The Retreat had its own artesian well; not a person in the house drank impurity in his water.
A faint perfume of incense was perceptible in the corridors.
The soothing and mysterious silence of the place was intensified rather than disturbed by soft footsteps, and gentle opening and closing of doors.
Animal life was not even represented by a cat in the kitchen. And yet, pervaded by some inscrutable influence, the house was not dull.
Heretics, with lively imaginations, might have not inappropriately likened it to an enchanted castle.
In one word, the Catholic system here showed to perfection its masterly knowledge of the weakness of human nature, and its inexhaustible dexterity in adapting the means to the end.
On the morning when Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter held their memorable interview by the fireside at Ten Acres, Father Benwell entered one of the private rooms at The Retreat, devoted to the use of the priesthood.
The demure attendant, waiting humbly for instructions, was sent to request the presence of one of the inmates of the house, named Mortleman.
Father Benwell’s customary serenity was a little ruffled, on this occasion, by an appearance of anxiety.
More than once he looked impatiently toward the door, and he never even noticed the last new devotional publications laid invitingly on the table.
Mr. Mortleman made his appearance—a young man and a promising convert.
The wild brightness of his eyes revealed that incipient form of brain disease which begins in fanaticism, and ends not infrequently in religious madness. His manner of greeting the priest was absolutely servile.
He cringed before the illustrious Jesuit.
Father Benwell took no notice of these demonstrations of humility.
“Be seated, my son,” he said.
Mr. Mortleman looked as if he would have preferred going down on his knees, but he yielded, and took a chair.
“I think you have been Mr. Romayne’s companion for a few days, in the hours of recreation?” the priest began.
“Yes, Father.”
“Does he appear to be at all weary of his residence in this house?”
“Oh, far from it!
He feels the benign influence of The Retreat; we have had some delightful hours together.”
“Have you anything to report?”
Mr. Mortleman crossed his hands on his breast and bowed profoundly.
“I have to report of myself, Father, that I have committed the sin of presumption.
I presumed that Mr. Romayne was, like myself, not married.”
“Have I spoken to you on that subject?”
“No, Father.”
“Then you have committed no sin. You have only made an excusable mistake.
How were you led into error?”
“In this way, Father.
Mr. Romayne had been speaking to me of a book which you had been so good as to send to him.
He had been especially interested by the memoir therein contained of the illustrious Englishman, Cardinal Acton.
The degrees by which his Eminence rose to the rank of a Prince of the Church seemed, as I thought, to have aroused in my friend a new sense of vocation.
He asked me if I myself aspired to belong to the holy priesthood.
I answered that this was indeed my aspiration, if I might hope to be found worthy.
He appeared to be deeply affected.
I ventured to ask if he too had the same prospect before him.
He grieved me indescribably.
He sighed and said,
‘I have no such hope; I am married.’
Tell me Father, I entreat you, have I done wrong?”
Father Benwell considered for a moment.
“Did Mr. Romayne say anything more?” he asked.
“No, Father.”
“Did you attempt to return to the subject?”
“I thought it best to be silent.”
Father Benwell held out his hand.
“My young friend, you have not only done no wrong—you have shown the most commendable discretion.
I will detain you no longer from your duties.
Go to Mr. Romayne, and say that I wish to speak with him.”