I should be ashamed to make the confession to any one but you.
It is useless to say any more.
Good-night.”
Lady Loring allowed her to get as far as the door, and then suddenly called her back.
Stella returned unwillingly and wearily.
“My head aches and my heart aches,” she said.
“Let me go away to my bed.”
“I don’t like you to go away, wronging Romayne perhaps in your thoughts,” said Lady Loring.
“And, more than that, for the sake of your own happiness, you ought to judge for yourself if this devoted love of yours may ever hope to win its reward.
It is time, and more than time, that you should decide whether it is good for you to see Romayne again.
Have you courage enough to do that?”
“Yes—if I am convinced that it ought to be done.”
“Nothing would make me so happy,” Lady Loring resumed, “as to know that you were one day, my dear, to be his wife. But I am not a prudent person—I can never look, as you can, to consequences.
You won’t betray me, Stella?
If I am doing wrong in telling a secret which has been trusted to me, it is my fondness for you that misleads me.
Sit down again.
You shall know what the misery of Romayne’s life really is.”
With those words, she told the terrible story of the duel, and of all that had followed it.
“It is for you to say,” she concluded, “whether Romayne is right.
Can any woman hope to release him from the torment that he suffers, with nothing to help her but love?
Determine for yourself.”
Stella answered instantly.
“I determine to be his wife!”
With the same pure enthusiasm, Penrose had declared that he too devoted himself to the deliverance of Romayne.
The loving woman was not more resolved to give her whole life to him, than the fanatical man was resolved to convert him.
On the same common battle-ground the two were now to meet in unconscious antagonism.
Would the priest or the woman win the day?
CHAPTER IX. THE PUBLIC AND THE PICTURES.
ON the memorable Monday, when the picture gallery was opened to the public for the first time, Lord Loring and Father Benwell met in the library.
“Judging by the number of carriages already at the door,” said Father Benwell, “your lordship’s kindness is largely appreciated by the lovers of Art.”
“All the tickets were disposed of in three hours,” Lord Loring answered.
“Everybody (the librarians tell me) is eager to see the pictures.
Have you looked in yet?”
“Not yet.
I thought I would get on first with my work among the books.”
“I have just come from the gallery,” Lord Loring continued.
“And here I am, driven out of it again by the remarks of some of the visitors.
You know my beautiful copies of Raphael’s Cupid and Psyche designs?
The general impression, especially among the ladies, is that they are disgusting and indecent.
That was enough for me.
If you happen to meet Lady Loring and Stella, kindly tell them that I have gone to the club.”
“Do the ladies propose paying a visit to the gallery?”
“Of course—to see the people!
I have recommended them to wait until they are ready to go out for their drive.
In their indoor costume they might become the objects of general observation as the ladies of the house.
I shall be anxious to hear, Father, if you can discover the civilizing influences of Art among my guests in the gallery.
Good-morning.”
Father Benwell rang the bell when Lord Loring had left him.
“Do the ladies drive out to-day at their usual hour?” he inquired, when the servant appeared.
The man answered in the affirmative.