“I daren’t think of it,” cried Stella passionately.  “But if it is my duty—­”

“It is your duty to consider the consequences,” Lady Loring interposed.  “You don’t know how such things sometimes rankle in a man’s mind.  He may be perfectly willing to do you justice—­and yet, there may be moments when he would doubt if you had told him the whole truth.  I speak with the experience of a married woman.  Don’t place yourself in that position toward your husband, if you wish for a happy married life.”

Stella was not quite convinced yet.  “Suppose Romayne finds it out?” she said.

“He can’t possibly find it out.  I detest Winterfield, but let us do him justice.  He is no fool.  He has his position in the world to keep up—­and that is enough of itself to close his lips.  And as for others, there are only three people now in England who could betray you.  I suppose you can trust your mother, and Lord Loring, and me?”

It was needless to answer such a question as that.  Before Stella could speak again, Lord Loring’s voice was audible outside the door.  “What! talking still,” he exclaimed.  “Not in bed yet?”

“Come in!” cried his wife.  “Let us hear what my husband thinks,” she said to Stella.

Lord Loring listened with the closest attention while the subject under discussion was communicated to him.  When the time came to give his opinion, he sided unhesitatingly with his wife.

“If the fault was yours, even in the slightest degree,” he said to Stella, “Romayne would have a right to be taken into your confidence.  But, my dear child, we, who know the truth, know you to be a pure and innocent woman.  You go to Romayne in every way worthy of him, and you know that he loves you.  If you did tell him that miserable story, he could only pity you.  Do you want to be pitied?”

Those last unanswerable words brought the debate to an end.  From that moment the subject was dropped.

There was still one other person among the guests at the ball who was waking in the small hours of the morning.  Father Benwell, wrapped comfortably in his dressing gown, was too hard at work on his correspondence to think of his bed.  With one exception, all the letters that he had written thus far were closed, directed and stamped for the post.  The letter that he kept open he was now engaged in reconsidering and correcting.  It was addressed as usual to the Secretary of the Order at Rome; and, when it had undergone the final revision, it contained these lines: 

My last letter informed you of Romayne’s return to London and to Miss Eyrecourt.  Let me entreat our reverend brethren to preserve perfect tranquillity of mind, in spite of this circumstance.  The owner of Vange Abbey is not married yet.  If patience and perseverance on my part win their fair reward, Miss Eyrecourt shall never be his wife.

But let me not conceal the truth.  In the uncertain future that lies before us, I have no one to depend on but myself.  Penrose is no longer to be trusted; and the exertions of the agent to whom I committed my inquiries are exertions that have failed.