GREAT POSSESSIONS

by

MRS. WILFRID WARD

Author of"One Poor Scruple, " "Out of Due Time, " etc. 

G. P. Putnam's SonsNew York and LondonThe Knickerbocker Press1909Copyright, 1909byG. P. Putnam's SonsThe Knickerbocker Press, New York

CONTENTS

BOOK I

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE AMAZING WILL 1

II. IN THE EVENING 13

III. "AS YOU HOPE TO BE FORGIVEN" 21

IV. THE WICKED WOMAN IN FLORENCE 32

V. "YOUR MOTHER'S DAUGHTER" 42

VI. MOLLY COMES OF AGE 55

VII. EDMUND GROSSE CONTINUES TO INTERFERE 68

VIII. AT GROOMBRIDGE CASTLE 78

IX. A LITTLE MORE THAN KIND 91

X. THE PET VICE 98

XI. THE THIN END OF A CLUE 109

XII. MOLLY'S NIGHT-WATCH 120

XIII. SIR DAVID'S MEMORY 126

BOOK II

XIV. MOLLY IN THE SEASON 136

XV. A POOR MAN'S DEATH 151

XVI. MOLLY'S LETTER TO HER MOTHER 165

XVII. THE BLIND CANON 173

XVIII. MADAME DANTERRE'S ANSWER 180

XIX. LADY ROSE'S SCRUPLE 187

XX. THE HEIRESS OF MADAME DANTERRE 194

BOOK III

XXI. AN INTERLUDE OF HAPPINESS 213

XXII. SOMETHING LIKE EVIDENCE 220

XXIII. THE USES OF DELIRIUM 231

XXIV. MRS. DELAPORT GREEN IN THE ASCENDANT 238

XXV. MOLLY AT COURT 243

XXVI. EDMUND IS NO LONGER BORED 249

XXVII. MOLLY'S APPEAL 256

XXVIII. DINNER AT TWO SHILLINGS 266

XXIX. THE RELIEF OF SPEECH 272

XXX. THE BIRTH OF A SLANDER 280

XXXI. THE NURSING OF A SLANDER 285

BOOK IV

XXXII. ROSE SUMMONED TO LONDON 294

XXXIII. BROWN HOLLAND COVERS 304

XXXIV. THE WRATH OF A FRIEND 312

XXXV. THE CONDEMNATION OF MARK 322

XXXVI. MENE THEKEL PHARES 330

XXXVII. MARK ENTERS INTO TEMPTATION 339

XXXVIII. NO SHADOW OF A CLOUD 350

XXXIX. "WITHOUT CONDITION OR COMPROMISE" 357

GREAT POSSESSIONS

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

THE AMAZING WILL

The memorial service for Sir David Bright was largely attended. Perhapshe was fortunate in the moment of his death, for other men, whosemilitary reputations had been as high as his, were to go on with thestruggle while the world wondered at their blunders. It was only thesecond of those memorial services for prominent men which were to becomeso terribly usual as the winter wore on. Great was the sympathy felt forthe young widow at the loss of one so brave, so kindly, so popular amongall classes. 

Lady Rose Bright was quite young and very fair. She did not put on awidow's distinctive garments because Sir David had told her that hehated weeds. But she wore a plain, heavy cloak, and a long veil fellinto the folds made by her skirts. The raiment of a gothic angel, anangel like those in the portico at Rheims, has these same straight, stern lines. "Black is sometimes as suggestive of white, " was thereflection of one member of the congregation, "as white may besuggestive of mourning. " Sir Edmund Grosse, who had known Rose from herchildhood, felt some new revelation in her movements; there was a fullerdevelopment of womanhood in her walk, and there was a reserve, too, asof one consecrated and set apart. He heaved a deep sigh as she passednear him going down the church, and their eyes met. She had no shrinkingin her bearing; her reserves were too deep for her to avoid an openmeeting with other human eyes. She looked at Sir Edmund for a moment asif giving, rather than demanding, sympathy; and indeed, there was moretrouble in his eyes than in hers. 

The service had gone perilously near to Roman practices. It was amongthe first of those uncontrollable instinctive expressions of faith inprayer for the departed which were a marked note of English feelingduring the Boer war. Questions as to their legality were asked inParliament, but little heeded, for the heart of the nation, "for herchildren mourning, " sought comfort in the prayers used by the rest ofthe Christian world. 

Rose's mother went home with her and they talked, very simply and insympathy, of the tributes to the soldier's memory. Then, when luncheoncame and the servants were present, they spoke quietly of the work to bedone for soldiers' wives and of a meeting the mother was to attend thatafternoon. Lady Charlton was the mother one would expect Rose tohave--indeed, such complete grace of courtliness and kindness points toan education. Afterwards, while they were alone, Lady Charlton, inbroken sentences, sketched the future. She supposed Rose would stay onalthough the house was too big. Much good might be done in it. Therecould be no doubt as to how money must be spent this winter; and therewere the services they both loved in the Church of the Fathers of St. Paul near at hand. Lady Charlton saw life in pictures and so did Rose. Neither of them broke through any reserve; neither of them was curious. It did not occur to Rose to wonder how her mother had lived and felt inher first days as a widow. Lady Charlton did not wonder how Rose feltnow. Rose, she thought, was wonderful; life was full of mercies; therewas so much to be thankful for; and could not those who had suffered beof great consolation to others in sorrow?

They arranged to meet at Evensong in St. Paul's Chapel, and then LadyCharlton would come back and stay the night. On the next day she was dueat the house of her youngest married daughter. 

Rose was presently left alone, and she cried quite simply. For a momentshe thought of Edmund Grosse and the sadness in his eyes. Why had he notvolunteered for the war? What a contrast!

A large photograph of Sir David in his general's uniform stood on thewriting-table in the study downstairs. There were also a picture and aminiature in the drawing-room, but Rose thought she would like to lookat the photograph again. It was the last that had been taken. Then tooshe would look over some of his things. She wanted little presents forhis special friends; nothing for its own value, but because the hero hadused them. And she would like to bring the big photograph upstairs. 

The study, usually cold and deserted since the master had gone away, was bright with a large fire. Rose did not know that it was anexpression of sympathy from the under-housemaid, whose lover was at thewar. But when she stood opposite the big photograph of the fine manlyface and figure, and the large open eyes looked so straight into hers, she shrank a little. Something in the room made her shrink into herself. Her eyes rested on the Victoria Cross in the photograph, on the medalsthat had covered his breast. "I shall have them all, " she said, and thenshe faltered a little. She had faltered in that room before now; she hadoften shrunk into herself when the intensely courteous voice had askedher as she came into his study what she wanted. She blamed herselfgently now, and for two opposite reasons: she blamed herself because shehad wanted what she had not got, and she blamed herself because she hadnot done more to get it. "He was always so gentle, so courteous. I oughtto have been quite, quite happy. And why didn't I break through ourreserve, and then we might----" Dimly she felt, but she did not want toown it to herself, that she had married him as a hero-worshipper. Shehad reverenced him more than she loved him. "I ought not to have doneit, " she thought, "but I meant what was right, and I could have lovedhim---- Oh, I did love him afterwards--only I never could tell him, and----" Further thoughts led the way to irreverence, even to somethingworse. They were wrong thoughts, thoughts against faith and truth andright; there was no place for such thoughts in Rose's heart. She movednow, and opened drawers and dusted and put together a fewthings--paper-knives, match-boxes, a writing-case, a silver sealing-waxholder, and so on; the occupation interested and soothed her. She hadthe born mystic's love of little kind actions, little presents, thingstreasured as symbols of the union of spirits, all the more because oftheir slight material value. Then, too, the child element, which is inevery good woman, gave a zest to the occupation and made it restful. 

Lady Rose had put several small relics in a row on the edge of the lowerpart of the big mahogany bookcase, and was counting on her fingers thenames of the friends for whom they were intended. Her grief wassufficiently real to make her, perhaps, overestimate the number of thoseto whom such relics would be precious. A tender smile was on her lips atthe recollection of an old soldier servant of Sir David's who had beenwith him in Egypt. She hesitated a moment between two objects--one, agood silver-mounted leather purse, and the other an inkstand of brassand marble. These two things were the recipients of her unjust aversionfor long after that moment. 

Simmonds, the butler, opened the door, quite certain that the visitor heannounced must be admitted, and conscious of the fitness of the bigstudy for his reception. It was Sir David's solicitor. But the butlerwas disappointed at the manner of his entrance. He did not analyse thedisappointment. He was half conscious of the fact that the _rôle_ of thefamily lawyer on the occasion was so simple and easy. He would himselfhave assumed a degree of pomp, of sympathy, of respect, carrying asubdued implication that he brought solid consolation in his verypresence. Simmonds grieved truly for Sir David, but he felt, too, theblank caused by the absence of all funeral arrangements in a death atthe war. He had been butler in more than one house of mourning before, and he knew all his duties in that capacity. After this he would knowhow to be butler in the event of death in battle. But now, when thememorial service had taken, in a poor sort of way, the place of thefuneral, of course the solicitor ought to come, and past deficienciescould be overlooked. Why, then, should the man prove totally unequal tohis task? Mr. Murray, Junior, had usually a much better manner thanto-day. Perhaps he was startled at being shown at once into the widow'spresence. Probably he might have expected to wait a few moments in thebig study, while Simmonds went to seek his mistress. 

But there was Lady Rose turning round from the bookcase as they came in. Mr. Murray stooped to-day, and his large head was bent downwards, makingit the more evident that the drops of perspiration stood out upon hisbrow. He cast a look almost of fear at the fair face with its gentle, benignant expression. He had seen Rose once or twice before, and he knewthe old-fashioned type of great lady when he met it. Was it of Rose'sgentle, subtle dignity that he was afraid?

Rose drew up a chair on one side of the big square writing-table, andsigned to him to take the leather arm-chair where he had last seen SirDavid Bright seated. Mr. Murray plunged into his subject with anabruptness proportioned to the immense time he had taken during themorning in preparing a diplomatic opening. 

"May I ask, first of all, " he said, "whether you have found any will, orany document looking like a will, besides the one I have with me?"

"No, " said Lady Rose in surprise, "there are no papers of anyimportance here, I believe; there is nothing in the house under lock andkey. Sir David gave me a few rings and studs to put away, but he nevercared for jewellery, and there is nothing of value. "

"And do you think he can have executed any other will or written aletter that might be of use to us now?"

Rose looked still more surprised. Mr. Murray held some papers in hishand that shook as if the wintry wind outside were trying to blow themaway. Rose tried not to watch them, and it teased her that she could nothelp doing so. The hand that held them was not visible above the table. Mr. Murray struggled to keep to the most absolutely business-like andunemotional side of his professional manner, but his obviously extremediscomfort was infectious, and Rose's calm of manner was alreadydisturbed. 

"I cannot but think, Lady Rose, that some papers may be forwarded to youthrough the War Office. " He hesitated. "You had no marriagesettlements?" he then asked abruptly. 

"No, there were no settlements, " said Rose. She spoke quickly andnervously. "We did not think them necessary. Sir David offered to makethem, but just then he was ordered abroad and there was very littletime, and my mother and I did not think it of enough importance to makeus delay the wedding. It was shortly after my father's death. " Shepaused a moment, and then went on, as if speech were a relief. 

"You know that, when we married, Sir David had no reason to expect thathe would ever be a rich man. We hardly knew the Steele cousins, and onlyhad a vague idea that Mr. John Steele had been making money on theStock Exchange. When he left his fortune to Sir David, who was his firstcousin, and, in fact, his nearest relation, my mother did ask me if myhusband intended to make his will. More than once after that she triedto persuade me to speak to him about it, but I disliked the subject toomuch. "

Mr. Murray looked as if he wished that Lady Rose would go on talking; heseemed to expect more from her, but, as nothing more came, he made agreat effort and plunged into the subject. 

"The will I have here"--he held up the papers as he spoke--"was, infact, made a few months after Sir David inherited Mr. John Steele'slarge fortune, and there was no subsequent alteration to it, but thistime last year we were directed to make a codicil to this will, and Iwas away at the time. My brother, who is my senior partner, ventured tourge Sir David to make a new will altogether, but he declined. "

There was silence in the room for some moments. Mr. Murray leant overthe writing-table now, and both hands were occupied in smoothing out thepapers before him. 

"It is the worst will I have ever come across, " he said quite suddenly, the professional manner gone and the vehemence of a strong mind indistress breaking through all conventionality. Rose drew herself up andlooked at him coldly. In that moment she completely regained herself-possession. 

"It is absolutely inexplicable, " he went on, with a great effort atself-control. "Sir David Bright leaves this house and £800 a year toyou, Lady Rose, for your lifetime, and a few gifts to friends and smalllegacies to old servants. " He paused. Rose, with slightly heightenedcolour, spoke very quietly. 

"Then the fortune was much smaller than was supposed?"

"It was larger, far larger than any one knew; but it is all left away. "

Rose was disturbed and frankly sorry, but not by any means miserable. She knew life, and did not dislike wealth, and had had dreams of muchgood that might be done with it. 

"To whom is it left?" she asked. 

"After the small legacies I mentioned are paid off, the bulk of thefortune goes"--the lawyer's voice became more and more business-like intone--"to Madame Danterre, a lady living in Florence. "

"And unless anything is sent to me from South Africa, this will is law?"

"Yes. "

Rose covered her face with her hands; she did not move for severalmoments. It would not have surprised Mr. Murray to know that she waspraying. Presently she raised her face and looked at him with troubledeyes, but absolute dignity of bearing. 

"And the codicil?"

"The codicil directs that if you continue to live in this house----"

Rose made a little sound of surprised protest. 

"----the ground rent, all rates, and all taxes are to be paid. A summuch larger than can be required is left for this purpose, and it canalso be spent on decorating or furnishing, or in any way be used for thehouse and garden. It is an elaborate affair, going into every detail. "

"Should I be able to let the house?"

"For a period of four months, not longer. But should you refuse to livein this house, this sum will go with the bulk of the fortune. We hadimmediate application on behalf of Madame Danterre from a lawyer inFlorence as soon as the news of the death reached us. It seems that shehas a copy of the will. "

"Has she"--Rose hesitated, and then repeated, "Has Madame Danterre anychildren?"

"I do not know, " said Mr. Murray. "Beyond paying considerable sums tothis lawyer from time to time for her benefit, we have known nothingabout her. There has been also a large annual allowance since the yearwhen Sir David came into his cousin's fortune. " There was anothersilence, and then Mr. Murray spoke in a more natural way, though it wasimpossible to conceal all the sympathy that was filling his heart withan almost murderous wrath. 

"After all, the General had plenty of time before starting for the warto arrange his affairs; he was not a man who would neglect business. Icame here with a faint hope--or I tried to think it was a hope--that youmight have another will in the house. I'm afraid this--documentrepresents Sir David Bright's last wishes. " There was a ring ofindignant scorn in his voice. 

Rose looked through the window on to the thin black London turf outside, and her eyes were blank from the intensity of concentration. She had nothought for the lawyer; if he had been sympathetic even to impertinenceshe would not have noticed it. 

She was questioning her own instincts, her perceptions. No, it wasalmost more as if she were emptying her mind of any conscious actionthat her whole power of instinctive perception might have play. Whenthe blow had fallen, her only surprise had been to find that she was notsurprised, not astonished. It seemed as if she had known this all thetime, for the thing had been alongside of her for years, she had livedtoo close to it for any surprise when it raised its head and found aname. Her reasoning powers indeed asked with astonishment why she wasnot surprised. She could not explain, the symptoms of the thing that hadhaunted her had been too subtle, too elusive, too minute to be broughtforward now as witnesses. But while the lawyer looked at the open faceand the large eyes, and the frank bearing of the figure in thephotograph, and felt that outer man to have been the disguise of avillain, Rose, the victim, knew better. It was a supreme proof of theclear vision of her soul that she was not surprised, and that, evenwhile she seemed to be flayed morally and exposed to things evil and ofshame, she did not judge with blind indignation. He had not been whollybad, he had not been callous in his cruelty; what he had been therewould be time to understand--time for the delicacies, almost for theluxuries of forgiveness. What she was feeling after now was a point ofview above passion and pain from which to judge this final opinion ofthe lawyer's, from which to know whether Sir David had left anotherwill. 

"There has been another will, " she said very gently, "but, of course, itis more than likely that it will never be found. I am convinced"--shelooked at the black and green turf all the time, and obviously spoke toherself, not to Mr. Murray--"that he did not intend to leave me to openshame"--the words were gently but very distinctly pronounced--"or toleave a scandal round his own memory. Perhaps he carried another willabout with him, and if so it may be sent to me. Somehow I don't thinkthis will happen. I think the will you have in your hand is the only oneI shall ever see, but I do not therefore judge him of having faced deathwith the intention of spoiling my life. I shall live in this house and Ishall honour his memory; he died for his country, and I am his widow. "

That was all she could say on the subject then, and she could only justask Mr. Murray if he could see her again any time the next morning. After answering that question the lawyer went silently away. 

Rose stood by the table where he had sat a moment before, looking longand steadfastly at the photograph. She looked at the open face, shelooked at the military bearing, she looked at the Victoria Cross, --ithad been the amazing courage shown in that story that had really wonher, --she looked, too, at the many medals. She had been with him once ina moment of peril in a fire and had seen the unconscious pride withwhich he always answered to the call of danger. She had, too, seen himbear acute pain as if that had been his talent, the thing he knew how todo. 

"Ah, poor David!" she said softly. "What did she do to frighten you?Poor, poor David, you were always a coward!"

CHAPTER II

IN THE EVENING

But this was a trial to search out every part of Rose's nature. She hadtoo much faith for sickness, death, or even terrible physical pain, tobe to her in any sense a poisoned wound. There are women like Rose whoseinner life can only be in peril from the pain and shame of the sin ofothers. To them it is an intolerable agony to be troubled in their faithin man. 

Lady Charlton, swept out of the calm belonging to years of gentleactions and ideal thoughts into a storm of indignation and horror, mighthave lost all dignity and discretion if she had not been checked byreverence for the dumb anguish and misery of her favourite daughter. Shehad some notion of the thoughts that must pass in Rose's mind, now dulland heavy, now alert and inflicting sudden deep incisions into thequivering soul. Marriage had been to them both very sacred. They hated, beyond most good women, anything that seemed to materialise or lower theideal. If there can be imagined a scale of standards for the relationsof men and women, of which Zola had not touched the extremity at oneend, the first place at the other extremity might be assigned to suchEnglishwomen as Rose and her mother. The most subtle and amazingly highmotives had been assigned to Lord Charlton's most ordinary actions, andhappily he had been so ordinary a person that no impossible shock hadbeen given to the ideal built up about him. And it had not beendifficult or insincere to carry on something of the same illusion withregard to the man who had won the Victoria Cross and had been verypopular with Tommy Atkins. David Bright's very reserves, the closeddoors in his domestic life, did not prevent, and indeed in some wayshelped, the process. The mother had known in the depth of her heart thatRose was lonely, but then she was childless. Rose had never, even inmoments when the nameless mystery that was in her home oppressed hermost in its dull, voiceless way, tried to tell her mother what she didnot herself understand. Sir David had been courteous, gentle, attentive, but never happy. Rose knew now that he had always been guiltily afraid. 

Lady Charlton had had a few moments' warning of disaster, for she washorrified at the change in Rose's face when she met her at the door ofthe church after Evensong. She herself had been utterly soothed andrested by the beauty of the service. There was so much that fitted inwith all her ideals in mourning the great soldier. Little phrases abouthim and about Rose flitted through her mind. Widows were widows indeedto Lady Charlton. Rose would live now chiefly for Heaven and to soothethe sorrows of earth. She did not say to herself that Rose would not bebroken-hearted and crushed, nor did she take long views. If years henceRose were to marry again her mother could make another picture in whichSir David would recede into the background. Now he was her hero whomRose mourned, and whose loss had consecrated her more entirely toHeaven; then he would unconsciously become in her mother's eyes a mucholder man whom Rose had married almost as a child. There would benothing necessarily to mar the new picture if all else were fitting. 

But the peace of gentle sorrow had left Rose's face, and it wore a lookher mother had never seen on it before. The breath of evil was closeupon her; it had penetrated very near, so near that she seemed evil toherself as it embraced her. She was too dazed, too confused to rememberthat Divine purity had been enclosed in that embrace. What terrified hermost was the thought that had suddenly come that possibly the unknownwoman in Florence had been the real lawful wife, and that her ownmarriage had been a sin, a vile pretence and horror. For the first timein her life the grandest words of confidence that have expressed andinterpreted the clinging faith of humanity seemed an unreality. Rose hadnever known the faintest temptation to doubt Providence before thismiserable evening. She resented with her whole being the idea thatpossibly she had been the cause of the grossest wrong to an injuredwife. And there was ground in reason for such a fear, for it seemeddifficult to believe that any claim short of that of a wife could havefrightened Sir David into such a course. The other and more common view, that it was because he had loved his mistress throughout, did not appealto her. Vice had for her few recognisable features; she had no map forthe country of passion, no precedents to refer to. It seemed to Rosemost probable that Sir David had believed his first wife to be deadwhen he married her; that, on finding he was mistaken, his courage hadfailed, and that he had carried on a gigantic scheme of bribery toprevent her coming forward. This view was in one sense a degree lesspainful, as it would make him innocent of the first great deception, thehuge lie of making love to her as if he were a free man. The depths andextent of her misery could be measured by the strange sense of a bittergladness invading the very recesses of her maternal instinct, andreplacing what had been the heartfelt sorrow of six years. "It is amercy I have no child!" she cried, and the cry seemed to herself almostblasphemous. 

When she came out of the church it was raining, and the wind blowing. Itwas only a short walk to her own house, and she and her mother had madea rule not to take out servants and the carriage for their devotions. She would have walked on in total silence, but her mother could not bearthe suspense. 

"Rose, what is it?" she cried, in a tone of authority and intenseanxiety. After all it might be easier to answer now as they battled withthe rain. 

"I don't know how to tell you, mother. Mr. Murray has been with me andshown me the will. There was some one all the time who had some claim onhim. She may have been his real wife--I know nothing except that sincewe have had John Steele's fortune David has always paid her an incomeand now has left her a very great deal and me very little. That wouldnot matter--God knows it is not the poverty that hurts--but the thingitself, the horror, the shame, the publicity. I mind it all, everything, more than I ought. I----" She stopped, not a word more would come. 

Lady Charlton could only make broken sounds of incredulous horror. Whenthey crossed the brilliantly lighted hall the mother suddenly seemedmuch older, and Rose, for the first time, bore all the traces of agreat, an overpowering sorrow. 

"It wasn't natural to be so calm, " thought the maid, who had been withher since her girlhood, as she helped her to take off her cloak. "Shedidn't understand at first. It's coming over her now, poor dear, andindeed he was a real gentleman, and such a husband! Never a harshword--not one--that I ever heard, at least. "

It was some time before Lady Charlton could be brought to believe itall, and then at first she was overwhelmed with self-blame. Her mindfastened chiefly on the fact that she had allowed the marriage withoutsettlements. Then the next thought was the horror of the publicity, theway in which this dreadful woman must be heard of and talked about. LadyCharlton's broken sentences had almost the feebleness of extreme old agethat cannot accept as true what it cannot understand. "It seemsimpossible, quite impossible, " she said. She was very tired, and Rosewished it had been practicable to keep this knowledge from her tilllater. She knew that her mother was one of those highly-strung womenwhose nerve power is at its best quite late at night. As it was, LadyCharlton had to dress for dinner and sit as upright as usual through themeal, and to talk a little before the servants. Rose appeared the moredazed of the two then, though her mind had been quite clear before. There was nothing said as soon as they were alone, but, as if with oneaccord, both glanced at each of the many letters brought by the lastpost, and, if it were one of condolence, laid it aside unread. Thebutler had placed on a small table two evening papers, which had noticesof the memorial service for Sir David Bright, and one had some lines "InMemoriam" from a poet of considerable repute. Rose, finding the papersat her elbow, got up and changed her chair. It was not till they hadgone up to their rooms and parted that Lady Charlton felt speech to bepossible. She wrapped her purple dressing-gown round her and went intoRose's room. She found her sitting in a low chair by the fire leaningforward, her elbows pressed on her knees, her face buried in her hands. Then, very quietly and impersonally, they discussed the situation. Witha rare self-command the mother never used one expression of reprobation;if she had done so, Rose could not have spoken again. It seemed more andmore, as they spoke in the two gentle voices, so much alike in tone andaccent, in a half pathetic, half musical intonation; it seemed as theysat so quietly without tears, almost without gestures, as if theydiscussed the story of another woman and another man. There were somedifferences in their views, and the mother's was ever the hardest on thedead man. For instance, Rose believed through all that another willexisted, although she was convinced that she should never see it. Hermother's judgment coincided with the lawyer's; the soldier would havemade the change, if it were made at all, before starting for the war. No, the whole thing had been too recently gone into; it was so short atime since the codicil had been added. Of that codicil, too, LadyCharlton's view was quite clear. She thought the object of adding it hadbeen to save appearances. "As long as you live in this house, furnishedas well as possible, people will forget the wording of the will, or theywill think that money was given to you in his lifetime to escape thedeath duties. "

Like many idealists and even mystics, both mother and daughter tooksensible views on money matters. They did not undervalue the fortunethat had gone; they were both honestly sorry it had gone, and would havetaken any reasonable means to get it back again. Only Rose allowed thatpossibly there might have been some claim in justice on the woman'spart; she could not frame her lips to use the words again. Without"legal wife" or any such terms passing between them, they were reallyarguing the point. Lady Charlton had not the faintest shadow of a doubt"the woman was a wicked woman, and the wicked woman, as wicked women do, had entrapped a" (the adjective was conspicuous by its absence) "a man. "Such a woman was to be forgiven, even--a bitter sigh could not besuppressed--to be prayed for; but it was not necessary to try to take afalsely charitable view of her, or invent unlikely circumstances in herdefence. It was a relief to the darkest of all dark thoughts in Rose'smind, the doubt of the validity of her own marriage, to hear her mothersettling this question as she had settled so many questions years ago, by the weight of personal authority. 

At last the clock on the stairs below told them that it was two in themorning, and Lady Charlton had to leave London by an early train. Shewas torn between the claim of her youngest married daughter, who waslaid up in a lonely country house in Scotland, and that of Rose in thisnew and miserable trouble. 

"I could telegraph to Bertha that I can't come, " she said suddenly. "But I am afraid she would miss me. "

"No, no, " murmured Rose firmly, "Bertha needs you most now; you mustgo, " and then, fearing her mother might think she did not want herquite, quite enough, "I shall look forward to your coming back soon, very soon. "

"Could you--could you come and sleep in my room, Rose?" They werestanding up by the fireplace now. 

"If you like mother, only it will be worse for me to-morrow night. " Theyboth looked away from the fire round the room--the room that had beenhers since the first days after the honeymoon. 

Then at the same moment Lady Charlton opened her arms and Rose drewwithin them, and leant her fair head on her mother's shoulder. So theystood for a few moments in absolute stillness. 

"God bless you, my child, " and Rose was left, as she wished, alone. 

CHAPTER III

"AS YOU HOPE TO BE FORGIVEN"

Two months passed, and at last the War Office received a parcel for LadyRose Bright. It had been sent to headquarters by the next officer incommand under Sir David, who had met his own fate a few weeks later. Rose received the parcel at tea-time, brought to her by a mountedmessenger from the War Office. 

A great calm had settled in Rose's soul during these weeks. She had mether trouble alone and standing. At first, all had been utter darknessand bitter questioning. Then the questioning had ceased. Even the wishto have things clear to her mind and to know why she should have thisparticular trial was silenced, and in the completeness of submission shehad come back to life and to peace. Nothing was solved, nothing madeclear, but she was again in the daylight. But when she received thelittle parcel in its thick envelope she trembled excessively. It wasaddressed in a handwriting she had never seen before. She could not forsome moments force herself to open it. When she did she drew out a fadedphotograph, a diamond ring, and a sheet of paper with writing in ink. The photograph was of Sir David as quite a young man--she had never seenit before; the ring had one very fine diamond, and that she had neverseen before. On the paper was written in his own hand. --

"This will be brought to you if I die in battle. Forgive me, as you toohope to be forgiven. Justice had to be done. I have tried to make it aslittle painful as I could. "

That was all. There was nothing else in the envelope. She took up thephotograph, she took up the ring, and examined them in turn. It was sostrange, this very remarkable diamond, which she had never seen before, sent to her as if it were a matter of course. He had never worn muchjewellery, and he had left in her care the few seals and rings hepossessed. Then the photograph of her husband as a young man, so muchyounger than when she had known him. Why send it to her now? What hadshe to do with this remote past? But the paper was the most astonishingof all. She had been standing when she undid the things; she left thering and the photograph on the table, and she sank into a chair near thefire holding the bit of paper. The tone of it astonished and confusedher. It was more the stern moralist asking to be forgiven for doingright than the guilty husband asking for mercy in her thoughts of him. 

"Yes, " thought Rose at length, "that is because she was his wife, andwhen he came to face death it was the great wrong of infidelity to herthat haunted him. I must have seemed almost a partner in the wrong. "

Again the confused sense of guilt seized her, the horrible possibilityof having been a wife only in name. She did not weigh the matter calmlyenough to feel quite as distinctly as she ought to have done that shecould not be touched or denied in the faintest degree by a sin that wasnot her sin. Still she raised her head as she could not have done someweeks before; for the most acute phase of her trial had been faced andhad been passed. Now in her moments of most bitter pain in the verydepths of her soul was peace. As she became calmer she tried again toconnect together those three parts of the message from the battle-field, the ring, the photograph, and the letter; but she could not do so. Atlast she put them away in the drawer of her bureau, and then wrote totell her mother and the lawyer that Sir David had sent her a photograph, a ring, and a few private lines--that was all. There was no will. 

Still everything had not been brought back. There had been portmanteauxsent down to Capetown, and there might yet be discovered a smalldespatch box, or a writing case, something or other that might hold awill. But the limit of time was reached at last; the portmanteaux and adespatch box were recovered, but they held no will. 

The solicitor delayed to the last possible moment, and then the will wasproved. It was published in the papers at a moment when a lull in thewar gave leisure for private gossip, and the gossip accordingly ragedhotly. All the sweetness, gentleness, and kindness that made Rosedeservedly popular did not prevent there being two currents of opinion. There are wits so active that they cannot share the views of allright-minded people. While the majority sympathised deeply with Rose, there were a few who insinuated that she must be to some degree to blamefor what had happened. 

"Well, don't you know, I never could understand why she married a man somuch older than herself. Of course she had not a penny and he wasawfully rich, and people don't look too close into a man's character insuch cases. It is rather convenient for some women to be very innocent. "

Sir Edmund Grosse, to whom the remark was addressed at a small countryhouse party, turned his back for a moment on the speaker in order topick up a paper, and then said in a low, indifferent voice: "DavidBright came into his cousin's fortune unexpectedly a year after hemarried Lady Rose. "

The subject was dropped that time, but he met it again in somewhat thesame terms in London. There seemed a sort of vague impression that LadyRose had married for the sake of the wealth she had lost. Also at hisclub there was talk he did not like, not against Rose indeed, butdwelling on the other side of the story, and he hated to hear Rose'sname connected with it. People forgot his relationship, and after all hewas only a second cousin. 

Edmund Grosse was at this time just over forty. He was a tall, looselybuilt man, with rather a colourless face, with an expression negative inrepose, and faintly humorous when speaking. He was rich and supposed tobe lazy; he knew his world and had lived it in and for itsystematically. Some one had said that he took all the frivolous thingsof life seriously and all the serious things frivolously. He couldadvise on the choice of a hotel or a motor-car with intense earnestness, and he had healed more than one matrimonial breach that threatened tobecome tragic by appealing to the sense of humour in both parties. Henever took for granted that anybody was very good or very bad. The bestwomen possible liked him, and looked sorry and incredulous when theywere informed by his enemies that he had no morals. He had never toldany one that he was sad and bored. Nor had he ever thought it worthwhile to mention that he had indifferent health and knew what it was tosuffer pain. If such personal points were ever approached by his friendsthey found that he did not dwell upon them. He had the air of not beingmuch interested in himself. 

For a long time he had felt no acute sensations of any kind; he hadbelieved them to belong to youth and that was past. But that matter ofDavid Bright's will had stirred him to the very depths. He spentsolitary hours in cursing the departed hero, and people found himtiresome and taciturn in company. 

At last he determined to meddle in Rose's concerns, and he went to seeMr. Murray, Junior, at his office. There ensued some pretty plainspeaking as to the late hero between the two men. Edmund Grosse halfdrawled out far the worst comments of the two; he liked the lawyer andlet himself speak freely. And although the visit was apparently whollyunproductive of other results, it was a decided relief to his feelings. Then he heard that Rose had come back to London, and he went to see her. It was about nine months since she had become a widow. She was alone inthe big beautifully furnished drawing-room, which was just as of old. Except that a neat maid had opened the door, instead of a butler, he sawno change. 

Rose looked a little nervous for a moment, and then frankly pleased tosee him. Edmund always had a talent for seeming to be as natural in anyhouse as if he were the husband or the brother or part of the furniture. Somehow, as Rose gave him tea and they settled into a chat, she felt asif he had been there very often lately, whereas in fact she had not seenhim since David died, except at the memorial service. He began to tellher what visits he had paid, whom he had seen, the little gossip heexpressed so well in his gentle, sleepy voice; and then he drew her onas to her own interests, her charities, her work for the soldiers'wives. He said nothing more that day, but he dropped in again soon, andthen again. 

At last one evening he observed quite quietly, in a pause in their talk:"So you live here on £800 a year?"

Rose did not feel annoyed, though she did not know why she was notangry. 

"Yes, I can manage, " she said simply. 

"You can't tell yet; it's too soon. " He got up out of his low chair nearthe fireplace, now filled with plants, and stood with his back againstthe chimney. "You know it's absurd, " he said. Rose moved uneasily andwas silent. 

"It's absurd, " he repeated, "there's another will somewhere. David wouldnever have done that. " He struck that note at the start, and cursedDavid all the deeper in the depths of his diplomatic soul. Rose lookedat him gratefully, kindly. 

"I think there is another will somewhere, " she said, "but I am sure itwill never be found. It's no use to think or talk of it, Edmund. "

He fidgeted for a moment with the china on the chimney-piece. 

"For 'auld lang syne, ' Rose, " he said in a very low voice, "and becauseyou might possibly, just possibly, have made something of me if you hadchosen, let me know a little more about it. I want to see what was inhis last letter. "

Rose flushed deeply. It was difficult to say why she yielded except thatmost people did yield to Grosse if he got them alone. She drew off thethird finger of her left hand a very remarkable diamond ring and gave itto him. Then she took out of a drawer a faded photograph of a young, commonplace, open-faced officer, now framed in an exquisite stampedleather case, and handed that to him also. He saw that she hesitated. 

"May I have the rest, " he said very gently. Even her mother had neverseen the piece of paper. No, she could not show that. Edmund did notinsist further, and a moment later he seemed to have forgotten that shehad not given him what he asked for. 

"Did he often wear this ring?"

"Never. I never saw it till now, and I had never seen the photograph. "

"It was taken in India, " he commented, "and the ring has a date twentyyears ago. "

"I never noticed that, " said Rose. She was feeling half consciouslysoothed and relieved as a child might feel comforted who had found acompanion in a room that was haunted. 

"Things from such a remote past, " he murmured abstractedly. "Did heexplain in writing why he sent those things?"

"No, he said nothing about them, he only----" she paused. Edmund did notmove, and in a few moments she gave him the paper. He ground his teethas he read it, he grew white about the lips, but he said nothing. He washorribly disappointed--the scoundrel asked for forgiveness. Then he hadnot made another will. Edmund did not look round at Rose, but she wasacutely present to his consciousness--the woman's beauty, the child'sinnocence, the suffering and the strength in her face. "As you would beforgiven!" That was a further insult, it seemed to him. To talk of Rosewanting forgiveness. Then a strange kind of sarcasm took hold of him. Soit was; she had not been able to believe in himself; he, Edmund, had notbeen ideal in any sense. Therefore she had passed him by, and then ahero had come whom she had worshipped, and this was the end of it. Everyword in the paper burnt into him. "Justice"--how dared he? "Made it aslittle painful as he could"--it was insufferable, and the coward wasbeyond reach, had taken refuge whither human vengeance could not followhim. 

He succeeded in leaving Rose's house without betraying his feelings, buthe felt that no good had come of this attempt, so far at any rate. Thatnight he slept badly, which he did pretty often, but he experienced anunusual sensation on waking. He felt as if he had been working hard andin vain all night at a problem, and he suddenly said to himself, "Thering, the photograph, and the paper were of course meant for the otherwoman, and she has got whatever was meant for Rose. Now if the thingthat was meant for Rose was the will, Madame Danterre has got it nowunless she has had the nerve to destroy it. " He felt as if he had beenan ass till this moment. Then he went to see Mr. Murray, Junior, wholistened with profound attention until he had finished what he had totell him. 

"Lady Rose has allowed you to see the paper, then?" he said at last. "She has not even shown it to Lady Charlton. He asked her pardon, " hemused, half to himself, "and said justice must be done. I am afraid, SirEdmund, that that points in the same direction as our worst fears--thatMadame Danterre was his wife. "

"But he would not have written such a letter as that to Rose; it isimpossible. 'Forgive as you too hope to be forgiven. ' That sentence inconnection with Lady Rose is positively grotesque, whereas it would bemost fitting when addressed elsewhere. "

Mr. Murray could not see the case in the same light as Edmund. Heallowed the possibility of the scrap of paper and the ring having beensent to Rose by mistake, but he was not inclined to indulge in whatseemed to him to be guesswork as to what conceivably had been intendedto be sent to her in place of them. 

"There is, too, " he argued, "a quite possible interpretation of thewords of that scrap of paper. It is possible that he was full of remorsefor his treatment of Madame Danterre. Sometimes a man is haunted bywrong-doing in the past until it prevents his understanding the point ofview of anybody but the victim of the old haunting sin. Remorse is veryexclusive, Sir Edmund. In such a state of mind he would hardly think ofLady Rose enough to realise the bearing of his words. 'Forgive as youtoo hope to be forgiven' would be an appeal wrung out from him by sheersuffering. It is a possible cry from any human being to another. Then asto the ring and the photograph, we have no proof that he put them in theenvelope. They may have been found on him and put into the envelope bythe same hand that addressed it. I quite grant you that those few wordsare extraordinary, but they can be explained. But even if it wereobvious that they were intended for somebody else, you cannot deducefrom that, that another letter, intended for Lady Rose and containing awill, was sent elsewhere. "

But Sir Edmund was obstinate. The piece of paper had been intended forMadame Danterre, together with the ring and the photograph--thingsbelonging to Sir David's early life, to the days when he most probablyloved this other woman; he even went so far as to maintain that the ladyin Florence had given Sir David the ring. 

"After all, " said Mr. Murray, "what can you do? You could only raisehopes that won't be fulfilled. "

"I think myself that my explanation would calm my cousin's mind; thepossibility that she was not Sir David's wife is, I am convinced, themost painful part of the trial to her. I shall write it to her, but Ishall also tell her that there is no hope whatever of proving what Ibelieve to be the truth. "

"None at all; do impress that upon her, Sir Edmund. We have nothing tobegin upon. The officer who sent the paper to headquarters is dead; SirDavid's own servant is dead; Sir David's will in favour of MadameDanterre has been published without even a protest. "

"Lady Rose will not be inclined to raise the question. "

"No, I believe that is true, " said the lawyer; "Lady Rose Bright is awise woman. "

But Mr. Murray was annoyed to find that Edmund Grosse was far less wise, and that whatever he might promise to say to Rose he would not really becontent to leave things alone. He intended to go to Florence and to getinto touch with Madame Danterre. Such interference could do no good, andit might do harm. 

"I won't alarm her, " said Edmund, "believe me, she will have no reasonto suppose that I am in Florence on her account. I am, in any case, going to the Italian lakes this autumn, and I have often been offeredthe loan of a flat overlooking the Arno. If the offer is still open Ishall accept it. I have long wished to know that fascinating town alittle better. "

When Rose received the letter from Edmund it had the effect he hadexpected. It was simply calming, not exciting. Rose was even moreanxious than the lawyer that nothing should be attempted in order tofollow up her cousin's suggestion. But she could now let her imaginationbe comforted by Edmund's solution of the mystery, and let her fancy restin the thought of a very different letter intended for herself. Thewords on that scrap of paper no longer burnt with such agony into hersoul, and she no longer felt it a dreadful duty to wear the ring withits glorious stone so full of light, an object that was to her intenselyrepugnant. She would put it away, and with it all dark and morbidthoughts. She had a life to lead, thoughts to think, actions to do, andall that was in her own control must escape from the shadow of the pastinto a working daylight. 

CHAPTER IV

THE WICKED WOMAN IN FLORENCE

Edmund Grosse's friend was delighted to put the flat in the Palazzo athis disposal. The weather was unusually warm for the autumn when Edmundarrived in Florence. He was glad to get there, and glad to get away fromthe gay group he had left in a beautiful villa on Lake Como; andprobably they were glad to see him go. 

Edmund had indeed only stayed with them long enough to leave a verymarked impression of low spirits and irritation. "What's come toGrosse?" was asked by more than one guest of the hostess. 

"I don't know, but he really is impossible. It's partly because ofBilly--but I won't condescend to explain that Billy proposed himself andI could not well refuse. "

Billy is the only one of this gay, quarrelsome little group that need benamed here. It was really partly on his account that Edmund so quicklyleft them to their gossip alternating with happy phrases of joy in thebeauty of mountains and lakes, and to their quarrels alternating withmoments of love-making, so avowedly brief that only an artist couldbelieve in its exquisite enjoyment. Neither Edmund nor Billy werereally _habitués_ of this Bohemian circle. They both belonged to a moreconventional social atmosphere; they were at once above and below therest of the party. The cause of antipathy to Billy on Sir Edmund's partwas a certain likeness in their lives--contrasting with a most markeddissimilarity of character. 

