending, as
it appeared, to leave the room in silence. Arrived at the door,
she altered her mi 1, and came back.

' Even if you insult me, Bernard, I am not able to resent it,'
she said, very gently. * / once wronged you — I have no right,
to complain of your now wronging me. I will try to forget it.'
She held out her hand. She raised her eyes — and looked at me.
It was not her fault ; I alone am to blame. In another mo-
ment sh*' ™«« in ray arma I held her to ray breast — I felt tlie
quick beating of her heart on me — I poured out the wild con-
fession of my sorrow, my shame, my love — I tasted again and
again the sweetness of her lips. She put her arms round my
neck, and drew her head back with a long low sigh. * Be mer-
ciful to my weakness,' she whispered. ' We must meet no
more.*

She put me back from her, with a trembling hand, and left
the room.

I have broken my resolution not to write about myself — but
there is no egotism, there is a sincere sense of humiliation in
me, when I write this confession of misconduct I can make
but one atonement — I must at once leave St. Germain. Now,
when it is too late, I feel how hard for me this life of constant
repression has been.

Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a
little note, addressed in pencil. No answer was required.

The few lines were in Stella's handwriting : — ' You must not
leave us too suddenly, or you may excite my mother's suspi-
ciona Wait until you receive letters from England, and make
them the pretext for your departure — S.'

I never thought of her mother. She is right. Even if she
were wrong, I must obey her.

1 ith September. — The letters from England have arrived, One
of them presents me with the necessary excuse for my depar-

202

THE BLACK RC^E.

turn, ready nunlo. My j>i-ojio.sal for tho jmrcii.iso of the ya(.'lit i'h
accepted. TIhj Hailiiig-niaHter and cv(^w liavo rcsfused all oflcra
of engagement, and are waiting at Cowes for my orders. H*,*ro
iH an absolute necessity for my retm-n to England.

The newspaper arrived with tlie letters. My anticipations
have been realized. Yesterday's paragraph has produced an-
other volunteer contributor. An Englishman just returned
from Central America, after travelling in Arizona, writes to
Tlie Times. He publishes his name and address — ^and he de-
clares that ho has himself seen the two captive priests.

The name of The, Times correspondent carries its own gua-
rantee with it. He is no less a person than Mr. Murthwaite —
the well-known traveller in India, who discovered the lost dia-
mond called * Tho Moonstone,' set in the forehead of a Hindoo
idol. He writes to the editor as follows : —

' Sir, — I can tell you something of the two Jesuit priests, wlio
were the sole survivors of the massacre in the Santa Cruz Val-
ley four months since.

* I was travelling at the time in Arizona, under the protec-
tion 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 whiskey and gunpowder, and by
the promise of more when our association came to an end.

'About twelve miles northward of the little silver mininor
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 hon'or of the night-
massaore. 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. I'he other
priest, Penrose, had been in charge of the mission medicine-
chest, and had successfully treated cases of illness among the
Apaches. As a " great medicine-man," he too is a privileged
person — under the strong protection of their interest in their
own health. The lives of the prisoners are in no danger, pro-
vided tbe^ can endare tbe bard ship of their wandering existence

WINTERKFKr.I) MAKKK KXTUACTS.

L>93

among the Indians. Penrose spoke to me with the resignation
of a true hero. "I am in thq hands of God," he said ; *• and if
I die, I die in God's service."

' I was entirely unprovided with the means of ransoming tlie
missionaries — and nothmg that I could say, or that I oould pro-
mise, had the smallest efl'ect on the savages. But for severe and
tedious illness, I should long since have been on my way hack
to Arizona with the necessary ransom. As it is, I am. barely
strong enough to write this letter. But I oan head a subscrij)-
tion io pay expenses ; and I can give instructions to any person
who is willing to attempt the deliverance of the priests.'
So the letter ended.

Before I had read it, I was at a loss to know where to go, or
what to do, when I leave St. Germain. 1 am now at no los& 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 to Mr. INIurthwaite, and with
my sailing master. The first is infoimed that I liope to be with
him, in London, to-morrow morning. The second is instructed
to have the yacht fitted out immediately for a lt)ng voyage. If
I can save these men — especially Penrose — I shall not have
li ^ ed in vain.

