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.”