Sir Edmund could not say that Billy was a fool or a snob, because Billydid nothing but lead a perfectly useless life as expensively aspossible; and he did the same himself. He could not even say that Billylived among fools and snobs, because many of Billy's friends were hisown friends too. He could not say that Billy had been a coward becausehe had not volunteered to fight in the Boer war, because Sir Edmund hadnot volunteered himself. He could not say that Billy employed the wrongtailor; it would show only gross ignorance or temper to say so. But justthe things in which he felt himself superior, utterly different in factfrom Billy, were the stupid, priggish things that no one boasts of. Heread a good deal; he thought a good deal; he knew he might have had afuture, and the bitterness of his heart lay in the fact that at fifteenyears later in life than Billy he was still so completely a slave to allthat Billy loved. Every detail of their lives seemed to add to theirritation. It was only the day he left London that he had discoveredthat Billy's new motor was from the same maker as his own; in fact, except in colour, the motors were twins. This was the latest, and noteven the least, cause of annoyance. For it betrayed what he was alwaystrying to conceal from himself, that there appeared to be an actualrivalry between him and Billy, a petty, social, silly rivalry. Billy, ofsimpler make, a fresher, younger, more contented animal, thought littleof all this, and was irritated by Sir Edmund's assumption ofsuperiority. 

But he had never found Grosse so bearish and difficult before this visitto Como. As a rule Edmund was suavity itself, but this time even hisgift of gently, almost imperceptibly, making every woman feel him to beher admirer was failing. How often he had been the life of any party inany class of society, and that not by starting amusements, not by anypower of initiation, but by a gift for making others feel pleased, firstwith themselves, and consequently with life. He could bring the gift togood use on a royal yacht, at a Bohemian supper party, at a schoolroomtea, or at a parish mothers' meeting. But now--and he owned that hisliver was out of order--he was suffering from a general disgust withthings. When still a young man in the Foreign Office he had succeeded toa large fortune, and it had seemed then thoroughly worth while to employit for social ends and social joys. Long ago he had attained those ends, and long ago he had become bored with those joys; and yet he could notshake himself free from any of the habits of body or mind he had gotinto during those years. He could not be indifferent to any shades offailure or success. He watched the temperature of his popularity asacutely as many men watch their bodily symptoms. Even during those daysat Como, though despising his company, he knew that he felt a distinctirritation in a preference for Billy on the part of a lady whom he hadat one time honoured with his notice. In arriving where he was in theEnglish social world, he had increased, not only the need for luxury ofbody, but the sensitiveness and acuteness of certain perceptions as tohis fellow creatures, and these perceptions were not likely to slumberagain. 

Edmund was oppressed by several unpleasant thoughts as well as by theheat of the night on which he arrived in Florence. He decided to sleepout in the wide brick _loggia_ of the flat, which was nearly at the topof the great building. There was nothing to distract his gloomy thoughtsfrom himself, not even a defect in the dinner or in the broad couch of abed from which he could look up between the brick pillars of the_loggia_ at the naked stars. If he had been younger he would, in hissleepless hours, have owned to himself that he was suffering from "whatmen call love, " but he could not believe easily that Edmund Grosse atforty was as silly as any boy of twenty. He pished and pshawed at theabsurdity. He could not accept anything so simple and goody as his ownstory. That ever since Rose married he had put her out of his thoughtfrom very love and reverence for her seemed an absurd thing to say of aman of his record. Yet it was true; and all the more in consequence didthe thought of Rose as a free woman derange his whole inner life now, while the thought of Rose insulted by the dead hand of the man she hadmarried was gall and wormwood. What must Rose think of men? She had beenso anxious to find a great and good man; and she had found David Bright, whose mistress was now enjoying his great wealth somewhere below in theold Tuscan capital. And how could Edmund venture to be the next manoffered to her?--Edmund who had done nothing all these years, who hadsunk with the opportunity of wealth; whose talents had been lost ormisused. He seemed to see Rose kneeling at her prayers--the golden headbowed, the girlish figure bent. He could think of nothing in himself todistract her back to earth, poor beautiful child! Yet he had not nursedor petted or even welcomed the old passion of his boyhood. He wanted tobe without it and its discomforting reproaches. It was too late tochange anything or anybody. At forty how could he have a career, andwhat good would come of it? Yet his love for Rose was insistent on thenecessity of making Rose's lover into a different man from the presentEdmund Grosse. It was absurd and medieval to suppose that if he did somegreat or even moderately great work he could win her by doing it. Itmight be absurd, yet contrariwise he felt convinced that she would nevertake him as he was now. 

So he wearied as he turned on the couch that became less and lesscomfortable, till he rose and, with a rug thrown over him, leant on thebrick balustrade of the _loggia_. He stood looking at the stars in thedimness, not wholly unlike the figure of some old Roman noble in histoga, nor perhaps wholly unlike the figure of the unconverted Augustine, weary of himself and of all things. 

But this remark only shows how the stars and the deep blue openings intothe heavens, and the manifold suggestions of the towers of Dante's city, and the neighbourhood of Savonarola's cell, affect the imagination andcall up comparisons by far too mighty. Edmund Grosse's weariness of evilis nothing but a sickly shadow of the weariness of the great imprisonedsoul to whom an angel cried to take up and read aright the book of life. Grosse is in fact only a middle-aged man in pajamas with a travellingrug about his shoulders, with a sallow face, a sickly body, and a rathershallow soul. He will not go quite straight even in his love quest, andhe cannot bring himself to believe how strongly that love has hold ofhim. He is cynical about the best part of himself and to-night onlywishes that it would trouble him less. 

"Damn it, " he muttered at last, "I wish I had slept indoors--I am boredto death by those stars!"

Next day Grosse set about the work for which he had come to Florence. Hecalled on two men whom he knew slightly, and found them at home, butneither of them had ever heard of Madame Danterre. Dawkins, hismuch-travelled servant, of course, was more successful, and by theevening was able to take Edmund in a carriage to see some fine old irongates, and to drive round some enormous brick walls--enormous in heightand in thickness. 

The Villa was in a magnificent position, and the gardens, Dawkins toldhis master, were said to be beautiful. Madame Danterre had only justmoved into it from a much smaller house in the same quarter. 

Edmund next drove to the nearest chemist, and there found out that Dr. Larrone was the name of Madame Danterre's medical man. He already knewthe name of her lawyer from Mr. Murray, who had been in perfunctorycommunication with him during the years in which Sir David had paid alarge allowance to Madame Danterre. But he knew that any direct attemptto see these men would probably be worse than useless. What he wished todo was to come across Madame Danterre socially, and with all theappearance of an accidental meeting. His two friends in Florence didtheir best for him, but they were before long driven to recommendPietrino, a well-known detective, as the only person who could find outfor Grosse in what houses it might be possible to meet Madame Danterre. 

Grosse soon recognised the remarkable gifts of the Italian detective, and confided to him the whole case in all its apparent hopelessness. There was, indeed, a touch of kindred feeling between them, for both menhad a certain pleasure in dealing with human beings--humanity was thematerial they loved to work upon. The detective was too wise to let hiszeal for the wealthy Englishman outrun discretion. He did very little inthe case, and brought back a distinct opinion that Grosse could, atpresent, do nothing but mischief by interference. Madame Danterre hadalways lived a very retired life, and was either a real invalid or avaletudinarian. Her great, her enormous accession of wealth had onlybeen used apparently in the sacred cause of bodily health. She saw atmost six people, including two doctors and her lawyer; and on rareoccasions, some elderly man visiting Florence--a Frenchman maybe, or anEnglishman--would seek her out. She never paid any visits, although shekept a splendid stable and took long drives almost daily. The detectivewas depressed, for he had really been fired by Grosse's view as to thewill, and he had come to so favourable an opinion of Grosse's abilitythat he had wished greatly for an interview between the latter andMadame Danterre to come off. 

Edmund was loth to leave Florence until one evening when he despaired, for the first time, of doing any good. It was the evening on which hesucceeded in seeing Madame Danterre without the knowledge of that lady. The garden of the villa into which he so much wished to penetrate waswalled about with those amazing masses of brickwork which point to adate when labour was cheap indeed. Edmund had more than once dawdledunder the deep shadow of these shapeless masses of wall at the hour ofthe general siesta. 

He felt more alert while most of the world was asleep, and he couldstudy the defences of Madame Danterre undisturbed. A lost joy of boyhoodwas in his heart when he discovered a corner where the brickwork waspartly crumbled away, and partly, evidently, broken by use. It looked asif a tiny loophole in the wall some fifteen feet from the ground hadbeen used as an entrance to the forbidden garden by some small humanbody. That evening, an hour before sunset, he came back and lookedlongingly at the wall. The narrow road was as empty as it had beenearlier in the day. Twice he tried in vain to climb as far as theloophole, but the third time, with trousers ruined and one handbleeding, he succeeded in crawling on to the ledge below the opening sothat he could look inside. He almost laughed aloud at the absurdity ofhis own pleasure in doing so. Some rich, heavy scent met him as helooked down, but, fresh from the gardens of Como, this garden looked tohim both heavy and desolate--heavy in its great hedges broken bystatuary in alcoves cut in the green, and desolate in its burnt turf andits trailing rose trees loaded with dead roses. His first glance hadbeen downwards, then his look went further afield, and he knew whyMadame Danterre had chosen the villa, for the view of Florence wassuperb. He had not enjoyed it for half a moment when he heard a slightnoise in the garden. Yes, down the alley opposite to him there wereapproaching a lady and two men servants. He held his breath withsurprise. Was this Madame Danterre? the rival of Rose, the real love ofDavid Bright? What he saw was an incredibly wizened old woman who yetheld herself with considerable grace and walked with quick, long stepson the burnt grass a little ahead of the attendants, one of whom carrieda deck chair, while the other was laden with cushions and books. It wasevident to the onlooker at the installation of Madame Danterre in theshady, open space where three alleys met, that everything to do with herperson was carried out with the care and reverence befitting a religiousceremony; and there was almost a ludicrous degree of pride in herbearing and gestures. Edmund felt how amazingly some women have thepower of making others accept them as a higher product of creation, until their most minute bodily wants seem to themselves and those aboutthem to have a sacred importance. At last, when chair and mat andcushions and books had been carefully adjusted after much consideration, she was left alone. 

For a few moments she read a paper-covered volume, and Edmund determinedto creep away at once, when she suddenly got up and began walking againwith long, quick steps, her train sweeping the grass as she came towardsthe great wall; and he drew back a little, although it was almostimpossible that she should see him. Her gown, of a dark dove colour, floated softly; it had much lace about the throat on which shone astring of enormous pearls; and she wore long, grey gloves. Edmund, whowas an authority on the subject, thought her exquisitely dressed, as awoman who feels herself of great importance will dress even when thereis no one to see her. In the midst of the extraordinarily wizened facewere great dark eyes full of expression, with a fierce brightness inthem. It was as if an internal fire were burning up the dried andwizened features, and could only find an outlet through the eyes. Rapidly she had passed up and down, and sometimes as she came nearer thewall Edmund saw her flash angry glances, and sometimes sarcasticglances, while her lips moved rapidly, and her very small gloved handclenched and unclenched. 

At last a noise in the deserted road behind him, the growing rumbling ofa cart, made him think it safer to move, even at the risk of a littlesound in doing so. He reached the ground safely before he could be seen, and proceeded to brush the brick-dust off the torn knees of his greytrousers. 

He walked down the hill into the town with an air of finality, for hehad determined to go back to England. He could not have analysed hisimpressions; he could not have accounted for his sense of impotence anddefeat, but so it was. He had come across the personality of MadameDanterre, and he thereupon left her in possession of the field. But atthe same time, before leaving Florence, he gave largely of the sinews ofwar to that able spy, the Italian detective, Pietrino. 

CHAPTER V

"YOUR MOTHER'S DAUGHTER"

The surprising disposal of Sir David Bright's fortune was to have veryimportant consequences in a quiet household among the Malcot hills, ofthe existence of which Sir Edmund Grosse and Lady Rose Bright wereentirely unaware. 

In a small wind-swept wood that appeared to be seeking shelter in thehollow under the great massive curve of a green hill, there stood one ofthose English country houses that must have been planned, built, andfinished with the sole object of obtaining coolness and shade. Theprincipal living rooms looked north, and the staircase and a minutestudy were the only spots that ever received any direct rays of the sun. All the rooms except this favoured little study had windows opening tothe ground, and immediately outside grew the rich mossy turf thatindicates a clay soil. The mistress of the house was not easily dauntedby her surroundings, and she had impressed her cheerful, comfortable, and fairly cultured mind on all the rooms. Mrs. Carteret was the widowof a Colonel Carteret, who had retired from the army to farm his ownacres, and take his place in local politics. It is needless to say that, while the politics had gained from the help of an upright andchivalrous, if narrow, mind, the acres had profited little from hisattentions. When he died he left all he possessed absolutely to hiswidow, who was not prepared to find how very little that all had become. Mrs. Carteret took up the burden of the acres, dairy, gardens, andstable, with a sense of sanctified duty none the less heroic insensation because she was doing all these things for her own profit. Herneighbours held her in proportionate respect; and, as she had a fineperson, pleasant manners, and good connections, she kept, without theaid of wealth, a comfortable corner in the society of the county. 

It was not long after Colonel Carteret's death, and some thirteen yearsbefore the death of Sir David Bright, that the immediate neighbourhoodbecame gradually conscious of the fact that Mrs. Carteret had adopted alittle niece, the child of a soldier brother who had died in India. Thischild, from the first, made as little effect on her surroundings as itwas possible for a child to do. Molly Dexter was small, thin, andsallow; her dark hair did not curl; and her grey eyes had a curious lookthat is not common, yet not very rare, in childhood. It is the look ofone who waits for other circumstances and other people than those nowpresent. I know nothing so discouraging in a child friend--or rather ina child acquaintance, for friendship is warned off by such eyes--as thisparticular look. Mrs. Carteret took her niece cheerfully in hand, commended the quiet of her ways, and gave credit to herself and openwindows for a perceptible increase in the covering of flesh on thelittle bones, and a certain promise of firmness in the calves of thesmall legs. As to the rest: "Of course it was difficult at first, " shesaid, "but now Molly is perfectly at home with me. Nurses never dounderstand children, and Mary used to excite her until she had fits ofpassion. But that is all past. She is quite a healthy and normal childnow. "

Molly was growing healthy, but whether she was normal or not is anotherpoint. It does not tend to make a child normal to change everything inlife at the age of seven. Not one person, hardly one thing was the sameto Molly since her father's death. The language of her _ayah_ had untilthen been more familiar to her than any other language. The ayah'sthoughts had been her thoughts. The East had had in charge the firstyears of Molly's dawning intelligence, and there seemed impressed, evenon her tiny figure, something that told of patience, scorn, and reserve. And yet Mrs. Carteret was quite satisfied. 

Once, indeed, the widow was puzzled. Molly had strayed away by herself, and could not be found for nearly two hours. Provided with two figs andseveral bits of biscuit, a half-crown and a shilling, she had started towalk through the deep, heavy lanes between the great hills, with thefirm intention of taking ship to France. Mrs. Carteret treated theescapade kindly and firmly; not making too much of it, but giving suchsufficient punishment as to prevent anything so silly happening again. But she had no suspicion of what really had happened. Molly had, infact, started with the intention of finding her mother. It was two yearssince she had come to live with Mrs. Carteret, and, if the child hadspoken her secret thought, she would have told you that throughout thosetwo years she had been meaning to run away and find her mother. In thatshe would have fallen into an exaggeration not uncommon with somegrown-up people. It had been only at moments far apart, or occasionallyfor quite a succession of nights in bed, that she had spent a briefspace before falling asleep in dreaming of going to seek her mother. Butwhole months had passed without any such thought; and during these longinterludes the healthy country scenes about her, and the common causesfor smiles and tears in a child's life, filled her consciousness. Still, the undercurrent of the deeper life was there, and very small incidentswere strong enough to bring it to the surface. Molly had short dailylessons from the clergyman's daughter, a young lady who also took acheerful, airy view of the child, and said she would grow out of herlittle faults in time. In one of these lessons Molly learnt withsurprising eagerness how to find France for herself on the map. ThatFrance was much nearer to England than to India, and how it was usual tocross the Channel were facts easily acquired. Molly was amazinglybackward in her lessons, or she must have learnt these things before. When lessons were over and she went out into the garden, instead ofrunning as usual she walked so slowly that Mrs. Carteret, while talkingto the gardener, actually wondered what was in that child's mind. Mollywas living through again the parting with the ayah. She could feel theintensely familiar touch of the soft, dark hand; she could see theadoring love of the dark eyes with their passionate anger at theseparation. The woman had to be revenged on her enemies who were tearingthe child from her. "They deceive you, " she said. "The beautiful motheris not dead; she lives in France, not England; they will try to keep youfrom her, but the faithful child will find a way. "

Molly unconsciously in her own mind had already begun to put thesewords into English, whereas a year before she would have kept to theayah's own language. But in either language those words came to her asthe last message from that other life of warmth and love and colour inwhich she had once been a queen. Indeed, every English child broughthome from India is a sovereign dethroned. And the repetition of theayah's last words gave utterance to a sense of wrong that Mollynourished against her present rulers and against the world in which shewas not understood. 

That same day Mrs. Carteret spoke sharply and with indignation becauseMolly had trodden purely by accident on the pug; and her aunt said thatthe one thing with which she had no patience was cruelty toanimals--whereas the child was passionately fond of animals. Again, onthat same day, Molly fell into a very particularly dirty little pondnear the cowshed at the farm. Mary, the nurse, no doubt was thesufferer, and she said that she did not suppose that black nurses mindedbeing covered with muck--how should they?--and she supposed she must betreated as if she were a negro herself, but time would show whether shewere a black slave or an Englishwoman with a house of her own which shecould have now if she liked for the asking. While Mary spoke she pushedand pulled, and, in general treated Molly's small person as somethingunpleasant, and to be kept at a distance. Once clean and dressed again, Molly sat down quite quietly to consider the ways and means of gettingto France, with the result already told. 

Several years passed after that, in which Mrs. Carteret did by Molly, asby every one else, all the duties that were quite obviously evident toher, and did not go about seeking for any fanciful ones. And Molly grewup, sometimes happy, and sometimes not, saying sometimes the things shereally meant when she was in a temper, and acquiescing in Mrs. Carteret's explanation that she had not meant them when she had regainedher self-control. 

Until Molly was between fifteen and sixteen, Mrs. Carteret was able tokeep to her optimism as to their mutual relations. 

"The child is, of course, very backward. I tried to think it was want ofeducation, but I've come to see it's of no use to expect to make Mollyan interesting or agreeable woman; and very plain, of course, she mustbe. But, you know, plenty of plain, uninteresting women have very fairlyhappy lives, and under the circumstances"--but there Mrs. Carteretstopped, and her guest, the wife of the vicar, knew no more of thecircumstances than did the world at large. 

But when Molly was about the age of fifteen she began to display moretroublesome qualities, and a certain faculty for doing quite the wrongthing under a perverse appearance of attempting good works. There isnothing annoys a woman of Mrs. Carteret's stamp so much as good done inthe wrong way. She had known for so many years exactly how to do good tothe labourer, his family, and his widow, or to the vagrant passing by. It was really very tiresome to find that Molly, while walking in one ofthe lanes, had slipped off a new flannel petticoat in order to wrap up agypsy's baby. And it might be allowed to be trying that when believingan old man of rather doubtful antecedents to be dying from exhaustion, Molly had herself sought whisky from the nearest inn. She had bought awhole bottle of whisky, though indeed, being seized with qualms, she hadpoured half the contents of the bottle into a ditch before going back tothe cottage. And it was undoubtedly Mrs. Carteret's duty to protest whenshe found that Molly had held a baby with diphtheria folded closely inher arms while the mother fetched the doctor. 

Can any one blame Mrs. Carteret for finding these doings a littletrying? And it showed how freakish and contradictory Molly was in allher ways that she would never join nicely in school feasts, or harvesthomes, or anything pleasant or cheerful. Nor did she make friends evenwith those she had worried over in times of sickness. She would risksome serious infection, or meddle, with her odd notions, day after dayin a cottage; and then she would hardly nod to the convalescent boy orgirl when she met them again in the lanes. 

There was no one to tell her aunt what new, strange instincts andaspirations were struggling to the light in Molly. A passionate pity forpain would seize on her and hold her in a grip until she had done somedefinite act to relieve it. But pity was either not akin to love inMolly, or her affections had been too starved to take root after theimmediate impulse of mercy was passed. The girl was not popular in thevillage, although, unlike Mrs. Carteret, her poorer neighbours had agreat idea of Molly's cleverness. Needless to say that when, after someunmeasured effort at relieving suffering, Molly would come home with asense of joy she rarely knew after any other act, it hurt her to thequick and roused her deepest anger to find herself treated like anaughty, inconsiderate child. The storms between Mrs. Carteret andMolly were increasing in number and intensity, with outspoken wrath onone side, and a white heat of dumb, indignant resistance on the other. Then, happily, there came a change. Molly's education had been of thevery slightest until she was nearly sixteen, when Mrs. Carteret told herto expect the arrival of a finishing governess. She also announced thata music master from the cathedral town would, in future, come over twicea week to give her lessons. 

"It's not my doing, " said Mrs. Carteret, --and meaning only to be candidshe sounded very ungracious; and although she did not pay for thesethings, it was due to her urgent representations of their need that theyhad been provided. Molly supposed that all such financial arrangementswere made for her by her father's lawyer, of whom she had heard Mrs. Carteret speak. 

Throughout these years it had never occurred to Mrs. Carteret to doubtthat Molly believed her mother to be dead, and she never for a momentsupposed the child's silence on the subject to be ominous. Such silencedid not show any special power of reserve; many children brought up likeMolly will carefully conceal knowledge which they believe that those inauthority over them suppose them not to possess. Perhaps in Molly's casethere was an instinctive shrinking from exposing an ideal to scorn. Perhaps there was a wholly unconscious want of faith in the idealitself, an ideal which had been built up upon one phrase. Yet the notionof the beautiful, exiled mother, so cruelly concealed from her child, was very precious, however insecurely founded. It must be concealed fromother eyes by mists of incense, and honoured in the silence of thesanctuary. 

The new governess, Miss Carew, was a very fair teacher, and she soonrecognised the quality of her pupil's mind. Mrs. Carteret was possibly alittle disappointed on finding that Miss Carew considered Molly to bevery clever, as well as very ignorant. The widow was herself accustomedto feel superior to her own circle in literary attainments, --a sensationwhich she justified by an occasional reading of French memoirs and byalways getting through at least two articles in each _NineteenthCentury_. It was a detail that she had never cared for poetry; Sir JamesStephen, she knew, had also never cared to have ideas expressed inverse. But she felt a little dull when Miss Carew and Molly discussedBrowning and Tennyson and De Musset. Miss Carew fired Molly with newthoughts and new ambitions in matters intellectual, but also in moremundane affairs. If it is possible to be in the world and not of it wehave all of us also known people who are of the world though not in it;and Miss Carew was undoubtedly one of the latter. Her tongue babbled ofbeauties and courts, of manners, of wealth, and of chiffons, with thefree idealism of an amateur, and this without intending to do more thanenliven the dull daily walks through Malcot lanes. 

Two years of this companionship rapidly developed Molly. She did not nowmerely condemn her aunt and her friends from pure ignorant dislike; sheknew from other testimony that they were rather stupid, ignorant, badly-dressed, and provincial. But the chief change in her state of mindlay in her hopes for her own future. Miss Carew had pointed out that, ifsuch a very large salary could be given for the governess, there mustsurely be plenty of money for Molly's disposal later on. Why should notMolly have a splendid and delightful life before her? And then poorMiss Carew would suppress a sigh at her own prospects in which the pupilnever showed the least interest. It was before Miss Carew's second yearof teaching had come to an end, and while Molly was rapidly enlargingher mental horizon, that the girl came to a very serious crisis in herlife. 

Occupied with her first joy in knowledge, and with dreams of futuredelights in the great world, she had not broken out into any veryfreakish act of benevolence for a long time. One night, when Mrs. Carteret and Miss Carew met at dinner time, they continued to wait invain for Molly. The servants hunted for her, Mrs. Carteret called up thefront stairs, and Miss Carew went as far as the little carpenter's shopopening from the greenhouse to find her. It was a dark night, and therewas nothing that could have taken her out of doors, but that she was outcould not be doubted. The gardener and coachman were sent for, andbefore ten o'clock the policeman in the village joined in the search, and yet nothing was heard of Molly. Mrs. Carteret became reallyfrightened, and Miss Carew was surprised to see her betray so muchfeeling as almost to lose her self-control. She kept walking up anddown, while odd spasmodic little sentences escaped from her every fewminutes. 

"How could I answer for it to John if his girl came to any harm?" sherepeated several times. 

She kept moving from room to room with a really scared expression. Oncethe governess overheard her exclaim with an intensely bitter accent, "Even her wretched mother would have taken more care of her!"

At that moment the door opened; Molly came quietly in, looking at themboth with bright, defiant eyes. From her hat to the edge of her skirtshe appeared to be one mass of light, brown mud; her right cheek wasbleeding from a scratch, and the sleeve of her coat was torn open. 

"Where have you been to?" demanded Mrs. Carteret, in a voice thattrembled from the reaction of fear to anger. 

"I went for a walk, and I found a man lying half in the water inBrown-rushes pond; he had evidently fallen in drunk. I got him out afternearly falling in myself, and then I had to get some one to look afterhim. They took him in at Brown-rushes farm, and I found out who he wasand went to tell his wife, who is ill, that he was quite safe. I stayeda little while with her, and then I came home. I have walked abouttwenty miles, and, as you can see, I have had several tumbles, and I amvery tired. "

Molly's voice had been very quiet, but very distinct, and her look andbearing were full of an unspoken defiance. 

"And you never thought whether I should be frightened meanwhile?" saidMrs. Carteret. 

"Frightened about me?" said Molly in astonishment. 

"You had no thought for _my_ anxiety--the strain on _my_ nerves, " heraunt went on. 

"I thought you might be angry, but I never for a moment thought youwould be frightened. "

Miss Carew looked from one to the other in alarm and perplexity. Shefelt for them both, for the woman who had been startled by the extent ofher fears, and was the more angry in consequence, and for Molly, whobetrayed her utter want of belief in any kind of feeling on Mrs. Carteret's part. 

"If you do not care for my feelings, or, indeed, believe in them, I wishyou would have some care for your own good name. " A moment's pausefollowed these words, and then in a low voice, but quite distinct, camethe conclusion, "You must remember that your mother's daughter must bemore careful than other girls. "

Molly's cheeks, just now bright from the battle with the autumn wind, became as white as marble. There was no concealment possible; both womensaw that the child realised the full import of the words, and that sheknew they could read what was written on her face. There could be nopossibility of keeping up appearances after such a moment. But MissCarew moved forward, and flung her arms round Molly with a gesture ofsimple but complete womanliness. "You must have a hot bath at once, " shecried, "or you will catch your death of cold. "

"Perhaps it would be better if I did, " cried Molly in a voice fearful toher hearers in its stony hardness and hopelessness. "What does itmatter?"

Miss Carew would have been less unhappy if the child had burst into anyreproaches, however angry or unseemly; she wanted to hear her say thatsomething was a lie, that some one was a liar, but what was so awful tothe ordinary little woman was to realise that Molly believed what hadbeen said, or rather the awful implication of what had been said. Thereal horror was that Molly should come to such knowledge in such a way. 

The girl made no effort to shake her off, and not the least response toher caress. With perfect dignity she went quietly up-stairs. Withperfect dignity she let the governess and the housemaid do to herwhatever they liked. They bathed Molly, rubbed her with lotions, poulticed her with mustard, gave her a hot drink, and all the time MissCarew's heart ached at the impossibility of helping her in the veryleast. 

"Can I leave the door open between our rooms, in case you want anythingin the night?" she faltered. 

"Oh, yes; certainly. "

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes, of course. "

CHAPTER VI

MOLLY COMES OF AGE

For some time after that terrible night Molly never spoke to Mrs. Carteret unless it were absolutely necessary. It may be difficult tobelieve that no explanation was sought or given and after a time thingsseemed to be much as before. The silence of a brooding nature is aterrible thing; and it is more common in narrow, dull lives than in anyother. Uneducated men and women in villages, or servants crampedtogether in one house, I have known to brood over some injury in anawful silence for twenty or thirty years. If Molly's future life hadbeen in Mrs. Carteret's hands, the sense of wrong would have burroweddeeper and been even better hidden, but Molly, aided by Miss Carew, hadconvinced herself that liberty would come, without any fight for it, attwenty-one; so her view of the present was that it was a tiresome butinevitable waiting for real life. 

Miss Carew, watching her anxiously, could never find out what she hadthought since the night of the alarm; and if she had seen into her mindat any one moment alone, she would have been misled. For Molly'simagination flew from one extreme to another. At first, indeed, thatsentence, "Your mother's daughter ought to be more careful than othergirls, " had seemed simply a revelation of evil of which she could notdoubt the truth. She saw in a flash why her mother had gone out of herlife although still living. The whole possibility of shame and horrorappeared to fit in with the facts of her secluded life with Mrs. Carteret. A morbid fear as to her own birth seized on the poor child'smind, and might have destroyed the healthier aspect of life for herentirely; but happily Mrs. Carteret and the governess did think of thisdanger, and showed some skill in laying the phantom. Some photographs ofJohn Dexter as a young man were brought out and shown to the governessin Molly's presence, and her comments on the likeness to Molly were trueand sounded spontaneous. Relieved of this horror the girl's mind reactedto the hope that Mrs. Carteret had only spoken in temper and spite, grossly exaggerating some grievance against Molly's mother. Then was theideal restored to its pedestal, and expiatory offerings of sentiment ofthe most elaborate kind hung round the image of the ill-used andmisunderstood, the beautiful, unattainable mother. If Miss Carew hadseen into the reveries of her pupil at such a moment, she would hardlyhave believed how they alternated with the coldest fits of doubt andscepticism. Molly was dealing with a self-made ideal that she needed tosatisfy the hunger of her nature for love and worship. But it had nofoundations, no support, and it was apt to vanish with a terriblecompleteness. Then she would feel quite alone and horribly ashamed; shewould at moments think of herself as something degraded and to beshunned. Some natures would have simply sunk into a nervous state ofdepression, but Molly had great vitality and natural ambition. In herideal moments she thought of devoting her life to her mother; and theayah's words were still a text, "The faithful child will find a way. "But in darker hours she defied the world that was against her. 

Molly, having decided to make no effort at any change in her life untilthe emancipating age of twenty-one, determined to prepare herself asfully as possible for the future. Mrs. Carteret was quite willing tokeep Miss Carew until her niece was nearly twenty, and by that time thegirl had read a surprising amount, while her mind was not to bedespised. She had also "come out" as far as a very sleepy neighbourhoodmade it possible for her to see any society. She had been to threeballs, and a good many garden parties. No one found her very attractivein her manners, though her appearance had in it now something thatarrested attention. She took her position in the small Carteret circlein virtue of a certain energy and force of will. Molly danced, andplayed tennis, and rode as well as any girl in those parts, but she didnot hide a silent and, at present, rather childish scorn which was inher nature. Miss Carew left her with regret and with more affection thanMolly gave her back, for the governess was proud of her, and felt inwatching her the pleasures of professional success. Perhaps she put downtoo much of this success to her own skill, but it was true that, withoutMiss Carew, Molly would have been a very undeveloped young person. Therewas still one year after this parting before Molly would be free, and itseemed longer and slower as each day passed. One interest helped to makeit endurable. A trained hospital nurse had been provided for thevillage, and Molly spent a great deal of time learning her craft. Thenursing instinct was exceedingly strong and not easily put down, and, if Molly _must_ interfere with sick people, it was as well, in Mrs. Carteret's opinion, that she should learn how to do it properly. 

But the slow months rolled by at length, and the last year of bondagewas finished. 

The sun did its best to congratulate Molly on her twenty-first birthday. It shone in full glory on the great, green hills, and the blue shadowsin the hollows were transparent with reflected gold. The sunlighttrembled in the bare branches of the beeches and turned their greytrunks to silver. 

Standing in the little study, Molly's whole figure seemed to expand inthe sunshine. Her eyes sparkled, her lips parted, and she at once drankin and gave forth her delight. 

Some people might still agree with Mrs. Carteret that Molly was notbeautiful. Still, it was an appearance that would always provokediscussion. Molly could not be overlooked, and when her mind andfeelings were excited, then she gave a strange impression of intensevitality--not the pleasant overflow of animal spirits, but a suppressed, yet untamed, vitality of a more mental, more dangerous kind. Hermovements were usually sudden, swift, and abrupt, yet there was in themall a singular amount of expression, and, if Molly's keen grey eyes andsensitive mouth did not convey the impression of a simple, or even of akindly nature, they gave suggestions of light and longing, hunger andresolution. 

To-day, the twenty-first birthday, was to be the first day of freedom, the last of shackles and dulness and commonplace. It was to be a day ofspeech and a day of revenge. 

Molly was waiting now for Mrs. Carteret to come in and stand before herand hear all she meant to say about the long, unholy deception that hadbeen put upon her. She was going to say good-bye now and be free. Molly's money would now be her own, she could take it away and share itwith the deserted, misjudged mother. Nothing in all this wasmelodramatic; it would have been but natural if the facts had been asshe supposed, only Molly made the little mistake of treating as factsher carefully built-up fancies, her long, childish story of her ownlife. 

She was so absorbed that she hardly saw Mrs. Carteret come in and sitdown in her square, substantial way in a large arm-chair. Molly, standing by the window knocking the tassel of the blind to and fro, wasbreathing quickly. The older woman looked through some papers in herhand, put some notes of orders for groceries on a table by her side, andflattened out a long letter on foreign paper on her knee. She looked atMolly a little nervously, with cold blue eyes over gold-rimmedspectacles reposing on her well-shaped nose, and began:

"Now that you are of age I must----"

But Molly interrupted her. In a very low voice, speaking quickly withlittle gasps of impatience at any hesitation in her own utterance, --

"Before you talk to me about the arrangements, I want to tell you that Ihave made up my mind to leave here at once. I know it will be a reliefto you as well as to me. Any promise you made to my father is satisfiednow, and you cannot wish to keep me here. You have always been ashamedof me, you have always disliked me, and you have always deceived me. Iknew all this time that my mother was alive, and you never spoke of herexcept once and then it was to insult me as deeply as a girl can beinsulted. If what you said were true--and I don't believe it"--her voiceshook as she spoke--"there would be all the more reason why I should goto my poor mother. I want you to know, therefore, that with whatevermoney comes to me from my father, I shall go to my mother and try tomake amends to her. "

Mrs. Carteret stared over her spectacles at Molly in absolute amazement. After fourteen years of very kind treatment, which had involved a greatdeal of trouble, this uninteresting, silent niece had revealed herselfat last! Fourteen years devoted to the idealisation of the mother whohad deserted her, and to positive hatred of the relation who hadmothered her! Tears rose in the hard, blue eyes. Subtleties of feelingAnne Carteret did not know, but some affection for those who are near inblood and who live under the same roof had been a matter of course toher, and Molly had hurt her to the quick. However, it was natural thatcommon-sense and justice should quickly assert themselves to show thisidiotic girl the criminal absurdity of what she said. Mrs. Carteret wasunconsciously hitting back as hard as she could as she answered in atone of cheerful common-sense:

"As a matter of fact, the money you will receive will not be your own, but an allowance from your mother--a large allowance given on thecondition that you do not live with her. Happily, it is so large thatthere will not be any necessity for you to live here. "

Mrs. Carteret held up the letter of thin foreign paper in a tremblinghand, but she spoke in a perfectly calm voice:

"I was myself always against this mystery as to your mother, but I feltobliged to act by her wish in the matter. She insists that she stillwishes it to be thought by the world at large that she is dead, but sheagrees at last that you should know something about her. I told her thatI could not allow you to come of age here and have a great deal of moneyat your disposal without your knowing that from your father you haveonly been left a fortune of two thousand pounds----"

Mrs. Carteret paused, and then, with a little snort, added, half toherself:

"The rest was all squandered away, and certainly not by his own doing. "

Then she resumed her business tone:

"More than this, I obtained from your mother leave to tell you that thisvery large allowance comes out of a fortune left to her quite recentlyby Sir David Bright. I have acted by the wishes of both your parents asfar as I possibly could. As to my disliking you or being ashamed of you, such notions could only come out of a morbid imagination. In spite ofyour feelings towards me, I still wish to be your friend. I want yourfather's daughter to stand well with the world. So that I am left tolive here in peace undisturbed, I shall be glad to help you at anytime. "

Mrs. Carteret's feelings were concentrated on Molly's conduct towardsherself, but Molly's consciousness was filled with the greatness of theblow that had just fallen. It seemed to her that she had only now forthe first time lost her mother--her only ideal, the object of all herbetter thoughts. That her enemy was justified was, indeed, just then oflittle importance. She turned a dazed face towards her aunt:

"I ought to beg your pardon: I am sorry. "

"Oh, pray don't take the trouble. "

Mrs. Carteret got out of the chair with emphatic dignity, and held outsome papers. 

"You had better read these. I will speak to you about them afterwards. "

She left the room absolutely satisfied with her own conduct. But, comingto a pause in the drawing-room, she remembered that she had made onemistake. 

"How stupid of me to have left Jane Dawning's letter among thosepapers. "

But she did not go back to fetch the letter from her cousin LadyDawning; and she did not own to herself that that apparent negligencewas her real revenge. Yet from that moment her feelings ofself-satisfaction were uncomfortably disturbed. 

Meanwhile, Molly was kneeling by the window in the study in floods oftears. Everything in her mind had lost its balance; and baffled, disheartened, and ashamed, she wept tears that brought no softness. Shedid not know it, but while to herself it seemed as if she were absorbedin weeping over her disillusionment, she was in fact deciding that, asher ideal had failed her, she would in future live only for herself, andget everything out of life that she could for her own satisfaction. 

No one in the world cared for her, but she would not be defeated orcrushed or forlorn. With an effort she sprang to her feet with one agilemovement, and pushed her heavy hair back from her forehead with herlong, thin fingers. 

The colour had gone from her clear, dark skin for the moment, and herbreathing was fast and uneven, but her face still showed her to be veryyoung and very healthy. How differently the troubles of the mind arewritten in our faces when age has undermined the foundations and allmomentary failure is a presage of a sure defeat. Molly showed herdetermination to be brave and calm by immediately setting herself toread the papers left for her by Mrs. Carteret. 

One was in French, a long letter from a lawyer in Florence communicatingMadame Danterre's wishes to Mrs. Carteret. It stated that, owing to thepainful circumstances of the case, his client chose to remain under hermaiden name, and to reside in Florence. Mrs. Carteret was at liberty toinform Miss Dexter of this, but she did not wish it known to anybodyelse. Madame Danterre further asked Mrs. Carteret to make sucharrangements as she thought fit for her daughter to see something of theworld, either in London or by travelling, but she did not wish her tocome to Florence. Otherwise the world was before her, and £3000 a yearwas at her disposal. Molly could hardly, it was implied, ask for morefrom a mother from whom she had been torn unjustly when she was aninfant. The rest of the letter was entirely about business, giving alldetails as to how the quarterly allowance would be paid. In conclusionwas an enigmatic sentence to the effect that, by a tardy act ofrepentance, Sir David Bright had left Madame Danterre his fortune, andshe wished her daughter to know that the large allowance she was able tomake her was in consequence of this act of justice. Molly would have hadno inkling of the meaning of this sentence if Mrs. Carteret had comeback to claim the letter from Lady Dawning which she had unintentionallyleft among the lawyer's papers. But this last, a closely-written largesheet of note-paper, lay between the letter from the lawyer in Florence, and other papers from the family lawyer in London, anent the will ofthe late Colonel Dexter and its taking effect on his daughter's comingof age. 

Molly turned carelessly from the question of £2000 and its interest atthree and a half per cent. To the letter surmounted by a black initialand a coronet. 

 "My DEAR ANNE, --

 "I am not coming to stay in your neighbourhood as I had hoped. I should have been very glad to have had a talk with you about Molly, if it had been possible, for her dear father's sake. Indeed, I think you are far from exaggerating the difficulties of the case. You are very reluctant to take a house in London, and you say that if you did take one and gave up all your home duties you would not now have a circle of friends there who could be of any use to a girl of her age. I feel that very likely you would be glad if my daughter would undertake her, and you are quite right in thinking that she would like a girl to take into the world. But I must be frank with you, as I want to save you from pitfalls which I may be more able to foresee than you can in your secluded home. My dear, I know that dear old John died without a penny: why if he had had any fortune as a young man--but, alas! he had none--is it possible that, in a soldier's life, with, for a few years, a madly extravagant wife to help him, he could conceivably have saved a capital that can produce £3000 a year!

 "No, my dear Anne, the money is from her mother, and I must tell you that I've often wondered if that estimable lady is really dead at all. Then, you know, that I always kept up with John, and that I knew something about Sir David Bright. To conclude, Rose Bright is my cousin by marriage, and we are all dumbfounded at finding that she has been left £800 a year instead of twice as many thousands, and that the fortune has gone to a lady named Madame Danterre. It is so old a story that I don't think any one has read the conclusion aright except myself, and _parole d'honneur_, no one shall if I can help it. I am too fond of poor John's memory to want to hurt his child, only for the child's own sake I would not advise you to bring her up to London. I should keep her quietly with you, and trust to a man appearing on the scene--it's a thing you _can_ trust to, where there is £3000 a year. I daresay I could send some one your way quite quietly. But don't bring John's girl to London, at any rate, just yet. 

 "I hope we may come within reach of you in the autumn. I should love to have a quiet day with you and to see Molly. 

 "Ever yours affectionately, "JANE DAWNING. "

 "P. S. --By the way, is the £3000 sure to go on? If it is not, might it not be as well to put a good bit of it away?"

Thus in one short hour, Molly had been told that her mother was livingbut did not want her child; that the ideal of motherly love had in herown case been a complete fiction; that the mother of her imagination hadnever existed, and, immediately afterwards, she had been given a glimpseof the world's view of her own position as a young person bestconcealed, or, at least, not brought too much forward. 

Lastly, with the news of the money that at least meant freedom, she hadgained, by a rapid intuition, a faint but unmistakable sense ofdiscomfort as to the money itself. 

It was not any scrupulous fear that it could be her duty to inquirewhether Sir David Bright ought to have left his fortune to his widow!Probably Lady Rose had quite as much as many dowagers have to live on. But she had been forced to know that other people disapproved of SirDavid's will. It was not a fortune entered into with head erect and eyesproudly facing a friendly world. Still, Molly was not daunted: thecombat with life was harder and quite different from what she hadforeseen, but she had always looked on her future as a fight. 

Presently she let the "letter from Jane" fall close to the chair inwhich her aunt had been sitting, and moved the chair till the paper washalf hidden by the chintz frill of the cover. She meant Mrs. Carteret tothink that she had not read it. 