London^ I5th September. — No. I have resolution enough to go
to Arizona, but I have no courage to record the parting scene
when it was time to say good-bye. c

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. As long as I don'i thiiik of it, my mind is
calm.

Mr. Murthwaite has not only given me valuable instructions
— he 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 ta 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,

294

THE BLACK ROBE.

for a merchant vessel under immediate sailing orders for Vera
Cruz or Tampico. The fitting-out of the yacht cannot be accom-
plished, I find, in less than a fortnight or three wecka I have
therefore taken Mr. Murthwaite's advice,

1 6<A September. — No favourable answer, so far as the port of
Ix)ndon is concerned. Very little commerce with Mexico, and
bad harbours in that country, when you do trade. Such is the
report.

VJth Septemher. — A Mexican brig has been discovered at Li-
verpool, under order for Vera Cruz. But the vessel is in debt
— and the date of departure depends on expected remittances !
In this state of tihings, I may wait, with my conscience at ease,
to sail in comfort on board my own schooner.

\%ih to ZOth Septemher. — I have settled myafiairs; I have
taken leave of my friends (good Mr. Murthwaite included) ; I
have written cheerfullv to Stella : and I sail from Portsmouth
to-morrow — well provided with the jars of whiskey and the
kegs of gunpowder, which will efiect the release of the cap-
tives.

It is strange, considering the serious mattera I have to think
of, but it is also true that I feel out of spirits at the prospect of
leaving England without my travelling companion, the dog. I
am afraid to take the dear old fellow with me, on such a peril-
ous expedition as mine may be. Stella takes care of him — and,
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 suppose —
but it is a comfort to me to remember that I have never said a
hard word to Traveller, and never lifted my hand on him in
anger.

All this about a dog ! And not a word about Stella 1 Not. a
word. Those thoughts are not to be written.

I have »eached the last page of my diary, I shall lock it, and
leave it in charge of my bankers, on my way to the Portsmouth
traia Shall I ever want a new diary ? Superstitioue 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

Tilt: DIAUY RESUMED.

20;

my leap in the dark hopefully — with Byron's glorions lines in

my mind :

• Hf r«'H a sigh to those who love me,
And a Mtnile to those who hate ;
And, whatever Bky'n above me,
Here's a heart for every fate !'

» • ■' • • • ■ •• '

winterfield'h diary concluded.

An enclosure is inserted in this place, between the leaves of
the diary. It consists of two telegrams, despatched respectively
on the Ist and 2nd of May, 1864, and expressed aa follows : —

1. ' From Bernard Winterfield, Portsmouth, England. To
Mrs. Romayne, cure of M. Raymond, St. Germain, near Paris.
— Penrose is spie on board my yacht. His unfortunate com-
panion 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 news of you. Telegraph to Derwent's
Hotel.'

2. ' From Mrs. Eyrecourt, St Germain. To Bernard Win-
terfield, Derwent's Hotel, London. — Your telegram received
with joy, and sent on to Stella in Paria All well. But strange
events have happened. If you cannot come here at once, go to
Lord Loring. He will tell you everything.'

THE DIARY RESUMED.

London,2nd May, 1864. — Mrs. Eyrecourt's telegram reached
me, just after Dr. Wybrow had paid his fii-st 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 excellent landlady, I hurried away to Lord Loring.

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 misintarpreted my

296

THE BLACK llOBE.

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.

• Stella is with her husband,* Lord Loring replied.

My head turned giddy, my heart beat furiously. Lord Loring
looked at me — ran to the luncheon table in the next room — and
returned with a glass of wine. I really don't know whether I
drank the wine or not. I stammered out another enquiry, in
one word.

* Reconciled ?' I said.

* Yes, Mr. Wintertield — reconciled, before he dies.'
We vv^ere both silent for awhile.

What was he thinking of? I don't kn'^w. What was 1 think-
ing of ? I daren't write it down.

Lord Loring resumed by expressing some anxiety on the sub-
ject 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
JJonwell'

Even the name of Father Benwell now excites my distrust.
* Is he in Paris, too 1 ' I inquired.

' He left Paris last night.' Lord Loring answered ; * and he
is now in London on impoi-tant business (as I understand) con-
nected with Romajne's afiaira*

I instantly thought of the boy.

* Is Romayne in possession of his faculties ? ' I asked.

• In complete possession.'

