The Black Robe. Wilkie Collins
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the word.
“At the same time,” Father Benwell continued, “let us not misunderstand each other. In the new sphere of action which we design for you, you will not only be at liberty to acknowledge that you are a Catholic, it will be absolutely necessary that you should do so. But you will continue to wear the ordinary dress of an English gentleman, and to preserve the strictest secrecy on the subject of your admission to the priesthood, until you are further advised by myself. Now, dear Arthur, read that paper. It is the necessary preface to all that I have yet to say to you.”
The “paper” contained a few pages of manuscript relating the early history of Vange Abbey, in the days of the monks, and the circumstances under which the property was confiscated to lay uses in the time of Henry the Eighth. Penrose handed back the little narrative, vehemently expressing his sympathy with the monks, and his detestation of the King.
“Compose yourself, Arthur,” said Father Benwell, smiling pleasantly. “We don’t mean to allow Henry the Eighth to have it all his own way forever.”
Penrose looked at his superior in blank bewilderment. His superior withheld any further information for the present.
“Everything in its turn,” the discreet Father resumed; “the turn of explanation has not come yet. I have something else to show you first. One of the most interesting relics in England. Look here.”
He unlocked a flat mahogany box, and displayed to view some writings on vellum, evidently of great age.
“You have had a little sermon already,” he said. “You shall have a little story now. No doubt you have heard of Newstead Abbey—famous among the readers of poetry as the residence of Byron? King Henry treated Newstead exactly as he treated Vange Abbey! Many years since, the lake at Newstead was dragged, and the brass eagle which had served as the lectern in the old church was rescued from the waters in which it had lain for centuries. A secret receptacle was discovered in the body of the eagle, and the ancient title-deeds of the Abbey were found in it. The monks had taken that method of concealing the legal proof of their rights and privileges, in the hope—a vain hope, I need hardly say—that a time might come when Justice would restore to them the property of which they had been robbed. Only last summer, one of our bishops, administering a northern diocese, spoke of these circumstances to a devout Catholic friend, and said he thought it possible that the precaution taken by the monks at Newstead might also have been taken by the monks at Vange. The friend, I should tell you, was an enthusiast. Saying nothing to the bishop (whose position and responsibilities he was bound to respect), he took into his confidence persons whom he could trust. One night—in the absence of the present proprietor, or, I should rather say, the present usurper, of the estate—the lake at Vange was privately dragged, with a result that proved the bishop’s conjecture to be right. Read those valuable documents. Knowing your strict sense of honor, my son, and your admirable tenderness of conscience, I wish you to be satisfied of the title of the Church to the lands of Vange, by evidence which is beyond dispute.”
With this little preface, he waited while Penrose read the title-deeds. “Any doubt on your mind?” he asked, when the reading had come to an end.
“Not the shadow of a doubt.”
“Is the Church’s right to the property clear?”
“As clear, Father, as words can make it.”
“Very good. We will lock up the documents. Arbitrary confiscation, Arthur, even on the part of a king, cannot override the law. What the Church once lawfully possessed, the Church has a right to recover. Any doubt about that in your mind?”
“Only the doubt of how the Church can recover. Is there anything in this particular case to be hoped from the law?”
“Nothing whatever.”
“And yet, Father, you speak as if you saw some prospect of the restitution of the property. By what means can the restitution be made?”
“By peaceful and worthy means,” Father Benwell answered. “By honorable restoration of the confiscated property to the Church, on the part of the person who is now in possession of it.”
Penrose was surprised and interested. “Is the person a Catholic?” he asked, eagerly.
“Not yet.” Father Benwell laid a strong emphasis on those two little words. His fat fingers drummed restlessly on the table; his vigilant eyes rested expectantly on Penrose. “Surely you understand me, Arthur?” he added, after an interval.
The color rose slowly in the worn face of Penrose. “I am afraid to understand you,” he said.
“Why?”
“I am not sure that it is my better sense which understands. I am afraid, Father, it may be my vanity and presumption.”
Father Benwell leaned back luxuriously in his chair. “I like that modesty,” he said, with a relishing smack of his lips as if modesty was as good as a meal to him. “There is power of the right sort, Arthur, hidden under the diffidence that does you honor. I am more than ever satisfied that I have been right in reporting you as worthy of this most serious trust. I believe the conversion of the owner of Vange Abbey is—in your hands—no more than a matter of time.”
“May I ask what his name is?”
“Certainly. His name is Lewis Romayne.”
“When do you introduce me to him?”
“Impossible to say. I have not yet been introduced myself.”
“You don’t know Mr. Romayne?”
“I have never even seen him.”
These discouraging replies were made with the perfect composure of a man who saw his way clearly before him. Sinking from one depth of perplexity to another, Penrose ventured on putting one last question. “How am I to approach Mr. Romayne?” he asked.
“I can only answer that, Arthur, by admitting you still further into my confidence. It is disagreeable to me,” said the reverend gentleman, with the most becoming humility, “to speak of myself. But it must be done. Shall we have a little coffee to help us through the coming extract from Father Benwell’s autobiography? Don’t look so serious, my son! When the occasion justifies it, let us take life lightly.” He rang the bell and ordered the coffee, as if he was the master of the house. The servant treated him with the most scrupulous respect. He hummed a little tune, and talked at intervals of the weather, while they were waiting. “Plenty of sugar, Arthur?” he inquired, when the coffee was brought in. “No! Even in trifles, I should have been glad to feel that there was perfect sympathy between us. I like plenty of sugar myself.”
Having sweetened his coffee with the closest attention to the process, he was at liberty to enlighten his young friend. He did it so easily and so cheerfully that a far less patient man than Penrose would have listened to him with interest.
CHAPTER III. THE INTRODUCTION TO ROMAYNE.
“EXCEPTING my employment here in the library,” Father Benwell began, “and some interesting conversation with Lord Loring, to which I shall presently allude, I am almost as great a stranger in this house, Arthur, as yourself. When the object which we now have in view was first taken seriously into consideration, I had the honor of being personally acquainted with Lord Loring. I was also aware that he was an intimate and trusted friend of Romayne. Under these circumstances, his lordship presented himself to our point of view as a means of approaching the owner of Vange Abbey without exciting distrust. I was charged accordingly with the duty of establishing myself on terms of intimacy in this house. By way of making room for me, the spiritual director of Lord and Lady Loring was removed to a cure of souls in Ireland. And here I am in his place! By-the-way, don’t treat me (when we are in the presence of visitors) with any special marks of respect. I am not Provincial of our Order in Lord Loring’s house—I am one of the inferior clergy.”
Penrose