She then went out for a long walk and met her aunt at luncheon with aquietly respectful manner, a little more respectful than it had everbeen before. 

Later in the day Molly wrote to the family lawyer, and consulted him asto how to find a suitable lady with whom to stay in London. Mrs. Carteret read and passed the letter. Seeing that Molly was determined togo to London, she was anxious to help her as much as possible, withoutcalling down upon herself such letters of advice as the one from LadyDawning. It proved as difficult to find just the right thing inchaperones as it is usually difficult to find exactly the right thing inany form of humanity, and December and January passed in the search. Butin the end all that was to be wished for seemed to be secured in theperson of Mrs. Delaport Green, who was known to a former pupil of MissCarew's, and at length Molly went out of the rooms with the northernaspect, and drove through the wood that sheltered under the shoulder ofthe great green hill, with nothing about her to recall the child who hadcome in there for the first time fourteen years ago, except that shestill had the look of one who waits for other circumstances and otherpeople. 

CHAPTER VII

EDMUND GROSSE CONTINUES TO INTERFERE

Mr. Murray had had no belief in Sir Edmund Grosse's doings, and heindulged in the provoking air of "I told you so, " when the latter, whohad not been in London for several months, appeared at the office, andowned to the futility of his visit to Florence. Meanwhile, Mr. Murrayhad also carried on a fruitless enquiry in a different direction. 

"The General's two most intimate friends were killed about two monthsafter his death, and his servant died in the same action--probablybefore Sir David himself. I have tried to find out if he had any talk onhis own affairs with friends on board ship going out, but it seems not. I can show you the list of those who went out with him. "

Sir Edmund knew something of most people and after studying the list hewent to look up an old soldier friend at the Army and Navy Club. Indeed, for some weeks he was often to be seen there, and he was as attentive toGenerals as an anxious parent seeking advancement in the Army for anonly son. He soon became discouraged as to obtaining any informationregarding David's later years, but some gossip on his younger days hedid glean. Nothing could have been better than David's record; heseemed to have been a paragon of virtue. 

"That's what made it all the more strange that he should have falleninto the hands of Mrs. Johnny Dexter, " mused an old Colonel as he puffedat one of Grosse's most admirable cigars. "Poor old David; he was wax inher hands for a few weeks, then he got fever and recovered from her andfrom it at the same time--he went home soon after. He'd have doneanything for her at one moment. "

This Colonel might well have been flattered by Edmund's attentions; buthe gave little in return for them except what he said that day. 

"Mrs. Johnny Dexter! Why, I'm sure I have known Dexters, " thoughtEdmund, as he strolled down Pall Mall after this conversation. Hestopped to think, regardless of public observation. "Why, of course, that old bore Lady Dawning was a Miss Dexter. I'll go and see her thisvery day. "

Lady Dawning was gratified at Sir Edmund's visit, and was nearly as muchsurprised at seeing him as he was at finding himself in the handsome, heavily-furnished room in Princes Gate. Stout, over fifty, and clumsilywigged, it rarely enough happened to Lady Dawning to find not only asympathetic listener but an eager inquirer into those romantic days whenlove's young dream for her cousin Johnny Dexter was stifled by parentalauthority: "And it all ended in my becoming Lady Dawning. " A sigh ofsatisfaction concluded the episode of romance, and led the way back tothe present day. 

When Lady Dawning had advised Mrs. Carteret to keep poor dear Johnny'sgirl quietly in the country, she had by no means intended to let any ofher friends know anything about Molly. She had looked important andmysterious when people spoke of Sir David Bright's amazing will, but shemade a real sacrifice to Johnny's memory by not divulging her knowledgeof facts or her own conclusions from those facts. But the enjoyment oftalking of her own romantic youth to Edmund had had a softening effect. 

Sir Edmund appeared to be so very wise and safe. 

"Of course, it is only to you, " came first; and then, "It would be arelief to me to get the opinion of a man of the world; poor dear AnneCarteret consults me, and I really don't know what to advise. Fancy!that woman allows the girl £3000 a year, and Anne Carteret wouldprobably have acted on my advice and kept her quiet so that no one needknow anything of the wretched story, but the girl won't be quiet, andwill come up to London, and it seems so unsafe, don't you know? They arelooking for a chaperone, as nothing will make Anne come herself. And ifit all comes out it will be so unpleasant for poor dear Rose Bright tomeet this girl all dressed up with her money; don't you think so?"

Lady Dawning was now quite screaming with excitement, and very red innose and chin. It would be a long time before she could be quite dullagain. But Edmund was far too deeply interested to notice details. 

They parted very cordially, and Lady Dawning promised to let him know ifshe heard from Anne Carteret, and, if possible, to pass on the name ofthe chaperone woman who was to take Molly into society. 

"And so your _protégée_ is to arrive to-night?" said Edmund Grosse. 

"Yes, and I _am_ so frightened;" and with a little laugh appreciative ofherself in general, Mrs. Delaport Green held up a cup of China tea in apretty little white hand belonging to an arm that curved and thickenedfrom the wrist to the elbow in perfect lines. 

Sir Edmund gave the arm the faintest glance of appreciation before itretreated into lace frills within its brown sleeve. Those lace frillswere the only apparent extravagance in the simple frock in question, andsimplicity was the chief note in this lady's charming appearance. 

"I don't believe you are frightened, but probably she is frightenedenough. "

"I know nothing whatever about her, " sighed the little woman, "and weare only doing it because we are so dreadfully hard up; my maid saysthat I shall soon not have a stitch to my back, and that would be sofearfully improper. At least"--she hesitated--"I am doing it becausetimes are bad. Tim really knows nothing about it; I mean that he doesnot know that Miss Dexter is a 'paying guest', and it does soundhorribly lower middle-class, doesn't it? But I'm so afraid Tim won't beable to go to Homburg this year, and he is eating and drinking so muchalready, and it's only the beginning of April. What will happen if hecan't drink water and take exercise all this summer?"

"But I suppose you know her name?"

"I believe it is Molly Dexter. And do you think I should say 'Molly' atonce--to-night, I mean?"

Sir Edmund did not answer this question. 

"I used to know some Dexters years ago. "

"Yes, it is quite a good name, and Molly is of good family: she is acousin of Lady Dawning, but she is an orphan. I think I must call herMolly at once, " and the little round eyes looked wistful and kindly. 

Sir Edmund was able from this to conclude rightly that Mrs. DelaportGreen was not aware of the existence of Madame Danterre, and would haveno suspicions as to the sources of the fortune that supplied Molly'slarge allowance. It had, in fact, been thought wiser not to offerexplanations which had not been called for. 

"It will be very tiresome for you, " said Grosse. "You will have to amuseher, you know, and is she worth while?"

"Quite; she will pay--let me see--she will pay for the new motor, andshe will go to my dressmaker and keep her in a good temper. But, ofcourse, I shall have to make sacrifices and find her partners. I musttry and not let my poor people miss me. They would miss me dreadfully, though I know you don't think so. "

"And you don't even know what she is like?"

"Oh, yes, I do; I have seen her once, and she is oh! so interesting:olive skin, black, or almost black, hair, almond-shaped grey eyes--no, Idon't mean almond-shaped, but really very curiously-shaped eyes, fullof--let me see if I can tell you what they are full of--something that, in fact, makes you shiver and feel quite excited. But, do you know, shehardly speaks, and then in such a low voice. I'll tell you now, I'lltell you exactly what she reminds me of: do you know a picture in a verybig gallery in Florence of a woman who committed some crime? It's by oneof the pupils of one of the great masters; just try and think if youdon't know what I mean. Oh, must you go? But won't you come again, andsee how we get on, and how I bear up?"

When Molly did arrive, her dainty little hostess petted and patted herand called her "Molly" because she "could not help it. "

"Oh, we will do the most delightful things, now that you have come; wemust, of course, do balls and plays, and then we will have quite a quietday in the country in the new motor, and we will take some very nice menwith us. And then you won't mind sometimes coming to see people who areill or poor or old?"

The little voice rose higher and higher in a sort of wail. 

"It does cheer them up so to look in and out with a few flowers, and itneed not take long. "

"I don't mind people when they are really ill, " said Molly, in her lowvoice, "but I like them best unconscious. "

Mrs. Delaport Green stared for a moment; then she jumped up and ranforward with extended hands to greet a lady in a plain coat and skirtand an uncompromising hat. 

"Oh, how kind of you to come, and how are you getting on? Molly dear, this is the lady who lives in horrid Hoxton taking care of my poorpeople I told you about. Do tell her what you really mean about likingpeople best when they are unconscious, and you will both forgive me if Iwrite one tiny little note meanwhile?"

Molly gave some tea to the newcomer as if she had lived in the house foryears, and drew her into a talk which soon allayed her rising fears asto whether her own time would have to be devoted to horrid Hoxton. Bycalm and tranquil questions she elicited the fact that Mrs. DelaportGreen had visited the settlement once during the winter. 

"She comes as a sunbeam, " said the resident with obviously genuineadmiration, "and, of course, with all the claims on her time, and heranxiety as to her husband's health, we don't wish her to come often. Sheis just the inspiration we want. "

The hostess having meanwhile asked four people to dinner, came rustlingback, and, sitting on a low stool opposite the lady of the settlement, held one of her visitor's large hands in both her own and patted it andasked questions about a number of poor people by name, and made love toher in many ways, until the latter, cheered and refreshed by thesunbeam, went out to seek the first of a series of 'busses betweenChelsea and Hoxton. 

Mrs. Delaport Green gave a little sigh. 

"I must order the motor. The dear thing needn't have come your veryfirst night, need she? It makes me miserable to leave you, but I wasengaged to this dinner before I knew that you existed even! Isn't it oddto think of that?" Her voice was full of feeling. 

"And you must be longing to go to your room. You won't have to dine withTim, because he is dining at his club. Promise me that you won't let Timbore you: he likes horrid fat people, so I don't think he will; and areyou sure you have got everything you want?"

Molly's impressions of her new surroundings were written a few weekslater in a letter to Miss Carew. 

 "MY DEAR CAREY, --

 "I have been here for three weeks, but I doubt if I shall stay three months. 

 "I am living with a very clever woman, and I am learning life fairly quickly and getting to know a number of people. But I am not sure if either of us thinks our bargain quite worth while, though we are too wise to decide in a hurry. There are great attractions: the house, the clothes, the food, the servants, are absolutely perfect; the only thing not quite up to the mark in taste is the husband. But she sees him very little, and I hardly exchange two words with him in the day, and his attitude towards us is that of a busy father towards his nursery. But I rather suspect that he gets his own way when he chooses. The servants work hard, and, I believe, honestly like her. The clergyman of the parish, a really striking person, is enthusiastic; so is her husband's doctor, so are one religious duchess and two mundane countesses. I believe that it is impossible to enumerate the number and variety of the men who like her. There are just one or two people who pose her, and Sir Edmund Grosse is one. He snubs her, and so she makes up to him hard. I must tell you that I have got quite intimate with Sir Edmund. He is of a different school from most of the men I have seen. He pays absurd compliments very naturally and cleverly, rather my idea of a Frenchman, but he is much more candid all the time. I shock people here if I simply say I don't like any one. If you want to say anything against anybody you must begin by saying--'Of course, he means awfully well, ' and after that you may imply that he is the greatest scoundrel unhung. Sir Edmund is not at all ill-natured, and he can discuss people quite simply--not as if he wished to defend his own reputation for charity all the time. He won't allow that Adela Delaport Green is a humbug: he says she is simply a happy combination of extraordinary cleverness and stupidity, of simplicity and art. 'I believe she hardly ever has a consciously disingenuous moment, ' he said to me last night. 'She likes clergymen and she likes great ladies, and she likes to make people like her. Of course, she is always designing; but she never stops to think, so that she doesn't know she is designing. She is an amazing mimic. Something in this room to-night made me think of Dorset House directly I came in, and I remembered that, of course, she was at the party there last night. She must have put the sofa and the palms in the middle of the room to-day. At dinner to-night she suddenly told me that she wished she had been born a Roman Catholic, and I could not think why until I remembered that a Princess had just become a Papist. She could never have liked the Inquisition, but she thought the Pope had such a dear, kind face. Now she will probably tremble on the verge of Rome until several Anglican bishops have asked their influential lady friends to keep her out of danger. '

 "'And you don't call her a humbug?'

 "'No; she is a child of nature, indulging her instincts without reflection. And please mark one thing, young lady; her models are all good women--very good women--and that's not a point to be overlooked. '

 "I told him--I could not help it--how funny she had been yesterday, talking of going to early church. 'I do love the little birds quite early, ' she said, 'and one can see the changes of the season even in London, going every day, you know, and one feels so full of hope walking in the early morning fasting, and hope is next to charity, isn't it?--though, of course, not so great. '

 "And she has been out in the shut motor exactly once in the early morning since I came up, and she knew that I knew it. 

 "However, Sir Edmund maintained that, at the moment, Adela quite believed she went out early every day, and I am not sure he is not right. But then, you see, Carey, that with her power of believing what she likes, and of intriguing without knowing it, I am not quite sure that she will last very well. She might get tired of me--quite believe I had done something which I had not done at all! And then the innocent little intrigues might become less amusing to me than to other people. However, I believe I am useful for the present, and the life here suits me on the whole. But I will report again soon if the symptoms become more unfavourable, and ask your opinion as to my plans for the season if the Delaport Green alliance breaks down before then. 

 "Yours affectionately, "MOLLY DEXTER. "

CHAPTER VIII

AT GROOMBRIDGE CASTLE

Mrs. Delaport Green counted it as a large asset in Molly's favour thatSir Edmund Grosse was so attentive. Adela did not seriously mind SirEdmund's indifference to herself if he were only a constant visitor ather house, but she was far from understanding the motives that drew himthere to see Molly. In fact, having decided, on the basis of his owntheory of the conduct of Madame Danterre, that Molly had no right to anyof the luxuries she enjoyed, he had been prepared to think of her as anunscrupulous and designing young woman. Somehow, from the moment hefirst saw her he felt all his prejudices to be confirmed. There wassomething in Molly which appeared to him to be a guilty consciousnessthat the wealth she enjoyed was ill-gotten. Miss Dexter, he thought, hadby no means the bearing of a fresh ingenuous child who was innocentlybenefiting by the wickedness of another. The poor girl was, in fact, constantly wondering whether the people she met were hot partisans ofLady Rose Bright, or whether they knew of Madame Danterre's existence, and if so, whether they had the further knowledge that Miss Molly Dexterwas that lady's daughter. They might, for either of these reasons, havesome secret objection to herself. But she was skilful enough to hidethe symptoms of these fears and suspicions from the men and women sheusually came across in society, who only thought her reserve pride, andher occasional hesitations a little mysterious. From Sir Edmund sheconcealed less because she liked him much more, and he kindlyinterpreted her feelings of anxiety and discomfort to be those of guiltin a girl too young to be happy in criminal deceit. With his experienceof life, and with his usually just perceptions, he ought to have knownbetter; but there is some quality in a few men or women, intangible andyet unmistakable, which makes us instinctively suspect present, orforetell future, moral evil; and poor Molly was one of these. What itwas, on the other hand, which made her trust Sir Edmund and drew her tohim, it would need a subtle analysis of natural affinities to decide. Nodoubt it was greatly because he sought her that Molly liked him, but itwas not only on that account. Nor was this only because Edmund wasworldly wise, successful, and very gentle. There was a quality in theattraction that drew Molly to Edmund that cannot be put into words. Itis the quality without which there has never been real tragedy in therelations of a woman to a man. In the first weeks in London thisattraction hardly reached beyond the merest liking, and was a pleasant, sunny thing of innocent appearance. 

Mrs. Delaport Green was, for a short time, of opinion that the problemof whether to prolong Molly's visit or not would be settled for her by aquite new development. Then she doubted, and watched, and was puzzled. 

Why, she thought, should such a great person as Sir Edmund Grosse, whowas certainly in no need of fortune-hunting, be so attentive to Mollyif he did not really like her? At times she had a notion that he did notlike her at all, but at other times surely he liked her more than heknew himself. He said that she was graceful, clever, and interesting;and the acute little onlooker had not the shadow of a doubt that he heldthese opinions, but why did she at moments think that he disliked Molly?Certainly the dislike, if dislike it were, did not prevent him from veryconstantly seeking her society. It was the only intimacy that Molly hadformed since she had come up to London. 

As Lent was drawing to a close, Mrs. Delaport Green became much occupiedat the thought of how many services she wished to attend. "One does sowish one could be in several churches at once, " she murmured to a devoutlady at an evening party. But, finding one of these churches to beexcessively crowded on Palm Sunday, she had gone for a turn in thecountry in her motor with a friend, "as, after all, green fields, and afew early primroses make one realise, more than anything else in theworld, the things one wishes one could think about quietly at suchseasons. "

For Easter there were the happiest prospects, as she and Molly had beeninvited to stay at a delightful house "far from the maddingcrowd"--Groombridge Castle--with a group of dear friends. 

Molly, knowing that "dear friends" with her hostess meant new and mostdesirable acquaintances, bought hats adorned with spring flowers andgarments appropriate to the season with great satisfaction. 

Their luggage, their bags, and their maid looked perfect on the day ofdeparture, and Tim had gone off to Brighton in an excellent temper. Mrs. Delaport Green trod on air in pretty buckled shoes, and patted the toyterrier under her arm and felt as if all the society papers on thebookstall knew that they would soon have to tell whither she was going. 

"I saw Sir Edmund Grosse's servant just now, " she said to Molly withgreat satisfaction. "Very likely Sir Edmund is coming to Groombridge. Why does one always think that everybody going by the same train iscoming with one? Did you tell him where we were going?"

"No, I don't think so; I have hardly seen him for a week, and I thoughthe was going abroad for Easter. "

When the three hours' journey was ended and the friends emerged on theplatform, they were both glad to see Sir Edmund's servant again and theluggage with his master's name. There was a crowd of Easter holidayvisitors, and Mrs. Delaport Green and Molly were some moments in makingtheir way out of the station. When they were seated in the carriage thatwas to take them to the Castle, Mrs. Delaport Green turned expectantlyto the footman. 

"Are we to wait for any one else?"

"No, ma'am; Lady Rose Bright and the two gentlemen have started in theother carriage. "

They drove off. 

"I am so glad it is Lady Rose Bright. " Molly hardly heard the words. 

"I have so wished to know her, " Adela went on joyfully, "and she has hadsuch an interesting story and so extraordinary. "

"Can I get away--can I go back?" thought Molly, and she leant forwardand drew off her cloak as if she felt suffocated. "To meet her is justthe one thing I can't do. Oh, it is hard, it is horrible!"

"You see, " Adela continued, "she married Sir David Bright, who was threetimes her age, because he was very rich, and also, of course, becauseshe loved him for having won the Victoria Cross, and then he died, andthey found he had left all the money to some one he had liked better allthe time. So there is a horrid woman with forty thousand a-yearsomewhere or other, and Rose Bright is almost starving and can't affordto buy decent boots, and every one is devoted to her. I am rathersurprised that she should come to Groombridge for a party, she has shutherself up so much; but it must be a year and a half at least since thatwicked old General was killed, and he certainly didn't deserve muchmourning at _her_ hands. "

As Adela's little staccato voice went on, Molly stiffened andstraightened and starched herself morally, not unaided by this faciledescription of the story in which she was so much involved. She wouldfight it out here and now; nothing should make her flinch; she wouldcome up to time as calm and cool as if she were quite happy. And, afterall, Sir Edmund Grosse would be there to help her. 

It was not until the first of the two heavy handsome old-fashionedcarriages, drawn by fine, sleek horses, was beginning to crawl up a verysteep hill that its occupants began to take an interest in those whowere following. 

"Who is in the carriage behind us?" asked Sir Edmund of the young manusually called Billy, who was sitting opposite him, and whom he wasnever glad to meet. 

"Mrs. Delaport Green and a girl I don't know--very dark and thin. "

Edmund growled and fidgeted. 

"Horrid vulgar little woman, " he muttered between his teeth, "pushesherself in everywhere, and I suppose she has got the heiress with her. "

"Don't be so cross, Edmund, " said Lady Rose. "Who is the heiress?"

"Oh! a Miss Dickson--not Dickson--what is it? The money was all made inbeer"--which was really quite a futile little lie. "But that isn't thename: the name is Dexter. The girl is handsome and untruthful andclever; let her alone. "

Rose perceived that he was seriously annoyed, and waited with a littlecuriosity to see the ladies in question. 

As the two carriages crawled slowly up the zigzag road, climbing thelong and steep hill, the occupants of both gazed at the towers of theCastle whenever they came in sight at a turn of the road, or at anopening in the mighty horse-chestnuts and beeches, but they spoke littleabout them. Those in the first carriage were too familiar withGroombridge and its history and the others were too ignorant of both tohave much to say. Edmund Grosse gave expression to Rose's thought at thesight of the familiar towers when he said:

"Poor old Groombridge! it is hard not to have a son or even a nephew toleave it all to. "

"He likes the cousin very much, " said Rose. 

"But isn't Mark Molyneux going to be a priest?" said the young man, Billy, to Lady Rose. "I heard the other day that he is in one of theRoman seminaries--went there soon after he left Oxford. "

Edmund answered him. 

"Groombridge told me he thought he would give that up. He said hebelieved it was a fancy that would not last. "

"He did very well at Oxford, " said Rose, "and the Groombridges aredevoted to him. It is so good of them with all their old-world notionsnot to mind more his being a Roman Catholic. "

The talk was interrupted by the two men getting out to ease the horseson a steep part of the drive. 

Rose's own point of view that a young and earnest priest, even although, unfortunately, not an Anglican, might do much good in such a position asthat of the master of Groombridge Castle, would certainly not have beenunderstood by her two companions. 

Meanwhile, in the second carriage, Molly was becoming more and moredistracted from painful thoughts by the glory of the summer's evening, and the historic interest of the Castle. She felt at first disinclinedto disturb the unusual silence of the lady beside her. Certainly theprincipal tower of the Castle, in its dark red stone, looked uncommonlyfine and commanding, and about it flew the martlets that "most breed andhaunt" where the air is delicate. 

The horse-chestnut leaves were breaking through their silver sheaths inpoints of delicate green, and daffodils and wild violets were thick ingrass and ground ivy, while rabbits started away from within a few feetof the road. 

But, although reluctant to break the silence, at last interest in thescene made Molly ask:

"Do you know the date?"

"Oh, Norman undoubtedly, " said Mrs. Delaport Green; "the round towers, you know. Round towers go back to almost any date. "

Molly was dissatisfied. "You don't know what reign it was built in?"

"Some time soon after the Conqueror; I think Tim did tell me all aboutit. He looked it up in some book last night. "

As a matter of fact, the present Castle had been built under GeorgeIII. , and the towers would have betrayed the fact to more educatedobservers; while even Molly could see when they came close to the greatmass of building that the windows and, indeed, all the decoration was ofan inferior type of revived Gothic. But, however an architect mightshake his head at Groombridge, it was really a striking building, massive and very well disposed, and in an astonishingly fine position, commanding an immense view of a great plain on nearly three sides, whileto the east was stretched the rest of the range of splendidly-woodedhills on the westerly point of which it was situated. In the sweet, softair many delicate trees and shrubs were developed as well as if they hadbeen in quite a sheltered place. 

Lady Groombridge was giving tea to the first arrivals when Mrs. DelaportGreen and Molly were shown into the big hall of the Castle. 

"Let us come for a walk; we can slip out through this window, " murmuredSir Edmund, as he took her empty tea-cup from his cousin. 

Rose began to move, but Lady Groombridge claimed her attention beforeshe could escape. 

"Do you know Mrs. Delaport Green and Miss Dexter?"

Rose, as she heard Molly's name, found herself looking quite directlyinto very unexpected and very remarkable grey eyes with dark lashes. Hergentle but reserved greeting would have been particularly negativeafter Edmund's warning as to both ladies, but she did not quite controla look of surprise and interest. There was a great light in Molly's faceas she saw the young and beautiful woman whom she had dreaded intenselyto meet. 

Rose was evidently unconscious of a certain gentle pride of bearing, butwas fully conscious of a wish to be kindly and loving. In neither ofthese aspects--and they were revealed in a glance to Molly--did Roseattract her. But Molly's look, which puzzled Rose, was as a flame offeeling, burning visibly through the features of the dark, healthy face, and finding its full expression in the eyes. The glory of the landscapeshe had just passed through, and the excitement of finding herself insuch a building, added fuel to Molly's feelings, and seemed to give ahistoric background to her meeting with her enemy. Some subtle andcurious sympathy lit Rose's face for a moment, and then she shrank alittle as if she recoiled from a slight shock, and turning with a smileto Sir Edmund Grosse, she followed him down the great hall and out intoa passage beyond. He had given Molly an intimate but rather careless nodbefore he turned away. 

Edmund was quite silent as he walked out on the terrace, and seemed asabsorbed as Rose in the view that lay below them. But it was with thescene he had just witnessed inside the Castle that his mind was filled. There had been something curiously dramatic in the meeting which hewould have done a great deal to prevent. But, annoyed as he was, hecould not help dwelling for a moment on the picture of the two with acertain artistic satisfaction. Rose, in her plain, almost poor, clinging black clothes was, as always, amazingly graceful; he felt, notfor the first time, as if her every movement were music. 

"But that girl is handsome. How she looked into Rose's face, the amazinglittle devil!--she is plucky. "

Then he caught himself up abruptly; it was no use to talk nonsense tohimself. The point was how to keep these two apart and how short Mrs. Delaport Green's visit might be made. 

"Unluckily Monday is a Bank holiday, but they shall not be asked to stayone hour after the 10. 30 train on Tuesday if I have to take them awaymyself, " he murmured. Meanwhile, it was a beautiful evening; there was awonderful view, and Rose was here, and, for the moment, alone with him. She ran her fingers into the fair hair that was falling over herforehead, and pushed it back and her hat with it, so that the freshspring air "may get right into my brain, " she said, "and turn out Londonblacks. "

"The blacks don't penetrate in your case, " said Edmund. 

"I'm afraid they do, " she murmured, "but now I won't think of them. Easter Eve and this place are enough to banish worries. "

"Our hostess contrives to have some worries here. "

"Ah! dear Mary, I know; she can't help it; she has always been so veryprosperous. "

"Oh, it's prosperity, is it?" asked Edmund. He had turned from the viewto look more directly at Rose. 

"Yes, I know it does not have that effect on you, because you have ahappier temperament. "

"But am I so very prosperous?" The tone was sad and slightly sarcastic. 

"It is quite glorious: one seems to breathe in everything, don't youknow, and the smell of primroses; and it is so sweet to think that it isEaster Eve. "

Mrs. Delaport Green was coming forth on the terrace, preceded by thesewords in her clear staccato voice. 

"Do you think, " said Rose very gently to Edmund, "that we might go downinto the wood?"

Presently Molly fell behind Lady Groombridge and Mrs. Delaport Green asthey walked along the terrace, and leant on the wall and looked at theview by herself. 

The Castle stood on the last spur of a range of hills, and there was anabrupt descent between it and the next rounded hill-top. Covered withtrees, the sharp little valley was full of shadow and mystery; and thenbeyond the great billowy tree-tops rose and fell for miles, until thebrilliant early green of the larches and the dark hues of the manyleafless branches, already ruddy with buds, became blue and at lengthpurple in the distance. 

This joy and glory of her mother earth nobody could grudge Molly, surely? But the very beauty of it all made her more weak; and tears rosein her eyes as she looked at the healing green. 

"I am tired, " she thought; "and, after all, what harm can it do me tomeet Lady Rose Bright? And if Sir Edmund Grosse was annoyed to see mehere, what does it matter?"

Presently Lady Groombridge and her admiring guest came back to whereMolly was standing. In the excitement of arrival and of meeting LadyRose, and the little shock of Sir Edmund's greeting, Molly had hardlytaken stock of the mistress of the Castle. Lady Groombridge was vergingon old age, but ruddy and vigorous. She wore short skirts and thickboots, and tapped the gravel noisily with her stick. She had almostforgotten that she had ever been young and a beauty, and herconversation was usually in the tone of a harassed housekeeper, onlythat the range of subjects that worried her extended beyond servants andlinen and jam into politics and the Church and the souls of men within acertain number of miles of Groombridge Castle. 

She stood talking between Molly and Mrs. Delaport Green in a voice ofsome impatience as she scanned the landscape in search of Rose. 

"Dear me, where has Rose gone to? and she knew how much I wanted to havea talk with her before dinner. And I wanted to tell her not to let ourclergyman speak about incense and candles. He was more tiresome thanusual after Rose was here last time. "

Mrs. Delaport Green tried to interject some civil remarks, but LadyGroombridge paid not the slightest attention. The only visitors whointerested her in the least were Rose and Edmund Grosse. She couldhardly remember why she had invited Mrs. Delaport Green and Molly whenshe met them in London, and Billy was always Lord Groombridge's guest. 

"Well, if Rose won't come out of the wood, I suppose we may as well comein, and perhaps you would like to see your room;" and, with an air ofresignation, she led the way. 

She stood in the middle of a gorgeously-upholstered room of the date ofGeorge IV. , and looked fretfully round. 

"Of course it is hideous, but I think if you have a good thing even ofthe worst date it is best to leave it alone;" and then, with a gleam ofhumour in her eye, she turned to Molly, "and whenever you feel yourtaste vitiated (or whatever they call it nowadays) in your room nextdoor, you can always look out of the window, you know. " And then, speaking to Mrs. Delaport Green:

"We have no light of any sort or kind, and no bathrooms, but there areplenty of candles, and I can't see why, with large hip baths and plentyof water, people can't keep clean. Yes, dinner is at 8. 15 sharp; I hopeyou have everything you want; there is no bell into your maid's room, but the housemaid can always fetch your maid. "

Then she ushered Molly into the next room and, after briefly pointingout its principal defects, she left her to rest her body and tire hermind on a hard but gorgeously-upholstered couch until it should be timeto dress for dinner. 

CHAPTER IX

A LITTLE MORE THAN KIND

Edmund Grosse felt more tolerant of Billy at Groombridge Castle thanelsewhere. At Groombridge he was looked upon as a kindly weakness ofLord Groombridge's, who consulted him about the stables and enjoyed hisjokes. This position certainly made him more attractive to Edmund, buthe was not sorry that Billy, who seldom troubled a church, went there onEaster Sunday morning and left him in undisturbed possession of theterrace. 

The sun was just strong enough to be delightful, and, with aninteresting book and an admirable cigar, it ought to have been a goodlyhour for Grosse. But the fact was that he had wished to walk to churchwith Rose, and he had quite hoped that if it were only for his soul'ssake she would betray some wish for him to come. But if she didn't, hewouldn't. He knew quite well that she would be pleased if he went, butif she were so silly and self-conscious as to be afraid of appearing towant his company--well and good; she should do without it. 

He had been disappointed and annoyed with Rose during their walk on theevening before. The simple, matter-of-fact way in which they had beenjogging along in London was changed. At first, indeed, she had beennatural enough, but then she had become silent for some moments, andafterwards had veered away from personal topics with a tiresomepersistency. He half suspected the truth, that this was due to acareless word of his own which had betrayed how suddenly he had given uphis intention to spend Easter on the Riviera. If she had jumped to theconclusion that this change was because Edmund had learnt at theeleventh hour that Rose would be at Groombridge, she had no right to beso quick-sighted. It was almost "Missish" of Rose, he told himself, tobe so ready to think his heart in danger, and to be so unnecessarilytender of his feelings. She might wait for him to begin the attackbefore she began to build up fortifications. 

He was at the height of his irritation against Rose, when the threeother ladies came out on the terrace. Lady Groombridge instantly toldMrs. Delaport Green that she knew she wished to visit the dairy, andhustled her off through the garden. Edmund rose and smiled, with hispeculiar, paternal admiration, at Molly, whose dark looks were at theirvery best set in the complete whiteness of her hat and dress. Then heglanced after the figures that were disappearing among the rose-bushes. 

"The party is not in the least what your chaperone expected; indeed, wecan hardly be dignified by the name of a party at all, but you see howhappy she is. She even enjoyed dear old Groombridge's prosing lastnight, and she has been very happy in church, and now she is going tosee the dairy. The only thing that troubles her is that Lady Groombridgehas not allowed her to change her gown, and a well-regulated mind cannotenjoy her prayers and a visit to cows in the same gown. Now suppose, "he looked at Molly with a lazy, friendly smile, "you put on a shortskirt and come for a walk. "

A little later they were walking through the woods on the hills beyondthe Castle. Perhaps he intended that Rose, who had stayed to speak tothe vicar, should find that he had not been waiting about for herreturn. 

"I would give a good deal to possess the cheerful philosophy of Mrs. Delaport Green, " he said, as, looking down through an opening in thetrees, they could see that little woman with her skirts gracefully heldup standing by while Lady Groombridge discoursed to the keeper of cows, who looked sleek and prosperous and a little sulky the while. 

"You would be wise to learn some of it from her, " Edmund went on. "Isn'tthis nice? Let us sit upon the ground, as it is dry, and feel how goodeverything is. You like this sort of thing, don't you?"

Molly murmured "Yes, " and sat down on a mossy bank and looked up intothe glorious blue sky and then at a tuft of large, pale primroses in themidst of dark ground ivy, then far down to the fields where a group ofbrown cows, rich in colour, stood lazily content by a blue stream thatsparkled in the sunlight. Edmund was not hard-hearted, and Molly lookedvery young, and a pathetic trouble underlay the sense of pleasure in herface. There was no peace in Molly's eyes, only the quick alternations ofacute enjoyment and the revolt against pain and a child's resentment atsupposed blame. 

Pleasure was uppermost at this moment, for so many slight, easy, humanpleasures were new to her. She sat curved on the ground, with the easeand suppleness of a greyhound ready to spring, whereas Sir Edmund wasforty and a little more stiff than his age warranted. 

"But when you do enjoy yourself I imagine it's worth a good many hoursof our friend's sunny existence. Oh, dear, dear!" For at that moment thedairy was a scene of some confusion; two enormous dogs from the Castlehad bounded up to Lady Groombridge, barking outrageously, and one ofthem had covered her companion with mud. 

"She is saying that it does not matter in the least, and that the gownis an old rag, but I'm sure it's new on to-day, and it's impossible tosay how much has not been paid for it. "

Molly laughed; she felt as sure that Sir Edmund was right as if shecould hear every word the little woman was saying. 

"Well, _that_ you will allow is humbug!"

"Yes, I think I will this time, and I believe, too, that the philosophyhas collapsed. I'm sure she's a mass of ruffled feathers, and her mindis full of things that she will hurl at the devoted head of her maidwhen she gets in. You can only really wound that type of woman to thequick by touching her clothes. There now, is that severe enough?"

"Why do we always talk of Mrs. Delaport Green?" asked Molly. 

"Because she is on trial in your mind and you are not quite sure whethershe suits. "

"I might go further and fare worse, " said Molly. 

"Is there no one you would naturally go to?" asked Edmund. 

"There is the aunt who brought me up, Mrs. Carteret, and I'd rather--"She paused. "There is nothing in this world I would not rather do thango back to her. "

Molly's face was completely overcast; it was threatening and angry. 

"Poor child!" said Edmund gently. 

"I wonder, " said Molly, "if anybody used to say 'poor child' when I wassmall. There must have been some one who pitied an orphan, even in thecheerful, open-air system of Aunt Anne's house, where no one everthought of feelings, or fancies, or frights at night, or loneliness. "

Edmund looked at her with a sympathy that tried to conceal hiscuriosity. 

"Was it possible, " he wondered, "that she really thought she was anorphan?"

"It's dreadful to think of a very lonely child, " he said. 

"But some people have to be lonely all their lives, " said Molly. 

Sir Edmund was touched. She had raised her head and looked at him with apleading confidence. Then, with one swift movement, she was suddenlykneeling and tearing to pieces two or three primroses in succession. 

"Some people have to say things that can never be really said, or elsekeep everything shut up. "

"Don't you think they may make a mistake, and that the things can besaid--" He hesitated; he did not want to press her unfairly intoconfidence; "to the right person?" he concluded rather lamely. 

"Who is to find the right person?" said Molly bitterly; "the rightperson is easy to find for people who have just ordinary cares anddifficulties, but the people who are in real difficulties don't easilyfind the right person. I doubt if he or she exists myself!"

She turned to find Edmund Grosse looking at her with far too muchmeaning in his face; there was a degree and intensity of interest in hislook that might be read in more than one way. 

Molly blushed with the simplicity suited to seventeen rather than totwenty-one. She was very near to the first outpouring in her life, thetorrent of her pent-up thoughts and feelings was pressing against theflood-gates. It seemed to her that she had never known true and realsympathy before she felt that look. She held out her hands towards himwith a little unconscious gesture of appeal. 

"I have had a strange life, " she said; "I am in very strangecircumstances now. "

But Edmund suddenly got up, and before she could speak again a slightsound on the path showed her that some one was coming. 

Rose, finding every one dispersed, had taken a walk by herself in thewood. She was glad to be alone; she felt the presence of God in thewoods as very near and intimate. Her mind had one of those moments ofcomplete rest and feeding on beautiful things which come to those whohave known great mental suffering in their lives, and to whom the worldis not giving its gaudy preoccupations. So, walking amidst the glory ofspring lit by a spiritual sunshine, Rose came round a little stuntedyew-tree to find Molly kneeling on the ground ivy, and Edmund standingby her. Molly rose in one movement to her full height, as if her legspossessed no jointed impediments, and a fiercely negative expressionfilled the grey eyes. Rose's kind hand had unwittingly slammed theflood-gates in the moment they had opened; and Edmund, seeing thatlook, and feeling the air electric, suddenly reverted to a belief inMolly's sense of guilt towards Rose. 

For the fraction of a second Rose looked helplessly at Edmund, and thenheld out a little bunch of violets to Molly. 

"Won't you have these? There; they suit so well with your gown. "

With a quick and very gentle touch she put the violets into Molly'sbelt, and smiled at her with the sunshine that was all about them. 

Molly looked a little dazed, and the "Thank you" of her clear low voicewas mechanical. 

"I was just coming for a few minutes' walk in the wood. "

Rose's voice was very rich in inflection, and now it sounded like acaress. 

"But I wonder if it is late? I think I have forgotten the time, it isall so beautiful. "

She laid her hand for a moment on Molly's arm. 

"It is very late, " said Edmund with decision, but without consulting hiswatch on the point. 

They all moved quickly, and while making their way back to the CastleRose and Edmund talked of Lord and Lady Groombridge, and Molly walkedsilently beside them. 

CHAPTER X

THE PET VICE

"May I come in?"

At the same moment the door was half opened, and Lady Groombridge, in aheavy, dark-coloured gown, made her way in, with the swish of a long, silk train. She half opened the door with an air of mystery, and sheclosed it softly while she held her flat silver candlestick in her handas if she wished she could conceal it, yet the oil lamps were stillburning in the gallery behind her. The appearance of the wish forconcealment was merely the unconscious expression of her mentalcondition at the moment. 

Two women looked up in surprise as she made this unconsciously dramaticentrance into her guest's bedroom. Lady Rose was sitting in front of theuncurtained window in a loose, white dressing-gown, lifting a mass ofher golden hair with her hair brush. She had been talking eagerly, butvaguely, before her hostess came in, in order to conceal the fact thatshe wished intensely to be allowed to go to bed. 

Lady Rose made many such minor sacrifices on the altar of charity, andshe was sorry for the tall, thin, mysterious girl who, at first almostimpossibly stiff and cold, had volunteered a visit to her room to-night. It was only a very few who were ever asked to come into Rose's room, and she had hastily covered the miniature of her dead husband in hisuniform with her small fan before she admitted Molly. 

By some strange impulse, Molly had attached herself to Rose during therest of that Easter Sunday. Curiosity, admiration, or jealousy mighthave accounted for Molly's doing this. To herself it seemed merely partof her determination to face the position without fear or fancies. IfLady Rose found out later with whom she had spent those hours, at leastshe should not think that Molly had been embarrassed. Perhaps, too, SirEdmund's efforts to keep them apart made her more anxious to be withher. 

Having been kindly welcomed to Rose's room, Molly found herself slightlyembarrassed; they seemed to have used up all common topics during theday, and Molly was certainly not prepared to be confidential. 

The entrance of the hostess came as a relief. That lady, withoutglancing at Rose or Molly as she came into the middle of the room, banged the candlestick down on a small table, and then threw herselfinto an arm-chair, which gave a creak of sympathy in response to herloud sigh. 

"It is perfectly disgraceful!" she said, "and now I don't really knowwhat has happened. On Easter Sunday night, too!"

Molly had been standing by the window, looking out on the moonlit park. She now leaned further across the wide window-seat, so that her slight, sea-green silk-clad figure might not be obtrusive, and the dark keenface was turned away for the same purpose. 

"That woman has actually, " Lady Groombridge went on, "been playing cardsin the smoking-room on Easter Sunday night with Billy and those twoboys. What Groombridge will say, I can't conceive; it is perfectlydisgraceful!"

"Have they been playing for much?"

"Oh, for anything, I suppose; and Edmund Grosse says that the boy fromthe Parsonage has lost any amount to Billy. They have fleeced him in themost disgraceful way. "

There was a long silence. Rose looked utterly distressed. 

"If he had only refused to play, " she said at last, as if she wished toreturn in imagination to a happier state of things. 

"It's no use saying that now, " said Lady Groombridge, with an air ofineffable wisdom. 

Molly Dexter bit her tiny evening handkerchief, and her grey eyeslaughed at the moonlight. 

"Well, Rose, I can't say you are much comfort to me, " the hostess wenton presently, with a dawn of humour on her countenance as she crossedone leg over the other. 

"But, my dear, what can I say?"

The tall, white figure, brush in hand, rose and stood over the elderlywoman in the chair. Rose had had the healthy development of a girlhoodin the country, but her regular features were more deeply marked now andthere were dark lines under her clear, blue eyes. 

"Do you think, " said the hostess in a brooding way, "that Mrs. What's-her-name Green would tell you how much he lost, Rose, if you wentto her room? Of course, I can't possibly ask her. "

"Oh no; she thinks me a goody-goody old frump. "

At the same moment another brush at the splendid hair betrayed ahalf-consciousness of the grace of her own movements. 

"She wouldn't say a word to me--she is much more likely to tell one ofthe men. Perhaps she will tell Edmund Grosse to-morrow; he is so easy totalk to. "

"But that's no use for to-night, and Groombridge will be simply furiousif I ask him to interfere without telling him how much it comes to. Billy won't say a word. "

"I think, " said Rose very slowly, "that if we all go to bed now, weshall have some bright idea in the morning. "

Before this master-stroke of suggestion had reached Lady Groombridge'sbrain, a very low voice came from the window. 