• While justice is in his power, has he done justice to his son ? '
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 yourself % '

' I have seen him more than once, but he has never referred
to his affairs.' Having said this he hastily changed the sub-
ject. - 'Is there any other information that I can give yv,u 1 ' 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

THE DIARY RESUMED.

207

had been communicated to his wife. Lord Loring had only to
draw on his own recollections to enlighten nio.

* Lady Loring and I passed the last winter in Rome,' he said,
' And, there, we saw Romayne. You look surj)rised. Perhaps
you are aware that we had offended him by advice which wo
thought it our duty to offer to Stella before her marriage 1 '

I was certainly thinking of what Stella had sai<l of the Lor-
mgs, on the memorable day when she visited me at ^,he hotel.

* 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 Poi)e. The
Holy Father spoke of him with the most condescending kind-
ness ; and, hearing that I had not yet seen hiui, gave instruc-
tions 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 occasion-
ally 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. Ho
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 re-
serve which he had maintained with me, and discovered another
cause for the deterioration in his health. I don't refer to tlie
return of a nervous misery, from which he has suffered at in-
tervals for years past ; I speak of the effect produced on his
mind oj the announcement — made no doubt with the best in-
tentions by Dr. Wybrow — of the birth of his child. This dis-
closure (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

298

THE BLACK ROBE.

punishment of my sin, and the wa. ing 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 reve-
lation 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 attach^ 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 re-
laxation from his incessant employments in Rome. On the
occasion of his departure we met again. He looked like a worn-
out old man. We could now only remember his double claim
on us — as a priest of our religion, and as a once dear friend —
and we arranged to travel with him. The weather at the time
was mild ; our progress was made by easy stages. We left
him at Paris, apparently the better for his journey.'

I asked if they had seen Stella on that occasion.

* No,' said Lord Loring. ' We had reason to doubt whether
Stella .. »uld be pleased to see us, and we felt reluctant to med-
dle, unasked, with a matter of extreme delicacy. I arranged
with t^e Nuncio (whom I have the honour 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 shte had felt it her duty to tell Stella of the critical condi-
tion 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 afiairs. But, un-
less I hear of a change for the better before evening, J follow
Lady Loring to Paris by the mail train.*

It was needless to trespass further on Lord Loring's time. T
thanked him and returned to Penrose. He was sleeping when
I got to the hotel.

THE DIARY RESUMED.

290

On the table in the sitting-room I found a telegram waiting
for me. It had been sent by Stella, and it contained these
lines : —

* I have just returned from his bedside, after telling him of
the rescue of Penrose. He dpp'rps to see you. There is no
positive suffering — he 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." '

Towards evening Penrose woke. I showed him the telegram.
Throughout our voyage, the prospect of seeing K-omayne again
had been the uppermost subject in his thoughts. In the extre-
mity 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 Ports-
mouth, 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.
- To my amazement he sided with Penrose. ^

* Oh, get up by all means,' he said, ' we will help you to
dress.* We took him out of bed and put on his dressing-gown.
He thanked us ; and saying he would complete his toilette by
himself, sat down in a easy chair. In another moment he was
asleep again — so soundly asleep that we put him back in his
bed without waking him. Dr. Wybrow had foreseen this result :
he looked at the poor fellow's pale, peaceful face with a kindly
bmile.

' There is the treatment.' he said, ' that will set our patient
on his legs again. Sleeping, eating, and drinkin,, — let tbat 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 are in Paris.'

At the station I met Lord Loring. He understood that I too
had received bad news, and gave me a place in the coupe car-
riage which had been reserved for him. We had hardly taken
our seats when we saw Father Ben well among the travellers on
the platform ; accompanied by a grey-haired gentleman, who
was a stranger to both of us. fiOrd Loring disiikea strangers.

300

THE JJLAGK ROBE.

Otherwise, I might have found myself travelling t(J Paris with
that detestable Jesuit for a companion.

Paris, Zrd May. — On our arrival at the hotel, I was informed
that no message had yet been received from the embi»,S8y.

We found Lady Loring alone at the breakfast table, 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 to day for
the second time.'

' Only for the second time ! ' I exclaimed.

