II.

The week’s grace granted to me has elapsed.  I write with humility.  At the same time I have something to say for myself.

Yesterday, Mr. Lewis Romayne, of Vange Abbey, was received into the community of the Holy Catholic Church.  I inclose an accurate newspaper report of the ceremonies which attended the conversion.

Be pleased to inform me, by telegraph, whether our Reverend Fathers wish me to go on, or not.

BOOK THE FIFTH.

CHAPTER I.

MRS. EYRECO URT’S DISCOVERY.

THE leaves had fallen in the grounds at Ten Acres Lodge, and stormy winds told drearily that winter had come.

An unchanging dullness pervaded the house.  Romayne was constantly absent in London, attending to his new religious duties under the guidance of Father Benwell.  The litter of books and manuscripts in the study was seen no more.  Hideously rigid order reigned in the unused room.  Some of Romayne’s papers had been burned; others were imprisoned in drawers and cupboards—­the history of the Origin of Religions had taken its melancholy place among the suspended literary enterprises of the time.  Mrs. Eyrecourt (after a superficially cordial reconciliation with her son-in-law) visited her daughter every now and then, as an act of maternal sacrifice.  She yawned perpetually; she read innumerable novels; she corresponded with her friends.  In the long dull evenings, the once-lively lady sometimes openly regretted that she had not been born a man—­with the three masculine resources of smoking, drinking, and swearing placed at her disposal.  It was a dreary existence, and happier influences seemed but little likely to change it.  Grateful as she was to her mother, no persuasion would induce Stella to leave Ten Acres and amuse herself in London.  Mrs. Eyrecourt said, with melancholy and metaphorical truth, “There is no elasticity left in my child.”

On a dim gray morning, mother and daughter sat by the fireside, with another long day before them.

“Where is that contemptible husband of yours?” Mrs. Eyrecourt asked, looking up from her book.

“Lewis is staying in town,” Stella answered listlessly.

“In company with Judas Iscariot?”

Stella was too dull to immediately understand the allusion.  “Do you mean Father Benwell?” she inquired.

“Don’t mention his name, my dear.  I have re-christened him on purpose to avoid it.  Even his name humiliates me.  How completely the fawning old wretch took me in—­with all my knowledge of the world, too!  He was so nice and sympathetic—­such a comforting contrast, on that occasion, to you and your husband—­I declare I forgot every reason I had for not trusting him.  Ah, we women are poor creatures—­we may own it among ourselves.  If a man only has nice manners and a pleasant voice, how many of us