"Would you like me to go and ask her?"

The hostess started; she had forgotten Miss Molly Dexter. A little dullblush rose to her forehead. 

"Oh dear, I had forgotten you were there; but, after all, she is norelation of yours, and it isn't your fault, you know. Could you--wouldyou really not mind asking her?"

"I don't mind at all. Might I take your candle?"

"Of course, " said Lady Groombridge, "you won't, don't you know----"

"Say that you sent me?" The low, detached voice betrayed no sarcasm. Sheknew perfectly well that Lady Groombridge disliked being beholden to herat that moment. It was rather amusing to make her so. 

For fifteen minutes after that the travelling clock by Lady Rose's bedticked loudly, and drowned the faint murmur of her prayers while sheknelt at the _prie-dieu_. 

Lady Groombridge knew Rose too well to be surprised. But she did not, like the young widow, pass the time in prayer; she was worried--evendeeply so. She was of an anxious temperament, and she was really shockedat what had happened. 

Molly did not come back with any air of mystery, but with a curiouslynegative look. 

"Thirty-five pounds, " she said very quietly. 

Lady Groombridge sat up, very wide awake. 

"More than half his allowance for a whole year, " she said withconviction. 

"Oh dear, dear, " said Lady Rose, rising as gracefully as a guardianangel from her _prie-dieu_. 

Molly made no comment, although in her heart she was very angry withMrs. Delaport Green. Her quick "Good-night" was very cordially returnedby the other two. 

"Now tell me something more about Miss Molly Dexter, " said Rose, sinkingon to a tiny footstool at Lady Groombridge's feet as soon as they werealone. 

"I am ashamed to say that I know very little about her; I am simplyfurious with myself for having asked them at all. I don't often yield tokind-hearted impulses, and I'm sure I'm punished enough this time. "

Lady Groombridge gave a snort. 

"But who is she? Is she one of the Malcot Dexters?"

"Yes; I can tell you that much. She is the daughter of a John Dexter Iused to know a little. He died many years ago, not very long afterdivorcing his wife, and this poor girl was brought up by an aunt, andSir Edmund says she had a bad time of it. Then she made one of those oddarrangements people make nowadays, to be taken about by this Mrs. Delaport Green, and I met them at Aunt Emily's, and, of course, Ithought they were all right and asked them to come here. After that Iheard a little more about the girl from some one in London; I can'tremember who it was now. "

"Poor thing, " said Rose; "she looks as if she had had a sad childhood. But what curious eyes; I find her looking through and through me. "

"Yes; you have evidently got a marked attraction for her. "

"Repulsion, I should have called it, " said Rose, with her gentle laugh. 

Lady Groombridge laughed too, and got up to go to bed. 

"And what became of the mother?"

"She is living--" said the other; then she caught her sleeve in thetable very clumsily, and was a moment or two disengaging the lace. "Sheis living, " she then said rather slowly, "in Paris, I think it is, butthis girl has never seen her. "

"How dreadful!"

"Yes. Good-night, Rose; do get to bed quickly, --a wise remark when it isI who have been keeping you up!"

Lady Groombridge, when she got to her own room, murmured to herself:

"I only stopped just in time. I nearly said Florence, and that is wherethe other wicked woman lives. It's odd they should both live inFlorence. But--how absurd, I'm half asleep--it would be much odder ifthere were not two wicked women in Florence. "

Sir Edmund was aware as soon as he took his seat by Molly at thebreakfast-table that she knew why Lady Groombridge was pouring out teawith a dark countenance. He put a plate of omelette in his own place, and then asked if Molly needed anything. As she answered in the negativehe murmured as he sat down:

"Mrs. Delaport Green is not down?"

"She has a furious toothache. "

Molly's look answered his. 

"I suppose there is no such thing as a dentist left in London on EasterMonday?"

No more was safe just then; but by common consent they moved out on tothe terrace as soon as they had finished breakfast. 

"It is too tiresome, too silly, too wrong, " said Molly. 

"Yes; the pet vice should be left at home, " said Edmund. "Many of themdo it because it's fashionable, but this one must have it in the blood. I saw her begin to play, and she was a different creature when shetouched the cards. What sort of repentence is there?"

"I found her crying last night like a child, but this morning I see sheis going to brazen it out. But she wants to quarrel with me at once, soI don't get much confidence. "

"But you don't mind that?"

"Not in the least, only--" Molly sighed, but intimate as their tone was, she did not now feel any inclination to reveal her greater troubles. 

"I don't want to end up badly with my first venture, and I have nowhereelse to go. For to-day I think she will talk of going to see the dentistuntil she finds out how she is treated here. "

"Oh! that will be all right for to-day, " said Edmund. "There are nopossible trains on Bank holiday, and no motor. Let her get off earlyto-morrow. "

Molly had evidently sought his opinion as decisive, and she turned as ifto go and repeat it to Mrs. Delaport Green. 

"But what will you do yourself?" he asked very gently. 

"I shall go away with her, and then--I wonder--" She hesitated, andlooked full into his face. "Would you be shocked if I took a flat bymyself? I don't want to hunt for another Mrs. Delaport Green just now. "

Sir Edmund paused. It struck him for a moment as very tiresome that heshould be falling into the position of counsellor and guide to thisgirl, while he had anything but her prosperity at heart. He looked ather, and there was in her attitude a pathetic confidence in hisjudgment. 

"I don't want, " she went on, holding her head very straight and lookingaway to the wooded hills, "I don't want to do anything unconventional. "

A deep blush overspread the dark face--a blush of shame and hesitation, for the words, "your mother's daughter ought to be more careful thanother girls, " so often in poor Molly's mind, were repeated there now. 

"If there were an old governess, or some one of that sort, " suggestedSir Edmund, with hesitation. 

"Oh yes, yes!" cried Molly eagerly; "there is one, if I could only gether. Oh, thank you, yes! I wonder I did not think of that before. " Andshe gave a happy, youthful laugh at this solution. 

"Is it some one you really care for?" asked Edmund, with growinginterest. 

"I don't know about really caring"--Molly looked puzzled--"but she woulddo. There is one thing more I wanted to ask you. About the silly boylast night: whom does he owe the money to? I know nothing aboutbridge. "

"He owes it to Billy. "

Molly looked sorry. 

"I thought, if it were to Mrs. Delaport Green----"

"You might have paid the money?" Edmund smiled kindly at her. "No, no, Miss Dexter, that will be all right. "

She turned from him, laughing, and went indoors to Mrs. Delaport Green'sroom. 

She found that lady writing letters, and the floor was scattered withthem, six deep round the table. She put her hand to her face as Mollycame in. 

"There are no possible trains, " said Molly, "so I'm afraid you must bearit. Sir Edmund advises us to go by an early train to-morrow: he thinksto-day you would be better here, as there won't be a dentist left inLondon. "

"I am very brave at bearing pain, fortunately, " was the answer, "and Iam trying, even now, to get on with my letters. I think I shall go toEastbourne to-morrow; there are always good dentists in those places. Ilove the churches there, and the air will brace my nerves. I might havegone to Brighton only Tim is there. Will you"--she paused amoment--"will you come to Eastbourne too?"

Mrs. Delaport Green was not disposed to have Molly with her. She wasexceedingly annoyed at the _débâcle_ of her visit to Groombridge--avisit which she was describing in glowing terms in her letters to allher particular friends. It would be unpleasant to have Molly's criticaleyes upon her; she liked, and was accustomed to, people with a verydifferent expression. 

Molly, however, ignoring very patent hints with great calmness andfirmness, told her that she intended to stay with her for just as longas it was necessary before finding some one to live with in a littleflat in London. She felt the possibility, at first, of Mrs. DelaportGreen's becoming insolent, but she was presently convinced that she hadmastered the situation. They agreed to go to Eastbourne together nextday, and then to look for a flat for Molly in London. The suggestionthat Mrs. Delaport Green might help Molly to choose the furniture provedvery soothing indeed. 

Molly went down-stairs again to let Sir Edmund know they were not goingto leave till next morning, and to find out if he had succeeded inspeaking to Lady Groombridge. 

As she passed through the hall, she saw that he was sitting with LadyRose by a window opening on to the terrace. She was passing on, beinganxious not to interrupt them, but Rose held out her hand. 

"I've hardly seen you this morning. Do come and sit with us. " And then, as Molly rather shyly sat down by her side on a low sofa, Lady Rose wenton:

"I was just telling Sir Edmund a very beautiful thing that has happened, only it is very sad for dear Lord Groombridge and for her. They haveonly had the news this morning, but it is not a secret, and it is verywonderful. You know that this place was to go to a cousin, quite a youngman, and they liked him very much. They did mind his being a RomanCatholic, but they were very good about it, and now he has written thathe has actually been ordained a priest, and that he will not have theproperty or the Castle as he is going to be just an ordinary parishpriest working amongst the poor. It is wonderful, isn't it? They say thenext brother is a very ordinary young man--not like this wonderfulone--and so they are very much upset to-day, poor dears. They knew hewas studying for the priesthood, but they did not realise that the timefor his Ordination had really come. "

Molly murmured shyly something that sounded sympathetic, and then, looking at Sir Edmund, ventured to say:

"Mrs. Delaport Green would like to stay till the early train to-morrow. But have you seen Lady Groombridge?"

"Yes; it's all right--or rather, it's all wrong--but she won't tellGroombridge to-day, and she will be quite fairly civil, I think. "

"And this news, " said Rose gently, "will make them both think less ofthat unfortunate affair last night. "

Molly rose and moved off with an unusually genial smile. 

CHAPTER XI

THE THIN END OF A CLUE

Edmund Grosse later on in the morning strolled down to the stables. Hehad been there the day before, but he had still something to say to thestud-groom, an old friend of his, who had the highest respect for thebaronet's judgment. 

Edmund loved a really well-kept stable, where hardly a straw escapesbeyond the plaited edges, where the paint is renewed and washed to thehighest possible pitch of cleanliness, and where a perpetual whish ofwater and clanking of pails testify to a constant cleaning ofcobblestone yard and flagged pavement. 

In the middle of Groombridge Castle stable-yard there was an oval ofperfect turf, and that was surrounded by soft, red gravel; then camealternate squares of pavement and cobble-stones, on to which opened thewide doors of coach-houses and stables and harness-rooms, and the backgate of the stud-groom's house. 

An old, white-haired, ruddy-faced man standing on the red gravel smiledheartily when Sir Edmund appeared. The man was in plain clothes, with avery upright collar and a pearl horseshoe-pin in his tie; his figure waswell-built, but showed unmistakably that his knees had been fixed intheir present shape by constant riding. 

He touched his hat. 

"How's the mare to-day, Akers?" asked Sir Edmund. 

"Nicely, nicely; it's a splendid mash that, Sir Edmund. Old Hartley gaveme the recipe for that. He was stud-groom here longer than I have been, in the old lord's day. He had hoped to have had his son to follow him, but the lad got wild, and it couldn't be. "

The old man sighed, and changed the conversation. "Will you come roundagain, sir?"

"Yes, " said Edmund; "I don't mind if I do. But you've got a son of yourown about the stable, haven't you?" he asked, as they turned towards theother side of the yard. 

"I had two, Sir Edmund, " was the brief and melancholy answer. "Jimmy'shere, but the lad I thought most on, he went and enlisted in the war, and he couldn't settle down again after that. Jimmy, he'll never rise tomy place--it would not be fair, and I wouldn't let his lordship give ita thought--but the other one might have done it. "

Sir Edmund felt some sympathy for the stay-at-home, whom he knew. "Heseems a cheerful, steady fellow. "

"He's steady enough, and he's cheerful enough, " said his father, in atone of great contempt; "but the other lad had talent--he had talent. "

Both men had paused in the interest of their talk. 

"My eldest son, Thomas, of whom I'm speaking, went to the war in thesame ship as General Sir David Bright, and there's a thing I'd like totell you about that, Sir Edmund. It never came into my head how curiousa thing it was till yesterday--last night, I may say. Lady RoseBright's lady's-maid come in with Lady Groombridge's lady's-maid to seemy wife, and you'll excuse me if I do repeat some woman's gossip whenyou see why I do it. Well, the long and short of it was that it seemsLady Rose Bright has been left rather close as to fortune for a lady inher position, and the money's all gone off elsewhere. Then the maidsaid, Sir Edmund--whether truly or not I don't know, naturally--thatthere had been hopes that another will might be sent home from SouthAfrica, but that nothing came of it. I felt, so to speak, puzzled whileI was listening, and afterwards my wife says to me while we were alone, she says, 'Wasn't it our Thomas when he was on board ship wrote that hehad put his name to a paper for Sir David Bright?'--witnessing, you'llunderstand she meant by that, sir--'and what's become of that paper Ishould like to know, ' says she. So she up and went to her room and tookout all Thomas's letters, and sure enough it was true. "

Akers paused, and then very slowly extracted a fat pocket-book from histight-fitting coat, and pulled out a letter beautifully written on thinpaper. He held it with evident respect, and then, after a preparatorycough, he began to read:

"'I was sent for to-day, and taken up with another of our regiment tothe state cabins by Sir David Bright's servant, and asked to put my nameto a paper as witness to Sir David Bright's signature, and so I did. '"

Akers stopped, and looked across his glasses at Sir Edmund. 

"I don't know if you will remember Sir David's servant, Sir Edmund; hewas killed in the same battle as Sir David was, poor fellow. A big manwith red hair--a Scotchman--you'd have known that as soon as he openedhis mouth. He'd have chosen my boy from having known him here, in allprobability. "

"Yes, yes, " said Grosse impatiently; "but how do you know that what hewitnessed was a will?"

"Well, of course, I don't know, Sir Edmund, and of course the boy didn'tknow what was in the paper he witnessed; but the missus will have itthat that paper was a will, and there'll be no getting it out of herhead that the right will has been lost. I was wondering about it when Isee you come into the yard, and I thought I'd just let you see the lad'sletter. It could do no harm, and it might do good. "

Edmund had been absolutely silent during this narrative, with his eyesfixed on the stud-groom's face. 

"And where is Thomas now?" he asked, in a low voice. 

"He's in North India somewhere, Sir Edmund, but that is his poormother's trouble; we've not had a line from him these three months. "

"Oh, I'll find him for you, " said Edmund, and he was just going to askwhat regiment Thomas was in when they were disturbed by the appearanceof Billy emerging from the hunters' stable, and Edmund Grosse felt anunwarrantable contempt for a young man who dawdles away half the morningin the stable. 

"Should I find you at six o'clock this evening?" he asked, in a lowvoice, of the stud-groom; and having been satisfied on that point, hestrolled off and left Billy to talk of the horses. 

Edmund Grosse felt for the moment as if the missing will were in hisgrasp, and he was quite sure now that he had never doubted itsexistence. What he had just heard was the very first thing approachingto evidence in favour of his own theory, which he had hitherto built upentirely on guess-work. Of course, the paper might have been someordinary deed, some bit of business the General had forgotten totransact before starting. But, if so, he felt sure that it must havebeen business unknown to the brothers Murray, as they had discussed withGrosse every detail of Sir Edmund's affairs. One thing was certain: itwould be quite as difficult after this to drive out of Edmund Grosse'shead the belief that this paper was a will as it would be to drive itout of the head of Mrs. Akers. 

Edmund was in excellent spirits at luncheon. In the afternoon he drovewith Lady Groombridge and Rose and Molly to see a famous garden someeight miles off, the owners of which were away in the South. Theoriginal house to which the gardens belonged had been replaced by amodern one in Italian style at the beginning of the nineteenth century. It was not interesting, and Lady Groombridge gave a sniff of contempt asshe turned her back on it and her attention, and that of her friends, tothe far more striking green walls beyond the wide terraced walk on thesouth side of the building. 

In the midst of ordinary English country scenery, these gardens had beenset by a great Frenchman who had caught the strange secret of theromance of utterly formal hedges. He could make of them a fittingframework for the glories of a court, or for sylvan life in MerrieEngland. There were miles of hedges; not yew, hornbeam had been chosenfor this green, tranquil country. At one spot many avenues of hedges mettogether as if by accident, or by some rhythmic movement; it was aminuet of Nature's dancing, grown into formal lines but notpetrified--every detail, in fact, alive with green leaves. If you stoodin the midst of this meeting of the ways, the country round outside, seen in vistas between the hedges, was curiously glorified, moreespecially on one side where the avenues were shortened. There one sawlarger glimpses of fields and woods and bits of common-land that seemedwonderfully eloquent of freedom and simplicity, nature and husbandry. But if you had not seen those glimpses through the lines of strange, stately, regal dignity--the lines of those mighty hedges--you would nothave been so startled by their charm. That was the triumph of the geniusof Lenôtre: he had seen that, framed in the sternest symbols of rule andorder, one could get the freshest joy in the pictures of Nature'suntouched handiwork. On the west side the avenues of hedges disappearedinto distant vistas of wood, one only ending in a piece of most formalornamental water. I don't know how it was, but it was difficult not tobe infected by a curious sense of orgy, of human beings up to theirtricks--love tricks, drinking and eating--perhaps murdering tricks--alldone in some impish fantastic way, between those long hedges or behindthem. If there were not something going on down one avenue you lookedinto, it was happening in another. 

Somewhat of all this Edmund said to Molly as they strolled between thehedges which reached far above his head, but she felt that he wasabsent-minded while he did so. He had planned for himself a walk and atalk with Rose, but he had reckoned without his hostess, who had shownso unmistakably that she intended him to amuse Molly that it would havebeen discourteous to have done anything else. He had felt rather crossas he saw Lady Groombridge and Rose turn down one of the longest walks, one that seemed indeed to have no ending at all, with an air offinality, as if their _tête-à-tête_ were to be as long as the pathbefore them, and as secret as the hedges could keep it. He would neverhave come out driving with three women if he had not hoped to get a talkalone with Rose. He told himself that Rose's avoidance of him wasbecoming quite an affectation, and after all, he asked himself, what hadhe done to be treated like this?

"Why, if I were trying to make love to her she could not be more absurd!The only time after our first walk here that we have been alone she madeMiss Dexter join us, and as the girl would not stay Rose found she mustwrite letters. "

As soon as he had made up his mind that he would show Rose what nonsenseit all was, he could and did--not without the zest of pique--turn hisattention to Molly. 

"Lady Groombridge doesn't frame well here, does she?" he said, smiling. "Rather a shock at that date--the tweed skirt and the nailed boots andthe felt hat. "

"Yes; but Lady Rose floats down between the hedges as if she had a longtrain, only she hasn't, " laughed Molly. "The hem of her garment nevertouches the earth, as a matter of fact. I wonder how it is done. "

"You are right, " said Edmund; "and, do you know another thing aboutRose?--whatever she wears she seems to be in white. "

"I know, " answered Molly. "I see what you mean. "

"It may be, " said Edmund, "because she always wore white as a younggirl. I remember the day when David Bright first saw her she was inwhite. " Edmund had for a moment forgotten entirely why he should nothave mentioned David Bright. If Molly could have read his mind at thenext moment she would have seen that he was expressing a most ferventwish that he had never met her. How little he had gained, or was likelyto gain, from her, and how stupid and tiresome, if not worse, was thisappearance of friendship. He felt this much more strongly on account ofthe morning's discovery, and he was determined to keep on neutralground. 

"Have you ever seen Versailles?" he asked. 

"No; I have seen absolutely nothing out of England except India, when Iwas a small child. "

There it was again! He could not let her give him any confidences aboutIndia or anything else. 

"Well, the hedges at Versailles don't impress me half as much as thesedo, and yet these are not half so well known. There's more of naturehere, and they are not so self-contained. At Versailles the Court andits gardens were the world, and nature a tapestry hanging out for ahorizon; here it is amazing how the frame leads one's eyes to the great, beautiful world outside. I never saw meadows and woods look fairer thanfrom here. "

They were silent; and in the silence Grosse heard shouting and then sawa huge dog dragging a chain, rushing along the avenue towards them, while louder shouts came from the opposite direction. 

"We must run, " he said very quietly, "there's something wrong with it;"and two men, still calling and waving their arms, appeared at the endnearest the house. Edmund took Molly by the arm, and they ran to meetthe men. 

"Get the lady over the kitchen-garden wall!" shouted one who held a gun, and as they came to the end of the hedge on their left they saw a wallat right angles to it about five feet high. Molly looked for any sort offooting in the bricks for one second, and then she felt Grosse lift herin his arms, and deposit her on the top of the wall. She rolled over onthe other side into a strawberry bed in blossom. She heard a gun firedas she jumped to her feet, and a second shot followed. 

"He's dead, sir, " she heard a voice say. "I'll open the gate for thelady. "

And then a garden gate a few yards off was opened inward, and Mollywalked to meet the man whom she supposed to be a head gardener. Shethanked him and went through the gate, to find Edmund, with a very whiteface, leaning back on a stone bench built into the wall. 

"The gentleman strained himself a bit, " said the gardener, in a tone ofapology to Molly. "I can't think how he come to break his chain"--hemeant the dog this time. "I've said he ought to be shot long ago; nowthey'll believe me. Why, he bit off the porter's ear at the station whenhe first come, and he was half mad with rage to-day. "

"I'm all right, " said Edmund, with a kindly smile to the horriblydistressed Molly. She went up to him with a gentle, tender anxiety onher face that betrayed a too strong feeling, only he was just faintenough not to notice it. 

"It's nothing, child, " he said in the fatherly tone that to Molly meantso far too much. "The merest rick. I forgot, in the hurry, to think howhigh I was lifting you, and I also forgot that there might be cucumberframes on the other side!"

"I wouldn't have said 'over the garden wall, ' sir, if there had been, "said the gardener with a smile, as he offered a glass of water that hadbeen fetched by the other man, whose coat and gaiters proclaimed himunmistakably a keeper. 

"A fine dog, poor fellow, " said Edmund to the latter. 

The keeper shook his head. "I don't deny it, sir, but there are finelions and fine bears, too, sir, that are kept locked up in theZoölogical Gardens. " Evidently the gardener and the keeper were of oneopinion in this matter. 

Presently Sir Edmund was so clearly all right that the men, after beingtipped and having all their further offers of help refused, went away. 

Edmund and Molly were left alone. 

"How well you run!" he said, smiling. 

"Yes; even without a ferocious dog behind me I can run fairly well, " shesaid. "But I wish you had let me get over that wall alone. And I wishthey could have spared that splendid animal. "

"After all, he would have been shot whether we had been there or not, "said Edmund. "My only bad moment was listening for the crash of brokenglass and thinking that you were cut to pieces. "

"You are sure that you have not hurt yourself?" Her grey eyes were largewith anxiety. 

Edmund, laughing, held up his hand, which was bleeding. 

"I see I have sustained a serious injury of which I was not aware in theexcitement of the crisis. "

Molly examined his hand with a professional air. Edmund let her wash itwith her handkerchief dipped in the glass of water, and bind it with hisown. Her touch was light and skilful, and it would have been absurd torefuse to let her do it. But, as holding his wrist she raised it alittle higher to turn her bandage under it, her small, lithe, thin handwas close to his face, and he gave it the slightest kiss. 

Any girl who had been abroad would have taken it as little more than themerest politeness, but to Molly it came as a surprise. A glow of quick, deep joy rose within her; her cheeks did not blush, for this was afeeling too peaceful, too restful for blushes or any sort of discomfort. 

"This young lady can run like a deerhound, " said Edmund, "and bandagelike a surgeon. "

"But that's about all she can do, " laughed Molly. "Ah! there"--she couldnot quite hide the regret in her voice--"there are Lady Groombridge andLady Rose. "

CHAPTER XII

MOLLY'S NIGHT WATCH

That night Molly could write it on the tablets of her mind that she hadpassed a nearly perfect day. The evening had not promised to be as happyas the rest, but it had held a happy hour. Mrs. Delaport Green had madea masterly descent just in time for dinner. Molly smiled at the thoughtwhen alone in her room. A beautiful tea-gown had expressed the invalid, and was most becoming. 

"Every one has been so kind, dear Lady Groombridge; really, it is atemptation to be ill in this house--everything so perfectly done. "

Lady Groombridge most distinctly grunted. 

"Why is toothache so peculiarly hard to bear?" She turned to EdmundGrosse. 

"It wants a good deal of philosophy certainly, especially when one'sface swells; but yours, fortunately, has not lost its usual outline. "And he gave her a complimentary little bow. 

"Oh! there you are wrong, " cried the sufferer. "My face is very muchswollen on one side. "

But she did not mention on which side the disfigurement was to be seen, and she ate an excellent dinner and talked very brightly to her host, who could not think why his wife had taken an evident dislike to thelittle woman. Edmund teased her several times, and would not let hersettle down into her usual state of self-content, but after dinner shewisely took refuge with the merciful Rose. 

Lady Groombridge meanwhile gave Molly a dose of good advice, kindly, ifa little roughly, administered. 

"I was pretty and an orphan myself, and it is not very easy work; thenyou have money, which makes it both better and worse. Be with wisepeople as much as you can; if they are a little dull it is worth while. If you take up with any bright, amusing woman you meet, you will findyourself more worried in the long run;" and she glanced significantly atMrs. Delaport Green. 

The obvious nature of the advice, of which this remark is a sample, didnot spoil it. Sometimes it is a comfort to have the thing said to usthat we quite see for ourselves. In to-day's unwonted mood Molly wasready to receive very ordinary wisdom as golden. 

And then Lady Groombridge discovered that Molly was musical, and theolder woman loved music, finding in it some of the romance which wasshut out by her own limitations and by a life of over great bustle andworry. 

So Molly found in her music expression for her joy in the spring, andher wistful, undefined sense of hope in life. 

Lady Groombridge, sitting near her, listened almost hungrily, and askedfor more. She was utterly sad to-night with the "might have been" of achildless woman. The news of the final sacrifice on the part of the heirto Groombridge, of all that meant so much to herself and her husband, had made so keen to her the sense of emptiness in their old age. And themusic soothed her into a deeper feeling of submission that in realityunderlay the outward unrest and discontent of to-day. Submission was, atone time, the most marked virtue of every class in our country, and itmay be found sometimes in those who, having lost all other consciousreligion, will still say, "He knows best, " revealing thereby thebed-rock of faith as the foundation of their lives. Lady Groombridge hadnot lost her religious beliefs, but she was more dutiful than devout, and did not herself often reflect on what strength duty depended. 

And Molly, who knew nothing of submission, yet ministered to the olderwoman's peace by her music. When the men came out, Lord Groombridge tooka chair close to his wife's as if to share in her pleasure, and Edmundmoved out of Molly's sight. She sometimes heard the voice of Rose or ofBilly or of Mrs. Delaport Green, but not Sir Edmund's, and she naturallythought he was listening, whereas part of the time he was reading areview. But as the ladies were going up to bed, he said, looking intothe large, grey eyes:

"Who said she could do nothing but run like a deerhound and bandage likea surgeon? And now I find she can play like an artist. What next?"

And Molly, standing in her room, said to herself that it had been thehappiest day of her life. 

But a moment later the maid came in, and while helping to take off herdinner dress, told her mistress that the kitchenmaid in a room near herswas groaning horribly. It seemed that Lady Groombridge had given outsome medicine, and Lady Rose had sent up her hot-water bottle and herspirit-lamp, and had advised that the bottle be constantly refilledduring the night. 

"But I'm sure, miss, she shouldn't take that medicine. I took on myselfto tell her not to till I'd spoken to you, and I'm sure I don't know whois going to sit up filling bottles to-night. Lady Groombridge'smaid"--in a tone of deep respect--"isn't one to be disturbed, and thescullerymaid won't get to bed till one in the morning: this girl beingill it gives her double work. "

Molly instantly rose to the situation. She knew of better appliancesthan the softest hot-water bottles, and soon after her noiselessentrance into the housemaid's attic the pain had been relieved. But, being a little afraid that the girl was threatened with appendicitis, she knew that if that were the case the relief from the application shehad used was only temporary. However, the patient rested longer than sheexpected. Molly sat by the open window, while behind her on the twonarrow beds lay the sick girl and the now loudly-snoring scullerymaid, who had come up a little before twelve o'clock. 

"Not quite six hours' sleep that girl will get to-night, " mused Molly, "and then downstairs again and two hours' work before the cook comesdown to scold her. What a life!"

But, after all, Molly had noticed the blush with which the girl had puta few violets in a little pot on the chimney-piece. Was it quite surethat Miss Dexter's life would be happier than that of the snorer on thebed, who smiled once or twice in her noisy sleep?

"There is happiness in this world after all, " mused Molly, soothed bythoughts of the past day, by the stillness on the face of the earth, andby a certain rest that came to her with all acts of kindness--a certainlull to those activities of mind and instinct that constantly led herout of the paths of peace. 

This was a sacred time of the night to Molly. It was associated in hermind with the best hours she had ever lived, hours of sick nursing anddevotion, hours of real use and help. For months now she had been livingentirely for herself, to fight her own battle and make her own way in ahostile world. She had had much excitement and even real pleasure. Herimagination had taken fire with the notion that she must assert herselfor be crushed in the race of life. Heavy ordinary people would find ithard to understand Molly's strange idealisation of the glories of thekingdom of this world which she meant to conquer. And if she werefrustrated in her passion for worldly success, there were capacities inher which she as yet hardly suspected, but she did feel at times thestirrings of evil things, cruelty, revenge, and she hardly knew whatelse. How could people understand her? She shrank from understandingherself. 

But to-night she knew the inspiration of another ideal; she recognisedthe possibility of aims in which self hardly counts. There had beenindeed a stir in the minds of all at Groombridge when they knew of thefinal step taken by the heir. Molly, looking up at the great castle, onher homeward drive, with its massive towers and its most commandingposition, had felt more and more impressed by an action on so big ascale. It was impossible to be at Groombridge and not to feel the greatand noble opportunities its possession must give any remarkable man; andthe man who could give up such opportunities must be a very remarkableman indeed. In Molly's self-engrossed life it had something of the sameeffect as a great thunderstorm among mountains would have had in thephysical order. 

And to-night it came over her again, and she seemed to be listening tothe echoes of a far vibrating sound. And might there not be happinessfor Mark Molyneux? Might it not be happiness for herself to give up thewretched, uncomfortable fight that life so often seemed to be, and tolet loose the Molly who could toil and go sleepless and be happy, if shecould achieve any diminution of bodily pain in man or woman, child orbeast?

The dawn lightened; one or two rabbits stirred in the bracken in thenear park--this was peace. Then Molly smiled tenderly at the dawn. Theremight come another solution in which life would be unselfish withoutsuch acute sacrifice, and in which evil possibilities would be starvedfor lack of temptation. And all that was good would grow in thesunshine. 

And the sleeping scullerymaid smiled also. 

CHAPTER XIII

SIR DAVID'S MEMORY

Lady Rose Bright was faintly disturbed on Tuesday morning, and came intoLady Groombridge's sitting-room after Mrs. Delaport Green and Molly hadleft the castle too preoccupied to notice the tall figure of Grosse in afar window. 

This room had happily escaped all Georgian gorgeousness of decoration, and the backs of the books, a fine eighteenth-century collection, stoodflush to the walls. The long room was all white except for the books, the flowered chintz covers, some fine bronze statuettes, and a few bowlsof roses. 

Lady Rose moved mechanically towards the empty fire-place. 

It was one thing to try not to dislike Miss Dexter, and to see her in ahaze of Christian love; it was another to realise that, while sheherself had slept most comfortably, Molly had not been to bed at allbecause the little kitchenmaid was in pain. Humility and appreciationwere rising in Rose's mind, as half absently she gently raised a vasefrom the chimney-piece, and, turning to the light to examine its mark, saw Sir Edmund looking at her from his distant window. 

A little, quite a little, flush came into her cheeks; not much deeperthan the soft, healthy colour usual to them. She examined the china withmore attention. 

The tall figure moved slowly, lazily, down the room towards her, holdingthe _Times_ in one hand. 

"It's not Oriental, " he said, "it's Lowestoft. "

"Ah!" said Rose absently. She felt the eyes whose sadness had beenapparent even to Mrs. Delaport Green looking her over with a quickscrutiny. 

"Why, in your general scheme of benevolence, have you not thought itfit, during the last few days, to give me the chance of talking to youalone?" The tone was full of exasperation, but ironical too, as if hewere faintly amused at himself for being exasperated. 

"I don't know. Have I avoided being alone with you?" Rose had turned tothe chimney-piece. 

Edmund Grosse sank into a low chair, crossed his legs, and looked up ather defiantly, but with keen observation. 

"It has been too absurd, " he said, "you have hardly spoken to me, andyou know, of course, that I came here to see you. I meant to go to theRiviera until I heard that you were coming here. "

"But you have been quite happy, quite amused. There seemed no reason whyI should interrupt. And you know, Edmund, they said that you came hereevery year. "

"Well, I didn't come only to see you, " he said, "as you like it betterthat way. And now, it is about Miss Molly Dexter I want to speak toyou. "

This time Rose gave a little ghost of a sigh, and looked at him withunutterable kindness. She was feeling that, after all, she had comesecond in his consciousness--after Miss Dexter, whom she could notlike, but who had sat up all night with the kitchenmaid. 

"Why about Miss Dexter? what can I have to do with her?" The tone wasalmost contemptuous--not quite, Rose was too kind. 

"Do you remember that I went to Florence?"

"Yes; I did not want you to go. " There was at once a distinct note ofdistress in her voice. It was horribly painful to her to have to thinkof the things she tried so hard to bury away. 

"No, but I went, " he said very gently; "and it was useless, as I knew itwould be. But I want to tell you one thing which I have learnt, andwhich I think you ought to know, as it may be inconvenient if you donot. It is that Miss Dexter----" Rose interrupted him quickly. 

"Is the daughter of the lady in Florence?" She gave a little hystericallaugh. He looked at her in astonishment. 

"And that is why she dislikes me so much. Do you know, Edmund, I had afeeling from the moment I first saw her that there was something wrongbetween us. It gave me a horrible feeling, and then I asked MaryGroombridge about her, and she told me the poor girl's story; only shesaid the mother lived in Paris. Of course Mary does not know, or shewould never have asked us here together. But that is how I knew what youwere going to say; and yet I had no notion of it till a moment ago, whenit came to me in a flash. Only I wish I had known sooner!"

It was not common with Rose to say so much at a time, and there had beenslight breaks and gaps in her voice, pathetic sounds to the listener. She seemed a little--just a little--out of breath with past sorrow andpresent pain. Edmund thought he would never come to know all theinflections in that voice. 

"I wish I had known sooner. I am afraid I have not been kind to her. "

"And if you had known you would have cast your pearls at her feet, " hesaid, in tender anger. "Don't make the mistake of being too kind to her, Rose. I want you to keep her at a distance. There is something all themore dangerous about her because she is distinctly attractive. She hasprimitive passions, and yet she is not melodramatic; it's a dangerousspecies. "

It was amazing how easy it was to take a severe view of poor Molly aftershe had gone away, and how he believed what he said. 

"She has never seen her mother?" asked Rose gently. 

"No, but I am sure she knows about her mother, " the slowness in hisvoice was vindictive; "and that her mother knows what we don't knowabout the will. "

"Edmund dear, " said Rose very earnestly, "do please leave that pointalone; no good can come of it. I do assure you that no good, only harm, will come of it. It's bad and unwholesome for us all--mother and you andme--to dwell on it. I do really wish you would leave it alone. "

Edmund frowned, though he liked that expression, "mother and you andme. "

"You needn't think about it unless you wish to, " he answered. 

"But I wish you wouldn't!"

"If I had banished it from my thoughts up till now, I could not leave italone now, for I have a clue. "

"Oh, don't, Edmund. "

"Well, it may come to nothing; only I'm glad that it makes one thingstill more clear to me though it may go no further. "

He told her then of what the stud-groom had said, and ended by showingher the letter. Rose read it in silence, and then, still standing withher face turned away, she said in a very low voice:

"It is a comfort as far as it goes. But I knew it was so; he never meantthings to be as they are--poor David! Edmund, it is of no use to thinkof it. Even if the paper then witnessed were the will, it is lost nowand will never be found. I would rather--I would _really_ rather notthink too much about it. "

"No, no, " he answered soothingly, "don't dear, don't dwell on it. "

"I like, " she answered, "to dwell on the thought that David did think ofme lovingly, and did not mean to leave me to any shame. I am sure henever meant to leave me poor, and to let me suffer all the publicityabout that poor woman. I am sure he always meant to change the will intime, but, you see, all that mischief is done and can't be undone. Imean the humiliation and the idea that she was in Florence all the timeduring our married life, and all the talk, and my having to meet thisunfortunate girl who has his money. All of them think he was unfaithfulto me, and nothing can put that right. Nothing--I mean nothing of thisworld--can put any of that right. And I can't bear the idea of a quarreland going to law with these people for money; it may be pride, but Isimply can't bear it. "

"But, don't you see, " said Edmund, "that if we could prove there wasanother will, that would clear David's reputation. "

"It won't prevent people knowing that there was the first will and allabout the poor woman in Florence. "

"No; but it will make people feel that he behaved properly in the end. It will alter their bad opinion of him. "

"But it will also make them go on thinking and talking of the scandal, and if it is left alone they will forget. People forget so soon, becausethere is always something new to talk about. He will just take his placeamong the heroes who died for their country, and the rest will beforgotten. "

Edmund looked at her quickly, as if taking stock of the delicate natureof the complex womanly materials he had to deal with, but her face wasstill averted. 

"I think it's hard on David. " He spoke as if yielding to her wish. "I dothink it is hard. If he did make this will, and it is lost throughchance or fraud, I think it is very hard that his last wishes should bedisregarded, and his memory should suffer in all right-minded people'sopinions. Of course, it is for you to decide, but I own I shouldotherwise feel it wrong to leave a stone unturned if anything could bedone to restore his good name. "

He felt that Rose was terribly troubled, but he could not quite realisewhat it was to her to disturb her hardly-won peace of mind and calm ofconscience. 

"If it were not for the money!" she faltered. "I shall get to long forthat money; so many people become horrid when they have a lawsuit abouta fortune. It has always seemed to me that if the money is only forone's self one might leave it alone, and then, after all, if we went tolaw and failed, things would be much worse than they were before. "

"Well, " said Edmund, slightly exasperated but controlling himself. "Idon't mean to do anything definite yet, but we ought to find out if wecan make a case of it. We can always stop in time if we can't get whatwe want, but it's worth while to try. It is not merely the money--theless you dwell on that the better. Seriously, I think it would be verywrong that, through any fastidiousness of yours, David's memory shouldnot be cleared if it is possible to clear it. "

The last shot had this time reached the mark. After a few minutes'silence Rose said in a very low voice:

"But then, what can I do about it?" He felt that she was hurt, but heknew he had gained his point. 

"I don't think you can do anything at this moment but allow me a freehand; I could not do what is necessary without your permission and yourtrust--and, presently, let me compare notes with you freely. I know whatyour judgment is worth when you can get rid of those scruples. "

"Very well. "

But still she did not turn round. Indeed, the wounds in her mind weretoo deep and too fresh to make the subject give her anything butquivering pain. It was impossible that Edmund should suspect half ofwhat she felt. He naturally concluded that much of her present sufferingshowed how unconquerably Rose's love for Sir David had outlived thestrain put on it. To Rose it would have been much simpler if it had beenso. But in fact part of the trial to Rose was the doubt of her own pastlove, and of her own present loyalty. Had she ever truly loved Davidwhile he was still her hero "_sans peur et sans reproche_, " could thatlove have been killed at all? So much anxiety to be sure of havingforgiven, so much self-reproach for the failure of her marriage, such anacute, overwhelming sense of shame, and such shrinking from all that wasugly and low, were intermixed and confused in poor Rose's mind that itwas no wonder even Edmund, with all his tact and his tenderness, blundered at times. 

They were quite silent for some moments. Edmund wanted to see her facebut he could not. Presently she looked into the glass over thechimney-piece, and in the glass he saw with remorse a little tear aboutto fall. 

"I think I've caught cold, " she murmured to herself. Producing a tinyhandkerchief she seemed to apply it to her nose, and so caught that onelittle tear. Her movements were wonderfully graceful, but the manlooking at her did not think of that. What he thought was:--How exactlyshe was herself and no one else. How could she have that child'ssimplicity of hers, and her amazing power of seeing through a stonewall? How could she be a saint and have all a woman's faults? How couldshe live half in another world and yet with all her absurd unworldlinessbe so eminently a woman of this one? She was twenty-six, but she knewwhat many women of fifty never learn; she was twenty-six, yet she wasmore innocent than many a child of thirteen. What a contrast to Molly'scrude ignorance and hankering after success!

All the time he looked at her in silence and she did not seem to realiseit. She put her handkerchief into her belt and took it out again; shetouched her hair, seeing in the glass that it was untidy. Then she satdown on a low stool, and her soft, fluffy black draperies fell roundher. She pressed her elbows on her knees, and sank her face in herhands. She might have been alone; he was not quite sure she was notpraying. There were some moments of silence. At last she moved, raisedher head, and looked him gently full in the face. 

"And you--you never talk about yourself, " she said, with a thrill in hervoice that he had known so long. "I always talk so much of myself when Iam alone with you. "

"No, " he said, with a touch of lazy anger, "I'm not worth talking about, not worth thinking of, and you know it!"

For a moment she flushed. 

"You always have abused yourself. "

"Because I know what's in your thoughts, and when I am with you I can'thelp expressing them--there!" he concluded defiantly, and crossed anduncrossed his legs again. 

"Edmund, that isn't one bit, one little bit true. But I do wish you werehappier. "

"Yes, of course, " he went on sardonically, "you know that too. You knowthat I loathe and detest life--that I hate the morning because it beginsa new day. Oh, I am bored to extinction, you know all that, you mostexasperating woman. I hate"--he suddenly seemed to see that he wasgiving her pain, and the next words were muttered to himself--"no, Ilove the pity in your eyes. "

The graceful figure sitting there trembled a little, and the white handscovered the eyes again. 

"But, " he went on quickly in a louder voice, "the pity's no good. Youmight as well expect me to command an army to-morrow, or become anefficient Prime Minister, or an Archbishop of Canterbury, or a RomanCatholic Cardinal, or anything else that is impossible, as become thesort of man you would like me to be. You know so perfectly well, " helaughed, "how rotten I am; you are astonished if you find me do any sortof good--you can't help it, how can you, when it's just and true? Do youknow I sometimes have had absurd dreams of what I might have been if youhad not been so terribly clear-sighted. You stood in your white frockunder the old mulberry tree--your first long skirt--and you saw that Iwas no good, and you were perfectly right, but, after all, what is yourlife to be now?"

