Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1149 page)

A son-in-law may make a request, and a mother-in-law may decline to comply. Mrs. Eyrecourt declined to comply.

“No, Romayne, it won’t do. I may lament your unhappy temper, for my daughter’s sake — but I know what I am about, and you can’t provoke me. Our reverend friend and I understand each other. He will make allowances for a sensitive woman, who has had sad experience of conversions in her own household. My eldest daughter, Father Benwell — a poor foolish creature — was converted into a nunnery. The last time I saw her (she used to be sweetly pretty; my dear husband quite adored her) — the last time I saw her she had a red nose, and, what is even more revolting at her age, a double chin. She received me with her lips pursed up, and her eyes on the ground, and she was insolent enough to say that she would pray for me. I am not a furious old man with a long white beard, and I don’t curse my daughter and rush out into a thunderstorm afterward — but
I
know what King Lear felt, and
I
have struggled with hysterics just as he did. With your wonderful insight into human nature, I am sure you will sympathize with and forgive me. Mr. Penrose, as my daughter tells me, behaved in the most gentleman-like manner. I make the same appeal to your kind forbearance. The bare prospect of our dear friend here becoming a Catholic — ”

Romayne’s temper gave way once more.

“If anything can make me a Catholic,” he said, “your interference will do it.”

“Out of sheer perversity, dear Romayne?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Eyrecourt. If I became a Catholic, I might escape from the society of ladies, in the refuge of a monastery.”

Mrs. Eyrecourt hit him back again with the readiest dexterity.

“Remain a Protestant, my dear, and go to your club. There is a refuge for you from the ladies — a monastery, with nice little dinners, and all the newspapers and periodicals.” Having launched this shaft, she got up, and recovered her easy courtesy of look and manner. “I am so much obliged to you, Father Benwell. I have not offended you, I hope and trust?”

“You have done me a service, dear Mrs. Eyrecourt. But for your salutory caution, I
might
have drifted into controversial subjects. I shall be on my guard now.”

“How very good of you! We shall meet again, I hope, under more agreeable circumstances. After that polite allusion to a monastery, I understand that my visit to my son-in-law may as well come to an end. Please don’t forget five o’clock tea at my house.”

As she approached the door, it was opened from the outer side. Her daughter met her half-way. “Why are you here, mamma?” Stella asked.

“Why, indeed, my love! You had better leave the room with me. Our amiable Romayne’s present idea is to relieve himself of our society by retiring to a monastery. Don’t you see Father Benwell?”

Stella coldly returned the priest’s bow — and looked at Romayne. 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, I don’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. I expect 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 honour of calling on You,” he said. “I am 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.”

CHAPTER VIII.

FATHER BENWELL’S CORRESPONDENCE

To the Secretary, S. J., Rome.

I.

I BEG to acknowledge the receipt of your letter. You mention that our Reverend Fathers are discouraged at not having heard from me for more than six weeks, since I reported the little dinner given to Romayne at my lodgings.

I am sorry for this, and more than sorry to hear that my venerated brethren are beginning to despair of Romayne’s conversion. Grant me a delay of another week — and, if the prospects of the conversion have not sensibly improved in that time, I will confess myself defeated. Meanwhile, I bow to superior wisdom, without venturing to add a word in my own defense.

II.

The week’s grace granted to me has elapsed. I write with humility. At the same time I have something to say for myself.

Yesterday, Mr. Lewis Romayne, of Vange Abbey, was received into the community of the Holy Catholic Church. I inclose an accurate newspaper report of the ceremonies which attended the conversion.

Be pleased to inform me, by telegraph, whether our Reverend Fathers wish me to go on, or not.

BOOK THE FIFTH.

CHAPTER I.

MRS. EYRECO URT’S DISCOVERY.

THE leaves had fallen in the grounds at Ten Acres Lodge, and stormy winds told drearily that winter had come.

An unchanging dullness pervaded the house. Romayne was constantly absent in London, attending to his new religious duties under the guidance of Father Benwell. The litter of books and manuscripts in the study was seen no more. Hideously rigid order reigned in the unused room. Some of Romayne’s papers had been burned; others were imprisoned in drawers and cupboards — the history of the Origin of Religions had taken its melancholy place among the suspended literary enterprises of the time. Mrs. Eyrecourt (after a superficially cordial reconciliation with her son-in-law) visited her daughter every now and then, as an act of maternal sacrifice. She yawned perpetually; she read innumerable novels; she corresponded with her friends. In the long dull evenings, the once-lively lady sometimes openly regretted that she had not been born a man — with the three masculine resources of smoking, drinking, and swearing placed at her disposal. It was a dreary existence, and happier influences seemed but little likely to change it. Grateful as she was to her mother, no persuasion would induce Stella to leave Ten Acres and amuse herself in London. Mrs. Eyrecourt said, with melancholy and metaphorical truth, “There is no elasticity left in my child.”

On a dim gray morning, mother and daughter sat by the fireside, with another long day before them.

“Where is that contemptible husband of yours?” Mrs. Eyrecourt asked, looking up from her book.

“Lewis is staying in town,” Stella answered listlessly.

“In company with Judas Iscariot?”

Stella was too dull to immediately understand the allusion. “Do you mean Father Benwell?” she inquired.

“Don’t mention his name, my dear. I have re-christened him on purpose to avoid it. Even his name humiliates me. How completely the fawning old wretch took me in — with all my knowledge of the world, too! He was so nice and sympathetic — such a comforting contrast, on that occasion, to you and your husband — I declare I forgot every reason I had for not trusting him. Ah, we women are poor creatures — we may own it among ourselves. If a man only has nice manners and a pleasant voice, how many of us can resist him? Even Romayne imposed upon me — assisted by his property, which in some degree excuses my folly. There is nothing to be done now, Stella, but to humour him. Do as that detestable priest does, and trust to your beauty (there isn’t as much of it left as I could wish) to turn the scale in your favor. Have you any idea when the new convert will come back? I heard him ordering a fish dinner for himself, yesterday — because it was Friday. Did you join him at dessert-time, profanely supported by meat? What did he say?”

“What he has said more than once already, mama. His peace of mind is returning, thanks to Father Benwell. He was perfectly gentle and indulgent — but he looked as if he lived in a different world from mine. He told me he proposed to pass a week in, what he called, Retreat. I didn’t ask him what it meant. Whatever it is, I suppose he is there now.”

“My dear, don’t you remember your sister began in the same way?
She
retreated. We shall have Romayne with a red nose and a double chin, offering to pray for us next! Do you recollect that French maid of mine — the woman I sent away, because she would spit, when she was out of temper, like a cat? I begin to think I treated the poor creature harshly. When I hear of Romayne and his Retreat, I almost feel inclined to spit, myself. There! let us go on with your reading. Take the first volume — I have done with it.”