Father Benwell unlocked his desk and placed two papers before

Romayne. He did his duty with a grave indifference to all minor
considerations. The time had not yet come for expressions of

sympathy and regret.
"The first paper," he said, "is a certified copy of the register

of the marriage of Miss Eyrecourt to Mr. Winterfield, celebrated
(as you will see) by the English chaplain at Brussels, and

witnessed by three persons. Look at the names."
The bride's mother was the first witness. The two names t hat

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 reverendcolleague of mine, residing
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 short-hand writer's
notes (suppressed in the reports of the public journals) of

proceedings in an English court of law, obtained at my request by
my lawyer in London."

"What have I to do with it?"
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 amazement.
"Excuse!" he repeated.

"Yes--excuse. The proceedings to which I have alluded declare
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 future career, you must understand this revolting case

thoroughly, from beginning to end."
With those prefatory words, he told the story of Winterfield's

first marriage; altering nothing; concealing nothing; doing the
fullest justice to Winterfield's innocence of all evil motive,

from first to last. When the plain truth served his purpose, as
it most assuredly did in this case, the man has never yet been

found who could match Father Benwell at stripping himself of
every vestige of reserve, and exhibiting his naked heart to 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 like an honorable 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 honor and delicacy
writhed under the outrage inflicted on it.

"And mind this," Father Benwell persisted, "poor human nature has
its right to all that can be justly conceded in the way of excuse

and allowance. Miss Eyrecourt would naturally be advised by her
friends, would naturally be eager, on her own part, to keep

hidden from you what happened at Brussels. A sensitive woman,
placed in a position so horribly false and degrading, must not be

too severely judged, even when she does wrong. I am bound to say
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 encouraged her
to conceal the truth. Father Benwell prudently closed his lips.

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
of another man. And there is the judge's decision, releasing Miss

Eyrecourt from her marriage to Mr. Winterfield. May I ask you to
explain yourself?"

"Certainly. Let me first remind you that you owe religious
allegiance to the principles which the Church has asserted, for

centuries past, with all the authority of its divine institution.
You admit that?"

"I admit it."
"Now, listen! In _our_ church, Romayne, marriage is even more

than a religious institution--it is a sacrament. We acknowledge
no human laws which profane that sacrament. Take two examples of

what I say. When the great Napoleon was at the height of his
power, Pius the Seventh refused to acknowledge the validity of

the Emperor's second marriage to Maria 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 celebration--and, this condition complied
with, marriage is only to be dissolved by death. You remember

what I told you of Mr. Winterfield?"
"Yes. His first marriage took place before the registrar."

"In plain English, Romayne, Mr. Winterfield and the woman-rider
in the circuspronounced a formula of words before a layman in an

office. That is not only no marriage, it is a blasphemous
profanation of a holy rite. Acts of Parliament which sanction

such proceedings are acts of infidelity. The Church declares it,
in defense of religion."

"I understand you," said Romayne. "Mr. Winterfield's marriage at
Brussels--"

"Which the English law," Father Benwell interposed, "declares to
be annulled by the marriage before the registrar, stands good,

nevertheless, by the higher law of the Church. Mr. Winterfield is
Miss Eyrecourt's husband, as long as they both live. An ordained

priest performed the ceremony in a consecrated building--and
Protestant marriages, so celebrated, are marriages acknowledged

by the Catholic Church. Under those circumstances, the ceremony
which afterward united you to Miss Eyrecourt--though neither you

nor the clergyman were to blame--was a mere mockery. Need I to
say any more? Shall I leave you for a while by yourself?"

"No! I don't know what I may think, I don't know what I may do,
if you leave me by myself."

Father Benwell took a chair by Romayne's side. "It has been my
hard duty to grieve and humiliate you," he said. "Do you bear me

no ill will?" He held out his hand.
Romayne took it--as an act of justice, if not as an act of

gratitude.
"Can I be of any use in advising you?" Father Benwell asked.

"Who can advise a man in my position?" Romayne bitterly rejoined.
"I can at least suggest that you should take time to think over

your position."
"Time? take time? You talk as if my situation was endurable."

"Everything is endurable, Romayne!"
"It may be so to you, Father Benwell. Did you part with your

humanity when you put on the black robe of the priest?"
"I parted, my son, with those weaknesses of _our_ humanity on

which women practice. You talk of your position. I will put it
before you at its worst."

"For what purpose?"
"To show you exactly what you have now to decide. Judged by the

law of England, Mrs. Romayne is your wife. Judged by the
principles held sacred among the religious community to which you