CHAPTER II.
A CHRISTIAN JESUIT.
ON the next day Penrose arrived on his visit to Romayne.
The affectionate meeting between the two men tested Stella's
self-control as it had never been tried yet. She submitted to the ordeal
with the courage of a woman whose happiness depended on her outward
graciousness of manner toward her husband's friend. Her reception of
Penrose, viewed as an act of refined courtesy, was beyond reproach. When
she found her opportunity of leaving the room, Romayne gratefully opened
the door for her. "Thank you!" he whispered, with a look which was
intended to reward her.
She only bowed to him, and took refuge in her own room.
Even in trifles, a woman's nature is degraded by the falsities of
language and manner which the artificial condition of modern society
exacts from her. When she yields herself to more serious deceptions,
intended to protect her dearest domestic interests, the mischief is
increased in proportion. Deceit, which is the natural weapon of defense
used by the weak creature against the strong, then ceases to be confined
within the limits assigned by the sense of self-respect and by the
restraints of education. A woman in this position will descend,
self-blinded, to acts of meanness which would be revolting to her if
they were related of another person.
Stella had already begun the process of self-degradation by writing
secretly to Winterfield. It was only to warn him of the danger of
trusting Father Benwell--but it was a letter, claiming him as her
accomplice in an act of deception. That morning she had received Penrose
with the outward cordialities of welcome which are offered to an old and
dear friend. And now, in the safe solitude of her room, she had fallen
to a lower depth still. She was deliberately considering the safest
means of acquainting herself with the confidential conversation which
Romayne and Penrose would certainly hold when she left them together.
"He will try to set my husband against me; and I have a right to know
what means he uses, in my own defense." With that thought she reconciled
herself to an action which she would have despised if she had heard of
it as the action of another woman.
It was a beautiful autumn day, brightened by clear sunshine, enlivened
by crisp air. Stella put on her hat and went out for a stroll in the
grounds.
While she was within view from the windows of the servants' offices
she walked away from the house. Turning the corner of a shrubbery, she
entered a winding path, on the other side, which led back to the lawn
under Romayne's study window. Garden chairs were placed here and
there. She took one of them, and seated herself--after a last moment of
honorable hesitation--where she could hear the men's voices through the
open window above her.
Penrose was speaking at the time.
"Yes. Father Benwell has granted me a holiday," he said; "but I don't
come here to be an idle man. You must allow me to employ my term of
leave in the pleasantest of all ways. I mean to be your secretary
again."
Romayne sighed. "Ah, if you knew how I have missed you!"
(Stella waited, in breathless expectation, for what Penrose would say to
this. Would he speak of _her?_ No. There was a natural tact and delicacy
in him which waited for the husband to introduce the subject.)
Penrose only said, "How is the great work getting on?"
The answer was sternly spoken in one word--"Badly!"
"I am surprised to hear that, Romayne."
"Why? Were you as innocently hopeful as I was? Did you expect my
experience of married life to help me in writing my book?"
Penrose replied after a pause, speaking a little sadly. "I expected your
married life to encourage you in all your highest aspirations," he said.
(Stella turned pale with suppressed anger. He had spoken with perfect
sincerity. The unhappy woman believed that he lied, for the express
purpose of rousing irritation against her, in her husband's irritable
mind. She listened anxiously for Romayne's answer.)
He made no answer. Penrose changed the subject. "You are not looking
very well," he gently resumed. "I am afraid your health has interfered
with your work. Have you had any return--?"
It was still one of the characteristics of Romayne's nervous
irritability that he disliked to hear the terrible delusion of the Voice
referred to in words. "Yes," he interposed bitterly, "I have heard it
again and again. My right hand is as red as ever, Penrose, with the
blood of a fellow-creature. Another destruction of my illusions when I
married!"
"Romayne! I don't like to hear you speak of your marriage in that way."
"Oh, very well. Let us go back to my book. Perhaps I shall get on better
with it now you are here to help me. My ambition to make a name in the
world has never taken so strong a hold on me (I don't know why, unless
other disappointments have had something to do with it) as at this time,
when I find I can't give my mind to my work. We will make a last effort
together, my friend! If it fails, we will put my manuscripts into the
fire, and I will try some other career. Politics are open to me. Through
politics, I might make my mark in diplomacy. There is something in
directing the destinies of nations wonderfully attractive to me in
my present state of feeling. I hate the idea of being indebted for my
position in the world, like the veriest fool living, to the accidents
of birth and fortune. Are _you_ content with the obscure life that you
lead? Did you not envy that priest (he is no older than I am) who was
sent the other day as the Pope's ambassador to Portugal?"
Penrose spoke out at last without hesitation. "You are in a thoroughly
unwholesome state of mind," he said.
Romayne laughed recklessly. "When was I ever in a healthy state of
mind?" he asked.
Penrose passed the interruption over without notice. "If I am to do you
any good," he resumed, "I must know what is really the matter with you.
