The Church, I know, exalts the single life to the highest place. But even the Church allows exceptions to its rule. Under this roof, for example, I think I see two exceptions. One of them my unfeigned respect" (he bowed to Miss Notman) "forbids me to indicate more particularly. The other seems, to my humble view, to be the young lady of whom we have been speaking. Is it not strange that Miss Eyrecourt has never been married?"
The trap had been elaborately set; Father Benwell had every reason to anticipate that Miss Notman would walk into it. The disconcerting housekeeper walked up to it--and then proved unable to advance a step further.
"I once made the same remark myself to Lady Loring," she said.
Father Benwell's pulse began to quicken its beat. "Yes?" he murmured, in tones of the gentlest encouragement.
"And her ladyship," Miss Notman proceeded, "did not encourage me to go on. 'There are reasons for not pursuing that subject,' she said; 'reasons into which, I am sure, you will not expect me to enter.' She spoke with a flattering confidence in my prudence, which I felt gratefully. Such a contrast to her tone when the omelet presented itself in the order of the dishes! As I said just now I am not a married woman. But if I proposed to my husband to give him an oyster-omelet after his puddings and his pies, I should not be surprised if he said to me, 'My dear, have you taken leave of your senses?' I reminded Lady Loring (most respectfully) that a cheese-omelette might be in its proper place if it followed the sweets. 'An oyster-omelet,' I suggested, 'surely comes after the birds?' I should be sorry to say that her ladyship lost her temper--I will only mention that I kept mine. Let me repeat what she said, and leave you, Father, to draw your own conclusions. She said, 'Which of us is mistress in this house, Miss Notman? I order the oyster-omelet to come in with the cheese.' There was not only irritability, there was contempt--oh, yes! contempt in her tone. Out of respect for myself, I made no reply. As a Christian, I can forgive; as a wounded gentlewoman, I may not find it so easy to forget."
Miss Notman laid herself back in her easy chair--she looked as if she had suffered martyrdom, and only regretted having been obliged to mention it. Father Benwell surprised the wounded gentlewoman by rising to his feet.
"You are not going away already, Father?"
"Time flies fast in your society, dear Miss Notman. I have an engagement--and I am late for it already."
The housekeeper smiled sadly. "At least let me hear that you don't disapprove of my conduct under trying circumstances," she said.
Father Benwell took her hand. "A true Christian only feels offenses to pardon them," he remarked, in his priestly and paternal character. "You have shown me, Miss Notman, that you are a true Christian. My evening has indeed been well spent. God bless you!"
He pressed her hand; he shed on her the light of his fatherly smile; he sighed, and took his leave. Miss Notman's eyes followed him out with devotional admiration.
Father Benwell still preserved his serenity of temper when he was out of the housekeeper's sight. One important discovery he had made, in spite of the difficulties placed in his way. A compromising circumstance had unquestionably occurred in Stella's past life; and, in all probability, a man was in some way connected with it. "My evening has not been entirely thrown away," he thought, as he ascended the stairs which led from the housekeeper's room to the hall.
CHAPTER VII.
THE INFLUENCE OF STELLA.
ENTERING the hall, Father Benwell heard a knock at the house door. The servants appeared to recognize the knock--the porter admitted Lord Loring.
Father Benwell advanced and made his bow. It was a perfect obeisance of its kind--respect for Lord Loring, unobtrusively accompanied by respect for himself. "Has your lordship been walking in the park?" he inquired.
"I have been out on business," Lord Loring answered; "and I should like to tell you about it. If you can spare me a few minutes, come into the library. Some time since," he resumed, when the door was closed, "I think I mentioned that my friends had been speaking to me on a subject of some importance--the subject of opening my picture gallery occasionally to the public."
"I remember," said Father Benwell. "Has your lordship decided what to do?"
"Yes. I have decided (as the phrase is) to 'go with the times,' and follow the example of other owners of picture g alleries. Don't suppose I ever doubted that it is my duty to extend, to the best of my ability, the civilizing influences of Art. My only hesitation in the matter arose from a dread of some accident happening, or some injury being done, to the pictures. Even now, I can only persuade myself to try the experiment under certain restrictions."
"A wise decision, undoubtedly," said Father Benwell. "In such a city as this, you could hardly open your gallery to anybody who happens to pass the house-door."
"I am glad you agree with me, Father. The gallery will be open for the first time on Monday. Any respectably-dressed person, presenting a visiting card at the offices of the librarians in Bond Street and Regent Street, will receive a free ticket of admission; the number of tickets, it is needless to say, being limited, and the gallery being only open to the public two days in the week. You will be here, I suppose, on Monday?"
"Certainly. My work in the library, as your lordship can see, has only begun."
"I am very anxious about the success of this experiment," said Lord Loring. "Do look in at the gallery once or twice in the course of the day, and tell me what your own impression is."
Having expressed his readiness to assist "the experiment" in every possible way, Father Benwell still lingered in the library. He was secretly conscious of a hope that he might, at the eleventh hour, be invited to join Romayne at the dinner-table. Lord Loring only looked at the clock on the mantel-piece: it was nearly time to dress for dinner. The priest had no alternative but to take the hint, and leave the house.
Five minutes after he had withdrawn, a messenger delivered a letter for Lord Loring, in which Father Benwell's interests were directly involved. The letter was from Romayne; it contained his excuses for breaking his engagement, literally at an hour's notice.
"Only yesterday," he wrote, "I had a return of what you, my dear friend, call 'the delusion of the voice.' The nearer the hour of your dinner approaches, the more keenly I fear that the same thing may happen in your house. Pity me, and forgive me."
Even good-natured Lord Loring felt some difficulty in pitying and forgiving, when he read these lines. "This sort of caprice might be excusable in a woman," he thought. "A man ought really to be capable of exercising some self-control. Poor Stella! And what will my wife say?"
He walked up and down the library, with Stella's disappointment and Lady Loring's indignation prophetically present in his mind. There was, however, no help for it--he must accept his responsibility, and be the bearer of the bad news.