Rose got up from the stool and rested one hand on the marblemantelpiece. She needed some help, some physical support. 

"Edmund, " she said, "I don't think I dwell much on the future; I leaveall in God's hands. I have been through a good deal now, you must notexpect too much of me. " She paused. "But what you have said to me aboutyourself is nonsense; I wish you would not talk like that. You are onlyforty. You are very clever, very rich, you have the right sort ofambition although you won't say so, and you are, oh! so kind. Couldn'tyou do something, have some real interest?" He growled inarticulately. "Is it of no use to ask you just to think it over?"

"None whatever, " he said firmly and cheerfully. 

The gong sounded in the hall for luncheon. 

BOOK II

CHAPTER XIV

MOLLY IN THE SEASON

"Still together?"

"Yes; and it has not turned out so badly as might be expected. "

"I thought you were to have had a flat with a dear old governess?"

"I could not get Miss Carew, the governess in question, and AdelaDelaport Green pressed me to stay with her for the season. "

"It does credit to the amiability of both, " said Edmund. 

"I don't know about that, " answered Molly, "we both knew what we wanted, and that we could not easily get it unless we combined, and so wecombined. "

"But was it quite easy to get over the slight friction at Groombridge?"

"Oh, yes; directly we got away Adela was all right. She felt stifled bythe atmosphere, and she recovered as soon as she got home. "

Edmund would have been less surprised at the tone of this last remark ifhe had seen Lady Groombridge's exceedingly offhand way of greeting Mollythis same evening. That great lady, having expected to find that Mollyhad, acting on her advice, abandoned Mrs. Delaport Green, was quitedisappointed in the girl when she met them still together in London, andso she extended her frigidity to both of them. 

"And you are enjoying yourself?" Edmund went on. "Come, let us sitbehind those palms. You look as if things were going smoothly. "

"It is delightful. "

Molly cast her grey eyes over the moving groups that were strollingabout the ballroom, and over the lights and flowers and the bandpreparing to begin again, and then looked up into Edmund's face. It wasa slow, luxurious movement, fitted to the rather unusually developedface and expression. Most debutantes are crude in their enjoyment, butMolly was beginning London at twenty-one, not at eighteen, andcircumstances made her more mature than her actual experience of societywarranted. Yet it seemed to Edmund that the untamed element in her wasthe more striking from the contrast. Molly accepted social delights andsocial conventions as a young and gentle tigress might enjoy the softturf of an English lawn. 

The defiance in her tone when she alluded to Groombridge faded now. 

"I have six balls in the next four nights, and one opera, and we aregoing to Ascot, then back to London, then to Cowes, and, after that, Iam going to the Italian Lakes and to Switzerland, and wherever I like. "

"Is Mrs. Delaport Green so very unselfish?"

"Oh, no; I am only going to stay with Adela till the end of the season, and then I am going abroad with two girls who are quite delightful, andin October the flat and the governess are to come into existence. "

"Yes; everything--everything perfect, " murmured Grosse, looking at herwith an expression that included her own appearance in the "everythingperfect. " Then, dropping his restless eyeglass, he went on. 

"And you are never bored?"

"Never for one single moment. "

"Amazing! and what is more amazing is that possibly you never will bebored. "

"Am I to die young then?" asked Molly. 

"Not necessarily, but I believe you will enjoy too keenly, and probablysuffer too keenly to be bored. "

"Did you ever enjoy very keenly?" asked Molly, with timid interest. 

"Didn't I!" cried Grosse, with unusual animation; "until the last sevenor eight years I enjoyed myself hugely, but----"

"Why did it stop?" asked Molly, her large eyes straining with eagerness. 

"You look like a child who must know the end of the story at once. Doyou always get so eager when you are told a story? Mine is dreadfullydull. While I had plenty of work to do, and something to look forwardto, I was amused, but then----"

"Then what?"

"Well, then I became rich, and I've been dawdling about ever since. Atfirst I enjoyed it, but now I'm bored to extinction. "

"I can understand, " said Molly, "when anything becomes quite easy itdoesn't seem worth while to do it. But isn't there anything difficultyou want to do?"

"Yes, " said Edmund, "there are two things; one is plainly impossible, and the other is not hopeful, and neither of them prevents my feelingbored, for unfortunately neither of them gives me enough to do. "

"Couldn't you work more at them?" asked Molly, with much sympathy. 

"No, " he said, as if talking to himself, "no one has the power to make awoman change her nature, and the other matter needs an expert. GoodHeavens!" he stopped short, in astonishment at himself. 

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Molly, while a deep flush of colour rosein her dark cheeks. 

"You must be a witch, " he said lightly; "you make me say things I don'tin the least mean to say, and that I have never said to anyone else. Andhere is a distracted partner, Edgar Tonmore, coming to reproach you. "

"Our dance is nearly over, Miss Dexter, " said a young, fresh voice, anda most pleasing specimen of well-built and well-trained manhood stoodbefore them. "I have been looking for you everywhere. "

Molly and Edmund rose. 

He stood where they left him watching her whirlpast. It was as he had suspected; she had the gift of perfect movement. 

And Molly, as she danced past, glanced towards the tall, loose figure, dignified with all its carelessness and with some curious trick ofdistinction and indifference in its bearing, and twice she caught tiredeyes looking very earnestly at her. 

"Good Heavens! I was talking of Rose to that girl, and of my efforts toget at her mother's money, and I never speak of either to mortal man. What made me do it?"

Slowly he turned away and left the ballroom and the house, decliningwith a wave of the hand various appeals to stay, and found himself inthe street. 

"Sympathies and affinities be hanged!" He said it aloud. "She isn't evenreally beautiful, and I'll be hanged, too, if I'll talk to her anymore. "

But, alack for Molly, he did talk to her on almost every occasion onwhich they met. It was from no conscious lack of royalty to Rose; it waslargely because he was so full of her and her affairs that he would inan assembly of indifferent people drift towards one who was in any wayconnected with those affairs. Then one word or two, the merest "how d'yedo?" seemed to develop instantly into talk, and shortly the talk turnedto intimate things. And for him Molly was always at her best. Manypeople did not like her, yet admired her, and admitted her into theirhouses half unwillingly. Her speech was not often kindly, and there wasan element of defiance even in her quietness, for her unmistakablesocial ease was distinctly negative. Molly was rich and dressed well, and Mrs. Delaport Green was a very clever woman, whose blunders wererare and whose pet vice was not unfashionable. There was nothing in thislife to soften and ripen the best side of Molly. But Edmund drew outwhatever she had in her that was gentle and kindly. 

It does not need the experience of many London seasons in order torealise that it is a condition of things in which many of the facultiesof our nature are suspended. It is not as a Puritan moralist might putit, that the atmosphere of a whirlpool of carnal vice chokes higherthings, for the amusements may be perfectly innocent. Only for a timethe people who are engaged in them don't happen to think, or to pity, orto pray, or to condemn, or often, I believe, to love, though it mayseem absurd to say so. It may, therefore, be called a rest cure foraspirations and higher ambitions and anxieties and all the noblerdiscontents. To Molly it was youth and fun and brightness andforgetfulness. There was no leisure to be morbid, no occasion to bebitter or combative. The game of life was too bright and smooth, aboveall too incessant not to suffice. 

Mrs. Delaport Green might be outside the circle in which LadyGroombridge disported herself with more dignity than gaiety, but she hadthe _entrée_ to some houses almost as good, if not as exclusive, and shehad also a large number of acquaintances who entertained systematicallyand extravagantly. That the Delaport Greens were very rich, or lived asif they were very rich, had from the first surprised the "paying guest. "Lately it had become evident to her that if Adela had not been addictedto cards, Molly would never have been established in her house. She hadfound out by now that Mr. Delaport Green was a man of very good reputein the financial world as being distinctly successful on the StockExchange. He struck Molly as a sturdy type of Englishman, ratherdetermined on complete independence, and liking to pay his way in alarge free fashion. She rather wondered at his having consented to theplan of the "paying guest, " but he seemed quite genial when he cameacross her and inquired with sympathy after her amusements, andevidently wished that she should enjoy herself. 

Many girls whose position was undoubtedly secure, whom no one dislikedand everybody was willing to amuse, had a much less amusing summer thanMolly. And Edmund Grosse, most unconsciously to himself, was a leadingfigure in the warm dream of delight in which Molly lived from themiddle of May till the end of June. They did not meet often at dances, but at stiffer functions, at the Opera, and also twice in thecountry--once on the river on a Sunday afternoon, and once for a wholeweek-end party, which last days deserve to be treated in more detail. 

The group who met under the deep shade of some historic cedars, on a hotSaturday afternoon, to spend together a Saturday to Monday with anotably pleasant host and hostess, had carried with them the electricatmosphere of the season that so fascinated Molly's inexperience, toperfume it further with the June roses and light it with the romance ofsummer moonlight. Of the party were Molly and her chaperone and SirEdmund Grosse. 

By this time Mrs. Delaport Green had made up her mind that Molly haddecidedly better become Lady Grosse, and she felt that it would be apleasing and honourable conclusion to the season if the engagement wereannounced before she and Molly parted. She had fleeced Molly veryconsiderably, but she wanted her to have her money's worth, and go awaycontent. 

It would take long to carry conviction as to the actual good and thepossibility of further good there was in Mrs. Delaport Green. Out ofreach of certain temptations she might have been quoted as a positivemodel of goodness and unselfish brightness. If her imitative gift hadfound only the highest models, she might have been a happy nun, or aquiet, stay-at-home wife and mother. But she was tossed into a socialwhirlpool where her instincts and her ambitions and her perceptions wereall confused, and out of the depths of her little spoiled soul, hadcrawled a vice--probably hereditary--which might otherwise have slept. It was fast becoming known that Molly's chaperone was a thoroughgambler. 

Sir Edmund Grosse was not unwilling to dawdle under the shade of an oldwall with Mrs. Delaport Green that Saturday evening in the country. 

"I feel terribly responsible, " she said, in her thin eager little voice;"I am sure that boy is going to propose to my protégé!"

"What boy?" asked Edmund, in a tone of indifference. 

"Edgar Tonmore. "

"Is Edgar here, then?"

"Oh, no; it won't be at once. He has gone to Scotland, but he will beback before we leave London. "

"Really he is an excellent fellow. I don't see why you should beanxious. "

"But Molly is an orphan, " she said plaintively, eyeing him quickly asshe spoke. 

"Even so, orphans marry and live happily ever after. "

"But I'm not sure she will live happily. "

"Why not?"

"I don't think she cares for him. "

"Then I suppose she will refuse. "

"But people so often make mistakes. I don't think dear Molly knows herown mind, and it is so natural that she should not confide in me as I amin her mother's place. "

"Leave things alone. Edgar will find out if she likes him or not. "

"Will he? oh well, it's a comfort that you take that view. " And shethen changed the topic, being of opinion that nothing more could be donewith it. But no doubt the effect produced in Edmund was an increase ofinterest in Molly's affairs. It would be exceedingly tiresome if sheshould marry this attractive but penniless boy, as he knew him to be, under the impression that she possessed enough money for them both. 

Edmund had only that morning received certain intelligence of thewhereabouts of young Akers, the son of the old stud-groom. 

From Florence had come the information that Madame Danterre was supposedto be in failing health, and that she had been seldom seen to drive outof her secluded grounds this summer, whereas last year she used to golong distances in her old-fashioned English carriage in the evenings. Thus it became a matter of thrilling interest whether the great fortunewould pass to Molly before any evidence could be produced of theexistence of the last will in which he so firmly believed. 

"I believe the old sinner knows all about it, even if she hasn't gotit, " Grosse murmured to himself. 

Finally he concluded that it would be better if Molly married money andnot poverty, and did not smile on the penniless Edgar Tonmore. Therefore, finding himself alone with her during church time nextmorning, he thought no harm of trying to put a little spoke in the wheelto prevent that affair going too easily. But first he asked her why shedid not go to church. 

"I might say, why don't you go yourself?" said Molly, "but I don't mindtelling you that I hardly ever do go. "

"Why not?"

"Why not?" Molly was leaning back in a low chair under the shadow of thecedars, as still as if she would never move again, as still as thegreyhound that was lying by her. "I hate going to church. None of itseems beautiful to me as it does to Adela. My aunt used to say that wewere not fortunate in our clergyman, but personally I don't like anyclergymen. I am anti-clerical like a Frenchwoman. "

"Have you any French blood?"

"Yes; my mother was French. "

"But you do good works; I remember how you nursed the kitchenmaid atGroombridge. "

"I like to stop pain, but not because it is a good work. I can't standall the fuss about good works and committees, and nonsense about lovingthe poor. It's a way rich people have to make themselves feelcomfortable. Don't you think so?"

"No, I don't. I know people who make themselves exceedinglyuncomfortable because they give away half what they possess. "

"Really, " said Molly, a little contemptuously. She knew that he wasthinking of Rose Bright. "My opinion is that doing good works means tobustle about trying to get as much of other people's money to give awayas you can, without giving any yourself. "

Edmund did not like to suggest that this opinion might be the result ofspecial experiences gained while living in the house of Mrs. DelaportGreen. 

"If, " Molly went on, evidently glad to relieve her mind on the subject, "you got the money to pay your unfortunate dressmaker, there would besome justice in that. But, " she suddenly sat up and her eyes shot fireat Edmund, "to fuss at a bazaar to show your kindness of heart while youknow you are not going to pay the woman who made the very gown you haveon, is perfectly sickening. "

"It is atrocious, " said Grosse, who wanted to change the subject. Butthis was effected by the most unexpected apparition of Mr. DelaportGreen, whom they had both supposed to be refreshing himself by the seaat Brighton. 

Mr. Delaport Green was dressed in very light grey, with a whitewaistcoat. His figure was curious, as it extended in parts so far infront of the rest that it gave the impression that you must pass youreyes over a great deal of substance in the foreground before you couldsee the face. Then again, the nose was so predominant that it checkedany attempt to realise the eyes and forehead, while the cheeks werebaggy and the skin unwholesome. 

Edmund Grosse had only seen him on two occasions when he dined at hishouse, and he had liked him at once. There was something markedlymasculine about him; he knew life, and had made up his mind as to hisown part in it without delusions and without whining. He would havepreferred to have been slim and handsome, and to have known the ways ofthe social world from his youth, but there were plenty of other thingsto be interested in, and he was not averse to the power which follows onwealth. He was a self-made Englishman, with nothing of the Jew abouthim, either for good or evil. But no apparition could have been moresurprising to the two as he came slowly over the grass to meet them. Molly saw at once that Adela's husband was exceedingly annoyed, probablyexceedingly angry, and although she had always felt his capacity forbeing very angry, she had never seen him in that condition before. 

"I came down in the motor to get a short talk on business with MissDexter, " he explained, "but I am sorry to disturb a more amusingconversation. "

Edmund, of course, after that left them alone, and walked off byhimself. 

Molly looked all her astonishment at Adela's "Tim. "

"Miss Dexter, " he said very slowly, "I was given to understand when youcame to us in the winter that you were a young lady wanting a home andsome amusement in London. I thought it kindly in my wife to wish to haveyou with her, and, as she is young and a good deal alone" (Molly lookedthe other way at this assertion), "I thought it would be for theadvantage of both. But I had no notion that there was any question ofpayment in the case, and I must now ask you to tell me exactly what youhave paid to Mrs. Delaport Green since first you made her acquaintance. "

Molly was not entirely astonished at discovering that Adela's husbandhad known nothing whatever of Adela's financial arrangements withherself. But she was so angry at this proof of what she had up to nowonly faintly suspected, that it was not very difficult to make her tellall that she knew of her share in Adela's expenses, only that knowledgeproved to be of a very vague kind. Molly had kept no accounts, and hadthe vaguest notion of what her bills included. One thing she intended toconceal (but Mr. Delaport Green managed to make her confide even that)was the fact that she had given £100 to his wife's dressmaker. He madeno comment of any sort, only firmly and quietly insisted on Mollygiving him all the items she could. Then he got up and said--

"Good-bye for the present; I want to get back in time for lunch. "

And he walked away, making one or two notes in a little book he held inhis hand as to the cheque that Molly should find waiting for her nextday. 

Molly, left alone on the bench, did not at the first moment dwell on thethought of how far this talk with her host would affect her own plans. She could only think of the man himself. She had been for many weeks inhis house, and had never done more than "exchange the weather" with him, or occasionally suffer gladly the little jokes and puns to which he wasaddicted. She had written to Miss Carew that his attitude towards Adelaand herself was that of a busy man towards his nursery. Since that howlittle she had thought about him! And now she felt the strength in him, not weakened, but lit up with a kind of pathos. He might have been atrue friend to any man or woman. He was really fond of Adela DelaportGreen, and that position in itself was tragic enough. It was plain toMolly, although nothing had been breathed on the subject that morning, that Tim would not find it hard to forgive his Adela. Adela would passalmost scot-free from well-merited punishment; and yet her husband wasstrong enough to have punished effectively where he deemed it necessary. Molly was puzzled because she was without a clue to the mystery. Thefact was that Tim had no wish to punish effectively. As long as Adelapassed untouched by one sin, as long as he felt sure of one great virtuein her life, all such details as much gambling, much selfishness, absurdextravagance, could be easily forgiven. Molly herself would be fairlydealt with and set aside; the "paying guest" was an indignity that hewould soon forget. He would have been entirely indifferent to theimpression of regretful interest that he had made upon her. 

That night Edmund Grosse was Molly's confidant as to the second, andevidently final, rupture between herself and Mrs. Delaport Green thathad taken place in the afternoon. He could not but be kind andsympathetic as to her difficulties. It was, no doubt, very blind of himnot to see that she was too quickly convinced of the wisdom of hisadvice, far too anxious to act as seemed well in his opinion. It neverdawned on his imagination for a moment that the most serious part of theloss of the end of the season to Molly was the loss of his societyduring that time. 

They strolled in the moonlight between the cedars and under the greatwall with its alternate "ebon and ivory" of darkest evergreen growthsand masses of white climbing roses, Molly's white gown rustling a littlein the stillness. And Molly discovered with joy that he was trying toset her mind against marriage with Edgar Tonmore. If he only knew howlittle danger there was of that! And under Edmund's influence shedecided to offer herself for a visit of two or three weeks to Mrs. Carteret, in the old and much disliked home of her childhood. It wouldlook right; it would give a certain dignity to her position after thebreakdown of the Delaport Green alliance, and it was always a greatmistake to break with natural connections. So far Edmund Grosse; and inMolly's mind it ran something like this: "He wants me to stand well withthe world, and I will do this, intolerable as it is, to please him. Helikes to think that I have some nice relations, and so I must try to befriendly with Aunt Anne Carteret, though that is the hardest part. Andhe wants me to get away from Edgar Tonmore, and I would go away from somany more people if he wished it. "

The evening passed into night, and Edmund was walking alone under thewall, dreaming of Rose. 

All this foolish gambling, quarrelsome, small world of men and womenmade such a foil to her image. Molly and her mother, the DelaportGreens, and many others were grouped in his mind as he purled the smokedisdainfully from his cigar. Something in Molly's walk by his side justnow had made him see again the old woman with her quick, alert movementsin the garden at Florence; after all they were cut from the same piece, the old wicked woman and the slight, dark girl with the curious eyes. Molly must not be trusted; she must be suspected all the more because ofher attractions in the moments of dangerous gentleness. And with acertain simplicity Edmund looked again at the moon above him, all themore glorious because secret and dark things were moving stealthilyunder the trees in the lower world. 

And Molly was kneeling on her low window-seat, looking out at the samemoon in a mood of joy that was transmuted half consciously into prayerby the alchemy of pure love. 

CHAPTER XV

A POOR MAN'S DEATH

Early in October, Molly and Miss Carew took up their abode in a flatwith quite large rooms and a pleasing view of Hyde Park. 

August and September had been two of the healthiest and most normalmonths that Molly had ever spent or was likely ever to spend again. Theweeks between the rupture with the Delaport Greens and the journey toSwitzerland had been trying, although it was undoubtedly much pleasanterto be Mrs. Carteret's guest than it had ever been to be a permanentinmate of her house. 

Molly--thought Mrs. Carteret--was restless, not inclined to morbidthoughts, and more gentle than of yore, but more nervous and fanciful. 

It was not until after a fortnight abroad, after the revelation ofmountains realised for the first time, that Molly had the courage to sayto herself that she had been a fool during the visit to Aunt Anne. Wasit in the least likely that a man of Edmund Grosse's kind would actromantically or hastily? Of course not. She had been as foolish as Mrs. Browning's little Effie in dreaming that a lover might come riding overthe Malcot hills on a July evening. 

The girls with whom Molly had travelled were of a healthy, intellectualtype, and Molly, under their influence, had grown to feel the worth ofthe higher side of Nature's gifts. And so, vigorous in mind and body, she had come to London in October, so she said, to study music. 

Miss Carew was a little disappointed when Molly expressed loftyindifference as to who had yet come to London. But that indifference didnot last long when her friends of the season began to find her out. ThenMiss Carew surprised Molly by her excessive nervousness and shyness ofnew acquaintances. "Carey" had always professed to love society, and hadalways been very carefully dressed in the fashion of the moment. But, asa civilian may idealise warfare and be well read in tactics, and yet beunequal to the emergency when war actually raises its grisly head, so itwas with poor Miss Carew. She simply collapsed when Molly's worldlyfriends, as she called them with envious admiration, swept into theroom, garnished with wonderful hats and fashionable furs. She had noneof a Frenchwoman's gift for ignoring social differences, and she had theuneasy pride that is rare in a Celt, although she had all a Celt's tastefor refinement and show and glitter. Miss Carew sat more and morestiffly at the tea-table, until she confided frankly to Molly--

"My dear, I am too old, and I am simply in the way. It is just too latein my life, you see, after all the years of governess work. Of course, if my beloved father had lived, I should never have been a governess. But as it is, I think I need not appear when you have visitors, exceptnow and then. "

Molly acquiesced after enough protest, chiefly because she had begun towonder if it would be quite easy to have an occasional _tête-à-tête_with men friends without having to suggest to Miss Carew to retiregracefully. She had that morning heard that Sir Edmund Grosse was inLondon, but she had no reason, she told herself, to suppose that he knewwhere she was. 

Meanwhile, she was exceedingly angry at finding that Adela DelaportGreen was giving her version of her relations with Molly in the seasonto all her particular friends. Molly could not find out details, but shemore than suspected that the fact of her being Madame Danterre'sdaughter made up part of Adela's story, although she could not imaginehow she came to know who her mother was. 

Molly would probably have brooded to a morbid degree over these angrysuspicions, but that another side of life was soon pressed upon her, anew source of human interest, in the dying husband of a charwoman. 

This woman, Mrs. Moloney, had cleaned out the flat before Molly and MissCarew took possession. 

High up in a small room in a block of workmen's buildings in WestKensington, Pat Moloney lay dying. He and his wife had been thriftlessand uncertain, they drifted into marriage, drifted in and out of work, and, having watched their children grow up with some affection and agood deal of neglect, had now seen them drift away, some back to the oldcountry, and some to the Colonies. 

Mrs. Moloney counted on her fingers to remember their number and theirages, and spoke with almost more realisation of the personalities ofthree little beings that had died in infancy than of the living men andwomen and their children. 

Moloney was far too ill by the time Molly Dexter came to see him tospeak of anything distinctly. Three years ago he had fallen from aladder and had refused to go into the hospital, in which decision he hadbeen supported by his wife, who "didn't hold" with those institutions. Akindly, rough, clever young doctor had since treated him for growingpain and discomfort, and had prophesied evil from the first. Pat keptabout and, when genuinely too ill for regular work, took odd jobs anddrifted more and more into public houses. He had never been a thoroughdrunkard, and had been free from other vices, though lazy andself-indulgent. But pain and leisure led more and more to the stimulantsthat were poison in his condition. At last a chill mercifully hastenedmatters, and Pat, suffering less than he had for some months past, wasnearing his end in semi-consciousness. Molly Dexter then descended onthe Moloneys in one of her almost irresistible cravings to relievesuffering. 

Ordinary human nature when not in pain was often too repugnant to Mollyfor her to be able to do good works in company with other people. Shewas, as she had told Edmund Grosse, a born anti-clerical, and shescorned philanthropists; so her best moods had to work themselves outalone and without direction. Nor was she likely to spoil the recipientsof her attentions, partly from the strength of her character, partlybecause the poor know instinctively whether they are merely the objectson which to vent a restless longing to relieve pain, or whether they areloved for themselves. 

Molly, in the village at home, had always made the expression ofgratitude impossible, but she constantly added ingratitude as a largeitem in the account she kept running, in her darker hours, against thehuman race. 

Late on a wet and windy October evening she went to undertake thenursing of Pat Moloney for the first part of the night. She had beenvisiting him constantly for several weeks, and actually nursing him forthree days. 

"Has the doctor been?"

"Yes, miss" (in a very loud whisper); "he says Pat is awful bad; he lefta paper for you. "

Molly Dexter walked across the small, bare room and took a paper ofdirections from the chimney-piece, and then stood looking at the oldman's heavy figure on the bed. He was lying on his side, his face turnedto the wall. 

"You had better rest in the back room while I am here, " she said. 

"I couldn't, indeed I couldn't, miss, him being like that; you mustn'task me to. Besides, I've been round and asked the priest to come, and soI couldn't take my things off. I'll just have some tea and a drop ofwhisky in it, and I can keep going all the night, it's more than likelyhe'll die at the dawn. "

Molly eyed the woman with supreme contempt. 

"It isn't at all certain that he's going to die, he'll make a good fightyet if you will give him a chance. "

Mrs. Moloney looked deeply offended. It had been all very well to beguided by a lady at the beginning of the illness, but now it was verydifferent. She felt half consciously that science had done its worst, and bigger questions than temperatures and drugs were at issue. 

"A priest now, " said Molly, in a whisper of intense scorn, "would killhim at once. "

Mrs. Moloney did not condescend to reply. She had propped a poor littlecrucifix, a black cross, with a chipped white figure on it, against ajam pot on a shelf under the window, and she had borrowed twocandlesticks with coloured candles from a labourer's wife on the floorbeneath. The window had been shut, so that the wind should not blow downthese objects. 

Molly looked at the man on the bed and sniffed. 

"He must have air--" the whisper was a snort. 

At that moment there was a knock on the outer door. On the iron outerstairs was standing the priest. 

"It's just the curate, " said Mrs. Moloney, looking out of the window;and then she disappeared into the tiny passage. 

Molly stood defiantly, her figure drawn to its full height. She feltthat she knew exactly the kind of Irish curate who was coming in todisturb, and probably kill, the unhappy man on the bed. Well, she shouldmake a fight for this poor, crushed life; she would stand between thehorrible tyranny and superstition that lit those pink candles, and thatwould rouse a man to make his poor wretched conscience unhappy andfrighten him to death. "If there is a hell, " she muttered, "it must beready to punish such brutality as that. "

Mrs. Moloney opened the door as wide as possible, and the priest camein. Miss Dexter looked at him in amazement; how, and where had she seenhim before?

He went straight to the bed and looked at the man in silence, whileMolly looked at him. He was about middle height, with very dark hair andeyes, a small, well-formed head, and a very good forehead. It was notuntil he turned to Mrs. Moloney that Molly understood why she hadfancied that she had seen him before. She was sure now that she hadseen his photograph, but, although she was certain of having seen it, she could not remember when or where she had done so. 

"Can't you open the window, Mrs. Moloney?"

"It's the only place to make into an altar, father?"

"Oh, never mind that yet; I will manage. "

Molly stepped forward; whatever he was going to do, it should not bedone without a protest. 

"The doctor's orders are that he is not to be disturbed. "

The priest did not seem aware of the exceedingly unpleasant expressionon Molly's countenance. 

"It would be a great mistake to wake him, of course, " he said; and then, "Do you suppose he will sleep for long?"

"I haven't the faintest notion"; the uttermost degree of scorn wasconveyed in those few words. 

Mrs. Moloney suppressed a sob. 

"He's not been to the Sacraments for three years, " she murmured. 

The priest leant over the bed and looked intently at the dying man. 

Mrs. Moloney opened the window and put the crucifix and candlesticks ina corner on the dirty floor. 

"It might kill him to wake him now, " murmured Molly. 

"Yes, that is just the difficulty. " The young man was speaking more tohimself than to her. 

"Difficulty!" thought Molly with scorn. "Fiddlesticks!"

The silence was unbroken for some moments. The fresh autumn air blewinto the room. A sandy coloured cat came from under the bed, looked atthem, and then rubbed her arched back against the unsteady leg of theonly table, which was laden with bottles and basins, finally retiredinto a further corner, and upset and broke one of the pink candles thatbelonged to the neighbour. 

But Mrs. Moloney never took her eyes off the priest's pale face. 

"I'll wait until he wakes, " he said to her, "but is there anywhere elseI could go? It's not good to crowd up this room. "

"That's intended to remove me, " thought Molly, "but it won't succeed. "

Mrs. Moloney moved into the little back room, and pulled forward achair. When the priest was seated she shut the door behind her andwhispered to him--

"Father, you'll not let his soul slip through your fingers, will you, father dear? Just because of the poor lady who knows no better!"

"Who is she? She is not like the district visitors I've seen about inthe parish. "

"No, indeed; she is a lady, and I've done some work for her, and shewould not be satisfied when she heard Moloney was ill but she must comeherself, and yesterday, not to grudge her her due, father, the doctorsaid if he pulled through that I owed her his life. Well, that's proveda mistake, anyhow, but she's after spoiling his last chance, and he'snot been the good man he was once, father. "

"Yes, Mrs. Moloney, you must watch him carefully, and here I am if thereis any change. I'm sure that lady is an excellent nurse, and we mustn'tlet any chance slip of keeping him alive, must we?"

She shook her head; this was only an English curate, still he must beobeyed. 

Molly was profoundly irritated by Mrs. Moloney's proceeding to make acup of tea for the priest, but he was grateful for it, as he had beenout at tea-time, and had come to the Moloneys' instead of eating hisdinner. He opened the window of the tiny room as far as it would go, andread his Office by the light of the tallow candle. That finished, he satstill and began to wonder about the lady with the olive complexion andthe strange, grey eyes. 

"I felt as if I should frizzle up in the fire of her wrath, " he thoughtwith a smile. 

He took his rosary and was half through it when the door opened andMolly came in. She shut it noiselessly, and then spoke in her usualunmoved, impersonal voice. 

"The new medicine is not having any effect; the temperature has gone up;the doctor said if it did so now it was a hopeless case. I must rousehim in an hour to give him another dose and take the temperature again. After that, if it is as high as I expect it to be, you can do anythingyou like to him. "

As she said the last words, she went back into the other room. 

The hour passed slowly, and she came again and let the priest know inalmost the same words that he was free to act as he pleased. Then sheadded abruptly--

"Do you mind telling me your name?"

"My name? Molyneux. "

"Then are you any relation of Lord Groombridge?"

"I am his cousin. "

"I have been at Groombridge. " But the priest felt that the tone was notin the least more friendly. 

"Moloney won't suffer now, " she went on, turning towards the door, "andI think he will be conscious for a time. "

Molly was giving up her self-imposed charge; she wanted to be off. Withthe need for help no longer an attraction, Moloney had almost ceased tointerest her; he would remain only as part of the darker background ofher mind, as a dim figure among many in the dim coloured atmosphere ofrevolt and bitterness in which her thoughts on human life would movewhen she had no labour for her hands. He was another of those whosuffered so uselessly, a mere half animal who had to do the rough workof the world, and then was dropped into the great charnel house ofunmeaning death. As soon as the man began to show signs, faint signs ofperception, she left the priest by his bedside and went back into theinner room to put on the cloak she had left there. And then shehesitated. 

What would go on in the next room? She was anxious now to know moreabout it, because she had caught so strange a look on Father Molyneux'sface. If he had only known this man before she could have understood it. But how could there be this passion of affection, this intensity offeeling, for a total stranger, a rough brutal-looking fellow who was nolonger in pain, who would probably die easily enough, and probably be nogreat loss to those he left? She had seen a strange intensity ofreverence in the way the young man had touched the wreck upon the bed. She had known thrills of curious joy herself when relieving physicalagony; was it something like that which filled the whole personality andbearing of the priest?

She began to feel that she could not go away; she wanted to see thisthing out. It was something entirely new to her. 

Low voices murmured in the next room; she hesitated now to pass through, she might be intruding at too sacred a moment. She believed that thepriest was hearing the dying man's confession. She had a halfcontemptuous dislike of this feeling of mystery and privacy. She feltshe had been foolish not to go away at once. But she did not move fornearly half an hour, and then the door opened, and the man's wife camein and started back. 

"I'm sure I thought you had gone, miss. " Her manner was much morecordial than it had been before. She was tearful and excited. "I want toraise him a bit higher, and there's a cloak here. He is going off fastnow, but he was quite himself when I left him with the father to makehis confession; he looked his old self and the good man he was for manya year--and God Almighty knows he has suffered enough these last yearsto change him, poor soul. "

Molly went back with her to the sick bed and helped her to raise thedying man. The dawn came in feebly now, and made the guttering candledimmer. Death was all that was written on the grey face, and the bodylaboured for breath. The flicker of light in the mind, that had beenroused, perhaps, by those rites which had passed in her absence, hadfaded; there was not the faintest sign of intelligence in the eyes now;the hands were cold and would never be warm again. The sandy cat hadcrept away into the other room; and outside the great town was aliveagain, the vast crowds were astir, each of whom was just one day nearerto death. There was nothing but horror, stale, common horror, in it allfor Molly. But, kneeling as upright as a marble figure, and his wholeface full of a joy that seemed quite human, quite natural, FatherMolyneux was reading prayers, and there was a curious note of triumph inthe clear tones. At first she did not heed the words; then they thrustthemselves upon her, and her eyes fastened on the dying, meaninglessface, the very prey of death, in a kind of stupefaction at the wordsspoken to him. 

"I commend thee to Almighty God, dearest brother, and commend thee toHim whose creature thou art; that, when thou shalt have paid the debt ofhumanity by death, thou mayest return to the Maker, Who formed thee ofthe dust of the earth. As thy soul goeth forth from the body, may thebright company of angels meet thee; may the judicial senate of Apostlesgreet thee; may the triumphant army of white-robed Martyrs come out towelcome thee; may the band of glowing Confessors, crowned with lilies, encircle thee; may the choir of Virgins, singing jubilees, receive thee;and the embrace of a blessed repose fold thee in the bosom of thePatriarchs; mild and festive may the aspect of Jesus Christ appear tothee, and may He award thee a place among them that stand before Him forever. "

And so it went on; some of it appealing to her more, some less; somepassages almost repulsive. But her imagination had caught on to the vastoutlines of the prayer--the enormous nature of the claims made on behalfof the dying labourer. 

Was it Pat Moloney who was to pass out of this darkness to "gaze withblessed eyes on the vision of Truth"? What a tremendous assertion madewith such intensity of confidence! What a curious pageantry, too, somagnificent in its simplicity, was ordered, almost in tones of command, by the Church Militant for the reception of the charge she was givingup. The triumphant army of Martyrs was to come out to meet him; theConfessors were to "encircle him"; Michael was "to receive him as Princeof the armies of Heaven. " Peter, Paul, John were to be in attendance. Nor in the rich strain was there any false ring of praise, or anyattempt to veil the weakness of humanity. "Rejoice his soul, O Lord, with Thy Presence, and remember not the iniquities and excesses which, through the violence of anger or the heat of evil passion, he hath atany time committed. For, although he hath sinned, he hath not denied theFather and the Son and the Holy Ghost, but hath believed and hath had azeal for God, and hath faithfully adored the Creator of all things. "

Was it an immense, an appalling impertinence--this great drama? Was it amere mockery of the impotence and darkness of man's life? Would thepriest say all this at the death-bed of the drunken beggar, of thevoluptuous tyrant, of the woman who had been too hard or too weak in thebonds of the flesh? Was it a last great delusion, a last panacea givenby the Church to those who had consented to bandage their eyes and crooktheir knees in childish obedience? Vaguely in her mind there flittedhalf phrases of the humanitarian, the materialist, the agnostic. Itseemed as if their views of the wreck on the bed pressed upon all herconsciousness. But, just as they had never succeeded in silencing thevoice of that great drama of faith and prayer through the ages, so shecould not dull to her own consciousness the strange, spiritual vitalitythat poured out in this triumphant call to the powers on high to comeforth in all their glory to receive the inestimable treasure of theredeemed soul of Pat Moloney. 

CHAPTER XVI

MOLLY'S LETTER TO HER MOTHER

There followed after that night a quite new experience for Molly. It wasthe upheaval of an utterly uncultivated side of her nature. She wasastonished to find that she had religious instincts, and that, insteadof feeling that these instincts were foolish and irrational--a lowerpart of her nature, --they now seemed quite curiously rational andestablished in possession of her faculties. Her mind seemed moresatisfied than it had ever been before. She did not know in what shebelieved, but she felt a different view of life in which men seemed lessutterly mean, and women less of hypocrites. Externally it workedsomething in this way. 

The day on which Pat Moloney died at dawn she could not rest so much asshe intended, to make up for the short night. She wrote one or two briefnotes begging to be let off engagements, and told the servants to sayshe was not at home. She could not keep quite still, and she did notwant to go out. Gradually, as the day wore on, she worked herself intomore and more excitement. Her imagination pictured what might be theoutcome of such a view of life and death as seemed to have taken hold ofher. In her usual moods she would have thought with sarcasm that suchwere the symptoms of "conversion" in a revivalist. But now there was nocritical faculty awake for cynicism; the critical faculty was full of asolemn kind of joy. Next there came, after some hours of a sort ofsurprise at this sudden and vehement sense of uplifting, the wish foraction and for sacrifice. Her mind returned to the concrete, and thecircumstances of her life. And then there came a most unwelcome thought. If Molly wanted to sacrifice herself indeed, and wished to do some realgood about which there could be no self-delusion, was there not one dutyquite obviously in her path, her duty as a child? Had she ever made anyattempt to help the forlorn woman in Florence? Perhaps Madame Danterre'sassertion, when Molly came of age, that she did not want to see Molly, was only an attempt to find out whether Molly really wished to come toher mother. From the day on which her ideal of her mother had beencompletely shattered Molly had shrunk from even thinking of her. She nowshivered with repugnance, but she was almost glad to feel how repugnantthis duty might be, much as a medieval penitent might have rejoiced inhis own repugnance to the leprous wounds he was resolved to dress as anexpiation for sin. It did not strike her, as it never struck the noblepenitents in the Middle Ages, that it might be very trying to the objectof these expiatory actions. She felt at the moment that it must be acomfort to her mother to receive all the love and devotion that shewould offer her. And there was real heroism in the letter that Mollyproceeded to write to Madame Danterre. For she knew that if her offerwere accepted she risked the loss of all that at present made life verydear, both in what she already enjoyed, and in the hope that was hiddenin her heart. 

Molly had pride enough to shrink utterly from the connection with hermother, and her girl's innocence shrank, too, with quick sensitivenessfrom what might be before her. How strange now appeared the dreams ofher childhood, the idealisation of the young and beautiful mother!

The letter was short, but very earnest, and had all the ring of truth init. She could not but think that any mother would respond to it, and, for herself, after sending it there could be no looking back. Once theletter was posted to the lawyer to be forwarded to Madame Danterre, ahuge weight seemed to be lifted from Molly's mind. That night she metEdmund Grosse at dinner. He had never seen her so bright andgood-looking, and he found he had many questions to ask as to the summerabroad. 

For several weeks Molly received no answer from Florence, but duringthat time she did not repent her hasty action. And during those weeksher interest in religion grew stronger. Just as she had been unable towork with philanthropists, she was ready now to take her religion alone. She felt kinder to the world at large, but she did not at first feel anyneed of human help or human company. She went sometimes to a service atWestminster Abbey, sometimes to St. Paul's, sometimes to the Oratory, and two or three times to the church in West Kensington in which FatherMolyneux was assistant parish priest. On the whole she liked this lastmuch the best. Indeed, she was so much attracted by his sermons that shewent to call upon him late one afternoon. 

The visitor was shown into a rather bare parlour, and Father Molyneuxsoon came in. He was a good deal interested in seeing her there. He hadnever been more snubbed in his life than by this lady on their firstmeeting, and he had been much surprised at seeing her in the church soonafterwards. She was plainly dressed, though at an expense he would neverhave imagined to be possible, and she appeared a little softer than whenhe had seen her last. She looked at him rather hard, not with the lookthat puzzled Rose Bright; it was a look of sympathy and of inquiry. 

"I have had curious experiences since we met, " she said, "and I want tounderstand them better. Have you--has anybody been praying for me?"

"I have said Mass for you twice since poor Moloney died, " he said. 

"I thought there was some sort of influence, " she murmured. "That nightI was tired and excited and worried, and foolishly prejudiced. Somehowthe prayers you read for Pat Moloney, the whole attitude of your Churchin those prayers, caught my breath. I imagine it was something like theeffect of a revivalist preacher on a Welsh miner. " She paused. FatherMolyneux was full of interest, and did not conceal it. 

"I can't tell, " he said. "Of course, it may have been----"

"Nerves, " interrupted Molly so decidedly that he laughed; it was not inthe least what he had meant to say. 

"But, " she went on, with an air of impartial diagnosis, "it has lasted. I have been very happy. I understand now what is meant by religion. Iunderstand what you felt about that man's soul. I understand, when youare preaching, that intense sense of worth-whileness. I understand thereligious sense, the religious attitude. It makes everything worthwhile because of love. It does not explain all the puzzles. It does notanswer questions, it swallows them up alive. It makes everything so big, and at the same time so small, because there are infinite things too. Then it insists on reality; I see now it must insist on dogma for fearof unreality. Renan was quite wrong in that great sentence of his: 'Ilne faut rien dire de limitée en face de l'infini. ' The infinite is a fogto us if there are no outlines in our conception of it. Don't you thinkso?"

There was a light in her face no one had ever seen there before. 

"And the only outlines that can satisfy us are the outlines of aPersonality. As a rule I have always disliked individuals. I know youare surprised. Of course, you are just the other way; you have a touchof genius, a gift for being conscious of personalities, of beingattracted to them. Now I have never liked people; in fact, I've hatedmost of them. But since this religious experience I have known"--hervoice dropped; it had been a little loud--"I have known that I want afriend, and can have one. "

The priest was astonished by Molly. He had never met any one like herbefore. Her self-confidence was curious, and her eloquence was so suddenand abounding that his own words seemed to leave him. She was in amoment as silent as she had been talkative, her eyes cast down on thefloor. Then she looked at him with an almost imperious questioning inher eyes. 

