She felt a vague forewarning of what had happened.Mrs.Eyrecourt proceeded to enlighten her, as an appropriate expression of gratitude."We are indeed indebted to Father Benwell, my dear.He has been most considerate and kind--"Romayne interrupted her without ceremony."Favor me," he said, addressing his wife, "by inducing Mrs.Eyrecourt to continue her narrative in some other room."Stella was hardly conscious of what her mother or her husband had said.She felt that the priest's eyes were on her.Under any other circumstances, Father Benwell's good breeding and knowledge of the world would have impelled him to take his departure.As things were, he knew perfectly well that the more seriously Romayne was annoyed, in his presence, the better his own private interests would be served.Accordingly, he stood apart, silently observant of Stella.In spite of Winterfield's reassuring reply to her letter, Stella instinctively suspected and dreaded the Jesuit.Under the spell of those watchful eyes she trembled inwardly; her customary tact deserted her; she made an indirect apology to the man whom she hated and feared.
"Whatever my mother may have said to you, Father Benwell, has been without my knowledge."Romayne attempted to speak, but Father Benwell was too quick for him.
"Dear Mrs.Romayne, nothing has been said which needs any disclaimer on your part.""I should think not!" Mrs.Eyrecourt added."Really, Stella, Idon't understand you.Why may I not say to Father Benwell what you said to Mr.Penrose? You trusted Mr.Penrose as your friend.
I can tell you this--I am quite sure you may trust Father Benwell."Once more Romayne attempted to speak.And, once more, Father Benwell was beforehand with him.
"May I hope," said the priest, with a finely ironical smile, "that Mrs.Romayne agrees with her excellent mother?"With all her fear of him, the exasperating influence of his tone and his look was more than Stella could endure.Before she could restrain them, the rash words flew out of her lips.
"I am not sufficiently well acquainted with you, Father Benwell, to express an opinion."With that answer, she took her mother's arm and left the room.
The moment they were alone, Romayne turned to the priest, trembling with anger.Father Benwell, smiling indulgently at the lady's little outbreak, took him by the hand, with peace-making intentions, "Now don't--pray don't excite yourself!"Romayne was not to be pacified in that way.His anger was trebly intensified by the long-continued strain on his nerves of the effort to control himself.
"I must, and will, speak out at last!" he said."Father Benwell, the ladies of my household have inexcusably presumed on the consideration which is due to women.No words can say how ashamed I am of what has happened.I can only appeal to your admirable moderation and patience to accept my apologies, and the most sincere expression of my regret.""No more, Mr.Romayne! As a favor to Me, I beg and entreat you will say no more.Sit down and compose yourself."But Romayne was impenetrable to the influence of friendly and forgiving demonstrations."I can never expect you to enter my house again!" he exclaimed.
"My dear sir, I will come and see you again, with the greatest pleasure, on any day that you may appoint--the earlier day the better.Come! come! let us laugh.I don't say it disrespectfully, but poor dear Mrs.Eyrecourt has been more amusing than ever.Iexpect to see our excellent Archbishop to-morrow, and I must really tell him how the good lady felt insulted when her Catholic daughter offered to pray for her.There is hardly anything more humorous, even in Moliere.And the double chin, and the red nose--all the fault of those dreadful Papists.Oh, dear me, you still take it seriously.How I wish you had my sense of humor!
When shall I come again, and tell you how the Archbishop likes the story of the nun's mother?"He held out his hand with irresistible cordiality.Romayne took it gratefully--still bent, however, on making atonement.
"Let me first do myself the honor of calling on You," he said."Iam in no state to open my mind--as I might have wished to open it to you--after what has happened.In a day or two more--""Say the day after to-morrow," Father Benwell hospitably suggested."Do me a great favor.Come and eat your bit of mutton at my lodgings.Six o'clock, if you like--and some remarkably good claret, a present from one of the Faithful.You will? That's hearty! And do promise me to think no more of our little domestic comedy.Relieve your mind.Look at Wiseman's 'Recollections of the Popes.' Good-by--God bless you!"The servant who opened the house door for Father Benwell was agreeably surprised by the Papist's cheerfulness."He isn't half a bad fellow," the man announced among his colleagues."Give me half-a-crown, and went out humming a tune."
