Part 30 (2/2)

Remember all that I have told you of Romayne's peculiar disposition--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 pa.s.sed, 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 ma.n.u.script 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. The physician in attendance trusts entirely to her daughter to persuade her to persevere with the necessary course of medicine. Don't suppose that I trouble you by mentioning these trumpery circ.u.mstances 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, antic.i.p.ating the next question.

Romayne fulfilled my expectations. He inquired if Winterfield had left London.

There are certain cases (as I am told by medical authorities) in which the dangerous system of bleeding a patient still has its advantages.

There are other cases in which the dangerous system of telling the truth becomes equally judicious. I said to Romayne, ”If I answer you honestly, will you consider it as strictly confidential? Mr. Winterfield, I regret to say, has no intention of improving his acquaintance with you. He asked me to conceal from you that he is still in London.”

Romayne's face plainly betrayed that he was annoyed and irritated.

”Nothing that you say to me, Father Benwell, shall pa.s.s the walls of this room,” he replied. ”Did Winterfield give any reason for not continuing his acquaintance with me?”

I told the truth once more, with courteous expressions of regret.

”Mr. Winterfield spoke of an ungracious reception on the part of Mrs.

Romayne.”

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

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

He used a milder form of expression. ”It is most unfortunate,” he said.

”I must immediately send back the valuable book which Mr. Winterfield has lent to me. And that is not the worst of it. There are other volumes in his library which I have the greatest interest in 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 sympathized with my pursuits. There is something so cheering and attractive in his manner--and he has just the boldness and novelty of view in his opinions that appeal to a man like me. It was a pleasant future to look forward to; and it must be sacrificed--and to what? To a woman's caprice.”

From our point of view this was a frame of mind to be encouraged. I tried the experiment of modestly taking the blame on myself. I suggested that I might be (quite innocently) answerable for Romayne's 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 what of it?”

”Pardon me for reminding you that Mrs. Romayne has Protestant 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 explanation 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 appearance must have inspired her with some unreasonable antipathy, or--”

He stopped, and turned away thoughtfully to the window. Some vague suspicion had probably entered his mind, which he had only become aware of at that moment, and which he was not quite able to realize as yet. I did my best to encourage the new train of thought.

”What other reason _can_ there be?” I asked.

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