The Black Robe Part 6

"My dear! I think it quite possible. You are only now in your twenty-third year. You were innocent of all blame at that wretched by-gone 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?"

"On our way back from Paris."

"Traveling in the same carriage with you?"

"No--it was in crossing the Channel. There were few travelers in the steamboat, or I might never have noticed him."

"Did he speak to you?"

"I don't think he 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 patience! 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 think 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? I mean, of course, did he look like a gentleman?"

"There could be no doubt of it."

"Do try to describe him, Stella. Was he tall and well dressed?"

"Neither tall nor short--rather thin--quiet and graceful in all his movements--dressed plainly, 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 thoughtfully toward the sea. Such eyes I never saw before, Adelaide, in any human face--so divinely tender and sad--and the color of them that dark violet blue, so uncommon and so beautiful--too beautiful 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 same color; 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 me that I shall not. What can I hope from a man who never once noticed me? 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 color; 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 mind, very sad about this adventure of yours. I wish I could 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 I saw him. It's only making 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 pencil. The instant Lady Loring looked at it, she recognized Romayne and started excitedly to her feet.

"You know him!" cried Stella.

Lady Loring had placed herself in an awkward position. Her husband had described to her his interview with Major Hynd, and had mentioned his project for bringing Romayne and Stella together, after first exacting a promise of the strictest secrecy from his wife. She felt herself bound--doubly bound, after 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 the truth out of the whole, and answered harmlessly without a moment's hesitation.

"I have certainly seen him," she said--"probably at some party. 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 slyly.

Stella s.n.a.t.c.hed the drawing away from her, in terror. "You don't mean that you will tell Lord Loring?" she said.

"My dear child! how can you be so foolish? Can't I show him the drawing without mentioning who it was done by? 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 remember the name. Of course, if you like to be kept in suspense, you have only to say so. It rests with you to decide."

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, b.u.t.toned 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 aversion.

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

Father Benwell rose and bowed with a pleasant paternal smile. "I am only trying to organize 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 any service to your ladys.h.i.+p?"

"Thank you, Father. If you can kindly tell me where Lord Loring is--"

"To be sure! His lords.h.i.+p 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 a 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 pa.s.sed into the picture gallery.

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. I 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 instructions, and have found the means of favorably introducing him to Romayne, I shall have the honor of forwarding a statement of our prospects so far."

Having signed these lines, he addressed the letter to "The Reverend the Secretary, Society of Jesus, Rome." As he closed and sealed the envelope, a servant opened the door communicating with the hall, and announced:

"Mr. Arthur Penrose."

CHAPTER II.

THE JESUITS.

FATHER BENWELL rose, and welcomed the visitor with his paternal 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 respectfully 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 pa.s.sing smile. "My spirits are never very lively," he said.

Father Benwell shook his head in gentle disapproval of a depressed state of spirits in a young man. "This must be corrected," he remarked.

"Cultivate cheerfulness, Arthur. I am myself, thank G.o.d, a naturally cheerful man. My mind reflects, 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 agreeable, or you will fail to justify the trust. This is Father Benwell'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-opened gray eyes, and his habitual refinement and modesty of manner, gave a certain attraction to his personal appearance, of which it stood in some need.

In stature he was little and lean; his hair had become prematurely thin over his broad forehead; there were hollows already in his cheeks, and marks on either side of his thin, delicate lips. He looked like a person who had pa.s.sed many miserable hours in needlessly despairing of himself and his prospects. With all this, there was something in him so 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 effort, and often without being aware of it himself. What would 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, be perverted to dangerous uses in unscrupulous hands? His friends would, one and all, have received the scandalous a.s.sertion 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.