“Not meet again?” Romayne repeated. “My dear Penrose, if you forget how many happy days I owe to your companionship, my memory is to be trusted. Do you really know what my new life is to be? Shall I tell you what I have said to Stella to-night?”
Penrose lifted his hand with a gesture of entreaty.
“Not a word!” he said, eagerly. “Do me one more kindness—leave me to be prepared (as I am prepared) for the change that is to come, without any confidence on your part to enlighten me further. Don’t think me ungrateful. I have reasons for saying what I have just said—I cannot mention what they are—I can only tell you they are serious reasons. You have spoken of my devotion to you. If you wish to reward me a hundred-fold more than I deserve, bear in mind our conversations on religion, and keep the books I asked you to read as gifts from a friend who loves you with his whole heart. No new duties that you can undertake are incompatible with the higher interests of your soul. Think of me sometimes. When I leave you I go back to a lonely life. My poor heart is full of your brotherly kindness at this last moment when I may be saying good-by forever. And what is my one consolation? What helps me to bear my hard lot? The Faith that I hold! Remember that, Romayne. If there comes a time of sorrow in the future, remember that.”
Romayne was more than surprised, he was shocked. “Why must you leave me?” he asked.
“It is best for you and for her,” said Penrose, “that I should withdraw myself from your new life.”
He held out his hand. Romayne refused to let him go. “Penrose!” he said, “I can’t match your resignation. Give me something to look forward to. I must and will see you again.”
Penrose smiled sadly. “You know that my career in life depends wholly on my superiors,” he answered. “But if I am still in England—and if you have sorrows in the future that I can share and alleviate—only let me know it. There is nothing within the compass of my power which I will not do for your sake. God bless and prosper you! Good-by!”
In spite of his fortitude, the tears rose in his eyes. He hurried out of the room.
Romayne sat down at his writing-table, and hid his face in his hands. He had entered the room with the bright image of Stella in his mind. The image had faded from it now—the grief that was in him not even the beloved woman could share. His thoughts were wholly with the brave and patient Christian who had left him—the true man, whose spotless integrity no evil influence could corrupt. By what inscrutable fatality do some men find their way into spheres that are unworthy of them? Oh, Penrose, if the priests of your Order were all like you, how easily I should be converted! These were Romayne’s thoughts, in the stillness of the first hours of the morning. The books of which his lost friend had spoken were close by him on the table. He opened one of them, and turned to a page marked by pencil lines. His sensitive nature was troubled to its inmost depths. The confession of that Faith which had upheld Penrose was before him in words. The impulse was strong in him to read those words, and think over them again.
He trimmed his lamp, and bent his mind on his book. While he was still reading, the ball at Lord Loring’s house came to its end. Stella and Lady Loring were alone together, talking of him, before they retired to their rooms.