She has not only never regretted entering the convent—she is so happily absorbed in her religious duties that she has not the slightest wish to see her mother or me.
My mother’s patience was soon worn out.
The last time I went to the convent, I went by myself.
I shall never go there again.
She could not conceal her sense of relief when I took my leave of her.
I need say no more.
Arguments are thrown away on me, Mr. Penrose, after what I have seen and felt.
I have no right to expect that the consideration of my happiness will influence you—but I may perhaps ask you, as a gentleman, to tell me the truth.
Do you come here with the purpose of converting my husband?”
Penrose owned the truth, without an instant’s hesitation.
“I cannot take your view of your sister’s pious devotion of herself to a religious life,” he said. “But I can, and will, answer you truly. From the time when I first knew him, my dearest object has been to convert your husband to the Catholic Faith.”
Stella drew back from him, as if he had stung her, and clasped her hands in silent despair.
“But I am bound as a Christian,” he went on, “to do to others as I would they should do to me.”
She turned on him suddenly, her beautiful face radiant with hope, her hand trembling as it caught him by the arm.
“Speak plainly!” she cried.
He obeyed her to the letter.
“The happiness of my friend’s wife, Mrs. Romayne, is sacred to me for his sake.
Be the good angel of your husband’s life.
I abandon the purpose of converting him.”
He lifted her hand from his arm and raised it respectfully to his lips.
Then, when he had bound himself by a promise that was sacred to him, the terrible influence of the priesthood shook even that brave and lofty soul.
He said to himself, as he left her,
“God forgive me if I have done wrong!”
CHAPTER III. WINTERFIELD RETURNS.
TWICE Father Benwell called at Derwent’s Hotel, and twice he was informed that no news had been received there of Mr. Winterfield.
At the third attempt, his constancy was rewarded.
Mr. Winterfield had written, and was expected to arrive at the hotel by five o’clock.
It was then half-past four.
Father Benwell decided to await the return of his friend.
He was as anxious to deliver the papers which the proprietor of the asylum had confided to him, as if he had never broken a seal or used a counterfeit to hide the betrayal of a trust.
The re-sealed packet was safe in the pocket of his long black frockcoat.
His own future proceedings depended, in some degree, on the course which Winterfield might take, when he had read the confession of the unhappy woman who had once been his wife.
Would he show the letter to Stella, at a private interview, as an unanswerable proof that she had cruelly wronged him?
And would it in this case be desirable—if the thing could be done—so to handle circumstances as that Romayne might be present, unseen, and might discover the truth for himself?
In the other event—that is to say, if Winterfield abstained from communicating the confession to Stella—the responsibility of making the necessary disclosure must remain with the priest.
Father Benwell walked softly up and down the room, looking about him with quietly-observant eye.
A side table in a corner was covered with letters, waiting Winterfield’s return.
Always ready for information of any sort, he even looked at the addresses on the letters.
The handwritings presented the customary variety of character.
All but three of the envelopes showed the London district postmarks.
Two of the other letters (addressed to Winterfield at his club) bore foreign postmarks; and one, as the altered direction showed, had been forward from Beaupark House to the hotel.
This last letter especially attracted the priest’s attention.
The address was apparently in a woman’s handwriting. And it was worthy of remark that she appeared to be the only person among Winterfield’s correspondents who was not acquainted with the address of his hotel or of his club.
Who could the person be?
The subtly inquiring intellect of Father Benwell amused itself by speculating even on such a trifling problem as this.
He little thought that he had a personal interest in the letter.
The envelope contained Stella’s warning to Winterfield to distrust no less a person than Father Benwell himself!
It was nearly half-past five before quick footsteps were audible outside.
Winterfield entered the room.
“This is friendly indeed!” he said.