The Black Robe

W >> Wilkie Collins >> The Black Robe


"There is almost another tie between us," she said. "We have your name
in France--it speaks with a familiar sound to me in this strange place.
Dear Miss Stella, when my poor boy startled you by that cry for food, he
recalled to me the saddest of all my anxieties. When I think of him, I
should be tempted if my better sense did not restrain me--No! no!
put back the pocketbook. I am incapable of the shameless audacity of
borrowing a sum of money which I could never repay. Let me tell you what
my trouble is, and you will understand that I am in earnest. I had two
sons, Miss Stella. The elder--the most lovable, the most affectionate of
my children--was killed in a duel."

The sudden disclosure drew a cry of sympathy from Stella, which she was
not mistress enough of herself to repress. Now for the first time she
understood the remorse that tortured Romayne, as she had not understood
it when Lady Loring had told her the terrible story of the duel.
Attributing the effect produced on her to the sensitive nature of a
young woman, Madame Marillac innocently added to Stella's distress by
making excuses.

"I am sorry to have frightened you, my dear," she said. "In your happy
country such a dreadful death as my son's is unknown. I am obliged
to mention it, or you might not understand what I have still to say.
Perhaps I had better not go on?"

Stella roused herself. "Yes! yes!" she answered, eagerly. "Pray go on!"

"My son in the next room," the widow resumed, "is only fourteen years
old. It has pleased God sorely to afflict a harmless creature. He
has not been in his right mind since--since the miserable day when he
followed the duelists, and saw his brother's death. Oh! you are turning
pale! How thoughtless, how cruel of me! I ought to have remembered that
such horrors as these have never overshadowed your happy life!"

Struggling to recover her self-control, Stella tried to reassure Madame
Marillac by a gesture. The voice which she had heard in the next room
was--as she now knew--the voice that haunted Romayne. Not the words
that had pleaded hunger and called for bread--but those other words,
"Assassin! assassin! where are you?"--rang in her ears. She entreated
Madame Marillac to break the unendurable interval of silence. The
widow's calm voice had a soothing influence which she was eager to feel.
"Go on!" she repeated. "Pray go on!"

"I ought not to lay all the blame of my boy's affliction on the duel,"
said Madame Marillac. "In childhood, his mind never grew with his bodily
growth. His brother's death may have only hurried the result which was
sooner or later but too sure to come. You need feel no fear of him. He
is never violent--and he is the most beautiful of my children. Would you
like to see him?"

"No! I would rather hear you speak of him. Is he not conscious of his
own misfortune?"

"For weeks together, Stella--I am sure I may call you Stella?--he is
quite calm; you would see no difference outwardly between him and other
boys. Unhappily, it is just at those times that a spirit of impatience
seems to possess him. He watches his opportunity, and, however careful
we may be, he is cunning enough to escape our vigilance."

"Do you mean that he leaves you and his sisters?"

"Yes, that is what I mean. For nearly two months past he has been away
from us. Yesterday only, his return relieved us from a state of suspense
which I cannot attempt to describe. We don't know where he has been, or
in the company of what persons he has passed the time of his absense. No
persuasion will induce him to speak to us on the subject. This morning
we listened while he was talking to himself."

"Was it part of the boy's madness to repeat the words which still
tormented Romayne?" Stella asked if he ever spoke of the duel.

"Never! He seems to have lost all memory of it. We only heard, this
morning, one or two unconnected words--something about a woman, and then
more that appeared to allude to some person's death. Last night I was
with him when he went to bed, and I found that he had something to
conceal from me. He let me fold all his clothes, as usual, except his
waistcoat--and that he snatched away from me, and put it under his
pillow. We have no hope of being able to examine the waistcoat without
his knowledge. His sleep is like the sleep of a dog; if you only
approach him, he wakes instantly. Forgive me for troubling you with
these trifling details, only interesting to ourselves. You will at least
understand the constant anxiety that we suffer."

"In your unhappy position," said Stella, "I should try to resign myself
to parting with him--I mean to placing him under medical care."

The mother's face saddened. "I have inquired about it," she answered.
"He must pass a night in the workhouse before he can be received as a
pauper lunatic in a public asylum. Oh, my dear, I am afraid there is
some pride still left in me! He is my only son now; his father was a
General in the French army; I was brought up among people of good blood
and breeding--I can't take my own boy to the workhouse!"