The very last question that I ought to put, and that I wish to put, is
the question which you force me to ask."
"What is it?"
"When you speak of your married life," said Penrose, "your tone is the
tone of a disappointed man. Have you any serious reason to complain of
Mrs. Romayne?"
(Stella rose to her feet, in her eagerness to hear what her husband's
answer would be.)
"Serious reason?" Romayne repeated. "How can such an idea have entered
your head? I only complain of irritating trifles now and then. Even the
best of women is not perfect. It's hard to expect it from any of them."
(The interpretation of this reply depended entirely on the tone in which
it was spoken. What was the animating spirit in this case? Irony or
Indulgence? Stella was ignorant of the indirect methods of irritation,
by means of which Father Benwell had encouraged Romayne's doubts of
his wife's motive for the reception of Winterfield. Her husband's tone,
expressing this state of mind, was new to her. She sat down again,
divided between hope and fear, waiting to hear more. The next words,
spoken by Penrose, astounded her. The priest, the Jesuit, the wily
spiritual intruder between man and wife, actually took the wife's side!)
"Romayne," he proceeded quietly, "I want you to be happy."
"How am I to be happy?"
"I will try and tell you. I believe your wife to be a good woman. I
believe she loves you. There is something in her face that speaks for
her--even to an inexperienced person like myself. Don't be impatient
with her! Put away from you that besetting temptation to speak in
irony--it is so easy to take that tone, and sometimes so cruel. I am
only a looker-on, I know. Domestic happiness can never be the
happiness of _my_ life. But I have observed my fellow-creatures of all
degrees--and this, I tell you, is the result. The largest number of
happy men are the husbands and fathers. Yes; I admit that they have
terrible anxieties--but they are fortified by unfailing compensations
and encouragements. Only the other day I met with a man who had suffered
the loss of fortune and, worse still, the loss of health. He endured
those afflictions so calmly that he surprised me. 'What is the secret
of your philosophy?' I asked. He answered, 'I can bear anything while I
have my wife and my children.' Think of that, and judge for yourself how
much happiness you may have left yet ungathered in your married life."
(Those words touched Stella's higher nature, as the dew touches the
thirsty ground. Surely they were nobly spoken! How would her husband
receive them?)
"I must think with your mind, Penrose, before I can do what you ask of
me. Is there any method of transformation by which I can change natures
with you?" That was all he said--and he said it despondingly.
Penrose understood, and felt for him.
"If there is anything in my nature, worthy to be set as an example
to you," he replied, "you know to what blessed influence I owe
self-discipline and serenity of mind. Remember what I said when I left
you in London, to go back to my friendless life. I told you that I
found, in the Faith I held, the one sufficient consolation which helped
me to bear my lot. And--if there came a time of sorrow in the future--I
entreated you to remember what I had said. Have you remembered it?"
"Look at the book here on my desk--look at the other books, within easy
reach, on that table--are you satisfied?"
"More than satisfied. Tell me--do you feel nearer to an understanding of
the Faith to which I have tried to convert you?"
There was a pause. "Say that I do feel nearer," Romayne resumed--"say
that some of my objections are removed--are you really as eager as ever
to make a Catholic of me, now that I am a married man?"
"I am even more eager," Penrose answered. "I have always believed that
your one sure way to happiness lay through your conversion. Now, when
I know, from what I have seen and heard in this room, that you are not
reconciled, as you should be, to your new life, I am doubly confined in
my belief. As God is my witness, I speak sincerely. Hesitate no longer!
Be converted, and be happy."
"Have you not forgotten something, Penrose?"
"What have I forgotten?"
"A serious consideration, perhaps. I have a Protestant wife."
"I have borne that in mind, Romayne, throughout our conversation."
"And you still say--what you have just said?"
"With my whole heart, I say it! Be converted, and be happy. Be happy,
and you will be a good husband. I speak in your wife 's interest as well
as in yours. People who are happy in each other's society, will yield
a little on either side, even on questions of religious belief. And
perhaps there may follow a more profitable result still. So far as I
have observed, a good husband's example is gladly followed by his wife.
Don't think that I am trying to persuade you against your will! I am
only telling you, in my own justification, from what motives of love
for yourself, and of true interest in your welfare, I speak. You implied
just now that you had still some objections left. If I can remove
them--well and good. If I fail--if you cannot act on purely
conscientious conviction--I not only advise, I entreat you, to remain as
you are. I shall be the first to acknowledge that you have done right."
(This moderation of tone would appeal irresistibly, as Stella well knew,
to her husband's ready appreciation of those good qualities in others
which he did not himself possess. Once more her suspicion wronged
Penrose. Had he his own interested motives for pleading her cause?
At the bare thought of it, she left her chair and, standing under the
window, boldly interrupted the conversation by calling to Romayne.)
"Lewis!" she cried, "why do you stay indoors on this beautiful day? I am
sure Mr. Penrose would like a walk in the grounds."
