Romayne rose, and advanced to the door. There, he turned, and spoke to Stella. “Where is Arthur?” he said.
Stella gently detained him.
“There was one word more he entreated me to say—pray wait and hear it,” she pleaded. “His one grief is at leaving You. Apart from that, he devotes himself gladly to the dreadful service which claims him. He has long looked forward to it, and has long prepared himself for it. Those, Lewis, are his own words.”
There was a knock at the door. The servant appeared, to announce that the carriage was waiting.
Penrose entered the room as the man left it.
“Have you spoken for me?” he said to Stella. She could only answer him by a gesture. He turned to Romayne with a faint smile.
“The saddest of all words must be spoken,” he said. “Farewell!”
Pale and trembling, Romayne took his hand. “Is this Father Benwell’s doing?” he asked.
“No!” Penrose answered firmly. “In Father Benwell’s position it might have been his doing, but for his goodness to me. For the first time since I have known him he has shrunk from a responsibility. For my sake he has left it to Rome. And Rome has spoken. Oh, my more than friend—my brother in love—!”
His voice failed him. With a resolution which was nothing less than heroic in a man of his affectionate nature, he recovered his composure.