belong, she is not Mrs. Romayne--she is Mrs. Winterfield, living
with you in adultery. If you regret your conversion--"
"I don't regret it, Father Benwell."
"If you
renounce the holy aspirations which you have yourself
acknowledged to me, return to your
domestic life. But don't ask
us, while you are living with that lady, to respect you as a
member of our communion."
Romayne was silent. The more
violent emotions aroused in him had,
with time, subsided into calm. Tenderness, mercy, past affection,
found their opportunity, and pleaded with him. The
priest's bold
language had missed the object at which it aimed. It had revived
in Romayne's memory the image of Stella in the days when he had
first seen her. How
gently her influence had
wrought on him for
good! how
tenderly, how truly, she had loved him. "Give me some
more wine!" he cried. "I feel faint and giddy. Don't
despise me,
Father Benwell--I was once so fond of her!"
The
priest poured out the wine. "I feel for you," he said.
"Indeed, indeed, I feel for you."
It was not all a lie--there were grains of truth in that outburst
of
sympathy. Father Benwell was not
whollymerciless. His
far-seeing
intellect, his
daring duplicity, carried him straight
on to his end in view. But, that end once gained--and, let it be
remembered, not gained, in this case, whol ly for himself--there
were
compassionate impulses left in him which sometimes forced
their way to the surface. A man of high intelligence--however he
may
misuse it, however
unworthy he may be of it--has a gift from
Heaven. When you want to see unredeemed wickedness, look for it
in a fool.
"Let me mention one circumstance," Father Benwell proceeded,
"which may help to
relieve you for the moment. In your present
state of mind, you cannot return to The Retreat."
"Impossible!"
"I have had a room prepared for you in this house. Here, free
from any disturbing influence, you can shape the future course of
your life. If you wish to
communicate with your
residence at
Highgate--"
"Don't speak of it!"
Father Benwell sighed. "Ah, I understand!" he said, sadly. "The
house associated with Mr. Winterfield's visit--"
Romayne again interrupted him--this time by
gesture only. The
hand that had made the sign clinched itself when it rested
afterward on the table. His eyes looked
downward, under frowning
brows. At the name of Winterfield, remembrances that poisoned
every better influence in him rose venomously in his mind. Once
more he loathed the
deceit that had been
practiced on him. Once
more the detestable doubt of that 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?
"Can I see my
lawyer here?" he asked, suddenly.
"My dear Romayne, you can see any one whom you like to invite."
"I shall not trouble you by staying very long, Father Benwell."
"Do nothing in a hurry, my son. Pray do nothing in a hurry!"
Romayne paid no attention to this
entreaty. Shrinking from the
momentous decision that awaited him, his mind
instinctively took
refuge in the
prospect of change of scene. "I shall leave
England," he said, impatiently.
"Not alone!" Father Benwell remonstrated.
"Who will be my companion?"
"I will," the
priest answered.
Romayne's weary eyes brightened
faintly. In his desolate
position, Father Benwell was the one friend on whom he could
rely. Penrose was far away; the Lorings had helped to keep him
deceived; Major Hynd had
openly pitied and
despised him as a
victim to
priestcraft.
"Can you go with me at any time?" he asked. "Have you no duties
that keep you in England?"
"My duties, Romayne, are already confided to other hands."
"Then you have
foreseen this?"