July 10.--A letter has arrived from London, addressed to Stella by Romayne's English lawyers. The income which Mrs. Romayne has refused for herself is to be legally settled on her child. Technical particulars follow, which it is needless to repeat here.
By return of post, Stella has answered the lawyers, declaring that, so long as she lives, and has any influence over her son, he shall not touch the offered income. Mrs. Eyrecourt, Monsieur and Madame Villeray--and even Matilda--entreated her not to send the letter. To my thinking, Stella acted with becoming spirit. Though there is no entail, still Vange Abbey is morally the boy's birthright--it is a cruel wrong to offer him anything else.
July 11.--For the second time I have proposed to leave St. Germain. The presence of the third person, whenever I am in her company, is becoming unendurable to me. She still uses her influence to defer my departure. "Nobody sympathizes with me," she said, "but you."
I am failing to keep my promise to myself, not to write about myself. But there is some little excuse this time. For the relief of my own conscience, I may surely place it on record that I have tried to do what is right. It is not my fault if I remain at St. Germain, insensible to Madame Villeray's warning.
Ninth Extract.
September 13.--Terrible news from Rome of the Jesuit Mission to Arizona.
The Indians have made a night attack on the new mission-house. The building is burned to the ground, and the missionaries have been massacred--with the exception of two priests, carried away captive. The names of the priests are not known. News of the atrocity has been delayed four months on its way to Europe, owing partly to the civil war in the United States, and partly to disturbances in Central America.
Looking at the Times (which we receive regularly at St. Germain), I found this statement confirmed in a short paragraph--but here also the names of the two prisoners failed to appear.
Our one present hope of getting any further information seems to me to depend on our English newspaper. The Times stands alone as the one public journal which has the whole English nation for volunteer contributors. In their troubles at home, they appeal to the Editor. In their travels abroad, over civilized and savage regions alike, if they meet with an adventure worth mentioning they tell it to the Editor. If any one of our countrymen knows anything of this dreadful massacre, I foresee with certainty where we shall find the information in print.
Soon after my arrival here, Stella had told me of her memorable conversation with Penrose in the garden at Ten Acres Lodge. I was well acquainted with the nature of her obligation to the young priest, but I was not prepared for the outbreak of grief which escaped her when she had read the telegram from Rome. She actually went the length of saying, "I shall never enjoy another happy moment till I know whether Penrose is one of the two living priests!"
The inevitable third person with us, this morning, was Monsieur Villeray. Sitting at the window with a book in his hand--sometimes reading, sometimes looking at the garden with the eye of a fond horticulturist--he discovered a strange cat among his flower beds. Forgetful of every other consideration, the old gentleman hobbled out to drive away the intruder, and left us together.
I spoke to Stella, in words which I would now give everything I possess to recall. A detestable jealousy took possession of me. I meanly hinted that Penrose could claim no great merit (in the matter of Romayne's conversion) for yielding to the entreaties of a beautiful woman who had fascinated him, though he might be afraid to own it. She protested against my unworthy insinuation--but she failed to make me ashamed of myself. Is a woman ever ignorant of the influence which her beauty exercises over a man? I went on, like the miserable creature that I was, from bad to worse.
"Excuse me," I said, "if I have unintentionally made you angry. I ought to have known that I was treading on delicate ground. Your interest in Penrose may be due to a warmer motive than a sense of obligation."
She turned away from me--sa dly, not angrily--intending, as it appeared, to leave the room in silence. Arrived at the door, she altered her mind, and came back.
"Even if you insult me, Bernard, I am not able to resent it," she said, very gently. I once wronged you--I have no right to complain of your now wronging me. I will try to forget it."
She held out her hand. She raised her eyes--and looked at me.
It was not her fault; I alone am to blame. In another moment she was in my arms. I held her to my breast--I felt the quick beating of her heart on me--I poured out the wild confession of my sorrow, my shame, my love--I tasted again and again and again the sweetness of her lips. She put her arms round my neck and drew her head back with a long sigh. "Be merciful to my weakness," she whispered. "We must meet no more."
She pushed me back from her, with a trembling hand, and left the room.
I have broken my resolution not to write about myself--but there is no egotism, there is a sincere sense of humiliation in me, when I record this confession of misconduct. I can make but one atonement--I must at once leave St. Germain. Now, when it is too late, I feel how hard for me this life of constant repression has been.
Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a little note, addressed in pencil. No answer was required.
The few lines were in Stella's handwriting: "You must not leave us too suddenly, or you may excite my mother's suspicions. Wait until you receive letters from England, and make them the pretext for your departure.--S."
I never thought of her mother. She is right. Even if she were wrong, I must obey her.
September 14.--The letters from England have arrived. One of them presents me with the necessary excuse for my departure, ready made. My proposal for the purchase of the yacht is accepted. The sailing-master and crew have refused all offers of engagement, and are waiting at Cowes for my orders. Here is an absolute necessity for my return to England.
The newspaper arrived with the letters. My anticipations have been realized. Yesterday's paragraph has produced another volunteer contributor. An Englishman just returned from Central America, after traveling in Arizona, writes to the Times. He publishes his name and address--and he declares that he has himself seen the two captive priests.
The name of this correspondent carries its own guarantee with it. He is no less a person than Mr. Murthwaite--the well-known traveler in India, who discovered the lost diamond called "the Moonstone," set in the forehead of a Hindoo idol. He writes to the editor as follows:
"Sir--I can tell you something of the two Jesuit priests who were the sole survivors of the massacre in the Santa Cruz Valley four months since.
"I was traveling at the time in Arizona, under the protection of an Apache chief, bribed to show me his country and his nation (instead of cutting my throat and tearing off my scalp) by a present tribute of whisky and gunpowder, and by the promise of more when our association came to an end.