Father Benwell, from head to foot, expressed modest confusion, and polite anxiety to hide it.
"My good friend," he said, "I am afraid of hurting your feelings."
Romayne was a sincere convert, but there were instincts still left in him which resented this expression of regard, even when it proceeded from a man whom he respected and admired. "You will hurt my feelings," he answered, a little sharply, "if you are not plain with me."
"Then I will be plain with you," Father Benwell rejoined. "The Church--speaking through me, as her unworthy interpreter--feels a certain delicacy in approaching You on the subject of money."
"Why?"
Father Benwell left the fireplace without immediately answering. He opened a drawer and took out of it a flat mahogany box. His gracious familiarity became transformed, by some mysterious process of congelation, into a dignified formality of manner. The priest took the place of the man.
"The Church, Mr. Romayne, hesitates to receive, as benevolent contributions, money derived from property of its own, arbitrarily taken from it, and placed in a layman's hands. No!" he cried, interrupting Romayne, who instantly understood the allusion to Vange Abbey--"no! I must beg you to hear me out. I state the case plainly, at your own request. At the same time, I am bound to admit that the lapse of centuries has, in the eye of the law, sanctioned the deliberate act of robbery perpetrated by Henry the Eighth. You have lawfully inherited Vange Abbey from your ancestors. The Church is not unreasonable enough to assert a merely moral right against the law of the country. It may feel the act of spoliation--but it submits." He unlocked the flat mahogany box, and gently dropped his dignity: the man took the place of the priest. "As the master of Vange," he said, you may be interested in looking at a little historical curiosity which we have preserved. The title-deeds, dear Romayne, by which the monks held your present property, in their time. Take another glass of wine."
Romayne looked at the title-deeds, and laid them aside unread.
Father Benwell had roused his pride, his sense of justice, his wild and lavish instincts of generosity. He, who had always despised money--except when it assumed its only estimable character, as a means for the attainment of merciful and noble ends--he was in possession of property to which he had no moral right: without even the poor excuse of associations which attached him to the place.
"I hope I have not offended you?" said Father Benwell.
"You have made me ashamed of myself," Romayne answered, warmly. "On the day when I became a Catholic, I ought to have remembered Vange. Better late than never. I refuse to take shelter under the law--I respect the moral right of the Church. I will at once restore the property which I have usurped."
Father Benwell took both Romayne's hands in his, and pressed them fervently.
"I am proud of you!" he said. We shall all be proud of you, when I write word to Rome of what has passed between us. But--no, Romayne!--this must not be. I admire you, feel with you; and I refuse. On behalf of the Church, I say it--I refuse the gift."
"Wait a little, Father Benwell! You don't know the state of my affairs. I don't deserve the admiration which you feel for me. The loss of the Vange property will be no pecuniary loss, in my case. I have inherited a fortune from my aunt. My income from that source is far larger than my income from the Yorkshire property."
"Romayne, it must not be!"
"Pardon me, it must be. I have more money than I can spend--without Vange. And I have painful associations with the house which disincline me ever to enter it again."
Even this confession failed to move Father Benwell. He obstinately crossed his arms, obstinately tapped his foot on the floor. "No!" he said. "Plead as generously as you may, my answer is, No."
Romayne only became more resolute on his side. "The property is absolutely my own," he persisted. "I am without a near relation in the world. I have no children. My wife is already provided for at my death, out of the fortune left me by my aunt. It is downright obstinacy--forgive me for saying so--to persist in your refusal."
"It is downright duty, Romayne. If I gave way to you, I should be the means of exposing the priesthood to the vilest misinterpretation. I should be deservedly reprimanded, and your proposal of restitution--if you expressed it in writing--would, without a moment's hesitation, be torn up. If you have any regard for me, drop the subject."
Romayne refused to yield, even to this unanswerable appeal.
"Very well," he said, "there is one document you can't tear up. You can't interfere with my making another will. I shall leave the Vange property to the Church, and I shall appoint you one of the trustees. You can't object to that."
Father Benwell smiled sadly.
"The law spares me the ungracious necessity of objecting, in this case," he answered. "My friend, you forget the Statutes of Mortmain. They positively forbid you to carry out the intention which you have just expressed."
Romayne dismissed this appeal to the law irritably, by waving his hand. "The Statutes of Mortmain," he rejoined, "can't prevent my bequeathing my property to an individual. I shall leave Vange Abbey to You. Now, Father Benwell! have I got the better of you at last?"
With Christian humility the Jesuit accepted the defeat, for which he had paved the way from the outset of the interview. A t the same time, he shuffled all personal responsibility off his own shoulders. He had gained the victory for the Church--without (to do him justice) thinking of himself.
"Your generosity has conquered me," he said. "But I must be allowed to clear myself of even the suspicion of an interested motive. On the day when your will is executed, I shall write to the General of our Order at Rome, leaving my inheritance to him. This proceeding will be followed by a deed, in due form, conveying the property to the Church. You have no objection to my taking that course? No? My dear Romayne, words are useless at such a time as this. My acts shall speak for me. I am too agitated to say more. Let us talk of something else--let us have some wine."
He filled the glasses; he offered more biscuits.--he was really, and even perceptibly, agitated by the victory that he had won. But one last necessity now confronted him--the necessity of placing a serious obstacle in the way of any future change of purpose on the part of Romayne. As to the choice of that obstacle, Father Benwell's mind had been made up for some time past.
"What was it I had to say to you?" he resumed "Surely, I was speaking on the subject of your future life?"
"You are very kind, Father Benwell. The subject has little interest for me. My future life is shaped out--domestic retirement, ennobled by religious duties."
Still pacing the room, Father Benwell stopped at that reply, and put his hand kindly on Romayne's shoulder.
"We don't allow a good Catholic to drift into domestic retirement, who is worthy of better things," he said.