* 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 side — never let her know that I
told you this — Stella signed a formal document, sent from Rosiie,
asserting that she consented of her own free will to the separa-
tion. She was relieved from the performance of another forui-
ality (which I need not mention more particularly) by a special
dispensation. Under these circumstances — communicated to me
while Stella and I have been together in this house — the wife's
})resence at the bedside of her dying husband is regarded, by the
other priests at the embassy, as a scandal and a profanation.
The kind-heai'ted Nuncio is blamed fov having exceeded his pow-
ers, in yielding (even under protest) co the last wishes of a dying
man. He is now in communication with Rome, waiting for the
tinal instructions which are to guide him.'

' Has Romayne seen his child 1 ' I asked.

* Stella has taken the child with her to-day. 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 tlie 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 bril-
liant prospect which was before him, that he even threatens to re-
cant, with his last breath, if his wishes are not complied witli.
How it will end, I cannot even venture to guess.*

* 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

THE DIARY RESUMED.

noi

to the clergy. The inovcmout began in Silesia, m I8i^0 — and
was followed by unions (or Leagues, as we should call tlieiu
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 favour 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 who set the prohibition of marriage at defiance.'

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 clock.

Lady Loring evidently shared the feeling of suspense that had
got possession of me. She rose, and walked to the window.

* Here is the message ! ' she said, recognising her travelling-
servant, as he entered the hotel door.

The man appeared, with a line written on a card. I was re-
quested to present the card at the embassy, without delay.

Ath May. — I am only now able to continue my record of the
events of yesterday.

A silent servant received me at the embassy ; looked at the
card ; and led the way to an upper floor of the house. Arrived
at the end of a long passage, he opened a door, and retired.

At: I crossed the threshold Stella met me. She took both my
hands in hers, and looked at me in silence. All that was true
and good and noble expressed itself in that look.

The interval passed ; and she spoke — very sadly, very quietly.

* One more work of mercy, Bernard. Help him to die with a
heart at rest.'

She drew back — and I approached him.

He reclined, propped up with pillows in a large easy chair ,
it was the one position in which he could still breathe with free-
dom. 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 hi?

302

THE BLACK r.OlJE.

father. Romayne signed to me to stoop so that I might hear
him.

' Penrose]' he asked, faintly whispering. * Dear Arthur! Not
dying, like me ? '

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 bend my ear to him once
more.

' My last grateful blessing to Penrose. And to you. May I
not say it ] You have saved Arthur ' — his eyes turned towards
Stella — ' you have been her best friend. ' He paused to recover
liis feeble breath ; looking round the large room, without a
creature in it but ourselves. Once more, the melancholv shadow
of a smile passed over his face — and vanished. I listened,
nearer to him still.

* Christ took a child on his knee. The priests call themselve!<
ministers of Christ. They have left me, because of this child,
here on my knee. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Wintertield, Death is
a great teacher. I know how I have erred — what 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 listening — and 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 surprise.

' Does it torture you still 1 ' she asked.

* No,' he SfivJ ; * I have never heard it plainly, since I left
Rome. U has grown fainter and fainter from that time. It is
not a Voice now. It is hardly a whisper : my repentance is ac-
cepted, my release is coming. Where is Winterfield % '

She pointed to ma

* 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 embassy *

* Let me say it,' she gently interposed,' and spare your strength
for better thinjjs. From your place in the embassy, you would

THE DlARy RESUMED.

303

oiV
Vhe

that
lities

here

have mounted a step higher to the office of Vice- Legate. Those
duties wisely performed, another rise to the Auditurship of the
Apostolic Chamber. That office tilled, a last step upward to the
Lighest rank left ; the rank of a Prince of the Church.'

* All vanity !' said the dying Romayne. He looked at his wife
and his child. ' The true happiness was waiting for me here.
And I only know it now. Too late. Too late.'

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. * j^o,' 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 of the bye-gone time, and called me once more, ' Uncle
'Ber."

Romayne heard it. His heavy eyelids opened again. * No,' ho
said. * Not uncle. Something better and dearer. Stella, give me
your hand.*

Still kneeling, she obeyed him. He slowly raised himself in
the chair. ' Take her hand,' ho said tome. 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 w^ak hand on our hands, clasped
together. ' May God protect you ! may God bless you ! ' he
murmured. ' Kiss, me, Stella.'

I remember no more. As a man, I ought to have set a bet-
ter example ; I ought to have preserved my self-control. It
was not to be done. I turned away from them — and burst out
crying.