Stella understood her. "I feel for you with all my heart," she said.
"Place him privately, dear Madame Marillac, under skillful and kind
control--and let me, do let me, open the pocketbook again."

The widow steadily refused even to look at the pocketbook. "Perhaps,"
Stella persisted, "you don't know of a private asylum that would satisfy
you?"

"My dear, I do know of such a place! The good doctor who attended my
husband in his last illness told me of it. A friend of his receives a
certain number of poor people into his house, and charges no more than
the cost of maintaining them. An unattainable sum to _me!_ There is the
temptation that I spoke of. The help of a few pounds I might accept,
if I fell ill, because I might afterward pay it back. But a larger
sum--never!"

She rose, as if to end the interview. Stella tried every means of
persuasion that she could think of, and tried in vain. The friendly
dispute between them might have been prolonged, if they had not both
been silenced by another interruption from the next room.

This time, it was not only endurable, it was even welcome. The poor boy
was playing the air of a French vaudeville on a pipe or flageolet. "Now
he is happy!" said the mother. "He is a born musician; do come and see
him!" An idea struck Stella. She overcame the inveterate reluctance in
her to see the boy so fatally associated with the misery of Romayne's
life. As Madame Marillac led the way to the door of communication
between the rooms, she quickly took from her pocketbook the bank-notes
with which she had provided herself, and folded them so that they could
be easily concealed in her hand.

She followed the widow into the little room.

The boy was sitting on his bed. He laid down his flageolet and bowed to
Stella. His long silky hair flowed to his shoulders. But one betrayal
of a deranged mind presented itself in his delicate face--his large soft
eyes had the glassy, vacant look which it is impossible to mistake. "Do
you like music, mademoiselle?" he asked, gently. Stella asked him to
play his little vaudeville air again. He proudly complied with the
request. His sister seemed to resent the presence of a stranger. "The
work is at a standstill," she said--and passed into the front room.
Her mother followed her as far as the door, to give her some necessary
directions. Stella seized her opportunity. She put the bank-notes into
the pocket of the boy's jacket, and whispered to him: "Give them to your
mother when I have gone away." Under those circumstances, she felt sure
that Madame Marillac would yield to the temptation. She could resist
much--but she could not resist her son.

The boy nodded, to show that he understood her. The moment after he
laid down his flageolet with an expression of surprise.

"You are trembling!" he said. "Are you frightened?"

She _was_ frightened. The mere sense of touching him had made her
shudder. Did she feel a vague presentiment of some evil to come from
that momentary association with him?

Madame Marillac, turning away again from her daughter, noticed Stella's
agitation. "Surely, my poor boy doesn't alarm you?" she said. Before
Stella could answer, some one outside knocked at the door. Lady Loring's
servant appeared, charged with a carefully-worded message. "If you
please, miss, a friend is waiting for you below." Any excuse for
departure was welcome to Stella at that moment. She promised to call
at the house again in a few days. Madame Marillac kissed her on the
forehead as she took leave. Her nerves were still shaken by that
momentary contact with the boy. Descending the stairs, she trembled so
that she was obliged to hold by the servant's arm. She was not naturally
timid. What did it mean?



Lady Loring's carriage was waiting at the entrance of the street,
with all the children in the neighborhood assembled to admire it. She
impulsively forestalled the servant in opening the carriage door. "Come
in!" she cried. "Oh, Stella, you don't know how you have frightened me!
Good heavens, you look frightened yourself! From what wretches have I
rescued you? Take my smelling bottle, and tell me all about it."

The fresh air, and the reassuring presence of her old friend, revived
Stella. She was able to describe her interview with the General's
family, and to answer the inevitable inquiries which the narrative
called forth. Lady Loring's last question was the most important of the
series: "What are you going to do about Romayne?"

"I am going to write to him the moment we get home."

The answer seemed to alarm Lady Loring. "You won't betray me?" she said.

"What do you mean?"

"You won't let Romayne discover that I have told you about the duel?"

"Certainly not. You shall see my letter before I send it to be
forwarded."

Tranquilized so far, Lady Loring bethought herself next of Major Hynd.
"Can we tell him what you have done?" her ladyship asked.

"Of course we can tell him," Stella replied. "I shall conceal nothing
from Lord Loring, and I shall beg your good husband to write to the
Major. He need only say that I have made the necessary inquiries, after
being informed of the circumstances by you, and that I have communicated
the favorable result to Mr. Romayne."

