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The Black Robe-Part41_WILKIE COLLINS (1824-1899)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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one small aim of my own--the claim of being allowed to do my

duty."



"In what respect, dear Romayne?"

"Surely you can guess? I am a rich man; I have money lying idle,



which it is my duty (and my privilege) to devote to the charities

and necessities of the Church. And, while I am speaking of this,



I must own that I am a little surprised at your having said

nothing to me on the subject. You have never yet pointed out to



me the manner in which I might devote my money to the best and

noblest uses. Was it forgetfulness on your part?"



Father Benwell shook his head. "No," he replied; "I can't

honestly say that."



"Then you had a reason for your silence?"

"Yes."



"May I not know it?"

Father Benwell got up and walked to the fireplace. Now there are



various methods of getting up and walking to a fireplace, and

they find their way to outward expression through the customary



means of look and manner. We may feel cold, and may only want to

warm ourselves. Or we may feel restless, and may need an excuse



for changing our position. Or we may feel modestly" target="_blank" title="ad.谦虚地；有节制地">modestly confused, and

may be anxious to hide it. Father Benwell, from head to foot,



expressed modestconfusion, and politeanxiety to hide it.

"My good friend," he said, "I am afraid of hurting your



feelings."

Romayne was a sincereconvert, 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 dignifiedformality 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 historicalcuriosity 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






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