"Yes," she proceeded, "these Catholics are all alike.My daughter--I don't mean my sweet Stella; I mean the unnatural creature in the nunnery--sets herself above her own mother.Did Iever tell you she was impudent enough to say she would pray for me? Father Benwell and the Papal Aggression over again! Now tell me, Winterfield, don't you think, taking the circumstances into consideration--that you will act like a thoroughly sensible man if you go back to Devonshire while we are in our present situation? What with foot-warmers in the carriage, and newspapers and magazines to amuse you, it isn't such a very long journey.
And then Beaupark--dear Beaupark--is such a remarkably comfortable house in the winter; and you, you enviable creature, are such a popular man in the neighborhood.Oh, go back! go back!"I got up and took my hat.She patted me on the shoulder.I could have throttled her at that moment.And yet she was right.
"You will make my excuses to Stella?" I said.
"You dear, good fellow, I will do more than make your excuses; Iwill sing your praises--as the poet says." In her ungovernable exultation at having got rid of me, she burst into extravagant language."I feel like a mother to you," she went on, as we shook hands at parting."I declare I could almost let you kiss me."There was not a single kissable place about Mrs.Eyrecourt, unpainted, undyed, or unpowdered.I resisted temptation and opened the door.There was still one last request that I could not help ******.
"Will you let me know," I said, "when you hear from Rome?""With the greatest pleasure," Mrs.Eyrecourt answered, briskly.
"Good-by, you best of friends--good-by."
I write these lines while the servant is packing my portmanteau.
Traveler knows what that means.My dog is glad, at any rate, to get away from London.I think I shall hire a yacht, and try what a voyage round the world will do for me.I wish to God I had never seen Stella!
Second Extract.
Beaupark, February 10.--News at last from Mrs.Eyrecourt.
Romayne has not even read the letter that she addressed to him--it has actually been returned to her by Father Benwell.Mrs.
1yrecourt writes, naturally enough, in a state of fury.Her one consolation, under this insulting treatment, is that her daughter knows nothing of the circumstances.She warns me (quite needlessly) to keep the secret--and sends me a copy of Father Benwell's letter:
"Dear Madam--Mr.Romayne can read nothing that diverts his attention from his preparation for the priesthood, or that recalls past associations with errors which he has renounced forever.When a letter reaches him, it is his wise custom to look at the signature first.He has handed your letter to me, _unread_--with a request that I will return it to you.In his presence, I instantly sealed it up.Neither he nor I know, or wish to know, on what subject you have addressed him.We respectfully advise you not to write again."This is really too bad; but it has one advantage, so far as I am concerned.It sets my own unworthy doubts and jealousies before me in a baser light than ever.How honestly I defended Father Benwell! and how completely he has deceived me! I wonder whether I shall live long enough to see the Jesuit caught in one of his own traps?
11th.--I was disappointed at not hearing from Stella, yesterday.
This morning has made amends; it has brought me a letter from her.
She is not well; and her mother's conduct sadly perplexes her.At one time, Mrs.Eyrecourt's sense of injury urges her to indulge in violent measures--she is eager to place her deserted daughter under the protection of the law; to insist on a restitution of conjugal rights or on a judicial separation.At another time she sinks into a state of abject depression; declares that it is impossible for her, in Stella's deplorable situation, to face society; and recommends immediate retirement to some place on the Contin ent in which they can live cheaply.This latter suggestion Stella is not only ready, but eager, to adopt.She proves it by asking for my advice, in a postscript; no doubt remembering the happy days when I courted her in Paris, and the many foreign friends of mine who called at our hotel.
The postscript gave me the excuse that I wanted.I knew perfectly well that it would be better for me not to see her--and I went to London, for the sole purpose of seeing her, by the first train.
London, February 12.--I found mother and daughter together in the drawing-room.It was one of Mrs.Eyrecourt's days of depression.
Her little twinkling eyes tried to cast on me a look of tragic reproach; she shook her dyed head and said, "Oh.Winterfield, Ididn't think you would have done this!--Stella, fetch me my smelling bottle.
But Stella refused to take the hint.She almost brought the tears into my eyes, she received me so kindly.If her mother had not been in the room--but her mother _was_ in the room; I had no other choice than to enter on my business, as if I had been the family lawyerMrs.Eyrecourt began by reproving Stella for asking my advice, and then assured me that she had no intention of leaving London.
"How am I to get rid of my house?" she asked, irritably enough.Iknew that "her house" (as she called it) was the furnished upper part of a house belonging to another person, and that she could leave it at a short notice.But I said nothing.I addressed myself to Stella.
