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 pass 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.Isuggested 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.
He turned on me sharply."I don't know.Do you?"I ventured on a courteous remonstrance."My dear sir! if you can't find another reason, how can I? It must have been a sudden antipathy, as you say.Such things do happen between strangers.Isuppose I am right in assuming that Mrs.Romayne and Mr.
Winterfield are strangers?"
His eyes flashed with a sudden sinister brightness--the new idea had caught light in his mind."They _met_ as strangers," he said.
There he stopped again, and returned to the window.I felt that Imight lose the place I had gained in his confidence if I pressed the subject any further.Besides, I had my reasons for saying a word about Penrose next.As it happened, I had received a letter from him, relating to his present employment, and sending kindest regards to his dear friend and master in the postscript.
I gave the message.Romayne looked round, with an instant change in his face.The mere sound of Penrose's name seemed to act as a relief to the gloom and suspicion that had oppressed him the moment before."You don't know how I miss the dear gentle little fellow," he said, sadly.
"Why not write to him?" I suggested."He would be so glad to hear from you again.""I don't know where to write."
"Did I not send you his address when I forwarded your letter to him?""No."
"Then let me atone for my forgetfulness at once."I wrote down the address, and took my leave.
As I approached the door I noticed on a side table the Catholic volumes which Penrose left with Romayne.One of them was open, with a pencil lying beside it.I thought that a good sign--but Isaid nothing.
Romayne pressed my hand at parting."You have been very kind and friendly, Father Benwell," he said."I shall be glad to see you again."Don't mention it in quarters where it might do me harm.Do you know, I really pitied him.He has sacrificed everything to his marriage--and his marriage has disappointed him.He was even reduced to be friendly with Me.
Of course when the right time comes I shall give Penrose leave of absence.Do you foresee, as I do, the speedy return of "the dear gentle little fellow" to his old employment; the resumed work of conversion advancing more rapidly than ever; and the jealousy of the Protestant wife aggravating the false position in which she is already placed by her equivocal reception of Winterfield? You may answer this by reminding me of the darker side of the prospect.An heir may be born; and the heir's mother, backed by general opinion, may insist--if there is any hesitation in the matter--on asserting the boy's natural right to succeed his father.