"It's easy enough to write the letter, my dear. But it's not so easy to
say what Major Hynd may think of you."

"Does it matter to me what Major Hynd thinks?"

Lady Loring looked at Stella with a malicious smile. "Are you equally
indifferent," she said, "to what Romayne's opinion of your conduct may
be?"

Stella's color rose. "Try to be serious, Adelaide, when you speak to
me of Romayne," she answered, gravely. "His good opinion of me is the
breath of my life."

An hour later, the important letter to Romayne was written. Stella
scrupulously informed him of all that had happened--with two necessary
omissions. In the first place, nothing was said of the widow's reference
to her son's death, and of the effect produced by it on his younger
brother. The boy was simply described as being of weak intellect, and
as requiring to be kept under competent control. In the second place,
Romayne was left to infer that ordinary motives of benevolence were the
only motives, on his part, known to Miss Eyrecourt.

The letter ended in these lines:

"If I have taken an undue liberty in venturing, unasked, to appear as
your representative, I can only plead that I meant well. It seemed to me
to be hard on these poor people, and not just to you in your absence, to
interpose any needless delays in carrying out those kind intentions
of yours, which had no doubt been properly considered beforehand. In
forming your opinion of my conduct, pray remember that I have been
careful not to com promise you in any way. You are only known to Madame
Marillac as a compassionate person who offers to help her, and who
wishes to give that help anonymously. If, notwithstanding this, you
disapprove of what I have done, I must not conceal that it will grieve
and humiliate me--I have been so eager to be of use to you, when others
appeared to hesitate. I must find my consolation in remembering that I
have become acquainted with one of the sweetest and noblest of women,
and that I have helped to preserve her afflicted son from dangers in the
future which I cannot presume to estimate. You will complete what I have
only begun. Be forbearing and kind to me if I have innocently offended
in this matter--and I shall gratefully remember the day when I took it
on myself to be Mr. Romayne's almoner."

Lady Loring read these concluding sentences twice over.

"I think the end of your letter will have its effect on him," she said.

"If it brings me a kind letter in reply," Stella answered, "it will have
all the effect I hope for."

"If it does anything," Lady Loring rejoined, "it will do more than
that."

"What more can it do?"

"My dear, it can bring Romayne back to you."

Those hopeful words seemed rather to startle Stella than to encourage
her.

"Bring him back to me?" she repeated "Oh, Adelaide, I wish I could think
as you do!"

"Send the letter to the post," said Lady Loring, "and we shall see."



CHAPTER XIII

FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE.

I.

_Arthur Penrose to Father Benwell._

REVEREND AND DEAR FATHER--When I last had the honor of seeing you,
I received your instructions to report, by letter, the result of my
conversations on religion with Mr. Romayne.

As events have turned out, it is needless to occupy your time by
dwelling at any length on this subject, in writing. Mr. Romayne has been
strongly impressed by the excellent books which I have introduced to his
notice. He raises certain objections, which I have done my best to meet;
and he promises to consider my arguments with his closest attention,
in the time to come. I am happier in the hope of restoring his
mental tranquillity--in other and worthier words, of effecting his
conversion--than I can tell you in any words of mine. I respect and
admire, I may almost say I love, Mr. Romayne.

The details which are wanting in this brief report of progress I shall
have the privilege of personally relating to you. Mr. Romayne no longer
desires to conceal himself from his friends. He received a letter
this morning which has changed all his plans, and has decided him on
immediately returning to London. I am not acquainted with the contents
of the letter, or with the name of the writer; but I am pleased, for Mr.
Romayne's sake, to see that the reading of it has made him happy.

By to-morrow evening I hope to present my respects to you.

II.

_Mr. Bitrake to Father Benwell._

SIR--The inquiries which I have instituted at your request have proved
successful in one respect.

I am in a position to tell you that events in Mr. Winterfield's life
have unquestionably connected him with the young lady named Miss Stella
Eyrecourt.

The attendant circumstances, however, are not so easy to discover.
Judging by the careful report of the person whom I employ, there must
have been serious reasons, in this case, for keeping facts secret and
witnesses out of the way. I mention this, not to discourage you, but to
prepare you for delays that may occur on our way to discovery.

Be pleased to preserve your confidence in me, and to give me time--and I
answer for the result.