The minutes passed. Many minutes or few minutes, I don't
know which.

A soft knock at the door roused me. I dashed away the use-
less tears. Stella had retired to the farther 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 ; keeping far enough
away not to disturb them.

Two strangers came in, and placed them.se) ves on either side
of Romayne's chair. He seemed to recognise them unwillingly.
From the manner in which they examined him, I inferred tliey

no4

THE BLACK ROBK.

' I

were medical iiien. After a consultation in low tones, one of
tlieiu went out.

He returned iigain almost immediately ; followed by the grey-
headed gentleuian whom I had noticed on the journey to
Paris — and by Father Benwell.

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. She mf> aC no re-
turn J she looked as if she had not even seen him.

One of the doctors was an Englishman. He said to Father
Benwell. * Whatever your business may be with Mr. Romayne,
we advise you to enter on it without delay. Shall we leave the
room V

' Certainly not,' Father Benwell answered. * T^ "^ more wit-
nesses are present, the more relieved I shall feel.' ii.e turnecT
to his travelling companion. ' Let Mr. Romayne's lawyer,' he
resumed, ' state what our business is.'

The grey-headed gentlemen stepped forward.

' Are you able to attend to me, sir 1 ' he asked.

Romayne reclining in his chair, apparently lost to all interest
in what was going on, heard and answered. The weak tones of
his voice bailed to reach my ear at the other end of the room.
The lawyor, seeming to be satisfied so far, put a formal question
to the doctors next. He inquired if Mr. Romayne was in full
possession of his faculties.

Both physicians answered without hesitation in the affirma-
tive. 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 stopped — fascinated by the bright red glow of the
embers of burning wood. In one comer of the low fender, lay
a loose little bundle of sticks ; left there in case the fire might
need re-lighting. 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 quiet ;

THE DIARY RESUMED.

305

lother's
to the
of the

ler, lay
might

)ut one
The
e went
quiet ;

his mother was content to be on the watch, to see that no harm
was done.

In the meantime, the lawyer briefly stated his case.

• 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, author-
ising him to convey the will ftom London to Paris. The object
was to obtain your signature to a codicil, which bad been con
sidered a necessary addition to secure the validity of the will.
— Are yon favouring me with your attention, sir ]'

Komayne answered by a slight bending of his head. His eyes
were fixed on the boy — still absorbed in throwing his sticks, one
by one into the fire.

' At the time when your will was executed,' the lawyer wont
on, * Father Benwell obtained your permission to take a copy of
it. Hearing of your illness, he submitted the copy to a high le-
gal authority. The written opinion of this competent person
declares the clause, bequeathing the Vange estate to the Koman
Church, 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 advisera, to accompany Father Benwell on his return
to Paris in charge of the will — in case you might feel disposed to
make any alteration.' He looked towards Stella and the child,
as he completed that sentence. Father Benwell's keen eyes took
the same direction. 'Shall I read the will, sir?' the lawyer re-
sumed ; * or would you prefer to look at it yourself 1 '

Romayne held out his hand for the will, in silence. He was
still watching his son. There were but few more sticks now left
to be thrown into the fire.

Father Benwell interfered for the first time.

* One word, Mr. Romayne, before you examine that docu-
ment,' he said. ' The Church receives back from you the pro-
perty which was once its own. Beyond that, it authorises and
even desires you (by my voice) 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 inher-
ited from the late Lady Berrick — and 1 beg the persons present
to bear in memory the few plain words that I have now six)ken.'

icy

30C

THE BLACK ROBE.

Ho bowed with dignity and drew back. Even the lawyer
was favourably impresBed. The doctors looked at each other
with silent approval For the first time, the sad repose of Stella's
face was disturbed— I could see that it cost her an effort to re-
press her indignation. The one unmoved porson was Romayne.
The sheet of paper on which the will was written lay unregarded
upon his lap ; his eyes were still rivetted on the little figure at
the fireplace.

The child had thrown his last stick into the glowing red em-
bers. He looked about him for a fresh supply, and found no-
thing. His fresh young voice rose high through the silence in
the room.

* More ! ' he cried. * More ! '

His mother held up a warning finger. * Hush ! ' she whis-
pered. He shrank away from her, as she tried to take him on
her knee, and looked across the room at his father. * More 1 '
he burst out, louder than ever.