"You have said so much that I expected to say myself, " he said, with afaint sense of humour, "and you have not asked me a single question. "

Molly laughed "Tell me, " she said, "I am right; it is all true? I _do_understand religious experience, the religious sense at last, don't I?"

"Shall I tell you what I miss in it?" he said, suppressing any furthercomment on her amazing assertion. "I mean in all you have said. And, oddly enough, the Welsh miner would have had it. I mean that, seeing OurLord as the One Friend of your life, you should also see that you haveresisted and betrayed and offended Him during that life which He gaveyou. "

"No: I have not thought much about that side of things" said Molly "Ihave been too happy. "

"You would be far happier if you did. "

"But what have I done?" said Molly, almost in a tone of injuredrespectability. 

"Well, you have hated people--or, at least" (in a tone of apology), "yousaid so just now. "

"Oh! yes; it's quite true. I am a great hater and an uncertain one. Inever know who it is going to be, or when it will come. "

"But you know you have been commanded to love them. "

"Yes; but only as much as I love myself, and I quite particularlydislike myself. "

"You've no right to--none whatever. "

"And why not?"

"Because God made you in His own image and likeness. You can't get outof it. But, you know, I don't believe one word you say. I met youshowing love to the poor. "

"No, indeed, " said Molly indignantly, "I did not love Pat Moloney. Iwish you would believe what I say. I hate my mother; I hate the aunt whobrought me up; I hate crowds of people. I don't hate one man because Iwant him to fall in love with me, but if he doesn't do that soon, Ishall hate him too. I feel friendly towards you now, but I don't knowhow soon I may hate you. At least, " she paused, and a gentle look cameinto her face, "I had all these hatreds up to a few weeks ago; now theyare comparatively dormant. "

Again the flood of her words seemed to check him, but he tried:

"I believe it then; I will take all you say as true. I think you arefairly convincing. Well, then, how do you suppose you can be united toInfinite Love, Infinite Mercy, Infinite Purity? God is not merely good, He is Goodness. Until you feel that His Presence would burn and destroyand annihilate your unworthiness, you have no sense of the joys of HisFriendship. You stand now looking up to Him and choosing Him as yourFriend, whereas you must lie prostrate in the dust and wait to bechosen. When you have done that He will raise you, and the Heavens willring with the joy of the great spirits who never fell, and who arealmost envious of the sinner doing Penance. "

Molly bent her head low. "I see, " she murmured, "mine have been merelythe guesses of an amateur; it is useless--I don't understand. "

"It isn't, indeed it isn't, " he said quietly. "It is the introduction. The King is sending His heralds. Some are drawn to Him by the sense oftheir own sinfulness, others, as you are, by a glimpse of His beauty. "

Molly was not angry, only disappointed. The very habit of a life ofreserve must have brought some sense of disappointment in the result. She did not mind being told that she must lie in the dust; theabnegation was not abhorrent; she knew that love in itself sometimesdemanded humiliation. But she felt sad and discouraged. She had seemedto have conquered a kingdom. Without exactly being proud of them, shehad felt her religious experiences to be very remarkable, and now shesaw that they only pointed to a very long road, hard to walk on. She gotup quickly and was near the door before he was. 

"Will you come and see me?" she said, and she gave him her card. "If youcan, send me a postcard beforehand that I may not miss you. Good-bye. "

He opened the front door for her and her carriage was waiting. 

"The third time you have been late for dinner this week, " observed theFather Rector. "Have some mutton?"

"Thanks, " said the young man; "I wish I could learn the gentle art ofsending people away without offending them. "

"They didn't include that in the curriculum at Oxford?" The tone was notquite kind; neither was the snort with which the remark was concluded. It was no sauce to the lumpy, greasy mutton that Mark was struggling toeat. Suddenly he caught the eye of the second curate, Father Marny, whohad conceived a great affection for him, and he smiled merrily with aschool-boy's sense of mischief. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE BLIND CANON

In a small room in a small house in a small street in Chelsea, FatherMolyneux was sitting with a friend. There were a few beautiful things inthe room, and a few well-bound books; but they had a dusty, uncared forlook about them. It teased the young priest to see a medicine bottle anda half-washed medicine glass standing on a bracket with an exquisitestatuette of the Madonna. The present occupier of these lodgings had hadvery true artistic perceptions before he had become blind. 

Mark Molyneux had just been reading to him for an hour, and he now putdown the book. The old man smacked his lips with enjoyment. The authorwas new to him, but he had won his admiration at the first reading. 

"What people call his paradoxes, " he said, "is his almost despairingattempt at making people pay attention; he has to shout to men who aretoo hurried to stop. The danger is that, as time goes on, he will onlybe able to think in contrasts and to pursue contradictions. "

The speaker paused, and then, his white fingers groped a little as if hewere feeling after something. His voice was rich and low. Then he keptstill, and waited with a curious look of acquired patience. At last, the younger man began. 

"I want to ask your advice, or rather, I want to tell you something Ihave decided on. "

"And you only want me to agree, " laughed Canon Nicholls, and the blindface seemed full of perception. 

"Well, I think you will. " The boyish voice was bright and keen. "I'vecome to tell you that I want to be a monk. "

"Tut, tut, " said Canon Nicholls, and then they both laughed together. "Since when?" he asked a moment later. 

"It has been coming by degrees, " said Mark, in a low voice. "I want tobe altogether for God. "

"And why can't you be that now?"

"It's too confusing, " he said; "half the day I am amused or worried ortired. I've got next to no spiritual life. "

Canon Nicholls did not help him to say more. 

"I can't be regular in anything, and now there's the preaching. "

"What's the matter with that?"

"Who was it who said that a popular preacher could not save his soul?Father Rector says that it's very bad for me that I crowd up the church. He is evidently anxious about me. "

"How kind!"

"Then, since I've been preaching, such odd people come to see me. "

"I know, " said the Canon, "there's a fringe of the semi-insane round allchurches; they used to lie in wait for me once. "

"Then I simply love society. I've been to hear such interesting peopletalk at several houses lately. I go a good deal to Miss Dexter. "

"Miss Molly Dexter. "

"Yes. "

"I wouldn't do that; she's a minx. She is the girl who stayed with thatkind little woman, Mrs. Delaport Green, who sometimes comes to see me. "

"You see, " Mark went on eagerly, "I'm doing no good like this. So I havemade up my mind to try and be a Carthusian. "

His face lit up now with the same intense delight. "It's such a splendidlife! Fancy! No more humbug, and flattery, and insincerity. 'Vous nejouerez plus la comédie, ' an old monk said to me. Wouldn't it besplendid? Think of the stillness, and then the singing of the Officewhile the world is asleep, like the little birds at dawn. It would besimply and entirely to live for God!"

"I do believe in a personal devil, " muttered Canon Nicholls to himself, and Mark stared at him. "Now listen, " he said. "There is a young man whohas a vocation to the priesthood, and he comes under obedience to workin London. That is, to live in the thick of sin, of suffering, of follyand madness. If it were acknowledged that the place was full of choleraor smallpox it would be simple enough. But the place is thick withdisguises. The worst cases don't seem in the least ill; the stench ofthe plague is a sweet smell, and the confusion is thicker because thereare angels and demons in the same clothes, living in the same houses, doing the same actions, saying almost the same things. In every Babylonthere have been these things, but this is about the biggest. And themost harmless of the sounds, the hum of daily work, is loud andcontinuous enough to dull and wear the senses. So confused and perplexedis the young man that he doesn't know when he has done good or doneharm; being young, compliments appeal to him very seriously; beingyoung, he takes too many people's opinions; and, being young, hegeneralises and if, for instance, I tell him not to go often to thehouse of a capricious woman of uncertain temper, he probably resolves atonce never to lunch in an agreeable house again. Meanwhile, above thismuddle, this tragicomedy, he sees the distant hills glowing with light;so, without waiting for orders, he leaves the people crying to him forhelp and turns tail and runs away! And what only the skill of a personaldevil could achieve, he thinks in his heart that he is choosing a harderfight, a more self-denying life. "

"But I could help those people more by my prayers. "

"Granted, if it were God's will that you should lead the life ofcontemplation, but I don't believe it is. I don't see what right you'vegot to believe it is. As to not living altogether for God here, that'sHis affair. Mind you, I don't undervalue the difficulties, and it'suncommon hard to human nature. Don't think too much of other people'sopinions; I know you feel a bit out of it with the priests about you. They are rough to young men like you--it's jealousy, if they only knewit. Jealousy is the fault of the best men, because they never suspectthemselves of it. If they saw it, they would fight it. Face facts. Youhave some gifts; you will be much humbler if you thank God for theminstead of trying to think you haven't got them. And be quiteparticularly nice to the growler sort of priest; he's had a hard timeand, lived a hard life; much harder than the life of a monk. Mind yourespect his scars. "

He talked on, partly to give Mark time; he saw he had given him a shock. 

"Mind, " he said, "there is sometimes an acute personal temptation, butyou've not got that now. You've got a sort of perception of what itmight be. It won't be unbearable. " He crossed his legs and put the long, white fingers into each other. "But I'm old now, and it's my experiencethat the mischief for all priests is to let society be their fun. Itought to be a duty, and a very tiresome duty too. Take your amusementsin any other way, and go out to lunch in the same state of mind as youvisit a hospital. Do you think the best women, whether Protestant orCatholic, think society their fun? They may like it or not, but it is aserious duty to them. "

Mark sprang up suddenly. "I can't stand this!" he said. "You go ontalking, and I want to be a Carthusian, and I will be one. " He laughed;his voice was troubled and the clear joy of his face was clouded. 

Canon Nicholls felt in his pocket for a snuff-box, and brought it out. "Go along, if you can't stand it. And don't come back till you've seenthrough the devil's trick. I don't mind what I bet that you won't runaway. "

Left alone, Canon Nicholls covered his blind eyes with his hands andheaved a deep sigh. 

The man who had just left him was the object of his keenest affection, the apple of those blind eyes that craved to look upon his face. But hislove was not blind, and he felt the danger there lay in the seemingperfectness of the young man. Mark's nature was gloriously sweet andabounding in the higher gifts; his love of God had the awe of a littlechild, and his love of men had the tenderness of a shepherd towards hislost sheep. Mark had loved life and learning, had revelled in Oxford, and would, in one sense, be an undergraduate all his days. He had knowndreams of ambition, and visions of success in working for his country. Then gently--not with any shock--had come the vocation to thepriesthood, and so tenderly had the tendrils that attached him to aman's life in the world been loosened, that the process hardly seemed tohave hurt any of the sensitive sympathies and interests he had alwaysenjoyed. Even in the matter of giving up great possessions, all had comeso gradually as to seem most natural and least strained. 

Long before the Groombridges could be brought to believe that thebrilliant and favourite young cousin had rejected all that they couldleave him, it had become a matter of course to the rest of the familyand their friends that Mark Molyneux would be a priest, and give up theproperty to the younger brother. 

When the outer world took up the matter, Father Molyneux always madepeople feel as if allusions to his renunciation of Groombridge weresimply quite out of taste, and nothing out of taste seemed in keepingwith anything connected with him. It was all so simple to Mark, and soperfect to Canon Nicholls, that the latter almost dreaded this veryperfection as unlikely, and unbefitting the "second-rate" planet inwhich it was his lot to live. And to confirm this almost superstitiousfeeling of a man who had lived to know where the jolts and jars of lifecause the acutest suffering to the idealist, had come this freshaspiration of Mark's after a life more completely perfect in itself. Strong instincts were entirely in accord with the older man's soberjudgment of the situation. And yet he wished it could be otherwise. Hehad no opinion of the world that Mark wanted to give up. He would mostwillingly have shut any cloister door between that world and hischerished son in the spirit. It was with no light heart that he wantedhim to face all the roughness of human goodness, all the blindingconfusion of its infirmities, all the cruelty of its vices. The oldman's own service in his last years was but to stand and wait, but, evenso, he was too often oppressed by the small things that fill up emptyhours, small uncharitablenesses, small vanities, small irritations. Wasit not a comfort at such moments to believe that in another world weshould know human nature in others and in ourselves without any causefor repugnance and without any ground for fear?

CHAPTER XVIII

MADAME DANTERRE'S ANSWER

At last there came a letter to Molly from her mother. 

 "CARISSIMA, --

 "I thank you for your most kind intentions. I too have at times thought of seeing you. But I am now far too ill, and I have no attention to spare from my unceasing efforts to keep well. I can assure you that two doctors and two nurses spend their time and skill on the struggle. I may, they tell me, live many years yet if I am not troubled and disturbed. I had, by nature, strong maternal instincts; it was your father's knowledge of that side of my character which made his conduct in taking you from me almost criminal in its cruelty. You must have had a most tiresome childhood with his sister, and probably you gave her a great deal of trouble. Your letter affected me with several moments of suffocation, and the doctors and nurses are of opinion that I must not risk any more maternal emotions. My poor wants are now very expensive. I am obliged to have everything that is out of season, and one _chef_ for my vegetables alone. Have you ever turned your attention to vegetable diet? Doctor Larrone, whom I thoroughly confide in, sees no reason why life should not be indefinitely prolonged if the right--absolutely the right--food is always given. I am sending you a little brochure he has written on the subject. 

 "I hope that your allowance is sufficient for your comfort. I should like you to have asparagus at every meal, and I trust, my dear child, that you will never become a _dévote_. It is an extraordinary waste of the tissues. 

 "As we are not likely to correspond again, I should like you to know that I have made a will bequeathing to you the fortune which was left me, as an act of reparation, by Sir David Bright. 

 "I wonder why an Englishman, Sir Edmund Grosse, has made so many attempts at seeing me? Do you know anything of him? I risk much in the effort to write this letter to assure you of my love. 

 "YOUR DEVOTED MOTHER. 

 "P. S. --There is no need to answer the question as to Sir Edmund Grosse. "

Molly was so intensely disgusted with the miserable old woman's letterthat her first inclination was to burn it at once. She was kneelingbefore the fire with that intention when Sir Edmund Grosse wasannounced. She thrust the paper into her pocket, and realised in a flashhow astonishing it was that Sir Edmund should have tried to see MadameDanterre. The only explanation that occurred to her at the moment wasthat he had tried to see her mother because of his interest in herself. She did not know that he had not been in Florence since he had knownher. But what could have started him in the notion that Miss Dexter wasMadame Danterre's child? And did he know it for certain now? That waswhat she would like to find out. 

Molly had on a pale green tea-gown, which fell into a succession ofalmost classic folds with each rapid characteristic movement. The charmof her face was enormously increased by its greater softness ofexpression. Although she could not help wishing to please him, even in amoment full of other emotion, she did not know how much there was tomake her successful to-day. She did not realise her own physical andmoral development during the past months. 

Edmund's manner was unconsciously caressing. He had come, he toldhimself--and it was the third time he had called at the flat, --simplybecause he wanted to keep in touch, to get any information he could. Andhe had heard rumours from Florence that Madame Danterre was becomingsteadily weaker and more unable to make any effort. 

"A man told me the other day that this was the best-furnished flat inLondon, and, by Jove! I rather think he was right. "

"I never believe in the man who told you things, he is far too apposite;I think his name is Harris. "

Edmund smiled at the fire. 

"Who was the attractive little priest I met here the other day?" heasked. 

"Little! He is as tall as you are. "

"Still, one thinks of him as _un bon petit prêtre_, doesn't one? But whois he?"

"Father Molyneux. "

"Not Groombridge's cousin?"

"Yes, the same. "

"I wonder if he repents of his folly now? I didn't think he lookedparticularly cheerful!"

"Didn't you?" said Molly. "Well, I think he is the happiest person Iknow! But we never do agree about people, do we?"

"About a few we do, but it's much more amusing to talk about ourselves, isn't it?"

"Much more. What do you want me to tell you about myself this time?"

Edmund looked at her with sleepy eyes and perceived that something hadchanged. "I should like to know what you think about me?" he saidgently. 

"No, you wouldn't, " said Molly, and she gave a tiny sigh. "No, for somereason or other you want to know something which I have settled to tellyou. "

Her manner alarmed and excited him. As a matter of honourable dealing hefelt that he ought to give her pause. "Are you sure you are wise?" hesaid. 

"I'm not sure, but that's my own affair, and it will be a relief. Iwould rather you knew what you want to know, though why you want toknow"--her eyes were searching him--"I can't tell. "

Sir Edmund Grosse almost told her that he did not want to know. 

"You want to know for certain that my mother is living in Florence underthe name of Madame Danterre--the Madame Danterre you have tried to seethere. And further, you want to know how much I have ever seen of her. "

"Oh, please!" cried Edmund, "I don't indeed wish you to tell me allthis. "

"You do, and so I shall answer the questions. I have never seen her inmy life. But these last few weeks I have thought I ought to try, so Iwrote and offered to go to her, and I have this evening had the firstletter she has ever written to me. In this letter"--she drew it half outof her pocket--"she declines to see me, and she exhorts me to avegetable diet. "

There was a moment in which her face looked the embodiment of sarcasm, then something gentler came athwart it. He had never come so near toliking her before. He could no longer think of her as all the moredangerous on account of her attractions; she was a suffering, cruelly-treated woman. It is dangerous to see too much of one's enemies:Edmund was growing much softer. 

"But why, " she went on with quiet dignity, "did you try so hard to breakthrough her seclusion?"

It was a dreadful question--a question impossible to answer. He wassilent; then he said--

"Dear lady, I told you I did not want you to satisfy what you supposedto be my wish for knowledge, and I am very sorry that now, at least, Icannot tell you why I wished to see Madame Danterre. "

Naturally, it never struck him for a moment that Molly might think itwas for her sake that he had tried to see her mother, as he had notknown of her existence when he was in Florence. But his reticence madeher incline much more to that idea. She almost blushed in the firelight. Edmund was feeling baffled and sorry. If there were another will--and hestill maintained that there was another--certainly Miss Dexter knewnothing about it. He had wronged her; and after all what reasonablegrounds had there been for his suspicions as to her guilt?

"I suppose, " he thought, "Rose is right, and will-hunting isdemoralising, or 'not healthy, ' as she calls it. "

But he had been too long silent. 

"It is very hard on you to get such a letter, " he said, with a ring oftrue sympathy in his voice and more expression than usual in his face. "I wish I had not come in and disturbed you; I wish you had a womanfriend here instead. "

"I don't, " said Molly quickly. "Don't go yet. I can say as little as Ilike with you, and then I'm going to church to hear the _bon petitprêtre_ preach. "

"He will lure you to Rome. "

"Perhaps. "

"Well, I think there's a good deal to be said for Rome. "

"Don't you mind people joining it?" she asked, a little eagerly. 

"No, I like it better than Ritualism. "

"But Lady Rose is a Ritualist. "

"I believe you will find angels few and far between in any religion. "

"It must be nice to be an angel, " mused Molly. 

He had risen to go; he thought he might still find Rose at home and hewanted to speak to her, yet he was in no hurry to be gone. 

"Don't give me an excuse for compliments; I warn you, you will repent itif you do, " he said warmly; and then, after a little hesitation whichmight well have been mistaken for an effort at self-command in a momentof emotion, he added in a low voice--

"May I come and see you again very soon?"

As Molly gave him her hand he looked at her with wistful apology forhaving wronged her in his thoughts, for having intruded into hersecrets. There was more pity in his eyes than he knew at the moment. Hebent his head after that, and with the foreign fashion he sometimes fellinto, and which Molly had known before, gently kissed her hand. Thequick kindly action was the expression of his wish to make amends. 

Molly stood quite still after he had gone away, as motionless as aliving figure could stand, her grey eyes dilated and full of light. Would he could have seen her! But if he had, would he have understoodwhat love meant in a heart that had never before been opened by anygreat human affection? No love of father, mother, sister, or brother hadever laid a claim on Molly. The whole kingdom of her affections had beenstanding empty and ready, and now the hour of fulfilment was near. 

"He will come again very soon, " she whispered to herself. And then sheput her hand to her lips and kissed it where it had been kissed a momentbefore, but with a devotion and reverence and gentleness that made thelast kiss a tragic contrast. 

Presently, happier than she had ever been in her life before, Molly wentout to hear Mark Molyneux preach on sanctifying our common actions. 

"No position is so hard" he said in his peroration, "no circumstancesare so difficult, no duties so conflicting, no temptations so mighty, asnot to be the means to lead us to God if we seek to do His will. "

But the words seemed in no way appropriate to Molly's mind, which waswholly occupied in a wordless song of thanksgiving. 

CHAPTER XIX

LADY ROSE'S SCRUPLE

As Edmund Grosse was shown up-stairs to Lady Rose Bright, he passed ayoung clergyman coming down. He found Rose standing with a worried lookin the middle of the room. 

"Edmund! how nice, " she said gently. 

"What has that fellow been worrying you about?"

"It isn't his fault, poor man, " said Rose, "only it's so sad. He has hadat last to close his little orphanage. You see, we used to give him £100a year, and after David died I had to write and tell him that I couldn'tgo on, and it has been a hard struggle for him since that. I don't thinkhe meant it, but when he came and saw this house"--she waved her handsround the very striking furniture of the room--"I think he wondered, orperhaps it was my fancy. You see, Edmund, I don't know how it is, butI've overdrawn again. What do you think it can be? The housekeepingcomes to so little; I have only four servants, and----"

She paused, and there were tears in her eyes. She was wondering wherethe orphans would go to. It was not like Rose to give way like this andto have out her troubles at once. The fact was that she was finding howmuch harder it is to help in good works without money than with. If shehad started without money it would have been different, but to try towork with people who used to find her large subscriptions a very greathelp and now had to do without them, was depressing. She had to makeconstant efforts to believe that they were all just the same to her asthey had been in the past. 

"How much did you give that youth instead of the £100?"

"Only ten, Edmund. " There was a note of pleading in her voice. 

"And you will have dinner up here on a tray as there is no fire in thedining-room?"

"Well, what does it matter?"

"And how much will there be to eat on the tray?"

"Oh! much more than I can possibly eat. "

"Because it will be some nasty warmed-up stuff washed down by tea. It'sof no use trying to deceive me: I've heard that the cook is seventeen, and an orphan herself. "

"But what will those other orphans have for dinner?"

"Now, Rose, will you listen to common sense. How many orphans has thatsandy-faced cleric on his hands?"

"There were only four left. "

"Then I'll get those four disposed of somehow, if you will do somethingI want you to do. "

"What is it? But, Edmund, you know you have done too much for my poorworks already; I can't let you. "

"Never mind, if you will do what I want. "

"What is it?"

"Come right away in the yacht, you and your mother, and we'll gowherever you like. "

Joy sprang into her face, but then he saw doubt, and he knew with a deeppang what the doubt meant. He wished to move, oh! so carefully now, orhe would lose all the ground he had lately gained. 

"What scruples have you now?" he asked laughing. "What a genius you havefor them! Look here, Rose, it's common sense; you want a change, you canlet the house up to Easter. Besides, you know what it would do for yourmother; see what she thinks. "

"It's all so quick, " gasped Rose, laughing. 

"Well, then, don't settle at once if you like; but not one penny forthose poor dear little orphans if you don't come. And now, I want to saysomething else quick, because the tray with the chops and the cheese andthe tea will all be getting greasy if I don't get out of the way. Do youknow I think I was very hard on that Miss Dexter. I remember I solemnlywarned you not to have to do with her. You were quite right: it is nothealthy to think so much of that will; it poisons the mind. I am quitesure that poor thing is not to blame. "

His tone was curiously eager, it seemed to Rose; and then he begandiscussing Miss Dexter, and said he thought that at moments she wasbeautiful. Presently he remembered the tray that was coming, and sawthat the hour was half-past seven, and hurried away. She fancied thatshe missed in his "Good-night" the sort of gentle affectionateness hehad shown her so freely of late. 

She went up to her room to prepare for the meal he had disparaged somuch, looking tired. She smiled rather sadly when she had to own toherself that the tray of supper was almost exactly what Edmund hadforetold. She dismissed it as soon as she could, and then drew a chairup to the fire and took up a book. But it soon dropped on to her knee. She had been trying not to give way to depression all that day. But itwas very difficult. There seemed to be so little object in life. Shefelt as if everything had got into a fog; there was no one at home towhom her going and coming mattered any more than the meals mattered. And, meanwhile, she was being sucked into a world of committees andsub-committees. She had thought that, as she could no longer give money, she would give her time and her work; so, when asked, she had joinedmany things just because she was asked, and she was a little hazy as tothe objects of some of them. Having been afraid that she would not haveenough to do, she found now that she had already more than she couldmanage. And everything seemed so difficult. During the past week she hadtwice taken the wrong bus, and come home very wet and tired. Another dayshe had taken the wrong train when coming back from South London, andhad found herself at Baker Street instead of Sloane Square. These thingstried her beyond reason with the sense of loneliness, of incapacity, ofuncertainty. Then she had thought that, with very quiet black clothes, she could go anywhere, but her mother had discovered that she sometimescame back from the Girls' Club in Bermondsey as late as ten o'clock atnight, and there had been a fuss. Rose had forgotten the fact that shewas very fair and very good to look at; she found, half-consciously, that her beauty had its drawbacks. There did not seem to be any reasonwhy she should spare her strength in any way. So, a little wan andtremulous, she appeared at the early morning service, and then, afterwalking back in any weather, there was a dull little breakfast, and soonafter that she got to work. Every post brought begging letters incrowds, and these hurt her dreadfully. It was her wish to live for Godand the poor, and every day she had to write: "Lady Rose Bright muchregrets that she is quite unable, " etc. , etc. Then, after those, shewould begin another trial--begging letters to her rich friends to helpher poor ones, or letters trying to get interest and influence. Thedifficulties and the confusion of life in the modern Babylon weighed onRose in something of the same way that they tried Mark Molyneux. Itseemed to her that it must be safe and right to be doing so manydisagreeable things and to be very tired, too tired to enjoy pleasureswhen they came her way. Constantly, one person was trying to throwpleasures in her way; one person reminded old friends that Rose was intown; one person suggested that Rose Bright, although she did not go toparties, might come in to hear some great musician at a friend's house;one person wanted to know her opinion on the last book; one person triedto find out when he could take her anywhere in his motor. And this verymorning Rose had asked herself if this one friend ought to be allowed todo all these things? Was she sure that she was quite fair to EdmundGrosse?

It had been a day of fears and scruples. She had been unnerved when theclergyman had called just to let her realise that the withdrawal of hersubscription had, in the end, meant the collapse of his littleorphanage; and when she was breaking down under this, Edmund had comein, and how soothed and comforted she had felt by his presence! Andthen the joy of his proposal as to the yacht! Her pulses beat withdelight; she felt a positive hunger for blue skies, blue water, blueshores; a longing to get away from cares and muddles and badly-done jobsand being misunderstood. Was it not horribly selfish, horribly cowardly?Was it not the longing to stifle the sounds of pain, to shut her eyes tothe gloom of the misery about her, to shut her mind to the effort tounderstand what was of practical good, and what was merely quack in theremedies offered? Still, she realised to-night that she must get somesort of rest; that part of all this gloom was physical. She wouldunderstand and feel things more rightly if she went away for a bit. 

But could she, ought she, to go away on Edmund's yacht?

Could Rose honestly feel quite sure that all his kindness meant nothingmore? She had never since she was eighteen, and wearing her first longskirt, heard from him any word that need mean more than cousinlyaffection. He had contrived after that Easter visit to Groombridge tomake her feel that she had been foolish and self-conscious in trying notto be alone with him. For many months now she had felt absolutely at herease in his company. It seemed to be only to-day that this thought hadcome back to trouble her. She did not want to be disturbed with suchnotions; they would spoil their friendship. And he could not be feelinglike that; he was always so cool, so untroubled. Why to-night, just ashe was waiting to know if she would come on the yacht or not, he hadtalked much more warmly of Miss Dexter than seemed quite natural!Faintly she felt that it might be good for him if they went on theyacht, she and her mother. They would be better for Edmund than some ofthe people he might otherwise ask; he was not always wise as to his ladyfriends. And it would be so good for Lady Charlton, and so good, too, for those four orphans. And where should they go? It did not matter muchwhere they went if they only gained light and colour and rest. Theartist was strong in Rose at that moment. She looked at one or two oldguide-books till it was bed-time. Then, the last thing at night, astrange gust of thought came upon her just after her prayers. 

Could she, would she, ever marry again? She knelt on at the _priedieu_with her fair head bowed, and then there came over her a strong sense ofthe impossibility of it. The shock she had had was too great, toolasting in its effects. She did not know it was that, she did not tellherself that once humiliated, once misled, she could not trust again. She did not say that the past married life which she had made so full ofduty, so full of reverence as almost to deceive herself while she livedit, had been desecrated, polluted and had made her shrink unutterablyfrom another married life. 

A young widow, sometimes, when drawing near to a second marriage, suddenly realises it to be impossible because the past asserts itstyrannous claim upon her heart. What had appeared to be a dead past isfound to be both alive and powerful. But with Rose it was not simply herheart; it was her nature as a woman that refused. That nature had beenhurt to the very quick, humbled and brought low once. Surely it wasenough!

CHAPTER XX

THE HEIRESS OF MADAME DANTERRE

For about a week after the evening on which she had received hermother's letter and Edmund Grosse had been to see her, Molly Dexterstayed at home from four o'clock till seven o'clock and wore beautifultea-gowns. She had a very small list of people to whom she was always athome written on a slate, but one by one they had been reduced in number. Now there were five--Father Molyneux, who never came except byappointment; Sir Edmund Grosse; and three ladies who happened to beabroad for the winter. 

The week was from a Friday to a Thursday, and on the Thursday severalthings happened to Molly. It was a brilliant day, and although thoseevenings from four till seven when nobody came were sorely trying, shewas in very good spirits. A friend coming out of church the day beforehad told her that she had met Sir Edmund Grosse at a country house. 

"He said such pretty things about you, " purred the speaker, a nice newly"come out" girl who admired Molly very much. 

But the main point to Molly had been the fact that Edmund had been awayfrom London. Surely he would come directly now! She seemed to hear, constantly ringing in her ears, the voice in which he had asked if hemight "come again very soon. "

Thursday had been a good day altogether, for Molly had skated atPrince's and come home with a beautiful complexion to be "At Home" tothe privileged from four till seven. She got out of her motor, and waswalking to the lift when it came whizzing down from above, and thelittle friend who had said the nice things yesterday stepped out of it, looking very bright. 

"Oh, Miss Dexter, " she said, "may I come up again and tell you my goodnews?" Molly took her kindly by the arm and drew her into the liftagain, and they went up. But she hoped the girl would not stay. Shewanted to be quite alone, so that if anybody came who mattered very muchthey would not be disturbed. 

"Well, what's the good news?"

Molly looked brilliant as she stood smiling in the middle of the room. 

"Well, it isn't a bit settled yet, but I met Sir Edmund Grosse atluncheon, and he asked me if mother would let me go on his yacht toCairo. Lady Rose Bright is going and Lady Charlton, and he said they allwanted something very young indeed to go with them, so they thought I'dbetter come, and his nephew Jimmy, too. Wasn't it _awfully_ kind ofhim?"

Molly turned and poked the fire. 

"When do they go?" she asked. 

"Sir Edmund starts to-morrow, but Lady Rose and Lady Charlton willfollow in about ten days. They will join the yacht at Marseilles, and Ishould go with them. Do you think mother will let me go, Miss Dexter?"

Miss Dexter looked down. 

"Why should your mother object?" she said. 

"But it's so sudden. "

"Yes, it's very sudden, " said Molly, in a low voice. 

"I can hardly keep quiet; I don't know how to get through the time tillsix o'clock, and mother can't be at home till then. "

Molly turned back into the room; her face was very white. There werewhite dents in her nostrils, and there was a bitter smile on her lips. Whatever she might have said was stopped in the utterance. Theparlourmaid had come into the room, and now, coming up to Molly, said ina low voice:

"There is a gentleman asking if Miss Dexter will see him on importantbusiness; he says he is a doctor, and that he has come from Italy. "

Molly frowned. 

"What is his name?"

"It sounded like Laccaroni, ma'am. "

"Show him up. "

"Well, I'm off, " said the young visitor, and, still entirely absorbed inher own affairs, she took Molly's limp hand and left the room. 

A spare man with a pale face and rather good eyes was announced as "Dr. Laccaroni. " "Larrone, " he corrected gently. He carried a small old tindespatch box, and looked extremely dusty. 

"I am the bearer of sad tidings, " he said in English, with a fairaccent, in a dry staccato voice. "It was better not to telegraph, as Iwas to come at once. "

"You attended my mother?"

"Yes, until two nights ago. That was the end. "

"Did she suffer?"

"For a few hours, yes; and there was also some brainexcitement--delirium. In an interval that appeared to be lucid (but Iwas not quite sure) she told me to come to you, mademoiselle, quite assoon as she was dead, and she gave me money and this little box to bringto you. She said more than once, 'It shall be her own affair. ' The keyis in this sealed envelope. Afterwards twice she spoke to me: 'Don'tforget, ' and then the rest was raving. But the last two hours werepeace. "

"And where is my mother to be buried?"

"Madame will be cremated, and her ashes placed in an urn in the garden, mademoiselle, in a fine mausoleum, with just her name, 'Justine, ' andthe dates--no more. Madame told me that these were her wishes. "

"Do you know what is in this box?"

"Not at all, and I incline to think there may be nothing: the mind wasquite confused. And yet I could only calm her by promising to come atonce, and so I came, and if mademoiselle will permit I should like toretire to my hotel. "

"Can I be of any use to you?"

"Not at all: the money for the journey was more than enough. "

Molly was left alone, and she gave orders that no one, withoutexception, was to be admitted. Then she walked up and down the room in acondition of semi-conscious pain. 

At first it seemed as if Dr. Larrone's intelligence had not reached herbrain at all. The only clear thing in her mind at that moment was thethought that Edmund was going away at once with Lady Rose Bright. Thedisappointment was in proportion to the wild hopes of the last week, only Molly had not quite owned to herself how intensely she had lookedforward to his next coming. It was true he might still come and see herbefore he started, but if he came it could not be what she had meant itto be. If he had meant what Molly dreamed of, could he have gone offsuddenly on this yachting expedition? She knew the yachting was notthought of when she had seen him, for he told her then that he meant tostay in London for some weeks. But as her thoughts grew clearer, whatwas most horrible to Molly was a gradual dawning of common daylight intothe romance she had been living in for months. For, looking back now, she could not feel sure that any of her views of Edmund's feelingstowards herself had been true. It was a tearing at her heart's mostprecious feelings to be forced to common sense, to see the past in thematter-of-fact way in which it might appear to other people. And yet, Adela Delaport Green had expected him to propose even in the season, butthen, what might not the Adela Delaport Greens of life suspect andexpect without the slightest foundation? Could Molly herself say firmlyand without delusion that Edmund had treated her badly? How she wishedshe could! She would rather think that he had been charmed away byhostile influence, or even that he had deliberately played with her thanfeel it all to have been her own vain fancy! It was agony to her to feelthat she had without any excuse, set up an idol in her sacred places, and woven about him all the dreams and loves of her youth. It must beremembered not only that it was the first time that Molly had loved inthe ordinary sense of the word, but it was absolutely the first timethat she had ever felt any deep affection for any human being whatever. And now a great sense of abandonment was on her; the old feeling ofisolation, of being cast out, that she had had all her life, wasfrightfully strong. Edmund had left her; he had deceived her, playedwith her, she told herself, deluded her; and now her mother's deathbrought home all the horror, the disgrace, which that mother's life hadbeen for Molly. An outcast whom no one cared for, no one loved, no onewanted. The new gentleness of the past weeks, the new softness, all thehigh and sacred thoughts that had seemed to have taken possession of herinner life, were gone at this moment. Her feeling now was that, if shewere made to suffer, she could at least make others suffer too. 

She had thrown off her furs in walking up and down, and they had fallenon to the box which Dr. Larrone had brought. Presently they slipped tothe floor, and showed the small, black tin despatch box. 

Molly broke the seal of the envelope, took out the key, and opened thebox, half mechanically and half as seeking a distraction. 

Inside she found two or three packets of old yellow letters, a few fadedphotographs, and a tiny gold watch and chain; and underneath thesethings a large registered envelope addressed to Madame Danterre. 

Molly was not acutely excited about this box. She knew that her mother'swill would be at the lawyer's. She had no anxiety on this point, butthere is always a strange thrill in touching such things as the deadhave kept secret. Even if they have bid us do it, it seems too bold. 

Molly shrank from what that box might contain, what history of the pastit might have to tell, but she did not think it would touch her ownlife. Therefore, thinking more of her own sorrow than anything else, Molly drew two papers out of the registered envelope, and then shrankback helplessly in her chair. She had just seen that the larger of thetwo enclosures was a long letter beginning: "Dearest Rose. " Shehesitated, but only for a moment, and then went on reading. 

"I trust and hope that if I die in to-morrow's battle this will reachyou safely. I have really no fear whatever of the battle, and after itis over I shall have a good opportunity of putting this paper into alawyer's hands at Capetown. "

Then she hastily dropped the letter and took up a small paper that hadbeen in the same envelope. A glance at this showed that it was the "lastwill and testament of Sir David Bright. "

It was evidently not drawn up by a lawyer, but it seemed complete andhad the two signatures of witnesses; Lord Groombridge and Sir EdmundGrosse were named as executors. It was dated on board ship only a fewweeks before Sir David Bright died. 

At first Molly was simply bewildered. She read, as if stupefied, theperfectly simple language in which Sir David had bequeathed all andeverything he possessed to his wife, Lady Rose Bright, subject to anannual allowance of £1000 to Madame Danterre during her life-time. Itwas so brief and simple that, if Molly had not known how simple a willcould be, she might have half doubted its legality. As it was she wasnot aware of the special facilities in the matter of will-making thatare allowed to soldiers and sailors when on active service. Theabsolutely amazing thing was that the paper should have been in MadameDanterre's possession. 

Molly turned to the letter, and read it with absorbed attention. 

The General wrote on the eve of the battle, without the least anxiety asto the next day. But he already surmised the vast proportions that thewar might assume, and he intended to send the enclosed will with thisletter to the care of a lawyer in Capetown for fear of eventualities. Then, next day, as Molly knew, he had been killed. 

But Molly did not know that to the brother officer who had been with himin his last moments Sir David had confided two plain envelopes, and hadtold him to send the first--a blue one--to his wife, and the second--awhite one--to Madame Danterre, faintly murmuring the names and addressesin his dying voice. The same officer was himself killed a week later. Ifhe had lived and had learned the disposal of Sir David's fortune, itmight possibly have occurred to him that he had put the addresses on thewrong letters. But he was sure at the time that Sir David's last wordshad been: "Remember, the white one for my wife. " And perhaps he wasright, for it is not uncommon for a man even in the full possession ofall his faculties (which Sir David was not) to make a mistake justbecause of his intense anxiety to avoid making it. As it was, knowingnothing whatever of the circumstances, the will and the letter seemed toMolly to come out of a mysterious void. 

To any one with an unbiassed mind who was able to study it as a humandocument, the letter would have been pathetic enough. It was therevelation, the outpouring of what a man had suffered in silence formany long years. It seemed at moments hardly rational. The sort ofunreasonable nervous terror in it was extraordinary. Molly read most ofthe real story in the letter, but not quite all. There had been aterrible sense of a spoilt life and of a horrible weakness always comingbetween him and happiness. The shadow of Madame Danterre had darkenedhis youth; a time of folly--and so little pleasure in that folly, hemoaned--had been succeeded by an actual tyranny. The claim that she washis wife had begun early after her divorce from Mr. Dexter, and itseemed extraordinary that he had not denied it at once. David Bright hadbeen taken ill with acute fever in Mrs. Dexter's house almostimmediately after that event. Mrs. Dexter declared that he had gonethrough the form of marriage with her before witnesses, and she declaredalso that she had in her possession the certificate of marriage. Thedate she gave for the marriage was during the days when he had been downwith the fever, and he never could remember what had happened. 

"God knows, " he wrote, "how I searched my memory hour by hour, day byday, but the blank was absolute. I don't to this hour know what passedduring those days. "

While still feeble from illness he had given her all the money he couldspare, and for years the blackmail had continued. Then, at last, afterhe had been a year in England, the worm had turned. 

"I dared her to do her worst. I declared, what I am absolutely convincedto have been the case, that the marriage certificate she had shown mewas a forgery, and I concluded that if she proved the marriage byforgery and perjury, I should institute proceedings for divorce on thegrounds of her subsequent life. I got no answer, and for three yearsthere was total silence. Then came a letter from a friend saying thatMadame Danterre, who had taken her maiden name, was dying and wished meto know that she forgave me. " With this note had been sent to him adiamond ring he had given her in the first days of her influence overhim. He sent it back, but months later he got it again, returned by thePost Office authorities, as no one of the name he had written to couldbe found. 

Then came a solemn declaration that he had never doubted of MadameDanterre's death. 

"I thought that to have spoilt my youth was enough; but she was yet todestroy my best years. Ah! Rose, " he wrote, "if I had loved you less itwould have been more bearable. I met you; I worshipped you; won you. Then, after a brief dream of joy, the cloud came down, and my evilgenius was upon me. I don't think you were in love with me, my beloved, but it would have come even after you had found out what a commonplacefellow it was whom you thought a hero; it would have come. You must haveloved me out of the full flow of your own nature if I had not beendriven to cowardice and deception. "

Evidently Madame Danterre had had a kind of almost uncanny power ofterrifying the soldier. He had been a good man when she first met him, and he had been a good man after that short time of mad infatuation. Hewas by nature and training almost passionately respectable; he was atlength happily married; but this horror of an evil incident in the pasthad got such a hold on his nerves that when he met Madame Danterre (whomhe had believed to be dead) coming out of a theatre in London, the heroof the Victoria Cross, of three other campaigns, perhaps the bravestman in England, fainted when he saw her. Without doubt it was thepublication of Mr. John Steele's will leaving his enormous fortune toSir David Bright that had resuscitated Madame Danterre. 

From the moment of that shock David Bright had probably never beenentirely sane on the subject. The resurrection of Madame Danterre hadseemed to him preternatural and fateful. The woman had become to himsomething more or something less than human, something impervious toattack that could not be dealt with in any ordinary way. 

