William Wilkie Collins Fullscreen Black Cassar (1881)

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“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.