Romayne beckoned to me, and pointed to the boy.

I led him across the room. He was quite willing to go with
me — he reiterated his petition, standing at his father's knees.

' Lift him to me,' said Romayne.

I could barely hear the words ; even his strength to whisper
seemed to be fast leaving him. He kissed his son — with a pant-
ing fatigue" imder that trifling exertion, pitiable to see. As I
placed the boy on his feet again, he looked up at his dying father,
with the one idea still in his mind.

* More, papa! More!*
Romayne put the will into his hand.

The child's eyes sparkled. ' Burn]' he asked eagerly.

'Yes!'

Father Benwell sprang forward with outstretched hands. I
stopped him. He struggled with me. I forgot the privilege of
the black robe. I took him by the throat.

The boy threw the will into the fire. * Oh ! ' he shouted, in
high delight, and clipped his chubby hands as the bright little
blaae fiew up the chimney. I released the priest.

In a frenzy of rage and despair, he looked round at the per-
sons in the room. **! take you all to witness/ he cried, ' this is
an act of madneea ! '

THE DIARY RESUMED.

807

* You yourself declared just now.' said the lawyer, 'that Mr.
Ronmyne was in perfect possession of his faculties.*

The baftled Jesuit turned fuiiously on the dying man. Thoy
ooked at each other.

For one awful moment Romayne'a eyes brightened, Ro-
mayne's voice rallied its power, as if life was returning to him.
Frowning darkly, the priest put his question.

' What did you do it for V

Quietly and firmly the answer came.

'Wife and chUd.'

The last long-drawn sigh rose and fell With those sacred
words on his lips, Roraayne died.

London, Gth May. — At Stella's request, I have returned to
Penrose — with but one fellow-traveller. My dear old com-
panion, the dog, is coiled up, fast asleep at my feet, while t
write these lines. Penrose has gained strength enough to kee\)
me company in the sitting-room. In a few days more he will
see Stella again.

What instructions reached the embassy from Rome — whether
Romayne received the last sacrament at the earlier period of
his illness — we never heard. No objection was made, when
Lord Loring proposed to remove the body to England, to be
buried in the family vault at Vange Abbey.

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 de-
liberately stopped me.

* How is Mrs. Romayne 1 ' he asked — with that infernal
suavity which he seems always to have at command. ' Fairly
well, 1 .lOpe '( And the boy 1 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 1 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 resto-
ration of the property of the church. Tn both cases, I only did

308

THE BLACK ROBE.

aiy duty as a priest. You are a liberal minded maa Surely I
deserve a favourable construction of my conduct 1 '

I really could not endure this. * I have my own opinion of
what you deserve/ I answered. ' Don't provoke me to men-
tion it*

He eyed me with a sinister smile.

< I am not so old as I look,' he said ; ' I may live another
twenty years I '

'WelH' I asked.

'Well,' he answered, <much may happen in twenty yeara'

With that, he left me. If he meaiis any further mischief, I
can tell him this — he will find Me in his way.

To turn to a more pleasant suLject. 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 Stella — or of the doctors, who had no interest in the matter
— but I was unable to understand the passive position main-
tained by the lawyer. He enlightened my ignorance in two
worda

♦ The Vange property and the Berrick property were both ab-
solutely 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 go to his " nearest of kin."
In plainer words, his widow and his son.'

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 ^ad morning when we two knelt on either side of him. In
the meanwhile, it is almost happiness enough for me to look for-
ward to the day

Note. — The next leaf of the Diary is missing. By some ac-
ciden4), a manuscript page has got into its place, bearing a later
date, and containing elaborate instructions for executing a de-
sign for a wedding dresa The handwriting has since been ac-
knowledged as her own, by no less a person than Mrs.

Eyrecourt.

The End.

n. Surely I

n opinion of
me to men-

live another

ity years.'
r mischief, I

; on all that
layne, T felt
ade no effort
be expected
n the matter
tsition main-
ance in two

irere both ab-

* If he died

iw to foresee

Eirest of kin."

;o Beaupark.
[ be the only
e boy will be
}t wishes, on
B of him. In
e to look for-

By some ac-
laring a later
acuting a de-
Ince been ac-
lan Mrs.