From that time there had grown up an invisible barrier between him andhis wife. He found himself making silly excuses for being out at quitenatural times. He found himself getting afraid of her, and building updefences, growing reserved and absurdly dignified, trying to cling tothe pedestal of the elderly soldier as he could not be a companion. 

Madame Danterre had gone back to Florence, fat with blackmail, and thenhad begun a steady course of persecution. 

Step by step he had sunk lower down, knowing that he was weakening hisown case most miserably if it should ever become public. Nothingsatisfied her, although she received two thousand a year regularly, until the will was drawn up, which left everything to her except anallowance of £800 a year to Rose. 

Once a year for three years Madame Danterre had visited London, and hadgenerally contrived that Sir David should be conscious of the look inher astonishing eyes, which Sir Edmund had likened to extinct volcanoes, at some theatre, or in the park, once at least every season. Evidentlythat look had never failed. It touched the exposed nerve in hismind--exposed ever since the time of illness and strain when he wasyoung and helpless in India. It was evident that he had felt that anyagony was bearable to shield Rose from the suffering of a publicscandal. If he could only have brought himself to consult one of theMurrays something might have been done. As it was, he had recourse tosubterfuge. He assured Madame Danterre annually, in answer to herinsisting on the point, that no other will had ever been signed by him, but he always carried a will with him ready to be signed. There was muchof self-pity perhaps in the letter, there was the plaint of a wreckedlife, but there was still more of real delicate feeling for Rose, ofintense anxiety to shield her, of poignant regret for "what might havebeen" in their home life. The man had been of a wholesome nature; hisgreat physical courage was part of a good fellow's construction. But hehad been taught to worship a good name, an unsullied reputation, and tolove things of good repute too much, perhaps, for the sake of theirrepute, as he could not venture to risk the shadow for the reality. Theeffect of reading Sir David's last letter to Rose on an unbiassed readerof a humane turn of mind would have been an intensity of pity, and asigh at the sadness of life on this planet. 

Molly was passionately biassed, and as much of Sir David's story asreached her through the letter was to her simply a sickening revelationfrom a cowardly traitor of his own treason through life, and even up tothe hour of death. Her mother had been basely deceived; for his sake shehad been divorced, and he had denied the marriage that followed. Ofcourse, it was a marriage, or he would never have been so frightened. Then her mother, thus deserted, young and weak, had gone astray, and hehad defended himself by threatening divorce if she proclaimed herselfhis wife. Every word of the history was interpreted on the same lines. And then, last of all, this will was sent to her mother. Was it a tardyrepentance? Had he, perhaps when too weak for more, asked some one tosend it to Madame Danterre that she might destroy it? If so, why had shenot destroyed it? Why, if it might honourably have been destroyed, sendto Molly now a will that, if proved, would make her an absolute pauper?In plain figures Molly's fortune could not be less than £20, 000 a yearif that paper did not exist, and would be under £80 a year if it werevalid. 

Molly next seized on one of the old packets of letters in trembling hopeof some further light being thrown on the situation, but in them wasevidence impossible to deny that her mother had invented the whole storyof the marriage. Why Madame Danterre had not destroyed these letters wasa further mystery, except that, time after time, it has been proved thatpeople have carefully preserved evidence of their own crimes. Fightingagainst it, almost crying out in agonised protest, Molly was forced torealise the slow persevering cunning and unflinching cruelty with whichher mother had pursued her victim. It was an ugly story for any girl toread if the woman had had no connection with her. It seemed to cut awayfrom Molly all shreds of self-respect as she read it. She felt that thedaughter of such a woman must have a heritage of evil in her nature. 

The packet of old letters finished, there was yet something more tofind. Next came a packet of prescriptions and some receipts from shops. Under these were the faded photographs of several men and women of whomshe knew nothing. Lastly, there was half a letter written to Molly datedin August and left unfinished and without a signature:

 "CARISSIMA:

 "I am far from well, but I believe Dr. Larrone has found out the cause and will soon put things right again. If you ever hear anything about me from Dr. Larrone you can put entire confidence in him. I have found out now why Sir Edmund Grosse has tried to see me. He is possessed with the absurd idea that I have no right to Sir David Bright's fortune, although he does not venture to call in question the validity of the will which left that fortune to me. Dr. Larrone has certain proof that Grosse employs a detective here to watch this house. I have also heard that he is in love with poor David's widow, and hence I suppose this _trop de zèle_ on her behalf. As he cannot get at me he is likely to try to become intimate with you, so I warn you to avoid him now and in future. "

That was all. 

Molly sat staring vacantly in front of her, almost unconscious of hersurroundings from the intensity of pain. Each item in the horror of thesituation told on her separately, but in no sequence--with no coherence. Shame, "hopes early blighted, love scorned, " kindness proved treason, the prospect of complete and dishonourable poverty, a poverty whichwould enrich her foes. And all this was mixed in her mind with thedreadful words from the old letters that seemed to be shouted at her. 

Miss Carew, coming in at dinner-time, was horror-struck by what she saw. Molly was sitting on the floor surrounded by letters and papers, moaningand biting her hand. The gong sounded, the parlourmaid announced dinner, and Molly gathered up her papers, locked them in the box, fastened thekey on to her chain--all in complete silence--and got up from the floor. She then walked straight into the dining-room in her large hat andoutdoor clothes without speaking. 

And without a word the terrified Miss Carew went with her, and tried toeat her dinner. 

Molly ate a very little of each thing that was offered to her, taking afew mouthfuls voraciously, and then quite suddenly, as she was offered adish of forced asparagus, she went into peal after peal of ringing, resounding laughter. "I should like you to have asparagus at everymeal, " she said, and then again came peal after peal--each a quitedistinct sound. It was dreadful to hear, and Miss Carew and the servantwere terrified. It was the laughter, not of a maniac, not of pureunreasoning hysteria, not quite of a lost soul. It suggested theseelements, perhaps, but it was chiefly a nervous convulsion at anoverpowering perception of the irony in the heart of things. 

The hysterical fit lasted long enough for Miss Carew to insist on adoctor, and Molly did not resist. When he came she implored him to giveher a strong sleeping-draught. She kept Miss Carew and the maid fussingabout her, in a terror of being alone, until the draught was at lastsent in by a dilatory chemist. She then hurried them away, drank themedicine, and set herself to go to sleep. The draught acted soon, asMiss Carew learnt by listening at the door and hearing the deep, regularbreathing. But the effects passed off, and Molly sat up absolutelyawake at one o'clock in the morning. She lay down again and tried toforce herself to sleep by sheer will power, but she soon realised theawful impotence of desire in forcing sleep. 

At last, horror of her own intensely alert faculties, blinded bydarkness, made her turn up the light. Instantly the sight of thefamiliar room seemed unbearable, and she turned it down again. But againthe darkness was quite intolerable, and seemed to have a hideous life ofits own which held in it presences of evil. At one moment she breathedin the air of the winter's night, shivering with cold; at the next shewas stifled for want of breath. So the light by the bed was turned onagain, and to get a little further from it Molly got up and slowly andcarefully put on her stockings and fur slippers, then opened a cupboardand took out a magnificent fur cloak and wrapped herself in it. Thensuddenly one aspect of the position became concrete to her imagination. She knew that the cloak was bought with ill-gotten money. Her enormousallowance after she came of age, even the expenses of hereducation--Miss Carew's salary among other things--had been won byfraud. And now, oh! why, why had not her miserable mother spoken thetruth when she got the will, or why had she not destroyed it? Why hadshe left it to Molly to put right all this long, long imposture, and toreveal to the world the story of her mother's crime? It seemed to Mollyas if she were looking on at some other girl's life, and as if she wereconsidering it from an external point of view. The sleeping-draught had, no doubt, excited still further the terrible agitation of her nerves, and ideas came to her as if they had no connection with her ownpersonality. 

Wicked old woman, dying in Florence! How cruel those words were: "Let itbe her own affair"! Her last act to send those papers to the poor girlshe had deserted as a baby, and refused even to see as a woman. "Let itbe her own affair. " Her own affair to choose actual poverty and aterrible publicity as to the past instead of a great fortune and silenceas to her mother's guilt. "Let it be her own affair" to enrich herenemies, to give a fortune to the woman who would scorn her! Would theman who had pretended to be her friend, and who had been pursuing hermother with detectives all the time, would he some day talk pityingly ofher with his wife, and say she "had really behaved very well, poorthing"?

Suddenly Molly stopped, full of horror at a new thought. Oh! she mustmake things safe and sure, or--good God!--what might not her mother'sdaughter be tempted to do? A deep blush spread over her face and neck. She moved hastily to the door, and in a moment she was in Miss Carew'sroom. 

"I want to speak to you; I want to tell you something, " said Molly, turning up the electric light as she spoke. 

Miss Carew was startled out of a sweet sleep, and her first thought wasthe one which haunted her whenever she was awakened at an untimely hour. Her carefully-curled fringe was lying in the dressing-table drawer, andMolly had never seen her without it!

"Yes, yes; in one moment, " she answered fussily. "I will come to yourroom in one minute. "

Molly felt checked, and there had been something strange and unfamiliarin Miss Carew's face. Suddenly she felt what it would be to tell MissCarew the truth--Miss Carew, who was now her dependent, receiving fromher £100 a year, would be shocked and startled out of her senses, andmight not take these horrible revelations at all kindly. It would, anyhow, be such a reversal of their mutual positions as Molly could notface. And by the time the chestnut hair tinged with grey had been pinneda little crooked on Miss Carew's head, and she had knocked timidly atMolly's door, she was startled and offended by the impatient, overbearing tone of the voice that asked her to "go back to bed and notto bother; it was nothing that mattered. "

The night had got on further than Molly knew by that time, and she wasrelieved to hear it strike four o'clock. She was astonished at noticingthat, while she had been walking up and down, up and down her room, shehad never heard the clock strike two or three. The fact of having spokento Miss Carew had brought her for the moment out of the inferno of thelast few hours, and the time from four o'clock to six was less utterlymiserable because worse had gone before it. 

At six she called the housemaid, and kept her fussing about the room, lighting the fire, and getting tea, so as not to be alone again. Ateight o'clock she sent for coffee and eggs, and the coffee had to bemade twice before she was satisfied with it. Then she suddenly said shefelt much better, and, having dressed much more quickly than usual, shewent out. 

Molly had determined to confide the position to Father Molyneux. Whenshe got to the church in Kensington it was only to find that FatherMolyneux had gone away for some days. 

That evening the doctor was again summoned, and told Miss Carew that hehad now no doubt that Miss Dexter was suffering from influenza, withacute cerebral excitement, and the case was decidedly anxious. 

"He might have found out that it was influenza last night, " said MissCarew indignantly, "and I even told him the housemaid had just hadinfluenza! Molly simply caught it from her, as I always thought shewould. "

BOOK III

CHAPTER XXI

AN INTERLUDE OF HAPPINESS

An interlude of happiness, six weeks of almost uninterrupted enjoyment, followed for Rose after she went on board Sir Edmund's yacht. 

Edmund Grosse had most distinctly made up his mind that during thoseweeks he would not betray any ulterior motive whatever. They were all tobe amused and to be happy. There is no knowing when an interlude ofhappiness will come in life; it is not enough to make out perfect plans, the best fail us. But sometimes, quite unforeseen, when all the weathersigns are contrary, there come intervals of sunshine in our hearts, inspite of any circumstances and the most uninteresting surroundings. Harmony is proclaimed for a little while, and we wonder why things wereblack before, and have to remember that they will be black again. Butwhen such a truce to pain falls in the happiest setting, and the mostglorious scenery, then rejoice and be glad, it is a real truce of God. So did Rose night by night rejoice without trembling. It wanted muchskill on Edmund's part to ward off any scruples, any moments ofconsciousness. He showed great self-command, surprising self-disciplinein carrying out his tactics. There were moments when their talk hadslid into great intimacy, when they were close together in heart and inmind, and he slipped back into the commonplace only just in time. Therewere moments, especially on the return journey, when he could hardlyhide his sense of how gracious and delicious was her presence, how acuteher instincts, how quaintly and attractively simple her mind, how bigher spiritual outlook. But before she could have more than a suspicionof his thoughts Edmund would make any consciousness seem absurd by acomment on the doings of the very young people on board. 

"The child does look happy, " he said in his laziest voice one eveningwhen he knew his look had been bent for a rashly long moment on Rose. "Happy and pretty, " he murmured to himself, and he watched his youngestguest with earnestness. Then he sat down near Rose on a low deck-chair, and put away the glasses he held in his pocket. "I'm not sure I don'tget as much pleasure out of the hazy world I see about me as youlong-sighted people do; the colours are marvellous. " Rose looked at himin surprise. 

"But Edmund, don't you see more than haze?"

"Oh, yes, I can see a foreground, and then the rest melts away. I don'tknow what is meant by a middle distance--that's why I can't shoot. "

Rose sat up with an eager look on her face. "I never knew that; I onlythought you did not care for shooting. "

There was a silence of several minutes, and neither looked at the other. At last Edmund rose and went to the side of the boat and looked over atthe water, and then, turning half-way towards her, said: "Why does itstartle you so much?"

"Oh, I don't know. "

"But you do know perfectly well. "

"Indeed, Edmund. " Her face was flushed and her voice a little tremulous. 

"You shall tell me. " He spoke more imperiously than he knew. 

"I can't, indeed I can't. "

"No, " he said; "it would be a difficult thing to say, I admit. "

"Couldn't we read something?" said Rose. 

"No, no use at all. I am going to tell you why you are so glad I amshort-sighted. "

"But I am not glad. "

"I repeat that you are, and this is the reason why. "

"You shall not say it, " said Rose, now more and more distressed andembarrassed. 

"It's because you never knew before why I did not volunteer for the war, that is why you are so glad. " "Yes, " he thought in anger, "she has hadthis thing against me all the time; it is one of the defences she hasset up. " But he was hurt all the same--hurt and angry; he wanted topunish her. "So all the time you have thought this of me?"

"No, indeed, indeed, Edmund, it wasn't that. I never meant that; I knewyou were never that, do believe me. "

"Well, if I do believe you so far, what did you think?"

Rose let her book lie on her knee and leant over it with her handsclasped. "I thought that perhaps, " she faltered, "you had been too longin the habit of doing nothing much, and that you had grown a littlelazy--at least, I didn't really think so, but that idea has struck me. "

She came and stood by him. "Oh, Edmund, why do you make me say thingswhen I don't want to, when I hate saying them, when they are not reallytrue at all. " She was deeply moved, and he felt that in one sense shewas in his power. He gave a bitter sigh. 

"Can I make you say whatever I like?" Her face flushed and a differentlook, one of fear he thought, came into her troubled eyes. "Then sayafter me, 'I am very sorry I did not understand by intuition that youwere too blind to shoot the Boers, and that I was so silly as to thinkfor a moment that you had ever wasted your time or been the least littlebit lazy. '"

"No, I won't say anything at all"--she held out both hands tohim--"except what the children say, 'let us just go on with the game andpretend that that part never happened. '"

And though Rose was still embarrassed, still inclined to fear she hadhurt him, what might have been a little cloud was pierced by sunshine. "How ridiculously glad she is that I'm not a coward!" He, too, in spiteof annoyance, felt more hopeful than he had been for a long time. 

At Genoa they got long delayed letters and papers. In one of these ashort paragraph announced the death of Madame Danterre. "It isbelieved, " were the concluding words, "that she has left her largefortune to her daughter, Miss Mary Dexter. " That was the first reminderto Rose that the interlude of mere enjoyment was almost over. She wasnot going to repine; it had been very good. Coming on board afterreading this with a quiet patient look, a look habitual to her duringthe last two years, but which had faded under the sunshine of happydays, Rose saw Edmund Grosse standing alone in the stern of the boatwith a number of letters in his left hand pressed against his leg, looking fixedly at the water. The yacht was already standing out to sea, but Edmund had not glanced a farewell at beautiful and yet prosperousGenoa, a city that no modern materialism can degrade. Like a young brideof the sea, she is decked by things old and things new, and her marblepalaces do not appear to be insulted by the jostling of modern commerce. All things are kept fresh and pure on that wonderful coast. Somethinghad happened, of that Rose was sure; but what?

Edmund did not look puzzled; he was deciding no knotty question at thismoment. Nor did he look simply unhappy: she knew his expression when insorrow and when in physical pain or mere disgust. He looked intenselypreoccupied and very firm. Perhaps, she fancied, he too had a deep senseof that passing of life, of something akin in the swift movement of thewater passing the yacht and the swift movement of life passing by theindividual man. Was he, perhaps, feeling how life was going for him andfor Rose, and by the simple fact of its passing on while they werestanding passive their lives would be fixed apart?--passing, apart fromwhat might have been of joy, of peace, of company along the road? Thereare moments when, even without the stimulus of passion, human beingshave a sort of guess at the possibilities of helping one another, ofgiving strength, and gaining sweetness, that are slipping by. There aremany degrees of regret, between that of ships that pass in the night, and that of those who have voyaged long together. There are passages ofpleasure sympathy, and passages of sympathy in fight, and passages ofmutual succour, and passages of intercourse when incapacity to help hasin itself revealed the intensity of good-will in the watcher. Butwhenever the heart has been fuller than its words, and the will has beendeeper than its actions, there is this beauty of regret. There has beena wealth of love greater than could be given or received--not the loveof passion, but the love of the little children of the human race forone another. This regret is too grave to belong to comedy, and too happyto belong to tragedy. Rose's heart was full with this sorrow, if it be areal sorrow. These are the sorrows of hearts that are too great for theoccasions of life, whereas the pain is far more common of the heartsthat are not big enough for what life gives them of opportunity. 

Rose was oppressed by feelings she could not analyse, a sense ofpossibilities of what might have been after these perfect weekstogether. But her feelings were dreamy; she had no sense of concretealternative; she did not now--he had been too skilful--expect Edmund toask her, nor did she wish him to ask her, to draw quite close to him. She only felt at the end of this interlude they had spent together asuspicion of the infinite reach of the soul, and the soul not rebellingagainst its bonds, but conscious of them while awaiting freedom. 

 "Only I discern infinite passion and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn. "

Such were the moments when a man might be pardoned if he called Rose'sbeauty angelic--angelic of the type of Perugino's pictured angels, afigure just treading on the earth enough to keep up appearances, butwhose very skirts float buoyantly in the fresh atmosphere of eternity. They stood a few paces apart, Rose with her look bent vaguely towardsthe shore, Edmund, still reading his letters, apparently unaware of herpresence. He was thus able to take a long exposure sun-picture of thewhite figure on a sensitive memory that would prove but too retentive ofthe impression. 

But he had to speak at last. "Is it you?"

Edmund thought he spoke as usual, but there was a depth of pain and oftenderness revealed in the face that usually betrayed so little. He heldout his hand unconsciously and then drew it back half closed, and lookedagain at the flowing water. It was a moment of temptation, when love wasfighting against itself. Then, with the same half movement of the handtowards her:

"I have had a bolt from the blue, Rose. That man, Hewitt, whom I trustedas I would myself, has absconded. It is thought he has been playingwildly with my money, and that this crisis in South America has been thelast blow. I shan't know yet if I am ruined completely or not. "

"Oh, Edmund, how dreadful!"

"Don't pity me, dear, it's not worth while. It only means that one ofthe unemployed will get to work at last. That is, if he can find a job. But I must hurry home at once and leave you to follow. If I put backinto Genoa now I can leave by the night express. And you and your motherhad better go on to Marseilles in the yacht after you have dropped me. "

CHAPTER XXII

SOMETHING LIKE EVIDENCE

Mr. Murray Junior's step sounded heavy, and his head was a little morebent than usual, as he passed down the passage into his sanctum. Thesnow, turning to rain and then reasserting itself and insisting that itwould be snow, was dreary enough already when the fog set in firmly andwithout compromise. There was a good fire in the sanctum; the electriclight was on, and the clean sheet of blotting-paper, fresh everymorning, lay on the table. 

But Mr. Murray, Junior, was struggling for a few moments to realizewhere he was, for his mind was in such different surroundings. In histhoughts it was June--not June sweltering in London, but June gone madwith roses in a tiny Surrey garden; and with true realism his memorychose just one rose-tree out of them all, which best implied the gloryof the others. And one branch of this tree was bent down by a girl'shand; her arm, from which a cotton sleeve had fallen back, waswonderfully white, and the roses wonderfully red. 

And the office boy, slowly pulling off one damp, well-made boot and thenthe other over the gouty toes, was the only person who noticed that "thegovernor" was awfully down in the mouth. 

But no one knew that in Mr. Murray Junior's pocket was a letter from agreat specialist, who had seen Mr. Murray Junior's wife the daybefore, --and what that letter said has nothing to do with this story. 

Sir Edmund called about mid-day, and noticed nothing unusual in theheavy face; only it struck him that Murray was looking old, and hewondered on which side of seventy the lawyer might be. 

Grosse's visit was the first real distraction the older man had thatday. It was impossible for the solicitor not to be interested in theprobability that Edmund Grosse had lost a great fortune. The affairteemed with professional interest, and then he liked the man himself. Hehad a taste for the type, for the man who knows how to cut a figure inthe great world without being vulgar or ostentatious. He liked Edmund'smanner, his tact, his gift for putting people at their ease. Rumour saidthat the baronet had shown pluck since the news had come, and hadbehaved handsomely to underlings. Most men become agitated, irritable, and even cruel when driven into such a position. 

It never entered into Murray's imagination to appear to know that Edmundhad any cause for care: he was not his solicitor, and he knew that hisvisitor had not come about his own affairs. But he could not conceal anadded degree of respect, and liking even, under the impenetrable mannerwhich hid his own aching sense of close personal suffering. Grosseanswered the firm hand-grip with a kindly smile. 

"I only heard of Madame Danterre's death when I got to Genoa on ourreturn journey. "

"And she died just before you left London, " said Murray. 

"Yes; I must have overlooked the paper in which it was announced, although I thought I read up all arrears of news whenever we went intoport. I wonder no one mentioned it in Cairo; there were several peoplethere who seemed posted up in Lady Rose's affairs. What do you knowabout Madame Danterre's will?"

"Very little but rumour; nothing is published. Miss Dexter was too illto attend to business until about two weeks ago; she only saw her lawyerat the end of January. Anyhow, Madame Danterre having died abroad makesdelays in this sort of business. But I have been wanting to see you, " hesaid. 

Something in his manner made Grosse ask him if he had news. 

"Nothing very definite, but things are moving in your direction; andsomething small, but solid, is the fact that old Akers's son, and theother private, Stock, who witnessed some deed or other for Sir David, are coming home. The regiment is on its way back in the _Jumna_. "

Edmund, watching the strong, heavy face, could see that this interestedhim less than something else as yet unexpressed. 

Murray leant back in the round office chair, and crossed his legs in thewell of the massive table before him. Edmund bent forward, his facesunburnt and healthy after the weeks on the yacht, but the eyes seemedtired. 

"I don't know that it comes to much, " Murray went on slowly, "but threedays after Madame Danterre's death a foreigner asked to see me whorefused to give his name to my clerk. I had him shown in, and thoughthim a superior man--not, perhaps, a gentleman, but a man with brains. He asked in rather queer English whether I would object to giving himall the information I could, without betraying confidence, as to SirDavid Bright and his wife. I thought for a moment that he was yourFlorentine detective, but then I reflected that the detective would haveno object in disguising himself from me as he knew that you trusted meentirely. I told my visitor that he might ask me any questions he liked, and I can assure you he placed his shots with great skill. He wantedfirst to know if there had been any scandal connected with their marriedlife, in order, of course, to find out why Sir David had not left hismoney to Lady Rose; and whether no one had been disposed to dispute thewill. I let him see that the affair had been a nine days' wonder here, and I gave him some notion of my own opinion of Madame Danterre. He didnot give himself away, and I thought he had some honest reason foranxiety in the matter. Well! he left without letting me know his name oraddress, but there is no doubt that he is Dr. Larrone. I wrote at onceto your detective, Pietrino, in Florence, and a letter from him crossedmine saying that Dr. Larrone had left Florence within a few hours ofMadame Danterre's death, and that, by her desire, he had taken a smallbox to Miss Dexter. There was evidently a certain sense of mystery andexcitement among the nurses and servants as to the box and the suddenjourney. It seems that Madame Larrone was angry at his taking thissudden journey, and said to a friend that she only 'hoped he wouldn'tget his fingers burnt by meddling in other people's affairs. '

"Then Pietrino, in answering my letter, said that my description wascertainly the description of Larrone. He says the doctor is exceedinglyupright and sensitive as to his professional honour, and has been knownto refuse a legacy from a patient because he thought it ought not tohave been left out of the family. Since that, Pietrino has written thatLarrone is taking a long holiday, and that people are wondering if hewill have any scruples as to the large legacy that is said to have beenleft to him by Madame Danterre. So it is pretty clear who my reticentvisitor was. Now, I don't know that we gain much from that so far, but Ithink it may mean that Larrone could, if he would, tell some interestingdetails. I will give you all Pietrino's letters, but I should just liketo run on with my own impressions from them first. It seems that, sinceMadame Danterre's death, there has been a good deal of wild talk againsther in Florence, which was kept down by self-interest as long as she wasliving and an excellent paying-machine. You will see, when you read thegossip, that very little is to the point. But, on the other hand, Pietrino has valuable information from one of the nurses. She is a youngwoman who is disappointed, as she has had no legacy; evidently MadameDanterre intended to add her name in the last codicil, but somehowfailed to do so. This woman is sure that Madame Danterre had an evilconscience as to her wealth. She also said that she was always morbidlyanxious as to a small box. Once, when the nurse had reassured her byshowing her the box, which was kept in a little bureau by the bed, shesaid, with an odd smile: 'If I believed in the devil I should be veryglad that I can pay him back all he lent me when I don't want it anymore. ' At another time she asked for the box and took out some papers, and told the nurse to light a candle close to her as she was going toburn some old letters. Then she began to read a long, long letter, andas she read, she became more and more angry until she had a suddenattack of the heart. The nurse swept the papers into the box and lockedit up, knowing that she could do nothing to soothe the patient whilethey were lying about. That night the doctors thought Madame Danterrewould die, but she rallied. She did not speak of the papers again untilsome days later. The nurse described how, one evening, when she thoughther sleeping, she was surprised to find her great eyes fixed on thecandle in a sconce near the bed. 'The candle was burnt half way down, but the paper was not burnt at all, ' the nurse heard her whisper; 'Ishall not do it now. I cannot be expected to settle such questions whileI am ill. After all, I have always given her a full share; she candestroy it herself if she likes, or she can give it all up to thatwoman--it shall be her own affair. '

"She did not seem to know that she had been speaking aloud, and shemuttered a little more to herself and then slept. 

"The nurse heard no further allusion to the box for weeks. She said theold woman was using all her fine vitality and her iron will in fightingdeath. Then came the last change, and her torpid calm turned intoviolent excitement. While she thought herself alone with Dr. Larrone sheimplored him to take the box to England the moment she died, and put itinto her daughter's hands. 'No one knows it matters, ' she said more thanonce. But when she found that he did not wish to go, and said it wasimpossible for him to go at once, her entreaties were terrible. 'She hadalways had her own way, and she had it to the end, ' was the nurse'scomment. 

"Dr Larrone, coming out of the room, realised that the nurse must haveknown what passed, and told her he was glad she was there. He put a boxon a table with a little bang of impatience. 

"'It's delirium, delusion, madness!' he said, 'but I've given my word. Inever hated a job more; she wouldn't have the morphia till I had takenmy oath I would go as soon as she was dead. '"

Grosse was absorbed by the pictures feebly conveyed through the nurse'swords, through the detective's letters, through the English lawyer'stranslation and summary. He could supply what was missing. He had seenMadame Danterre. He could so well imagine the frightful force of thewoman, a tyrant to the very last moment. He could guess, too, at thereaction of those about her when once she was dead, and they were quiteout of her reach. There is always a reaction when feebler personalitieshave to fill the space left by a tyrant. He could realise the buzz ofgossip, and the sense of courage with which servants and tradesmen wouldmake wild, impossible stories of her wicked life. He came back fromthese thoughts with a certain shock when he found Murray saying:

"I can't say there is anything approaching to proof. But supposing, justfor the sake of supposing, that you were right in your wild guess as tothe will, then we should next go on to suppose that the real will was inthe box conveyed by Dr. Larrone to Miss Dexter. "

Edmund's face was very dark, but he did not speak for some moments. 

"No, " he said, "she is incapable of such a crime. She would have givenit up at once. "

"At once?" Murray said. "Miss Dexter was too ill to do anything at once. She was down with influenza, of which she very nearly died, but shepulled through, and then went away for a month. She only got back toLondon two weeks ago. Her affairs are in the hands of a very respectablefirm. We know them, and they began this business with her a very shorttime before she came up. Now Sir Edmund, think it well over. You may beright in your opinion of this young lady, but just fancy the position. There is a fortune of at least £20, 000 a year on the one hand, and onthe other, absolute poverty. For do you suppose that, if it were in thelast will which Akers and Stock witnessed on board ship, and there wereany provision in it for Madame Danterre, Sir David Bright would haveleft capital absolutely in her possession? No: the probability is--I am, of course, always supposing your original notion to be true--that thegirl has this choice of immense wealth practically unquestioned by theworld which has settled down to the fact that Sir David left his moneyto Madame Danterre; or, on the other hand, extreme poverty (sheinherited some £2, 000 from her father) and public disgrace. Mind you, she would have to announce that her mother was a criminal, and shewould, in this just and high-minded world of ours, pass under a cloudherself. A few, only a very few, would in the least appreciate herconduct. "

Sir Edmund was miserably uncomfortable, intensely averse to the resultsof what he had done. In drawing his mesh of righteous intrigue round themother he had never realised this situation. For the moment he wishedhimself well out of it all. 

"There is one other point, " he said. "Are we quite sure that Dr. Larronedid not know what was in the box? Is it not just possible that somethingwas taken out of it before it was given to Miss Dexter? He must haveknown there was a large legacy to himself; it was against his intereststhat Madame Danterre's will should be set aside. Also, it would not be avery comfortable situation for him if it turned out that he had been theintimate friend and highly-paid physician of a criminal. "

"That last motive fits the character of the man, according to Pietrino, better than the first, " said Mr. Murray. "Well, we must see; we mustwait and see whether he accepts his legacy. But before that must comethe publication of Madame Danterre's will. "

Edmund drove back from the city absorbed in the thought of Molly, incomparing his different impressions of her at different stages of theiracquaintance. He had spoken so firmly and undoubtingly to Murray. Hisfirst thought had been one of simple indignation, and yet--But no! heremembered her simplicity in speaking of her mother's letter; he couldsee her now with the gentle, pathetic look on her face as she told himof her offering to go out to the wicked old woman, and how her poorlittle advance had been rejected. 

Edmund had thought it one of the advantages of the expedition on theyacht that it would make it impossible for many weeks to call again atMolly's flat. He had often before felt uncomfortable and annoyed withhimself when he had been too friendly with Molly. Not that he felt herattraction to be a temptation to disloyalty to Rose. He knew he wasincurable in his devotion to his love. But he did feel it mean to enjoythis pleasant, philosopher-and-guide attitude, towards the daughter ofMadame Danterre. That Molly could hold any delusion about his feelingshad never dawned on his imagination as a possibility until the nightwhen she confided in him her forlorn attempt at doing a daughter's duty. He had never liked her so well; never so entirely dissociated her fromher mother, and from all possibilities of evil. 

And now the situation was changed; now there was this hazy mass ofsuspicion revealed in Florence, and this most detestable story ofLarrone and the box. 

How differently things looked when it was a question of suspecting of acrime the woman he had seen in the Florentine garden, and of that samesuspicion regarding poor little graceful, original, Molly Dexter!

Within two or three days Edmund became still more immersed in business. He began to realise his own ignorance as to his own affairs, and he wentthrough the slow torture of understanding how blindly he had lefteverything in his solicitor's hands. He was beginning to face actualpoverty as inevitable, when he heard from Mr. Murray that MadameDanterre's will was proved in London, and that her daughter was her soleheir. 

"The income cannot be less than £20, 000 a year, and the whole fortune isentirely at Miss Dexter's disposal, " wrote Mr. Murray without anycomment whatever. 

Edmund was not sorry that Rose and her mother were staying on in Paris. They would escape the first outburst of gossip as to the furtherhistory of Sir David Bright's fortune. Nor was he sorry that they shouldalso miss the growing rumours as to the disappearance of the fortune ofSir Edmund Grosse. Of Rose herself he dared not let himself think; butevery evil conclusion which he had to face as to his own future, everyundoubted loss that was discovered in the inquiry which was beingcarried on, seemed as a heavy door shut between him and the hopes ofthose last days on the yacht. 

CHAPTER XXIII

THE USES OF DELIRIUM

"Don't you think I might get up and sit by the window and look at thesea, Carey?"

Miss Carew hesitated, and then summoned the nurse. 

"Miss Dexter was to have one whole day in bed after the journey. "

The nurse, looking into Molly's eager eyes, compromised for one halfhour, in which Miss Dexter might lie on the sofa in a fur cloak. 

It was a big sofa befitting the largest bedroom in the hotel, and Mollylay back on its cushions with the peculiar physical satisfaction ofweakness, resting after very slight efforts. Yesterday she had been tooexhausted for enjoyment, but this afternoon her sensations weredelightful. 

The short afternoon light was ruddy on the glorious brown sails of thefishing-boats, and drew out all their magnificent contrast to the bluewater. But the sun still sparkled garishly on the crest of the waves, and the milder glow of the sunset had not begun. 

Weakness was sheltered and at rest within, while without was the immensemovement of wind and water, and the passing smile of the sun on thegreat, unshackled forces of winter. Molly's rest was like a child'ssecurity in the arms of a kindly giant. Her mind had been absorbed byillness--an illness that had had her completely in grip, the firstserious illness she had ever known. There had been a struggle in thedepths of her life's forces such as she had never imagined; but now lifehad conquered, and she was at rest. In that time there had been awfuldelirium: horrible things, guilty and hideous, had clung about her, allround her. One wicked presence especially had taken a strange form, aface without a body, and yet it had hands--it must have had handsbecause the horror of it was that it constantly opened the doors of thedifferent cupboards, but most often the door of the big wardrobe, andlooked out, and that although Molly had had the wardrobe locked and thekey put under her pillow. And this face was very like Molly's, and thequestion she had to settle was whether this face was her mother's or herown. At times she reasoned--and the logical process was so deadlytiring--that it must be her mother, for she could not be Molly herselfbeing so unkind to herself; whereas, if the face had had any pity forher it might have been herself looking at herself. But was that notnonsense? There was surely a touch of hysteria in that. Did the facereally come out of her own brain? And if so, from what part of herbrain? She felt sure there was a sort of empty attic, a large one, inthe top part of her right brain, it felt hollow, quite terribly hollow. Probably the face came out of that. But then, how did it get inside thewardrobe? and once inside the wardrobe, how did it get out again whenMolly really had the key?

She longed to speak to Miss Carew about this, but Miss Carew nevercould follow a chain of reasoning. The nurse was more sensible, but shethought that reasoning was too tiring for Molly--so silly! If only shecould be allowed to explain it all quietly and reasonably! And oh! whydid they leave her alone? She hated to be left alone, and she was sureshe told them so; and yet they went away. And then she began to work herbrain again as soon as the was alone, and she would be happy for a fewminutes with a new plan for shutting the face into the large empty atticin her right brain and locking the door, when quite suddenly the faceopened the door of the wardrobe with its loose hands and looked outagain and jeered at her. 

Even now, lying resting, and looking at the sun, Molly was glad thatthere was no hanging wardrobe in the room; only one full of shelves. Shewould certainly not use the same room when she went back to London. Shewould only be in that flat for a short time, as she must now take a bighouse. 

As her eyes rested on the sails and the water, and were filled with thejoy of colour, she had a sort of delicious idea of her new house. Itshould be very beautiful, most exquisite, quite unlike anybody else'shouse; it should be Molly's own special triumph. It must have theglamour of an old London house, its dignity, its sense of a past. Itshould have for decoration gloriously subdued gilding and colour, andold pictures, which Molly could afford to buy. 

"And"--she smiled to herself--"as long as it is a house in the air itshall have a great outlook on the sea and the sunset. " The fancy thathad been so cruel in her sickness was a sycophant now that life wasvictorious; it flattered and caressed and soothed her now. 

Within a few days two theories were growing in the background of herconsciousness, not acknowledged or questioned while they tookpossession. They took turns to make themselves gradually, verygradually, and imperceptibly familiar to her. The first was founded onthe idea that she had been very ill a little sooner than was supposed, and that she had imagined a great deal that was torturing and absurd asto her mother's papers. She had been delirious that evening, and, whatwas still more important, she was actually very hazy now as to what shehad seen and read of the contents of that box. 

"I can't remember if that's true, " she could honestly say to herselfwhen some fact of the horrible story came forward and claimed attention. Once she caught herself thinking how very common it was for people toforget entirely what had happened just before or during an illness. Forinstance, Sir David Bright had never been able to remember what happenedon the day on which Madame Danterre declared he had married her. But howdid Molly know that? And suddenly she said to herself that she could notremember; perhaps she had fancied that, too. 

At another time she began almost to think that she had imagined theblack box altogether. Was it square or oblong? and how shallow was it?Sometimes while she was ill she had seen a black box as big as a house;sometimes it was a little tiny cash box. 

Meanwhile, under cover of so many uncertainties, the other theory wasgetting a firm footing. It was simply that the fact of the will beingsent to her mother was undoubted proof of Sir David's having repented ofhaving made it. If Sir David had not sent her this will, who had? It wasabsurd and romantic to suppose that her mother had carried on anintrigue in South Africa in order to get possession of this will. Thatmight have done in a chapter of Dumas, or have been imagined indelirium, but it was not possible in real life. The only puzzle was--andthe theory must be able to meet all the facts of the case--why had henot destroyed the will himself? The probability was that he had not beenable to do so at the last moment. When dying he must have repented ofthe last will just too late to destroy it. She could quite imagine hisasking a friend, almost with his last words, to send Madame Danterre thepapers. It would look more natural than his asking the friend to destroythem. And then the officer would have addressed the papers, of coursenot reading them. And thus the theory comfortably wrapped up anotherfact, namely, that the registered envelope had not been addressed by thehand that had written its contents. Finally, all that the theory did forthe will, it did also for the letter to Rose, for the two thingsevidently stood or fell together. So the theories grew and prosperedwithout interfering with each other as Molly's health and strengthreturned, except that the delirium theory insisted at times on the othertheory being purely hypothetical; as, for instance, it had to be "Evensupposing I was not delirious, and the will had been there, it is stillevident that----"

Molly's recovery did not get on without a drawback, and the day on whichthe lawyer came down to see her she was genuinely very unwell. Sheseemed hardly able to understand business. She was ready to leave allresponsibility to him in a way that certainly saved much trouble, but hehardly liked to see her quite so passive. 

After he left, Miss Carew found her looking faint and ill. 

"He must think me a fool, " she said, in a weak voice. "I have lefteverything on his shoulders, poor man. I'm afraid if he is asked aboutme, as he's a Scotchman he will say I am 'just an innocent'! I reallyought not to have seen him to-day. "

But in a few days she was better, and the house agent found her quitebusiness-like. The said house agent had come down with one secret objectin his heart. It was now nine months since the bankruptcy of a toowell-known nobleman had thrown a splendid old house on the market. Ithad been in the hands of all the chief agents in London, and they hadhardly had a bite for it. Even millionaires were shy of it so far, thefact being that the house was more beautiful than comfortable, thebedrooms having been thought of less importance than the effectivenessof the first floor. Then, perhaps, it was a little gloomy, thoughartists maintained that its share of gloom only enhanced its charm. 

After mentioning several uninteresting mansions, the agent observedthat, of course, there was Westmoreland House still going, and Molly'seyes flashed. She had been at the great sale at Westmoreland House; shehad been absolutely fascinated by the great well staircase and by themusic-room, by the square reception-rooms, and above all by the gallerywith its perfection of light moulding, a room of glass and gold, but sospiritualised, so subdued and reticent and dignified, that ghosts mightlive there undisturbed. 

Molly trembled with eagerness as she asked the vital questions of cost, of repairs, of rates and taxes. Yes, it was possible--undoubtedlypossible. There was a very large sum of money in a bank in Florencewhich possibly Madame Danterre had accumulated there with a view to asudden emergency. Molly's lawyer had not been certain of the amount, buthe had mentioned a sum larger than the price of Westmoreland House. 

By the time Molly was fit to go back to London, and while the theoriesjust described were still in possession of her mind, Westmoreland Housewas bought. Molly said it was a great relief to get it settled. 

"One feels more settled altogether, " she said to Miss Carew, "when a bigquestion like that is done with. "

She strolled with Miss Carew on the smooth sand by the water's edge onthe last evening before leaving, and looked up at the white cliffsgrowing bright in the light of the sunset. 

"It has been very restful, " she said. "I am almost sorry to go. "

"Then why not stay a little longer, my dear?"

"Oh, no, Carey! it would soon become quite intolerable; it isn't reallife, only a pause; and now, Carey, I am going to live!"

The sun presently set lower and more grey than they had expected; thewind felt sharper, and Molly shivered. Nature was unbearable without itsgilding. 

CHAPTER XXIV

MRS. DELAPORT GREEN IN THE ASCENDANT

Mrs. Delaport Green had been to Egypt for the winter, and came back, refreshed as a giant, for life in London. She was really glad to seeTim, who was unfeignedly pleased to see her, and they spent quite anhour in the pleasantest chat. Of course he had not much news to give ofhis wife's acquaintances as he did not live among them, but one item ofinformation interested her extremely. 

"Miss Dexter has bought Westmoreland House in Park Lane!"

Mrs. Delaport Green's eyes sparkled with excitement and the green lightof envy, and she determined to call on Molly at once. Happily there hadbeen no open quarrel, which only showed how wise it was to forgetinjuries, for certainly the girl had been most disgracefully rude. 

Molly's new abode stood back from the street, and had usually animmensely dignified air of quiet, but there was a good deal of noise andbustle going on when Adela reached the door. Several large pieces offurniture, a picture, and a heavy clock, might have been obstaclesenough to keep out most visitors, but Adela persevered, and the dustyand worried porter said that Molly was at home before he had a momentfor reflection. 

Adela advanced with outstretched hands to greet her "dear friend" as shewas shown into a large drawing-room on the first floor. 

