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" target="_blank" title="ad.确实；断然；绝对">positivelyforbid 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. "The
Church, Romayne wishes to make use of you. I never flattered any

one in my life, but I may say before your face what I have said
behind your back. A man of your strict sense of honor--of your

intellect--of your high aspirations--of your personal charm and
influence--is not a man whom we can allow to run to waste. Open

your mind, my friend, fairly to me, and I will open my mind
fairly to you. Let me set the example. I say it with authority;

an enviable future is before you."
Romayne's pale cheeks flushed with excitement. "What future?" he

asked, eagerly. "Am I free to choose? Must I remind you that a
man with a wife cannot think only of himself?"

"Suppose you were _not_ a man with a wife."
"What do you mean?"

"Romayne, I am trying to break my way through that inveterate
reserve which is one of the failings in your character. Unless

you can prevail on yourself to tell me those secret thoughts,
those unexpressed regrets, which you can confide to no other man,

this conversation must come to an end. Is there no yearning, in
your inmost soul, for anything beyond the position which you now

occupy?"
There was. a pause. The flush on Romayne' s face faded away. He

was silent.
"You are not in the confessional," Father Benwell reminded him,

with melancholymission" target="_blank" title="n.屈服；谦恭">submission to circumstances. "You are under no
obligation to answer me."

Romayne roused himself. He spoke in low, reluctant tones. "I am
afraid to answer you," he said.

That apparently discouraging reply armed Father Benwell with the
absolute confidence of success which he had thus far failed to

feel. He wound his way deeper and deeper into Romayne's mind,
with the delicateingenuity of penetration, of which the practice

of years had made him master.
"Perhaps I have failed to make myself clearly understood," he

said. "I will try to put it more plainly. You are no half-hearted
man, Romayne. What you believe, you believe fervently.

Impressions are not dimly and slowly produced on _your_ mind. As
the necessary result, your conversion being once accomplished,

your whole soul is given to the Faith that is in you. Do I read
your character rightly?"

"So far as I know it--yes."