The Black Robe Part 27

"Well?"

"Well, he set that matter right between us with perfect taste. He said: 'I cannot presume to offer repayment to a person so wealthy. We gratefully accept our obligation to our kind unknown friend. For the future, however, my nephew's expenses 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 has 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. I can send you any letters that I may receive from the asylum. Will you give us some music, Mrs. Romayne? Not to-night? 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 excuses 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. The 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? Make my apologies 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?" she asked.

"So ill, ma'am, that I begged and prayed her to let me send for a doctor. You know what my mistress is. 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 that 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 mother 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, Mrs.

Eyrecourt was still drowsily equal to herself. "You are a fidget, my dear, and Matilda is a fidget--I can't have two of you at my bedside.

Good-night." Stella stooped over her and kissed her. She whispered: "Three weeks notice, remember, for the party!"

By the next evening the malady had a.s.sumed so formidable an aspect that the doctor had his doubts of the patient's chance of recovery. With her husband's full approval, Stella remained night and day at her mother's bedside.

Thus, in a little more than a month from the day of his marriage, Romayne was, for the time, a lonely man again.

The illness of Mrs. Eyrecourt was unexpectedly prolonged. There were intervals during which her vigorous const.i.tution rallied and resisted the progress of the disease. On these occasions, Stella was able to return to her husband for a few hours--subject always to a message which recalled her to her mother when the chances of life or death appeared to be equally balanced. 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 familiar 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 husband's fondness had accepted the effort as adding another charm to the lovely creature who had opened a new life to him. But where is the woman who can intimately a.s.sociate herself with the hard brain-work of a man devoted to an absorbing intellectual pursuit? She can love him, admire him, serve him, believe in him beyond all other men--but (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!" Even other friends were not available as a resource in the solitary evening hours. Lord Loring was absorbed in social and political engagements. 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.

One day, while Mrs. Eyrecourt still lay between life and death, Romayne found his historical labors suspended by the want of a certain volume which it was absolutely necessary to consult. He had mislaid the references written for him by Penrose, and he was at a loss to remember whether the book was in the British Museum, in the Bodleian Library, or in the Bibliotheque at Paris. In this emergency a letter to his former secretary would furnish him with the information that he required. But he was ignorant of Penrose's present address. The Lorings might possibly know it--so to the Lorings he resolved to apply.

CHAPTER III.

FATHER BENWELL AND THE BOOK.

ROMAYNE'S first errand in London was to see his wife, and to make inquiries at Mrs. Eyrecourt's house. The report was more favorable than usual. Stella whispered, as she kissed him, "I shall soon come back to you, I hope!"

Leaving the horses to rest for a while, he proceeded to Lord Loring's residence on foot. As he crossed a street in the neighborhood, he was nearly run over by a cab, carrying a gentleman and his luggage. The gentleman was Mr. Winterfield, on his way to Derwent's Hotel.

Lady Loring very kindly searched her card-basket, as the readiest means of a.s.sisting Romayne. Penrose had left his card, on his departure from London, but no address was written on it. Lord Loring, unable himself to give the required information, 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?"

"I think not," Romayne answered; "but I will write down the t.i.tle, and leave it here with my letter."

The same evening he received a polite note from Father Benwell, 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, affectionately and gratefully written, arrived from Penrose. He regretted that he was not able to a.s.sist Romayne personally. But it was out of his power (in plain words, he had been expressly forbidden by Father Benwell) 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. He had only met with it himself in the National Library at Paris.

This information led Romayne to London again, immediately. For the first time he called at Father Benwell's lodgings. The priest was at home, expecting the visit. His welcome was the perfection of una.s.suming politeness. He asked for the last news of "poor Mrs. Eyrecourt's health," with the sympathy of a true friend.

"I had the honor of drinking tea with Mrs. Eyrecourt, some little time since," he said. "Her flow of conversation was never more delightful--it seemed impossible to a.s.sociate the idea of illness with so bright a creature. And how well she kept the secret of your contemplated marriage! May I offer my humble congratulations and good wishes?"

Romayne thought it needless to say that Mrs. Eyrecourt had not been trusted with the secret until the wedding day was close at hand. "My wife and I agreed in wis.h.i.+ng to be married as quietly as possible," he answered, after making the customary acknowledgments.

"And Mrs. Romayne?" pursued Father Benwell. "This is a sad trial for her. She is in attendance on her mother, I suppose?"

"In constant attendance; I am quite alone now. To change the subject, may I ask you to look at the reply which I have received 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 habitual self-control, his vigilant eyes brightened as he handed it back.

Thus far, the priest's well-planned scheme, (like Mr. Bitrake's clever inquiries) had failed. He had not even entrapped Mrs. Eyrecourt into revealing the marriage engagement. Her unconquerable small-talk had foiled him at every point. Even when he had deliberately kept his seat after the other guests at the tea-table had taken their departure, she rose with the most imperturbable coolness, and left him. "I have a dinner and 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 Rome, 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 Romayne's weakness; and Miss Eyrecourt has won. So let it be. 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 country. 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?"

"No; the name is quite new to me."

"Then come and see the man himself. He is now in London--and I am entirely at your service."

In half an 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 reposed 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 and forward it to your address by pa.s.senger train this afternoon," 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."

With those words, he dispatched the telegram to the office. Romayne attempted to make his acknowledgments. Mr. Winterfield 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 a.s.sociate himself with the production 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. Pray consider me as a handy little boy who runs on errands for the Muse of History. Do you smoke?"

Not even tobacco would soothe Romayne's wasted and irritable nerves.