ons which you have yourself
acknowledged to me, return to your domestic life. But don't ask us,
while you are living with that lady, to respect you as a member of our
communion."

Romayne was silent. The more violent emotions aroused in him had, with
time, subsided into calm. Tenderness, mercy, past affection, found their
opportunity, and pleaded with him. The priest's bold language had missed
the object at which it aimed. It had revived in Romayne's memory the
image of Stella in the days when he had first seen her. How gently her
influence had wrought on him for good! how tenderly, how truly, she had
loved him. "Give me some more wine!" he cried. "I feel faint and giddy.
Don't despise me, Father Benwell--I was once so fond of her!"

The priest poured out the wine. "I feel for you," he said. "Indeed,
indeed, I feel for you."

It was not all a lie--there were grains of truth in that outburst
of sympathy. Father Benwell was not wholly merciless. His far-seeing
intellect, his daring duplicity, carried him straight on to his end in
view. But, that end once gained--and, let it be remembered, not gained,
in this case, wholly for himself--there were compassionate impulses
left in him which sometimes forced their way to the surface. A man of
high intelligence--however he may misuse it, however unworthy he may
be of it--has a gift from Heaven. When you want to see unredeemed
wickedness, look for it in a fool.

"Let me mention one circumstance," Father Benwell proceeded, "which may
help to relieve you for the moment. In your present state of mind, you
cannot return to The Retreat."

"Impossible!"

"I have had a room prepared for you in this house. Here, free from any
disturbing influence, you can shape the future course of your life. If
you wish to communicate with your residence at Highgate--"

"Don't speak of it!"

Father Benwell sighed. "Ah, I understand!" he said, sadly. "The house
associated with Mr. Winterfield's visit--"

Romayne again interrupted him--this time by gesture only. The hand that
had made the sign clinched itself when it rested afterward on the
table. His eyes looked downward, under frowning brows. At the name of
Winterfield, remembrances that poisoned every better influence in him
rose venomously in his mind. Once more he loathed the deceit that had
been practiced on him. Once more the detestable doubt of that asserted
parting at the church door renewed its stealthy torment, and reasoned
with him