Stella gently detained him.
“There was one word more he entreated me to say—pray wait and hear it,” she pleaded.
“His one grief is at leaving You.
Apart from that, he devotes himself gladly to the dreadful service which claims him.
He has long looked forward to it, and has long prepared himself for it.
Those, Lewis, are his own words.”
There was a knock at the door.
The servant appeared, to announce that the carriage was waiting.
Penrose entered the room as the man left it.
“Have you spoken for me?” he said to Stella.
She could only answer him by a gesture.
He turned to Romayne with a faint smile.
“The saddest of all words must be spoken,” he said.
“Farewell!”
Pale and trembling, Romayne took his hand.
“Is this Father Benwell’s doing?” he asked.
“No!” Penrose answered firmly.
“In Father Benwell’s position it might have been his doing, but for his goodness to me.
For the first time since I have known him he has shrunk from a responsibility. For my sake he has left it to Rome.
And Rome has spoken.
Oh, my more than friend—my brother in love—!”
His voice failed him. With a resolution which was nothing less than heroic in a man of his affectionate nature, he recovered his composure.
“Let us make it as little miserable as it can be,” he said.
“At every opportunity we will write to each other.
And, who knows—I may yet come back to you?
God has preserved his servants in dangers as great as any that I shall encounter.
May that merciful God bless and protect you!
Oh, Romayne, what happy days we have had together!”
His last powers of resistance were worn out.
Tears of noble sorrow dimmed the friendly eyes which had never once looked unkindly on the brother of his love.
He kissed Romayne.
“Help me out!” he said, turning blindly toward the hall, in which the servant was waiting.
That last act of mercy was not left to a servant.
With sisterly tenderness, Stella took his hand and led him away.
“I shall remember you gratefully as long as I live,” she said to him when the carriage door was closed.
He waved his hand at the window, and she saw him no more.
She returned to the study.
The relief of tears had not come to Romayne.
He had dropped into a chair when Penrose left him.
In stony silence he sat there, his head down, his eyes dry and staring.
The miserable days of their estrangement were forgotten by his wife in the moment when she looked at him.
She knelt by his side and lifted his head a little and laid it on her bosom.
Her heart was full—she let the caress plead for her silently.
He felt it; his cold fingers pressed her hand thankfully; but he said nothing.
After a long interval, the first outward expression of sorrow that fell from his lips showed that he was still thinking of Penrose.
“Every blessing falls away from me,” he said. “I have lost my best friend.”
Years afterward Stella remembered those words, and the tone in which he had spoken them.
CHAPTER VII. THE IMPULSIVE SEX.
AFTER a lapse of a few days, Father Benwell was again a visitor at Ten Acres Lodge—by Romayne’s invitation.
The priest occupied the very chair, by the study fireside, in which Penrose had been accustomed to sit.