BOOK THE SECOND.



CHAPTER I.

THE SANDWICH DANCE.

A FINE spring, after a winter of unusual severity, promised well for the
prospects of the London season.

Among the social entertainments of the time, general curiosity was
excited, in the little sphere which absurdly describes itself under the
big name of Society, by the announcement of a party to be given by Lady
Loring, bearing the quaint title of a Sandwich Dance. The invitations
were issued at an unusually early hour; and it was understood that
nothing so solid and so commonplace as the customary supper was to be
offered to the guests. In a word, Lady Loring's ball was designed as a
bold protest against late hours and heavy midnight meals. The younger
people were all in favor of the proposed reform. Their elders declined
to give an opinion beforehand.

In the small inner circle of Lady Loring's most intimate friends, it
was whispered that an innovation in the matter of refreshments was
contemplated, which would put the tolerant principles of the guests to
a severe test. Miss Notman, the housekeeper, politely threatening
retirement on a small annuity, since the memorable affair of the
oyster-omelet, decided on carrying out her design when she heard that
there was to be no supper. "My attachment to the family can bear a
great deal," she said. "But when Lady Loring deliberately gives a ball,
without a supper, I must hide my head somewhere--and it had better be
out of the house!" Taking Miss Notman as representative of a class,
the reception of the coming experiment looked, to say the least of it,
doubtful.

On the appointed evening, the guests made one agreeable discovery when
they entered the reception rooms. They were left perfectly free to amuse
themselves as they liked.

The drawing-rooms were given up to dancing; the picture gallery was
devoted to chamber music. Chess-players and card-players found remote
and quiet rooms especially prepared for them. People who cared for
nothing but talking were accommodated to perfection in a sphere of
their own. And lovers (in earnest or not in earnest) discovered, in a
dimly-lighted conservatory with many recesses, that ideal of discreet
retirement which combines solitude and society under one roof.

But the ordering of the refreshments failed, as had been foreseen, to
share in the approval conferred on the arrangement of the rooms. The
first impression was unfavorable. Lady Loring, however, knew enough of
human nature to leave results to two potent allies--experience and time.

Excepting the conservatory, the astonished guests could go nowhere
without discovering tables prettily decorated with flowers, and bearing
hundreds of little pure white china plates, loaded with nothing but
sandwiches. All varieties of opinion were consulted. People of
ordinary tastes, who liked to know what they were eating, could choose
conventional beef or ham, encased in thin slices of bread of a delicate
flavor quite new to them. Other persons, less easily pleased,
were tempted by sandwiches of _pate de fois gras_ and by exquisite
combinations of chicken and truffles, reduced to a creamy pulp which
clung to the bread like butter. Foreigners, making experiments, and not
averse to garlic, discovered the finest sausages of Germany and Italy
transformed into English sandwiches. Anchovies and sardines appealed,
in the same unexpected way, to men who desired to create an artificial
thirst--after having first ascertained that the champagne was something
to be fondly remembered and regretted, at other parties, to the end
of the season. The hospitable profusion of the refreshments was
all-pervading and inexhaustible. Wherever the guests might be, or
however they were amusing themselves, there were the pretty little
white plates perpetually tempting them. People eat as they had never eat
before, and even the inveterate English prejudice against anything new
was conquered at last. Universal opinion declared the Sandwich Dance to
be an admirable idea, perfectly carried out.

Many of the guests paid their hostess the compliment of arriving at the
early hour mentioned in the invitations. One of them was Major Hynd.
Lady Loring took her first opportunity of speaking to him apart.

"I hear you were a little angry," she said, "when you were told that
Miss Eyrecourt had taken your inquiries out of your hands."

"I thought it rather a bold proceeding, Lady Loring," the Major replied.
"But as the General's widow turned out to be a lady, in the best sense
of the word, Miss Eyrecourt's romantic adventure has justified itself. I
wouldn't recommend her to run the same risk a second time."

"I suppos e you know what Romayne thinks of it?"

"Not yet. I have been too busy to call on him since I have been in
town. Pardon me, Lady Loring, who is that beautiful creature in the pale
yellow dress? Surely I have seen her somewhere before?"

"That beautiful creature, Major, is the bold young lady of whose conduct
you don't approve."

"Miss Eyrecourt?"

"Yes."

"I retract everything I said!" cried the Major, quite shamelessly. "Such
a woman as that may do anything. She is looking this way. Pray introduce
me."

