This dexterous device for entrapping Stella into a private conversation failed.
“Not now, mamma, thank you,” she said.
Father Benwell, on the point of discreetly withdrawing, stopped, and looked at Mrs. Eyrecourt with an appearance of respectful interest.
As things were, it might not have been worth his while to take the trouble of discovering her.
But when she actually placed herself in his way, the chance of turning Mrs. Eyrecourt to useful account was not a chance to be neglected.
“Your mother?” he said to Stella.
“I should feel honored if you will introduce me.”
Having (not very willingly) performed the ceremony of presentation, Stella drew back a little.
She had no desire to take any part in the conversation that might follow—but she had her own reasons for waiting near enough to hear it.
In the meanwhile, Mrs. Eyrecourt turned on her inexhaustible flow of small-talk with her customary facility.
No distinction of persons troubled her; no convictions of any sort stood in her way.
She was equally ready (provided she met him in good society) to make herself agreeable to a Puritan or a Papist.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Father Benwell.
Surely I met you at that delightful evening at the Duke’s?
I mean when we welcomed the Cardinal back from Rome.
Dear old man—if one may speak so familiarly of a Prince of the Church.
How charmingly he bears his new honors. Such patriarchal simplicity, as every one remarked.
Have you seen him lately?”
The idea of the Order to which he belonged feeling any special interest in a Cardinal (except when they made him of some use to them) privately amused Father Benwell.
“How wise the Church was,” he thought, “in inventing a spiritual aristocracy.
Even this fool of a woman is impressed by it.”
His spoken reply was true to his assumed character as one of the inferior clergy.
“Poor priests like me, madam, see but little of Princes of the Church in the houses of Dukes.”
Saying this with the most becoming humility, he turned the talk in a more productive direction, before Mrs. Eyrecourt could proceed with her recollections of “the evening at the Duke’s.”
“Your charming daughter and I have been talking about Clovelly,” he continued.
“I have just been spending a little holiday in that delightful place.
It was a surprise to me, Mrs. Eyrecourt, to see so many really beautiful country seats in the neighborhood.
I was particularly struck—you know it, of course?—by Beaupark House.”
Mrs. Eyrecourt’s little twinging eyes suddenly became still and steady. It was only for a moment.
But that trifling change boded ill for the purpose which the priest had in view.
Even the wits of a fool can be quickened by contact with the world.
For many years Mrs. Eyrecourt had held her place in society, acting under an intensely selfish sense of her own interests, fortified by those cunning instincts which grow best in a barren intellect.
Perfectly unworthy of being trusted with secrets which only concerned other people, this frivolous creature could be the unassailable guardian of secrets which concerned herself.
The instant the priest referred indirectly to Winterfield, by speaking of Beaupark House, her instincts warned her, as if in words:—Be careful for Stella’s sake!
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Eyrecourt.
“I know Beaupark House; but—may I make a confession?” she added, with her sweetest smile.
Father Benwell caught her tone, with his customary tact.
“A confession at a ball is a novelty, even in my experience,” he answered with his sweetest smile.
“How good of you to encourage me!” proceeded Mrs. Eyrecourt.
“No, thank you, I don’t want to sit down.
My confession won’t take long—and I really must give that poor pale daughter of mine a glass of wine.
A student of human nature like you—they say all priests are students of human nature; accustomed of course to be consulted in difficulties, and to hear real confessions—must know that we poor women are sadly subject to whims and caprices.
We can’t resist them as men do; and the dear good men generally make allowances for us.
Well, do you know that place of Mr. Winterfield’s is one of my caprices? Oh, dear, I speak carelessly; I ought to have said the place represents one of my caprices.
In short. Father Benwell, Beaupark House is perfectly odious to me, and I think Clovelly the most overrated place in the world.
I haven’t the least reason to give, but so it is. Excessively foolish of me. It’s like hysterics, I can’t help it; I’m sure you will forgive me.
There isn’t a place on the habitable globe that I am not ready to feel interested in, except detestable Devonshire.
I am so sorry you went there.
The next time you have a holiday, take my advice. Try the Continent.”
“I should like it of all things,” said Father Benwell. “Only I don’t speak French.