Having signed these lines, he addressed the letter to “The Reverend the Secretary, Society of Jesus, Rome.”  As he closed and sealed the envelope, a servant opened the door communicating with the hall, and announced: 

“Mr. Arthur Penrose.”

CHAPTER II.

THE JESUITS.

FATHER BENWELL rose, and welcomed the visitor with his paternal smile.  “I am heartily glad to see you,” he said—­and held out his hand with a becoming mixture of dignity and cordiality.  Penrose lifted the offered hand respectfully to his lips.  As one of the “Provincials” of the Order, Father Benwell occupied a high place among the English Jesuits.  He was accustomed to acts of homage offered by his younger brethren to their spiritual chief.  “I fear you are not well,” he proceeded gently.  “Your hand is feverish, Arthur.”

“Thank you, Father—­I am as well as usual.”

“Depression of spirits, perhaps?” Father Benwell persisted.

Penrose admitted it with a passing smile.  “My spirits are never very lively,” he said.

Father Benwell shook his head in gentle disapproval of a depressed state of spirits in a young man.  “This must be corrected,” he remarked.  “Cultivate cheerfulness, Arthur.  I am myself, thank God, a naturally cheerful man.  My mind reflects, in some degree (and reflects gratefully), the brightness and beauty which are part of the great scheme of creation.  A similar disposition is to be cultivated—­I know instances of it in my own experience.  Add one more instance, and you will really gratify me.  In its seasons of rejoicing, our Church is eminently cheerful.  Shall I add another encouragement?  A great trust is about to be placed in you.  Be socially agreeable, or you will fail to justify the trust.  This is Father Benwell’s little sermon.  I think it has a merit, Arthur—­it is a sermon soon over.”

Penrose looked up at his superior, eager to hear more.

He was a very young man.  His large, thoughtful, well-opened gray eyes, and his habitual refinement and modesty of manner, gave a certain attraction to his personal appearance, of which it stood in some need.  In stature he was little and lean; his hair had become prematurely thin over his broad forehead; there were hollows already in his cheeks, and marks on either side of his thin, delicate lips.  He looked like a person who had passed many miserable hours in needlessly despairing of himself and his prospects.  With all this, there was something in him so irresistibly truthful and sincere—­so suggestive, even where he might be wrong, of a purely conscientious belief in his own errors—­that he attached people to him without an effort, and often without being aware of it himself.  What would his friends have said if they had been told that the religious enthusiasm of this gentle, self-distrustful, melancholy man, might, in its very innocence of suspicion and self-seeking, be perverted to dangerous uses in unscrupulous hands?  His friends would, one and all, have received the scandalous assertion with contempt; and Penrose himself, if he had heard of it, might have failed to control his temper for the first time in his life.