“I understand you,” said Romayne.  “Mr. Winterfield’s marriage at Brussels—­”

“Which the English law,” Father Benwell interposed, “declares to be annulled by the marriage before the registrar, stands good, nevertheless, by the higher law of the Church.  Mr. Winterfield is Miss Eyrecourt’s husband, as long as they both live.  An ordained priest performed the ceremony in a consecrated building—­and Protestant marriages, so celebrated, are marriages acknowledged by the Catholic Church.  Under those circumstances, the ceremony which afterward united you to Miss Eyrecourt—­though neither you nor the clergyman were to blame—­was a mere mockery.  Need I to say any more?  Shall I leave you for a while by yourself?”

“No!  I don’t know what I may think, I don’t know what I may do, if you leave me by myself.”

Father Benwell took a chair by Romayne’s side.  “It has been my hard duty to grieve and humiliate you,” he said.  “Do you bear me no ill will?” He held out his hand.

Romayne took it—­as an act of justice, if not as an act of gratitude.

“Can I be of any use in advising you?” Father Benwell asked.

“Who can advise a man in my position?” Romayne bitterly rejoined.

“I can at least suggest that you should take time to think over your position.”

“Time? take time?  You talk as if my situation was endurable.”

“Everything is endurable, Romayne!”

“It may be so to you, Father Benwell.  Did you part with your humanity when you put on the black robe of the priest?”

“I parted, my son, with those weaknesses of our humanity on which women practice.  You talk of your position.  I will put it before you at its worst.”

“For what purpose?”

“To show you exactly what you have now to decide.  Judged by the law of England, Mrs. Romayne is your wife.  Judged by the principles held sacred among the religious community to which you belong, she is not Mrs. Romayne—­she is Mrs. Winterfield, living with you in adultery.  If you regret your conversion—­”

“I don’t regret it, Father Benwell.”

“If you renounce the holy aspirations 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.”