Уилки Коллинз - The Black Robe

At five o’clock, on the day which followed his introduction to Romayne, Father Benwell sat drinking his coffee in the housekeeper’s room—to all appearance as much at his ease as if he had known Miss Notman from the remote days of her childhood. A new contribution to the housekeeper’s little library of devotional works lay on the table; and bore silent witness to the means by which he had made those first advances which had won him his present position. Miss Notman’s sense of dignity was doubly flattered. She had a priest for her guest, and a new book with the reverend gentleman’s autograph inscribed on the title-page.

“Is your coffee to your liking, Father?”

“A little more sugar, if you please.”

Miss Notman was proud of her hand, viewed as one of the meritorious details of her figure. She took up the sugar-tongs with suavity and grace; she dropped the sugar into the cup with a youthful pleasure in ministering to the minor desires of her illustrious guest. “It is so good of you, Father, to honor me in this way,” she said—with the appearance of sixteen super-induced upon the reality of sixty.

Father Benwell was an adept at moral disguises of all kinds. On this occasion he wore the disguise of pastoral simplicity. “I am an idle old man at this hour of the afternoon,” he said. “I hope I am not keeping you from any household duties?”

“I generally enjoy my duties,” Miss Notman answered. “To-day, they have not been so agreeable as usual; it is a relief to me to have done with them. Even my humble position has its trials.”

Persons acquainted with Miss Notman’s character, hearing these last words, would have at once changed the subject. When she spoke of “her humble position,” she invariably referred to some offense offered to her dignity, and she was invariably ready to state the grievance at full length. Ignorant of this peculiarity, Father Benwell committed a fatal error. He inquired, with courteous interest, what the housekeeper’s “trials” might be.

“Oh, sir, they are beneath your notice!” said Miss Notman modestly. “At the same time, I should feel it an honor to have the benefit of your opinion—I should so like to know that you do not altogether disapprove of my conduct, under some provocation. You see, Father, the whole responsibility of ordering the dinners falls on me. And, when there is company, as there is this evening, the responsibility is particularly trying to a timid person like myself.”

“A large dinner party, Miss Notman?”

“Oh, dear, no! Quite the reverse. Only one gentleman—Mr. Romayne.”

Father Benwell set down his cup of coffee, half way to his lips. He at once drew the correct conclusion that the invitation to Romayne must have been given and accepted after he had left the picture gallery. That the object was to bring Romayne and Stella together, under circumstances which would rapidly improve their acquaintance, was as plain to him as if he had heard it confessed in so many words. If he had only remained in the gallery, he might have become acquainted with the form of persuasion used to induce a man so unsocial as Romayne to accept an invitation. “I have myself to blame,” he thought bitterly, “for being left in the dark.”

“Anything wrong with the coffee?” Miss Notman asked anxiously.

He rushed on his fate. He said, “Nothing whatever. Pray go on.”

Miss Notman went on.

“You see, Father, Lady Loring was unusually particular about the dinner on this occasion. She said, ‘Lord Loring reminds me that Mr. Romayne is a very little eater, and yet very difficult to please in what he does eat.’ Of course I consulted my experience, and suggested exactly the sort of dinner that was wanted under the circumstances. I wish to do her ladyship the utmost justice. She made no objection to the dinner in itself. On the contrary, she complimented me on what she was pleased to call my ready invention. But when we came next to the order in which the dishes were to be served—” Miss Notman paused in the middle of the sentence, and shuddered over the private and poignant recollections which the order of the dishes called up.

By this time Father Benwell had discovered his mistake. He took a mean advantage of Miss Notman’s susceptibilities to slip his own private inquiries into the interval of silence.

“Pardon my ignorance,” he said; “my own poor dinner is a matter of ten minutes and one dish. I don’t understand a difference of opinion on a dinner for three people only; Lord and Lady Loring, two; Mr. Romayne, three—oh! perhaps I am mistaken? Perhaps Miss Eyrecourt makes a fourth?”

“Certainly, Father!”

“A very charming person, Miss Notman. I only speak as a stranger. You, no doubt, are much better acquainted with Miss Eyrecourt?”

“Much better, indeed—if I may presume to say so,” Miss Notman replied. “She is my lady’s intimate friend; we have often talked of Miss Eyrecourt during the many years of my residence in this house. On such subjects, her ladyship treats me quite on the footing of a humble friend. A complete contrast to the tone she took, Father, when we came to the order of the dishes. We agreed, of course, about the soup and the fish; but we had a little, a very little, divergence of opinion, as I may call it, on the subject of the dishes to follow. Her ladyship said, ‘First the sweetbreads, and then the cutlets.’ I ventured to suggest that the sweetbreads, as white meat, had better not immediately follow the turbot, as white fish. ‘The brown meat, my lady,’ I said, ‘as an agreeable variety presented to the eye, and then the white meat, recalling pleasant remembrances of the white fish.’ You see the point, Father?”

“I see, Miss Notman, that you are a consummate mistress of an art which is quite beyond poor me. Was Miss Eyrecourt present at the little discussion?”

“Oh, no! Indeed, I should have objected to her presence; I should have said she was a young lady out of her proper place.”

“Yes; I understand. Is Miss Eyrecourt an only child?”

“She had two sisters, Father Benwell. One of them is in a convent.”

“Ah, indeed?”

“And the other is dead.”

“Sad for the father and mother, Miss Notman!”

“Pardon me, sad for the mother, no doubt. The father died long since.”

“Aye? aye? A sweet woman, the mother? At least, I think I have heard so.”

Miss Notman shook her head. “I should wish to guard myself against speaking unjustly of any one,” she said; “but when you talk of ‘a sweet woman,’ you imply (as it seems to me) the domestic virtues. Mrs. Eyrecourt is essentially a frivolous person.”

A frivolous person is, in the vast majority of cases, a person easily persuaded to talk, and not disposed to be reticent in keeping secrets. Father Benwell began to see his way already to the necessary information. “Is Mrs. Eyrecourt living in London?” he inquired.

“Oh, dear, no! At this time of year she lives entirely in other people’s houses—goes from one country seat to another, and only thinks of amusing herself. No domestic qualities, Father. She would know nothing of the order of the dishes! Lady Loring, I should have told you, gave way in the matter of the sweetbread. It was only at quite the latter part of my ‘Menoo’ (as the French call it) that she showed a spirit of opposition—well! well! I won’t dwell on that. I will only ask you, Father, at what part of a dinner an oyster-omelet ought to be served?”

Father Benwell seized his opportunity of discovering Mrs. Eyrecourt’s present address. “My dear lady,” he said, “I know no more when the omelet ought to be served than Mrs. Eyrecourt herself! It must be very pleasant, to a lady of her way of thinking, to enjoy the beauties of Nature inexpensively—as seen in other people’s houses, from the point of view of a welcome guest. I wonder whether she is staying at any country seat which I happen to have seen?”