Only the other day I met with a man who had suffered the loss of fortune and, worse still, the loss of health.
He endured those afflictions so calmly that he surprised me.
‘What is the secret of your philosophy?’ I asked.
He answered,
‘I can bear anything while I have my wife and my children.’
Think of that, and judge for yourself how much happiness you may have left yet ungathered in your married life.”
(Those words touched Stella’s higher nature, as the dew touches the thirsty ground.
Surely they were nobly spoken!
How would her husband receive them?)
“I must think with your mind, Penrose, before I can do what you ask of me.
Is there any method of transformation by which I can change natures with you?”
That was all he said—and he said it despondingly.
Penrose understood, and felt for him.
“If there is anything in my nature, worthy to be set as an example to you,” he replied, “you know to what blessed influence I owe self-discipline and serenity of mind.
Remember what I said when I left you in London, to go back to my friendless life.
I told you that I found, in the Faith I held, the one sufficient consolation which helped me to bear my lot. And—if there came a time of sorrow in the future—I entreated you to remember what I had said.
Have you remembered it?”
“Look at the book here on my desk—look at the other books, within easy reach, on that table—are you satisfied?”
“More than satisfied.
Tell me—do you feel nearer to an understanding of the Faith to which I have tried to convert you?”
There was a pause.
“Say that I do feel nearer,” Romayne resumed—“say that some of my objections are removed—are you really as eager as ever to make a Catholic of me, now that I am a married man?”
“I am even more eager,” Penrose answered.
“I have always believed that your one sure way to happiness lay through your conversion.
Now, when I know, from what I have seen and heard in this room, that you are not reconciled, as you should be, to your new life, I am doubly confined in my belief.
As God is my witness, I speak sincerely.
Hesitate no longer!
Be converted, and be happy.”
“Have you not forgotten something, Penrose?”
“What have I forgotten?”
“A serious consideration, perhaps. I have a Protestant wife.”
“I have borne that in mind, Romayne, throughout our conversation.”
“And you still say—what you have just said?”
“With my whole heart, I say it!
Be converted, and be happy.
Be happy, and you will be a good husband.
I speak in your wife ‘s interest as well as in yours.
People who are happy in each other’s society, will yield a little on either side, even on questions of religious belief.
And perhaps there may follow a more profitable result still.
So far as I have observed, a good husband’s example is gladly followed by his wife.
Don’t think that I am trying to persuade you against your will!
I am only telling you, in my own justification, from what motives of love for yourself, and of true interest in your welfare, I speak.
You implied just now that you had still some objections left.
If I can remove them—well and good. If I fail—if you cannot act on purely conscientious conviction—I not only advise, I entreat you, to remain as you are. I shall be the first to acknowledge that you have done right.”
(This moderation of tone would appeal irresistibly, as Stella well knew, to her husband’s ready appreciation of those good qualities in others which he did not himself possess.
Once more her suspicion wronged Penrose.
Had he his own interested motives for pleading her cause?
At the bare thought of it, she left her chair and, standing under the window, boldly interrupted the conversation by calling to Romayne.)
“Lewis!” she cried, “why do you stay indoors on this beautiful day?
I am sure Mr. Penrose would like a walk in the grounds.”