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Updated: June 22, 2025
The evening before this invasion was expected, Eugene came down to dinner looking rather perturbed. He was a little silent during the meal, and when the ladies withdrew, he turned at once to Ayre: "I have heard from Stafford." "Ah! what does he say?" "He has joined the Church of Rome." "I thought he would." Morewood grunted angrily. "Did you tell him to?" he asked Ayre.
That'd be worse." The remark was a little too subtle for Lady Richard's half-attentive ear. She contented herself with sighing expressively. Morewood looked across the lawn again; the slow-walking figure had disappeared, presumably into the shrubberies. Two or three moments later he saw Marchmont strolling off in that direction, cigar in mouth and hands in pockets.
They had not met alone since the morning, and he was naturally anxious to find out whether that unlucky "Claudia" had been overheard. Claudia herself was listening to the conversation of Mr. Morewood, the well-known artist; and Stafford, who had only arrived just before dinner, was still busy in answering Mrs. Lane's questions about his health.
Now it came to pass one day that the devil, having a spare hour on his hands, and remembering that he had often met with a hospitable reception from Sir Roderick, to say nothing of having a bowing acquaintance with Morewood, looked in at the Manor, and finding his old quarters at Sir Roderick's swept and garnished, incontinently took up his abode there, and proceeded to look round for some suitable occupation.
Had his fierce words to Morewood reproduced exactly what he felt, it may be doubted whether the resultant of two forces so opposite and so equal could have been the ultimately unwavering intention that now possessed him. In truth, the aggressive strength of his belief had been sapped from within.
And the Bishop, lowering his voice, indicated Stafford. Morewood directed a glance at him. "He's mad!" he said briefly. "I wish there were a few more with the same mania about." "You don't believe all he does?" "Perhaps I can't see all he does," said the Bishop, with a touch of sadness. "How do you mean?"
The Bishop was annoyed. A well-bred man himself, he disliked what seemed to him ill-bred attacks on opinions which his position proclaimed him to hold. "You cannot expect me to assent to either of your propositions, Mr. Morewood," he said. "If I believed them, you know, I should not be in the place I am." "They're true, for all that," retorted Morewood. "And what is it to be traced to?"
"I think you must be confusing the Church with the Royal Academy," observed the Bishop, with some acidity. "There would be plenty of excuse for me, if I did," replied Morewood. "There's no truth and no zeal in either of them." "If you please, we will not discuss the truth. But as to the zeal, what do you say to the example of it among us now?"
Stafford left the Retreat the morning after his meeting with Morewood, feeling, he confessed to himself, as if he had taken a somewhat unfair advantage of its hospitality. The result of his sojourn there, if known to the Founder, might have been a trial of that enthusiast's consistency to his principles, and Stafford was glad to be allowed to depart, as he had come, unquestioned.
"I have been longer in the cave, and perhaps I have peered too much through cave-spectacles." Morewood looked at him for a moment. "I'm sorry if I've been rude, Bishop," he said more quietly, "but a man must say what he thinks." "Not at all times," said the Bishop; and he turned pointedly to Mrs. Lane and began to discuss indifferent matters. Morewood looked round with a discontented air.
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