The Major was introduced, and Lady Loring returned to her guests.

"I think we have met before, Major Hynd," said Stella.

Her voice supplied the missing link in the Major's memory of events.
Remembering how she had looked at Romayne on the deck of the steamboat,
he began dimly to understand Miss Eyrecourt's otherwise incomprehensible
anxiety to be of use to the General's family. "I remember perfectly,"
he answered. "It was on the passage from Boulogne to Folkestone--and my
friend was with me. You and he have no doubt met since that time?" He
put the question as a mere formality. The unexpressed thought in him
was, "Another of them in love with Romayne! and nothing, as usual,
likely to come of it."

"I hope you have forgiven me for going to Camp's Hill in your place,"
said Stella.

"I ought to be grateful to you," the Major rejoined. "No time has been
lost in relieving these poor people--and your powers of persuasion have
succeeded, where mine might have failed. Has Romayne been to see them
himself since his return to London?"

"No. He desires to remain unknown; and he is kindly content, for the
present, to be represented by me."

"For the present." Major Hynd repeated.

A faint flush passed over her delicate complexion. "I have succeeded,"
she resumed, "in inducing Madame Marillac to accept the help
offered through me to her son. The poor creature is safe, under kind
superintendence, in a private asylum. So far, I can do no more."

"Will the mother accept nothing?"

"Nothing, either for herself or her daughter, so long as they can work.
I cannot tell you how patiently and beautifully she speaks of her hard
lot. But her health may give way--and it is possible, before long, that
I may leave London." She paused; the flush deepened on her face. "The
failure of the mother's health may happen in my absence," she continued;
"and Mr. Romayne will ask you to look after the family, from time to
time, while I am away."

"I will do it with pleasure, Miss Eyrecourt. Is Romayne likely to be
here to-night?"

She smiled brightly, and looked away. The Major's curiosity was
excited--he looked in the same direction. There was Romayne, entering
the room, to answer for himself.

What was the attraction which drew the unsocial student to an evening
party? Major Hynd's eyes were on the watch. When Romayne and Stella
shook hands, the attraction stood self-revealed to him, in Miss
Eyrecourt. Recalling the momentary confusion which she had betrayed,
when she spoke of possibly leaving London, and of Romayne's plans for
supplying her place as his almoner, the Major, with military impatience
of delays, jumped to a conclusion. "I was wrong," he thought; "my
impenetrable friend is touched in the right place at last. When the
splendid creature in yellow leaves London, the name on her luggage will
be Mrs. Romayne."

"You are looking quite another man, Romayne!" he said mischievously,
"since we met last."

Stella gently moved away, leaving them to talk freely. Romayne took no
advantage of the circumstance to admit his old friend to his confidence.
Whatever relations might really exist between Miss Eyrecourt and himself
were evidently kept secret thus far. "My health has been a little better
lately," was the only reply he made.

The Major dropped his voice to a whisper.

"Have you not had any return--?" he began.

Romayne stopped him there. "I don't want my infirmities made public," he
whispered back irritably. "Look at the people all round us! When I tell
you I have been better lately, _you_ ought to know what it means."

"Any discoverable reason for the improvement?" persisted the
Major, still bent on getting evidence in support of his own private
conclusions.

"None!" Romayne answered sharply.

But Major Hynd was not to be discouraged by sharp replies. "Miss
Eyrecourt and I have been recalling our first meeting on board the
steamboat," he went on. "Do you remember how indifferent you were to
that beautiful person when I asked you if you knew her? I'm glad to see
that you show better taste to-night. I wish I knew her well enough to
shake hands as you did."

"Hynd! When a young man talks nonsense, his youth is his excuse. At your
time of life, you have passed the excusable age--even in the estimation
of your friends."

With those words Romayne turned away. The incorrigible Major instantly
met the reproof inflicted on him with a smart answer. "Remember," he
said, "that I was the first of your friends to wish you happiness!" He,
too, turned away--in the direction of the champagne and the sandwiches.

Meanwhile, Stella had discovered Penrose, lost in the brilliant
assemblage of guests, standing alone in a corner. It was enough for her
that Romayne's secretary was also Romayne's friend. Passing by titled
and celebrated personages, all anxious to speak to her, she joined the
shy, nervous, sad-looking little man, and did all she could to set him
at his ease.