Penrose appeared alone at the window. "You are quite right, Mrs.
Romayne," he said; "we will join you directly."
In a few minutes he turned the corner of the house, and met Stella on
the lawn. Romayne was not with him. "Is my husband not coming with us?"
she asked. "He will follow us," Penrose answered. "I believe he has some
letters to write."
Stella looked at him, suspecting some underhand exercise of influence on
her husband.
If she had been able to estimate the noble qualities in the nature
of Penrose, she might have done him the justice to arrive at a truer
conclusion. It was he who had asked leave (when Stella had interrupted
them) to take the opportunity of speaking alone with Mrs. Romayne. He
had said to his friend, "If I am wrong in my anticipation of the
effect of your change of religion on your wife, let me find it out from
herself. My one object is to act justly toward you and toward her. I
should never forgive myself if I made mischief between you, no matter
how innocent of any evil intention I might be." Romayne had understood
him. It was Stella's misfortune ignorantly to misinterpret everything
that Penrose said or did, for the all-sufficient reason that he was
a Catholic priest. She had drawn the conclusion that her husband had
deliberately left her alone with Penrose, to be persuaded or deluded
into giving her sanction to aid the influence of the priest. "They shall
find they are mistaken," she thought to herself.
"Have I interrupted an interesting conversation?" she inquired abruptly.
"When I asked you to come out, were you talking to my husband about his
historical work?"
"No, Mrs. Romayne; we were not speaking at that time of the book."
"May I ask an odd question, Mr. Penrose?"
"Certainly!"
"Are you a very zealous Catholic?"
"Pardon me. I am a priest. Surely my profession speaks for me?"
"I hope you are not trying to convert my husband?"
Penrose stopped and looked at her attentively.
"Are you strongly opposed to your husband's conversion?" he asked.
"As strongly," she answered, "as a woman can be."
"By religious conviction, Mrs. Romayne?"
"No. By experience."
Penrose started. "Is it indiscreet," he said gently, "to inquire what
your experience may have been?"
"I will tell you what my experience has been," Stella replied. "I am
ignorant of theological subtleties, and questions of doctrine are quite
beyond me. But this I do know. A well-meaning and zealous Catholic
shortened my father's life, and separated me from an only sister whom
I dearly loved. I see I shock you--and I daresay you think I am
exaggerating?"
"I hear what you say, Mrs. Romayne, with very great pain--I don't
presume to form any opinion thus far."
"My sad story can be told in a few words," Stella proceeded. "When
my elder sister was still a young girl, an aunt of ours (my mother's
sister) came to stay with us. She had married abroad, and she was, as
I have said, a zealous Catholic. Unknown to the rest of us, she held
conversations on religion with my sister--worked on the enthusiasm which
was part of the girl's nature--and accomplished her conversion. Other
influences, of which I know nothing, were afterward brought to bear on
my sister. She declared her intention of entering a convent. As she
was under age, my father had only to interpose his authority to prevent
this. She was his favorite child. He had no heart to restrain her by
force--he could only try all that the kindest and best of fathers could
do to persuade her to remain at home. Even after the years that have
passed, I cannot trust myself to speak of it composedly. She persisted;
she was as hard as stone. My aunt, when she was entreated to interfere,
called her heartless obstinacy 'a vocation.' My poor father's loving
resistance was worn out; he slowly drew nearer and nearer to death, from
the day when she left us. Let me do her justice, if I can. She has not
only never regretted entering the convent--she is so happily absorbed
in her religious duties that she has not the slightest wish to see her
mother or me. My mother's patience was soon worn out. The last time I
went to the convent, I went by myself. I shall never go there again.
She could not conceal her sense of relief when I took my leave of her.
I need say no more. Arguments are thrown away on me, Mr. Penrose,
after what I have seen and felt. I have no right to expect that the
consideration of my happiness will influence you--but I may perhaps ask
you, as a gentleman, to tell me the truth. Do you come here with the
purpose of converting my husband?"
Penrose owned the truth, without an instant's hesitation.
"I cannot take your view of your sister's pious devotion of herself to
a religious life," he said. "But I can, and will, answer you truly. From
the time when I first knew him, my dearest object has been to convert
your husband to the Catholic Faith."
Stella drew back from him, as if he had stung her, and clasped her hands
in silent despair.
"But I am bound as a Christian," he went on, "to do to others as I would
they should do to me."
She turned on him suddenly, her beautiful face radiant with hope, her
hand trembling as it caught him by the arm.
"Speak plainly!" she cried.
He obeyed her to the letter.
"The happiness of my friend's wife, Mrs. Romayne, is sacred to me
for his sake. Be the good angel of your husband's life. I abandon the
purpose of converting him."
He lifted her hand from his arm and raised it respectfully to his lips.
Then, when he had bound himself by a promise that was sacred to him,
the terrible influence of the priesthood shook even that brave and lofty
soul. He said to himself, as he left her, "God forgive me if I have done
wrong!"