How completely the fawning old wretch took me in—with all my knowledge of the world, too!
He was so nice and sympathetic—such a comforting contrast, on that occasion, to you and your husband—I declare I forgot every reason I had for not trusting him.
Ah, we women are poor creatures—we may own it among ourselves.
If a man only has nice manners and a pleasant voice, how many of us can resist him?
Even Romayne imposed upon me—assisted by his property, which in some degree excuses my folly.
There is nothing to be done now, Stella, but to humor him.
Do as that detestable priest does, and trust to your beauty (there isn’t as much of it left as I could wish) to turn the scale in your favor.
Have you any idea when the new convert will come back?
I heard him ordering a fish dinner for himself, yesterday—because it was Friday.
Did you join him at dessert-time, profanely supported by meat?
What did he say?”
“What he has said more than once already, mama. His peace of mind is returning, thanks to Father Benwell.
He was perfectly gentle and indulgent—but he looked as if he lived in a different world from mine.
He told me he proposed to pass a week in, what he called, Retreat.
I didn’t ask him what it meant. Whatever it is, I suppose he is there now.”
“My dear, don’t you remember your sister began in the same way?
She retreated.
We shall have Romayne with a red nose and a double chin, offering to pray for us next!
Do you recollect that French maid of mine—the woman I sent away, because she would spit, when she was out of temper, like a cat?
I begin to think I treated the poor creature harshly.
When I hear of Romayne and his Retreat, I almost feel inclined to spit, myself.
There! let us go on with your reading.
Take the first volume—I have done with it.”
“What is it, mama?”
“A very remarkable work, Stella, in the present state of light literature in England—a novel that actually tells a story. It’s quite incredible, I know.
Try the book.
It has another extraordinary merit—it isn’t written by a woman.”
Stella obediently received the first volume, turned over the leaves, and wearily dropped the wonderful novel on her lap.
“I can’t attend to it,” she said. “My mind is too full of my own thoughts.”
“About Romayne?” said her mother.
“No.
When I think of my husband now, I almost wish I had his confidence in Priests and Retreats.
The conviction grows on me, mama, that my worst troubles are still to come.
When I was younger, I don’t remember being tormented by presentiments of any kind.
Did I ever talk of presentiments to you, in the bygone days?”
“If you had done anything of the sort, my love (excuse me, if I speak plainly), I should have said,
‘Stella, your liver is out of order’; and I should have opened the family medicine-chest. I will only say now send for the carriage; let us go to a morning concert, dine at a restaurant, and finish the evening at the play.”
This characteristic proposal was entirely thrown away on Stella. She was absorbed in pursuing her own train of thought.
“I almost wish I had told Lewis,” she said to herself absently.
“Told him of what, my dear?”
“Of what happened to me with Winterfield.”
Mrs. Eyrecourt’s faded eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“Do you really mean it?” she asked.
“I do, indeed.”
“Are you actually simple enough, Stella, to think that a man of Romayne’s temper would have made you his wife if you had told him of the Brussels marriage?”
“Why not?”
“Why not!
Would Romayne—would any man—believe that you really did part from Winterfield at the church door?
Considering that you are a married woman, your innocence, my sweet child, is a perfect phenomenon!
It’s well there were wiser people than you to keep your secret.”