Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1147 page)

“Then where is the obstacle?” I exclaimed.

He pointed thro ugh the window to his wife. “There is the obstacle,” he said, in a tone of ironical resignation.

Knowing Arthur’s character as I knew it, I at last understood what had happened. For a moment I felt really angry. Under these circumstances, the wise course was to say nothing, until I could be sure of speaking with exemplary moderation. It doesn’t do for a man in my position to show anger.

Romayne went on.

“We talked of my wife, Father Benwell, the last time you were here. You only knew, then, that her reception of Mr. Winterfield had determined him never to enter my house again. By way of adding to your information on the subject of ‘petticoat government,’ I may now tell you that Mrs. Romayne has forbidden Penrose to proceed with the attempt to convert me. By common consent, the subject is never mentioned between us.” The bitter irony of his tone, thus far, suddenly disappeared. He spoke eagerly and anxiously. “I hope you are not angry with Arthur?” he said.

By this time my little fit of ill-temper was at an end. I answered — and it was really in a certain sense true — ”I know Arthur too well to be angry with him.”

Romayne seemed to be relieved. “I only troubled you with this last domestic incident,” he resumed, “to bespeak your indulgence for Penrose. I am getting learned in the hierarchy of the Church, Father Benwell! You are the superior of my dear little friend, and you exercise authority over him. Oh, he is the kindest and best of men! It is not his fault. He submits to Mrs. Romayne — against his own better conviction — in the honest belief that he consults the interests of our married life.”

I don’t think I misinterpret the state of Romayne’s mind, and mislead you, when I express my belief that this second indiscreet interference of his wife between his friend and himself will produce the very result which she dreads. Mark my words, written after the closest observation of him — this new irritation of Romayne’s sensitive self-respect will hasten his conversion.

You will understand that the one alternative before me, after what has happened, is to fill the place from which Penrose has withdrawn. I abstained from breathing a word of this to Romayne. It is he, if I can manage it, who must invite me to complete the work of conversion — and, besides, nothing can be done until the visit of Penrose has come to an end. Romayne’s secret sense of irritation may be safely left to develop itself, with time to help it.

I changed the conversation to the subject of his literary labours.

The present state of his mind is not favorable to work of that exacting kind. Even with the help of Penrose to encourage him, he does not get on to his satisfaction — and yet, as I could plainly perceive, the ambition to make a name in the world exercises a stronger influence over him than ever. All in our favor, my reverend friend — all in our favor!

I took the liberty of asking to see Penrose alone for a moment; and, this request granted, Romayne and I parted cordially. I can make most people like me, when I choose to try. The master of Vange Abbey is no exception to the rule. Did I tell you, by-the-by, that the property has a little declined of late in value? It is now not worth more than six thousand a year.
We
will improve it when it returns to the Church.

My interview with Penrose was over in two minutes. Dispensing with formality, I took his arm, and led him into the front garden.

“I have heard all about it,” I said; “and I must not deny that you have disappointed me. But I know your disposition, and I make allowances. You have qualities, dear Arthur, which perhaps put you a little out of place among us. I shall be obliged to report what you have done — but you may trust me to put it favorably. Shake hands, my son, and, while we are still together, let us be as good friends as ever.”

You may think that I spoke in this way with a view to my indulgent language being repeated to Romayne, and so improving the position which I have already gained in his estimation. Do you know, I really believe I meant it at the time! The poor fellow gratefully kissed my hand when I offered it to him — he was not able to speak. I wonder whether I am weak about Arthur? Say a kind word for him, when his conduct comes under notice — but pray don’t mention this little frailty of mine; and don’t suppose I have any sympathy with his weak-minded submission to Mrs. Romayne’s prejudices. If I ever felt the smallest consideration for
her
(and I cannot call to mind any amiable emotion of that sort), her letter to Winterfield would have effectually extinguished it. There is something quite revolting to me in a deceitful woman.

In closing this letter, I may quiet the minds of our reverend brethren, if I assure them that my former objection to associating myself directly with the conversion of Romayne no longer exists.

Yes! even at my age, and with my habits, I am now resigned to hearing, and confuting, the trivial arguments of a man who is young enough to be my son. I shall write a carefully-guarded letter to Romayne, on the departure of Penrose; and I shall send him a book to read, from the influence of which I expect gratifying results. It is not a controversial work (Arthur has been beforehand with me there) — it is Wiseman’s “Recollections of the Popes.” I look to that essentially readable book to excite Romayne’s imagination, by vivid descriptions of the splendors of the Church, and the vast influence and power of the higher priesthood. Does this sudden enthusiasm of mine surprise you? And are you altogether at a loss to know what it means?

It means, my friend, that I see our position toward Romayne in a new light. Forgive me, if I say no more for the present. I prefer to be silent, until my audacity is justified by events.

    
* Father Benwell’s experience had, in this case, not misled

    
him. If Stella had remained unmarried, Winterfield might have

    
justified himself. But he was honourably unwilling to disturb her

    
relations with her husband, by satisfying her that he had never

    
been unworthy of the affection which had once united them.

CHAPTER V.

BERNARD WINTERFIELD’S CORRESPONDENCE.

I.

From Mrs. Romayne to Mr. Winterfield.

HAS my letter failed to reach you? I directed it (as I direct this) to Beaupark, not knowing your London address.

Yesterday, Father Benwell called at Ten Acres Lodge. He first saw my mother and myself and he contrived to mention your name. It was done with his usual adroitness, and I might perhaps have passed it over if he had not looked at me. I hope and pray it may be only my fancy — but I thought I saw, in his eyes, that he was conscious of having me in his power, and that he might betray me to my husband at any moment.

I have no sort of claim on you. And, Heaven knows, I have little reason to trust you. But I thought you meant fairly by me when we spoke together at this house. In that belief, I entreat you to tell me if Father Benwell has intruded himself into your confidence — or even if you have hinted anything to him which gives him a hold over me.

II.

From Mr. Winterfield to Mrs. Romayne.

Both your letters have reached me.

I have good reason for believing that you are entirely mistaken in your estimate of Father Benwell’s character. But I know, by sad experience, how you hold to your opinions when they are once formed; and I am eager to relieve you of all anxiety, so far as I am concerned. I have not said one word — I have not even let slip the slightest hint — which could inform Father Benwell of that past event in our lives to which your letter alludes. Your secret is a sacred secret to me; and it has been, and shall be, sacredly kept.

There is a sentence in your letter which has given me great pain. You reiterate the cruel language of the bygone time. You say, “Heaven knows I have little reason to trust you.”

I have reasons, on my side, for not justifying myself — except under certain conditions. I mean under conditions which might place me in a position to serve and advise you as a friend or brother. In that case, I undertake to prove, even to you, that it was a cruel injustice ever to have doubted me, and that there is no man living whom you can more implicitly trust than myself.

My address, when I am in London, is at the head of this page.

III.

From Dr. Wybrow to Mr. Winterfield.

Dear Sir — I have received your letter, mentioning that you wish to accompany me, at my next visit to the asylum, to see the French boy, so strangely associated with the papers delivered to you by Father Benwell.

Your proposal reaches me too late. The poor creature’s troubled life has come to an end. He never rallied from the exhausting effect of the fever. To the last he was attended by his mother.

I write with true sympathy for that excellent lady — but I cannot conceal from you or from myself that this death is not to be regretted. In a case of the same extraordinary kind, recorded in print, the patient recovered from the fever, and his insanity returned with his returning health.

Faithfully yours, JOSEPH WYBROW.

CHAPTER VI.

THE SADDEST OF ALL WORDS.

ON the tenth morning, dating from the dispatch of Father Benwell’s last letter to Rome, Penrose was writing in the study at Ten Acres Lodge, while Romayne sat at the other end of the room, looking listlessly at a blank sheet of paper, with the pen lying idle beside it. On a sudden he rose, and, snatching up paper and pen, threw them irritably into the fire.

“Don’t trouble yourself to write any longer,” he said to Penrose. “My dream is over. Throw my manuscripts into the waste paper basket, and never speak to me of literary work again.”

“Every man devoted to literature has these fits of despondency,” Penrose answered. “Don’t think of your work. Send for your horse, and trust to fresh air and exercise to relieve your mind.”

Romayne barely listened. He turned round at the fireplace and studied the reflection of his face in the glass.

“I look worse and worse,” he said thoughtfully to himself.

It was true. His flesh had fallen away; his face had withered and whitened; he stooped like an old man. The change for the worse had been steadily proceeding from the time when he left Vange Abbey.

“It’s useless to conceal it from me!” he burst out, turning toward Penrose. “I believe I am in some way answerable — though you all deny it — for the French boy’s death. Why not? His voice is still in my ears, and the stain of his brother’s blood is on me. I am under a spell! Do you believe in the witches — the merciless old women who made wax images of the people who injured them, and stuck pins in their mock likenesses, to register the slow wasting away of their victims day after day? People disbelieve it in these times, but it has never been disproved.” He stopped, looked at Penrose, and suddenly changed his tone. “Arthur! what is the matter with you? Have you had a bad night? Has anything happened?”

For the first time in Romayne’s experience of him, Penrose answered evasively.

“Is there nothing to make me anxious,” he said, “when I hear you talk as you are talking now? The poor French boy died of a fever. Must I remind you again that he owed the happiest days of his life to you and your good wife?”

Romayne still looked at him without attending to what he said.

“Surely you don’t think I am deceiving you?” Penrose remonstrated.

“No; I was thinking of something else. I was wondering whether I really know you as well as I thought I did. Am I mistaken in supposing that you are not an ambitious man?”

“My only ambition is to lead a worthy life, and to be as useful to my fellow-creatures as I can. Does that satisfy you?”

Romayne hesitated. “It seems strange — ” he began.

“What seems strange?”