Molly was standing in the middle of the room with an immense hat on, anda long cloak that woke instant enthusiasm in the soul of her visitor. There was perhaps, even to Adela something too emphatic, too striking, too splendid altogether in the total effect of the tall, slim figure. She had never thought that Molly would turn out half so handsome, butshe saw now that she had only needed a little making-up. While thinkingthese things she was chattering eagerly. 

"How are you? I was so sorry to hear you had been ill, but now you looksimply splendid! I have had a wonderful winter. I feel as if I had laidin quite a stock of calm and rest from the desert, as if no little thingcould worry me after my long draught--of the desert, you know! Well! onemust get into harness again. " She gave a little sigh. "But to think ofyour having Westmoreland House! How everybody wondered last season whatwas to become of it! and what furniture, oh! what an exquisite cabinet!You certainly have wonderful taste. " Molly did not interrupt her visitorto explain that the said cabinet had belonged to Madame Danterre. "Iadore that style; I do so wish Tim would give me a cabinet like that formy birthday. I really think he might. "

She was so accustomed to Molly's silences that it was some time beforeshe realised that this one was ominous. She might have seen that thatyoung lady was looking over her head, or out of the window, or anywherebut at her. Suddenly it struck her that not a sound interrupted her ownvoice, and she began to perceive the absurd airs that Molly was givingherself. Prompted by the devil she, therefore, instantly proceeded tosay:

"When we were at Cairo Sir Edmund Grosse came for a few days with LadyRose Bright. "

"From the yacht?" said Molly, speaking for the first time. 

"Yes; they said in Cairo that the engagement would be announced as soonas they got back to England. And really my dear, everyone agreed thatwithout grudging you her money, one can't help being glad that that dearwoman should be rich again!"

It was about as sharp a two-edged thrust as could have been delivered, and Molly's _distrait_ air and undue magnificence melted under it. 

"No one could be more glad than I am, " she said, with a quiet reserve ofmanner; and after that she was quite friendly, and took Adela all overthe house, and pressed her to stay to tea, and that little lady feltinstinctively that Molly was afraid of her, and smacked her rosy lipswith the foretaste of the amusements she intended to enjoy in thismagnificent house. 

While they were having tea, Molly, leaning back, said quietly:

"I see from what you said before we went over the house that you havenot heard that Sir Edmund Grosse is ruined?"

Mrs. Delaport Green gave a little shriek of excitement. 

"He trusted all his affairs to a scoundrel, and this is the result. "Molly's tone was still negative. 

"Well, that does seem a shame!"

"I don't know; if a man will neglect his affairs he must take theconsequence. "

"Oh! but I do think it is hard; he used his money so well. "

"Did he?" Molly raised her eyebrows. 

"Well, he was a perfect host, and was so awfully good-natured, don't youknow?"

In the real interest in the news, Adela had, for the moment, forgottenthat Molly might be especially interested in anything concerning EdmundGrosse. She was reminded by the low, thundery voice in which Molly beganto speak quite suddenly, as if her patience had been tried too far. 

"You are just like all the others! It's enough to make one a radical tolisten to it. After all, what good has Sir Edmund Grosse done with hismoney? He gave dinners that ruined people's livers--I suppose that wasgood for the doctors! He gave diamonds to actresses, and I suppose thatwas for the good of art. He has never done a stroke of work; he haswallowed in luxury, and now his friends almost cry out againstProvidence because he will have to earn his bread. Probably severalhundreds a year will be left, and many men would be thankful for that. Then other people say it is such a pity that now he cannot marry LadyRose Bright. They have the effrontery to say that to me, as if £800 ayear were not enough for them to marry on if they cared for each other!"

All this tirade seemed to Adela the very natural outpouring of jealousy, and, as she fully intended to be an intimate friend of Molly's shesympathised and agreed, and agreed and sympathised till she fairly, roused Molly's sense of the ludicrous. 

"I don't mean, " Molly said, half angry and half amused, "that I shallspend my money so very much better;--I quite mean to have my fling. OnlyI do so hate all this cant. "

At last Adela departed, crying out that she had promised to be in Hoxtonan hour ago, and Molly was left alone. It was too late to go to theshops, she reflected, and she sank back into a deep chair with a frownon her white forehead. 

What did it matter to her if they were engaged or not? It made no sortof difference. She was not going to allow her peace of mind to be upseton their account; she had done with that sentimental nonsense long ago. Her illness had made a great space between her present self and theMolly who had been so foolishly upset by the discovery of EdmundGrosse's treachery. Curiously enough Molly had never doubted of thattreachery, although it was one of the horrors that had come out of thedoubtful, and probably mythical, tin box. 

By the way, there was a little pile of tin boxes in a small unfurnishedroom upstairs, next to Molly's bedroom, of which she kept the key. Shehad had no time to look at them yet. Some of them came from Florence, and two or three from her own flat. They were of all shapes and sizes, and piled one on another. But from the moment when Molly turned thatvery ordinary key in the lock of the unfurnished dressing-room she neverlet her thoughts dwell for long on the possible delusions of delirium. Her mind had entered into another phase in which it was of supremeimportance to think only of the details of each day as they came beforeher. 

CHAPTER XXV

MOLLY AT COURT

If any of us, going to dress quietly in an ordinary bedroom, were told:"It is the last time you will have just that amount of comfort, thatdegree of luxury, to which you have been accustomed; it is the last timeyou will have your evening clothes put out for you; the last time yourthings will be brushed; the last time hot water will be brought to yourroom; the last time that your dressing-gown will have come out of thecupboard without your taking it out"--we might have an odd mixture ofsensations. We might be very sad--ridiculously sad--and yet have a senseof being braced, a whiff of open air in the mental atmosphere. 

Edmund Grosse did not expect in future to draw his own hot water, or putout his own dressing-gown, but he did know that he had come to the lastnight of having a valet of his own, the last night in which the perfectDawkins, who had been with him ten years, would do him perfect bodilyservice. Everything to-night was done in the most punctilious manner, and it seemed appropriate that this last night should be a full-dressaffair. 

Sir Edmund was going to Court (the first Court held in May), and hisdeputy lieutenant's uniform was laid on the bed. Edmund might not havetaken the trouble to go, but a kindly message from a very high place asto his troubles had made him feel it a more gracious response to do so. The valet was a trifle distant, if any shade of manner could have beendetected in his deferential attitude towards his master. Dawkins was notpleased with Sir Edmund; he felt that his ten years of service had beenbased on a delusion; he had not intended to be valet to a ruined man. Happily he had been careful. He had not trusted blindly to Providence, and, with a rich result from enormous wages and perquisites, and anexcellent character, he could face the world with his head high, whereasSir Edmund--well, Sir Edmund's position was very different. Sir Edmundhad let himself be deceived outrageously, and what was the result?

Edmund was as particular as usual about every detail of his appearance. It would have been an education to a young valet to have seen the ruinedman dressed that evening. 

Next day Dawkins was to leave, and the day after that the flat was to bethe scene of a small sale. The chief valuables, a few good pictures, andsome very rare china, had already gone to Christie's. The delicate_pâte_ of his beloved vases had seemed to respond to the lingeringfarewell touch of the connoisseur's fingers. Edmund was trying to securefor some of them homes where he might sometimes visit them, and one ortwo of his lady friends were persuading their husbands that these thingsought to be bought for love of poor Edmund Grosse. Edmund was quiteready to press a little on friendship of this sort, being fullyconscious of its quality and its duration. For the next few weeks hewould be welcomed with enthusiasm--and next year?

But all the same there was that subconscious sense of bracingair--something like the sense of climax in reaching a Northern stationon a very hot day. We may be very hot, perhaps, at Carlisle orEdinburgh, but it is not the climate of Surrey. 

Edmund mounted the stairs at Buckingham Palace with a certainunconscious dignity which melted into genial amusement at the sight of apretty woman near him evidently whispering advice to a fair _débutante_. The girl was not eighteen, and her whole figure expressed acutediscomfort. 

"Keep your veil out of the way, " her mother warned her. 

"I've had two dreadful pulls already; I'm sure my feathers are quitecrooked. Oh! mother, there's Sir Edmund Grosse; he will tell me whetherthey are crooked. You never know. "

"I could see if you would let me get in front of you, " murmured hermother. 

"But you can't possibly in this crowd. Oh! how d'ye do, Sir Edmund; haveI kept my veil straight?"

"Charming, " said Edmund, with a low bow. The child really looked verypretty, though rather like a little dairymaid dressed up for fun, andher long gloves slipped far enough from the shoulders to show somesplendidly red arms. 

"Charming, " he said again in a half-teasing voice. "Only I don't approveof such late hours for children. "

It amused him that this was one of the presentations that would be mostnoted in the papers, and this funny, jolly little girl would probablygain a good deal of knowledge and lose a great deal more of charm inthe next three months. 

Walking by the mother and daughter, he had come close to the open doorsof a long gallery, and stood for a moment to take in the picture. It wasnot new to him, but perhaps he felt inclined to the attitude of anonlooker to-night, and there was something in this attitude slightlyaloof and independent. Brilliant was the one word for the scene; alittle hard, perhaps, in colouring, and the women in their plumes andveils were too uniform to be artistic. There was too much gold, too muchred silk, too many women in the long rows waiting with more or lessimpatience or nervousness to get through with it. The scene had analmost crude simplicity of insistence on fine feathers and gilding theobvious pride of life. Yet he saw the little fair country girl near himlook awe-struck, and he understood it. For a fresh imagination, or forone that has, for some reason, a fresh sensitiveness of perception, thegreat gallery, the wealth of fair women, the scattered men in uniform, the solemn waiting for entrance into the royal presence, were enough. And there really is a certain force in the too gaudy setting. It blareslike a trumpet. It crushes the quiet and the repose of life. It shinesin the eye defiantly and suddenly, and at last it captures the mind andmakes the breath come quickly, for, like no other and more perfectsetting to life, it makes us think of death. It is too bald an assertionof the world and all its works and all its pomps, not to challenge arebuke from the grisly tyrant. 

Edmund had not analysed these impressions, but he was still under theirpower when he turned to let others pass, for the crowd was thickening. And as he did so, a little space was opened by three or four ladiesturning round to secure places for some friends on the long seatsagainst the walls. 

Across this space he saw a woman, whom, for a moment only, he did notrecognise. It was a tall figure in white satin with a train of cloth ofsilver thrown over her arm. There was nothing of the nervous _débutante_in the attitude, nor was there the half-truculent self-assertion of themodern girl. When people talked afterwards of her gown and her jewels, Edmund only remembered the splendour of her pearls, and when hementioned them, a woman added that the train had been lined with lace ofuntold value. What he felt at the time was the enormous triumph of theeyes. Grey eyes, full of light, full of pride. He did not ask himselfwhat was the excuse for this "haughty bearing, " and the old phrase, which has now sunk from court manners into penny novelettes, was theonly phrase that seemed quite a true one. 

Why did she stand so completely alone? It made no difference to thissense of loneliness that she received warm greetings in the crowd, orthat Lady Dawning was fidgeting and maternal. Evidently (and he wasamused at the combination) she was going to present her cousin, JohnDexter's daughter. Did she remember now how she had advised Mrs. Carteret to hide Molly from the public eye?

But Molly's figure was always to remain in his mind thus triumphantwithout absurdity, and thus alone in a crowd. The blackness of her hairhad a strange force from the white transparent veil flowing over it, anda flush of deep colour was in the dark skin. Edmund had several momentsin which to look at her and to realise that Molly was walking in a dreamof greatness. The little country girl he had seen just now had beenbrought up to hear kindly jokes about Courts and their ways; not soMolly. To her it was all intensely serious and intensely exciting. Couldhe have known the chief cause of the intense emotion that filled Molly'sslight figure with a feverish vitality would he have believed that shewas happy? And yet she was, for no pirate king running his brig underthe very nose of a man-of-war ever had more of the quintessence of thesense of adventure than Molly had, as Lady Dawning led her, the heiressof the year, into the long gallery. 

For one moment she saw Edmund Grosse, and she looked him full in theface very gravely. She did not pretend not to know him; she let him seethe entirely genuine contempt she felt for him, and she meant him tounderstand that she would never know him again. 

CHAPTER XXVI

EDMUND IS NO LONGER BORED

As the season went on Edmund Grosse did not understand himself. Everything had gone against him, his fortune had melted, his easy-goingluxurious life was at an end. He had no delusions; he knew perfectlywell the value of money in his world. His position in that world wasgone in fact, if not quite in seeming. The sort of conversation thatwent on about him in his own circles had the sympathy, but would soonhave also the finality, of a funeral oration. There would soon be a toneof reminiscence in those who spoke of him. It would be as if they saidgently: "Oh, yes! dear old Grosse, we knew him well at one time, don'tyou know; it's a sad story. " He could have told you not only the words, but even the inflection of the voices of his friends in discussing hisaffairs. He did not mean that there were no kindly faithful hearts amongthem. Several might emerge as kind, as friendly as ever. But the monsterof human society would behave as it always does in self-defence. Itwould shake itself, dislodge Edmund from its back, and then say quitekindly that it was a sad pity that he had fallen off. Every organismmust reject what it can no longer assimilate, and a rich society by thelaw of its being rejects a poor man. 

And yet the idea that poor Grosse must be half crushed, horribly cut upand done for, was not in the least true. This was what he did notunderstand himself. It is well known that some people bear great trialsalmost lightly who take small ones very heavily. Grosse certainly roseto the occasion. But that a great trial had aroused great courage wasnot the whole explanation by any means. Curiously enough ill-fortunewith drastic severity had done for him what he had impotently wished todo for himself. It had made impossible the life which, in his heart, hehad despised; it absolutely forced him to use powers of which he wasperfectly conscious, and which had been rusting simply for want ofemployment. It is doubtful whether he could have roused himself for anyother motive whatever. Certainly love of Rose had been unable to do it. The will might seem to will what he wished to do, but the effort to willstrongly enough was absent. Now all the soft, padded things between himand the depths of life had been struck away at one rude blow; he _must_swim or sink. And so he began to swim, and the exercise restored hiscirculation and braced his whole being. 

It was not, perhaps, heroic exertion that he was roused into making. Butit wanted courage in a man of Edmund's age to begin to work for sixhours or more a day at journalism. He also produced two articles onforeign politics for the reviews, which made a considerable impression. It was important now that Edmund had read and watched, and, even moreimportant, listened very attentively to what busier men than himself hadto say during twenty years of life spent in the world. Years afterwards, when Grosse had in the second half of his life done as much work asmany men would think a good record for their whole lives, people weresurprised to read his age in the obituary notices. They had rightlydated the beginning of his career from his first appearance as anauthority on foreign politics, but they had not realised that Grosse hadbegun to work only in the midstream of life. Many brilliant springs aredelusive in their promise, but rarely is there such achievement after anunprofitable youth. 

Love is not the whole life of a man, but, in spite of new activities, inspite of a renewed sense of self-respect, Edmund had time and spaceenough for much pain in his heart. 

Rose was still in Paris taking care of her mother, who was very unwell. Edmund had hinted at the possibility of going over to see them atEaster, but the suggestion had met with no encouragement. He had feltrebuffed, and was in no mood to be smoothed or melted by Rose's writtensympathy. He was, no doubt, harder as well as stronger than before hisfinancial troubles. He let Rose see that he could stand on his feet, andwas not disposed to whine. Meanwhile Molly had provoked him to singlecombat. The decided cut she gave him at the Court was not to bepermitted; he was too old a hand to allow anything so crude. He meant tobe at her parties; he meant to keep in touch; indeed he meant to seethis thing out. 

"Sir Edmund, will you take Miss Dexter in to dinner?"

Edmund looked fairly surprised and very respectful as Mrs. DelaportGreen spoke to him. Molly's bearing was, he could see, defiant, but shewas clearly quite conscious of having to submit and anxious to donothing absurd. 

They ate their soup in silence, for Molly's other neighbour had shown anunflattering eagerness to be absorbed by the lady he had taken down. Edmund turned to her with exactly his old shade of manner, verypaternal, intimate and gentle. 

"And you are not bored yet?"

Molly could have sworn deep and long had it been possible. 

"No; why should I be?"

She stared at him for a moment indifferently, as at a stranger, but hecould see the nervous movement of her fingers as she crumbed her bread. 

"It is more likely, " he answered, "that I should remember what I alludeto than that you should. We once had a talk about being bored. I said Ihad never been bored while I was poor. Now I am poor again, so Inaturally remember, and, as you are trying the experience of being veryrich, I should really like to know if you are bored yet. "

Molly might have kept silent, but she did not want Adela, who wascertainly watching them, to think her embarrassed. 

"I suppose every one has moments of being bored. "

Edmund leant back and turned round so as to allow of his looking fullyat her. He muttered to himself: "Young, beautiful, wealthy beyond thedreams of avarice--and bored! What flattering unction that is to thesoul of a ruined man. "

In spite of her anger, her indignation, her hurt pride, Molly wassoftened. She writhed under the caress of his voice; it had powerstill. 

"Are you not bored any more?" She spoke unwillingly. 

"No, " he said, "suffering does not bore; discomfort does not bore;knowledge of your fellow-creatures does not bore. But, of course, I amtasting the pleasures of novelty. And I have not disappeared yet. Ithink a boarding-house in Bloomsbury may prove boring. How prettily ourhostess will pity me, then. But I don't think I shall meet you here atdinner, and have the comfort of seeing for myself that you, too, arebored. "

Molly felt that he was putting her hopelessly in the wrong. She was theone bitterly aggrieved and deeply injured. But he made her feel as ifcoldness on her part would be just the conduct of any rich heartlesswoman to a ruined man. 

"I calculate, " he said, "on about fifty more good dinners which I shallnot pay for, and then, of course, I shall think myself well fed at myown expense in an Italian café somewhere. I think Italian, don't you?Dinner at two shillings! There is an air of _spagghetti_ and onions thatconceals the nature or age of the meat; and the coffee is amazinglygood. One might be able to find one with a clean cloth. "

Most of these remarks were made almost to himself. 

"You know it isn't true, " Molly said angrily; "you know you will get agood post. Men like you are always given things. "

Edmund helped himself very carefully to exactly the right amount ofmelted butter. "Don't you eat asparagus?" he interjected, and, withoutwaiting for an answer, went on:

"I thought so too, but I can't hear of a job. There are too many of theunemployed just now. However, no doubt, as you say, I shall soon bemade absolute ruler of some province twice the size of England. "

He laughed and smoothed his moustache with one hand. 

"Down with dull care, Miss Dexter; let us make a pact never to bebored--in Bloomsbury, or West Africa, or Park Lane. I suppose you founda great deal to do to that dear old house?"

After that their other neighbours claimed them both; but during dessertMolly, against her will, lost hold of the talk on her right, and had tolisten to Edmund again. 

"I hear that you have got the old Florentine looking-glasses from mysale. "

"I don't think they were from your sale, " said Molly hastily. 

"Well, Perks told me so. "

"Perks never told me, " muttered Molly. 

"I should think they must suit the house to perfection. Where have youput them?"

"In the small dining-room. "

"Yes; they must do admirably there. I should like to see them again. " Helooked at her with a faintly sarcastic smile. She knew what he intendedher to say, and, against her will, she said hastily:

"Won't you come and see them?"

"With great pleasure. "

Molly saw that Adela had risen, and sprang up and turned away in onesudden movement. She was very angry with him for forcing her to saythat, and she could not conceive what had made her yield. 

"'The teeth that bite; the claws that scratch, '" he thought to himself, "but safely chained up--and the movements are beautiful. " He stoodlooking after her. 

"I did as you told me, " said the hostess, pausing for a moment as shefollowed her guests to the door. "If Molly blames me, shall I say thatyou asked to take her in?"

"Say just what you like; I trust you entirely. " He did not attempt tospeak to Molly after dinner, or when they met again at a ball that samenight. All her burning wish to snub him could not be gratified. Heseemed not to know shat she was still in the room. But she knewinstinctively that he watched her, and she was not sorry he should seeher in the crowd, and be witness, however unwillingly, to her positionin the world he knew so well. It added to the sense of intoxication thatoften possessed her now. "Be drunken, " says Baudelaire, "be drunken withwine, with poetry, with virtue, with what you will, only be drunken. "And that Molly could be drunken with flattery, with luxury, withmovement, with music, with a sense of danger that gave a strong andsubtle flavour to her pleasures, was the explanation (and the only one)of how she bore the hours of reaction, of the nausea experienced by thatspiritual nature of hers which she had been so surprised to discover. Itwas not the half-shrinking, half-defiant Molly Edmund had talked to inthe woods of Groombridge, whom he watched now. That Molly was gone, andhe regretted her. 

CHAPTER XXVII

MOLLY'S APPEAL

Edmund, it seemed, was in no hurry to see his Florentine looking-glassesagain. Ten days passed before he called on Molly, and on the eleventhday Mr. Murray, Junior, wrote to say that he had some fresh andimportant intelligence to give him, and asked if Sir Edmund would call, not at his office, but at his own house. 

Edmund flung the letter down impatiently. The situation was really avery trying one. He did not believe--he could not and would notbelieve--that Molly was carrying on a gigantic fraud. Murray was alawyer, and did not know Miss Dexter; his suspicions were inhuman andabsurd. From the day on which she had spoken to him about her mother'sreply to her offer to go to Florence, Edmund had in his masculine wayranged her once for all among good and nice women. He had felt touchedand guilty at a suspicion that he had been to blame in playing hispaternal _rôle_ too zealously. Until then he had at times had hardthoughts of her; after that time he was a little ashamed of himself, andhe believed in her simplicity and goodness. He was sorry anddisappointed now that she was making quite so much effect in this Londonworld. There was something disquieting in Molly's success, and he couldappraise better than any one what a remarkable success it was. But hefelt that she was going the pace, and he would not have liked hisdaughter to go the pace, unmarried and at twenty-two. She neededfriendship and advice. But the pinch came from the fact that the wealthhe could have advised her to use wisely ought to be Rose's, and that hewas resolved, in the depths of his soul, to regain that wealth for hiscousin--for that "_belle dame sans merci_" who wrote him such prettyletters about his troubles. 

Edmund put Murray's letter in his pocket, and immediately went out. Hewas living in a small, but clean, lodging in Fulham, kept by a formerhousemaid and a former footman of his own, now Mr. And Mrs. Tart, kindlysouls who were proud to receive him. He gave no trouble, and thepreparation of his coffee and boiled egg was all the cooking he had donefor him. Mrs. Tart would have felt strangely upset had she known thatthe said coffee and egg were, on some days, his only food till tea-time;she was under the impression that he lunched at his club when notengaged to friends. Both she and Mr. Tart took immense pains with hisclothes, and he would rather have been well valeted than eat luxuriousluncheons every day. 

He went out at once after getting Murray's letter, because he wanted tocall on Molly before he heard any more of the important intelligence. 

Molly was alone when he was announced. She had told the butler she was"not at home, " but somehow the man decided to show Sir Edmund up becausehe saw that he wished to be shown up. Edmund had always had an oddinfluence below stairs, partly because he never forgot a servant'sface. 

Molly coloured deeply when she saw her visitor. She was annoyed to thinkthat he would make her talk against her will--and they would not beinterrupted. She could have used strong language to the butler, but shedid not dare tell him that she would now see visitors. It would look toEdmund as if she were afraid of a _tête-à-tête_. 

Almost as soon as he was in the room she had an impression that he wasquite at home, curiously at his ease. 

"I am glad the house is so little changed. I came to my first dancehere. You have done wonderfully well, and all on the old lines. A friendtold me it was the hugest success. "

A remembrance of past jokes as to Edmund's second-hand compliments andhis friend "Mr. Harris" came into Molly's mind, but she only felt angryat the remembrance. 

He talked on about the pictures and the furniture until she became morenatural. It was impossible not to be interested in her work, and thedecoration and furnishing of the whole house was her own doing, not thatof any hireling adviser. Then, too, he knew its history, and she becamekeenly interested. She had at times a strong feeling of the past lifestill in possession of the house, into which her own strangely fatedlife had intruded. She wanted, half-consciously, to know if her guiltysecret was a desecration or only a continuance of something that hadgone before. 

Suddenly she leant forward with the crude simplicity he was glad to seeagain. 

"Have there been any wicked people here?" Her voice was low and young. 

"'All houses in which men have lived and died are haunted houses, '" hequoted. "It's not very cynical to suppose that there has been sin andsorrow here before now. "

"I think, " said Molly quickly, "there was a wicked woman who used thelittle dining-room; perhaps she was only a guest. I don't think she wentupstairs often. "

"Perhaps she came in with my looking-glasses, " suggested Edmund. "I haveoften wished I could see what they have seen. "

Molly was now quite off her guard. 

Edmund rose and examined some china on a table near him. 

"Why are you so displeased with me?" he said, without any change ofvoice. 

Molly sprang to her feet, careless whether her unguarded vehemence mightbetray her to his observation. 

"I shall not answer that question, " she said; but he knew that she wouldanswer it. 

"You cut me at the Court; you were displeased at having to sit by me atdinner; you have pretended not to see me at least four times since then, and your butler showed me up by mistake. "

Molly had moved away from him to the window. She knew she must speak orher conduct would look too like wounded love--a thing quite unbearable. She knew, too, that his influence would make her speak, and, besidesthat, something in her cried for the relief of speech. She needed afight although she did not know it; an open fight with an enemy shecould see would distract her from the incessant fight with an enemy shedid not see. 

"You are a strange man!" she cried, holding the curtain behind herlightly as she turned towards him. "You could make friends with me sothat all the world might see you, and meanwhile, at the very same time, you were paying a low Italian scoundrel to produce lies against my sickand lonely mother! You could watch me and get out of me all you wantedto know because I was ignorant of the world. You could use the horribleinfluence you had gained over me by your experience of many women, tomanage me as you liked. You told me not to marry Edgar Tonmore for somereason of your own; you told me to go and stay with my aunt; you came tosee me one night in London, and wormed out of me my relations with myunfortunate mother. With all your knowledge of the world, with all yourexperience, did you never think I might come to find you out?"

Molly paused for a moment. She held herself erect, her white gowncrushed against the rich, dark curtain, her great eyes searching thetrees in the park below as if she sought there for the soul of herenemy. She did not know that she pulled hard at the curtain behind herwith both hands; it could not have held out much longer, strong thoughit was. 

"No; you knew life too well not to know that you might be found out, butthe truth was that you did not care. It was so little a thing to youthat, when you saw that I knew the truth, you could go on just the same, quite unabashed. You could force yourself on me by playing on yourpoverty; you, who had tried to ruin my mother! Well, she is out of yourreach, and perhaps you have shifted your foul suspicions on to me. Perhaps it is from me you hope to get the fortune that you mean toshare. You drive me mad! I say things I don't want to say; you force meto lower myself, but----" She turned now and faced Edmund, who watchedher, himself absolutely motionless. "Now that you have forced yourselfon me again you shall answer me. Do you believe that I, Molly Dexter, have concealed or abetted in concealing or destroying any will in favourof Lady Rose Bright?"

There is a moment when passion is astonishingly inventive. Molly had hadno intention of saying anything of the kind, but the heat of passion hadproduced a stroke of policy that no colder moment could have produced. She was suddenly dumb with astonishment at her own words, and she dimlyrecognised that this represented a distinct crisis in her own mind. Passion and excitement had dissipated the last mists of self-deception. 

Edmund waited till there could be no faint suspicion of his trying tointerrupt her, and then said from his heart, in a voice she had neverheard from him before:

"No, I swear to you I don't. "

Molly had been deeply flushed. At these words she turned very white, andher hands let go the curtains. She put them out before her and seemed togrope her way to a stiff, high-backed chair near to her. She sat down init and clasped her hands to her forehead. 

"Now you must hear me, " said Edmund. "I don't say I am blameless: inpart of this I have done wrong, but not as wrong as you think. I musttell you my story; although perhaps it may seem blacker as I tell it, even to myself. "

He sat down and bent forward a little. 

"When I was young I fell in love with my cousin. She has been and alwayswill be the one woman in the world to me. She did not, does not, neverwill, return my feelings. She married, and before very long I wasconvinced she was not happy, although she only half realised it herself. She is capable of stifling her powers of perception. Then David Brightdied and left her in poverty. His will was a scandal, and the horror didnot only smirch his good name, it reached to hers. I can't and won't tryto tell you what I suffered, or how I determined to fight this hideouswrong. I went to Florence; I tried to see Madame Danterre; I engaged thedetective--all before I knew of your existence. I came back to Londonand discovered that your father, John Dexter, had divorced his wife onaccount of David Bright. Still I did not know anything of you. Then, through Lady Dawning I found you out, and I made friends with Mrs. Delaport Green in order to see more of you. Was there anything wrong inthat? You did not know your mother; you did not, presumably, care verydeeply about her. It was doubtful if you knew of her existence. Soon thedetective in Florence faded in my mind; he discovered nothing, but Iretained him in case of any change. Was I obliged, because I liked you, to give up the cause? I never found out, I never tried to find out fromyou anything that bore on the case. You must remember that I stopped youonce in the wood at Groombridge when you wanted to tell me more aboutyourself, and that I again warned you when you wished to tell me aboutyour mother's letter to you. As to Edgar Tonmore, I knew that he waspenniless, and I thought it quite possible that you might, in the end, be penniless too. It was for your own sake I wished you to make a richermarriage. For I believed--I still believe--that David Bright made a lastwill when going out to Africa; I believed, and still believe, that by anaccident that will was not sent to Lady Rose. I thought then that yourmother had, in some way, become possessed of the will, and I thought itmore than likely that, when dying, she would make reparation by leavingthe money where it ought to be. I meant--may I say so?--to prove myselfyour friend, then, if you should allow it. I know I kept in touch withyou partly from curiosity as well as from natural attraction. But, if Iacted for the sake of another, I acted for you also. Would it have beenbetter or worse for you to have been friends with us if my suspicions ofyour mother's conduct had proved true? But believe me, Miss Dexter, Inever for one moment could have thought of you with any taint ofsuspicion. It is horrible to me to have it suggested. "

He rose as he finished speaking, and came nearer to her. 

"That you, with your youth and your innocence and your candour!--child, the very idea is impossible. I have known men and women too well to fallinto such an absurdity. Send me away, if you like; I won't intrude myfriendship upon you, but look up now and let me see that you do notthink this gross thing of me. "

Molly raised a white face and looked into his--looked into eyes that hadnot at all times and in all places been sincere, but were sincere now. Agreat rush of warm feeling came over her; a great sore seemed healed, and then she looked at him with hungry entreaty, as if a soul, shorn ofall beauty, hungry, ragged, filthy, were asking help from another. Butthe moment of danger, the moment of salvation passed away. 

We confess our sins to God because He knows them already, and we ask forforgiveness where we know we shall be forgiven. 

Indeed, Molly knew almost at once that she had gained another motive forsilence. She could not risk the loss of Edmund's good thought of her;she cared for him too much--he had defended himself too well. 

Edmund saw that she could not speak. He left her, let himself out of thehouse, and, forgetful of the fact that he could not possibly afford ahansom, jumped into one and drove to Mr. Murray's house. 

He had recovered his usual calmness by the time he had to speak. 

"I have your note, " he said, "and I came in consequence. "

"Yes, " said the lawyer; "I wanted to tell you----"

"Wait a moment. Do you think you need tell me? You see, my share in thething really came to an end when I could not finance it. I have severalreasons now why I should like to let it alone. "

Murray was astonished. It was Sir Edmund who had started the wholething, whose wild guess at the outset was becoming more and more likelyto be proved true. It was he who had spent a quantity of money over theinvestigation for years past. The man of business knew how to provokespeech by silence, and so he remained silent. 

"Does further action depend in any way on me?" asked Edmund at last, without, however, offering the explanation the other wanted. 

"No, " said Murray quite civilly, but his manner was dry. "I don't seethat it does. I think we can get on for the present. "

As he spoke the door opened, and the parlourmaid showed in a tall, handsome woman in a nurse's dress. 

Murray looked from her to Sir Edmund. 

"I had wanted you to hear what Nurse Edith had to tell us, but afterwhat you have said----"

"Yes, " said Edmund; "I will leave you and I will write to youto-night. "

CHAPTER XXVIII

DINNER AT TWO SHILLINGS

Edmund Grosse was in great moral and great physical discomfort thatevening. He dined, actually for the first time, in just such an Italiancafé as he had described to Molly. After climbing up a very narrow, dirty staircase, the hot air heavy with smells, he had emerged into asmall back and front room holding some half-dozen tables, at each ofwhich four people could be seated. Through the open windows the noisesof the street below came into collision with the clatter of plates andknives and forks. The heat was intense, the cloths were not clean, neither were the hands of the two waiters who rushed about with acertain litheness and facility of motion unlike any Englishman. 

Edmund sat down wearily at a table as near the window as possible, andat which several people had been dining, perhaps well, but certainly nottidily. 

"Hunger alone, " he thought, "could make this possible, " when, lookingup, he caught the face of a young man at a further table, full ofenjoyment, ordering "spargetty" and half a bottle of "grayves, " with acockney twang, and an unutterable air of latter-day culture. 

"Mutton chops, cheese, and ale fed your forefathers, " reflected Grosse. 

"What will you have, sir?" in a foreign accent. 

"Oh! anything; just what comes for the two shilling dinner--no, not_hors d'oeuvres_; yes, soup. "

Edmund had turned with ill-restrained disgust from the sardines, tomatoes, and other oily horrors. But there was no denying the qualitiesof the soup: the most experienced and cultivated palate and stomach mustbe soothed by it, and in a moment of greater cheerfulness Edmund turnedhis attention to three young men close to him who were talking French. Their hands were clean and their collars, but poverty was writ large ontheir spare faces and well-brushed clothes. One was olive-complexioned, one quite fair, but with olive tints in the shadows round the eyes, andthe third grey, old, and purple-cheeked from shaving. They ate little, but they talked much. The talked of literature and art with fiercedogmatism, and they seemed frequently on the verge of a quarrel, but thestorm each time sank quite suddenly without the least consciousness ofthe danger passed. They looked at the food as critics, and acknowledgedit to be eatable, with the faint air of an exile's sadness. 

Edmund wished to think that he was amused by their talk, but thedistraction did not last. His thoughts would have their way, and he wassoon trying to defend his defence of himself to Molly. All he said hadseemed so obviously true as the words poured out, but there had beenfatal reservations. He had spoken as if all suspicions, all proceedingsas to discovering the will were past. He had felt he had no right togive away secrets that were not his own. But had he not produced a falseimpression? What would Molly have thought of him as he passionatelyrejected the notion of suspecting her if she had seen the letter fromMurray in his pocket? It was true that he no longer financed any of theproceedings against her, but they had all been set on foot by him. Hewas in the plot that was thickening, and he had won the confidence ofthe victim! He had no doubt that Molly was innocent, and he was ashamedof the pitiful confidence he had read in her eyes when he left her. Buthe still believed that her mother had been guilty, and that Molly'swealth was the result of that guilt. It was true that he wanted to beher friend, but it was also true that he would rejoice if Rose came intoher own and the gross injustice were righted. But, after all, whatabsolute evidence had they got, as yet, as to the contents of this lastwill, or what proof even of its existence? He felt almost glad for thefraction of a moment that Molly might remain the gorgeous mistress ofthe old house in Park Lane uninjured by anything he had done againsther. "How absurd, " he thought, "how drivelling! The fact is that girlimpressed me enough to-day, to make me see myself from her point ofview, or what would be her point of view if she knew all!"

He refused coffee--the cab fare had prevented that. He quite emptied hispocket, gave the waiter sixpence, and, rising, strolled across the floorof the small room exactly the same man to the outward eye he had beenfor years past. But before he reached the door he caught the glance of alittle, round, elderly woman at a table close to him, and he stopped. She had a faded, showy bonnet, and she carried her worn clothes with anair. He recognised the companion and friend of a famous prima donnawhom he had not seen for years. 

"You've forgotten me, but I've not forgotten you. "

It was a cherry, Irish voice. 

"I get coffee and a roll, and you have the _diner à prix fixe_. And youhave given me a champagne supper in your day! Well! and how are you?"

"Nicely, thank you, Miss O'Meara; you see I have not forgotten!" Then ina lower voice, "But I thought the Signora left you money?"

"She did, bless her; but it was here one day and gone the next!Good-night, and good luck to you, " she laughed. 

The little duenna of a dead genius evidently did not want him to stay, and he felt his way down the pitch dark stairs, and emerged on thestreet. A very small, brown hand was held out for a penny, and for thefirst time in his life he refused a street beggar with real regret. 

"'Here one moment, and gone the next, '" he muttered, looking down thebrilliantly lighted street to where the motors, carriages, and cabscrowded round the doors of a great theatre. "It's the history of thewhole show in a nutshell. "

If Sir Edmund was troubled at the thought that Molly believed in him, Molly was infinitely more troubled at his belief in her. 

After he left her she went to her room. She had to dine out and she mustget some rest first. As in most of the late eighteenth century houses inLondon, the bedrooms had been sacrificed to the rooms below. But Mollyhad the one very large room that looked over the park. She threwherself down on a wide sofa close to the silk-curtained bed. The sunglinted still on the silver backs of the brushes and teased her eyes, and she got up and drew down the blinds. The dressing-table was largeand its glass top was covered with a great weight of old gilt bottlesand boxes. 

Miss Carew had once been amused by the comment of a young manicuristwho, after expressing enthusiastic admiration of the table, hadconcluded with the words:

"But what I often say to myself is that it's only so much more to leavein the end. "

But Molly had not laughed when the words were repeated; they gaveexpression to a feeling with which she sometimes looked at many thingsbesides her dressing-table--they might all prove only so much more toleave in the end!

She sank exhausted again onto the sofa. Why had he come? Why could henot leave her alone? Did she want his friendship, his pity, hisconfidence? Why look at her so kindly when he must know how he hurt her?She had felt such joy when she saw that he believed in her. The ideathat she was still innocent and unblemished in his eyes was just for themoment an unutterable relief. An unutterable relief, too, it had felt atthe moment, to be able to accept his defence of himself. That he wasstill lovable, and that he had no dark thoughts of her, had been suchjoy, but only a passing joy. Had he not told her in horribly plainspeech that he loved Lady Rose, and would love her to the end? All this, which was so vital to Molly, was but an episode in a friendship that wasa detail in his life!

But now, alone, trying to see clearly through the confusion, howunbearable it had been to hear him say, "That you with your youth andyour innocence and your candour.... " He had thought it too horrible tosuspect her, and by that confidence he made her load of guilt almostunendurable. 

She could not go on like this, could not live like this. The silence wasfar more unbearable now that a human voice had broken into it, a voiceshe loved repudiating with indignant scorn the possibility of suspectingher! She must go somewhere, she must speak to some one. But at thismoment it was also evident that she must dress for dinner. 

CHAPTER XXIX

THE RELIEF OF SPEECH

There is quite commonly a peculiar glow of sunshine just before a storm, a brightness so obviously unreliable that we are torn between enjoymentand anxiety. I have known no greater revelation of Nature's glories, even in a sunset hour, than in one of these moments of glow before thedarkness of storm. And in a man's life there is sometimes an episode sobright, so full of promise, that we feel its perfection to be themeasure of its instability. 

Such a moment had come to Mark Molyneux. The time of depression andtrial, the time when a vague sense of danger and a vague sense ofaspiration had made him turn his eyes towards the cloister, had ended inhis taking his work more and more earnestly and becoming surprisinglysuccessful in his dealings with both rich and poor. 

It seemed during the past winter that Mark would carry all before him;he had come into close contact with the poor, and in the circle in whichhis personal influence could be felt there was a real movement ofreligious earnestness and moral reform. There was a noticeable glow ofzeal in the other curates and in the parish workers, who, with one ortwo exceptions, were enthusiastic in their devotion to him personallyand to his notions of work. Even after Easter several of therecently-cured drunkards were persevering, and other notoriously badcharacters seemed determined to show that the first shoots of theirawakened moral life were not merely what gardeners call "floweringshoots, " but steady growths giving promise of sound wood. 

Mark's sermons were becoming more and more the rage, and people wereheard to say that he was the only Catholic preacher in London, exceptingperhaps one or two Jesuit Fathers; while he had also the tribute ofattention from the press, which he particularly disliked. 

Meanwhile, the old rector was still gruff and still proffered snubswhich were gratefully received, for Mark was genuinely anxious not to bemisled by the atmosphere of praise and affection in which he was living. 

Nothing warned him of impending danger (to use a phrase of old-fashionedromance) when he was told that Miss Dexter was asking to see him. He hadnot seen her for a long time, and was quite glad that she should come. 

He looked young, eager, and happy as he came quickly into the parlour, but after a few minutes the simple warmth of his manner changed into amore negative politeness. There was something so gorgeous in Molly'sappearance, and so very strange in her face, that even a man who hadseen less of the world than is obtained in a year on the mission inLondon, could not fail to be somewhat puzzled. 

Molly hardly spoke for some moments, and silence was apparentlyinevitable. Then she burst out, without preparation, in a wild, incoherent way, with her whole life's story. The story of a childdeserted by her mother, neglected by her father, taken from the ayah whowas the only person who had ever loved her, and sent like a parcel tothe care of a hard and selfish aunt who was ashamed of her. It mighthave been horribly pathetic only that it was impossible that so muchegotism and bitterness should not choke the sympathy of the listener. But as the story came to Molly's twenty-first year, the strange, bitterself-defence (she had not yet explained why she should defend herself atall to Father Molyneux), all the unpleasing moral side of the storybecame merged in the sense of its dramatic qualities. 

Molly had never told it to anyone before now, and, indeed, she had notrealised several features of the case until quite lately. She told wellthe disillusion as to her mother, her own single-handed fight with life, the double sense of shame as to her mother's past, and her own ambiguousposition. She told him how she felt at first meeting Rose Bright, of herown sense of sailing under false colours, and she actually explained, inher strange pleading for a favourable judgment, how everything thathappened had naturally hardened her heart and made her feel as if shehad been born an outcast. Lastly, she told how Sir Edmund Grosse hadpursued her mother with detectives, and, as she had for a time believed, had pursued herself with the hypocritical appearance of friendship. Shehad been wrong, it seemed now, in judging him so harshly, but it hadhurt terribly at the time. 

Through all this Mark was struggling against the repulsion thatthreatened to drown the sympathy he wanted to give her. But he had, naturally, not the faintest suspicion as to what was coming or thatMolly was confiding in him a story of her own wrong-doing. He wasabsolutely confounded when she went on, still in the tone of passionateself-defence, to tell how she had found the will leaving the whole ofSir David's fortune to Lady Rose. He simply stared at Molly when shesaid:

"Who could suppose for a single moment that I should be obliged, onaccount of a scrap of paper which was evidently sent to my mother forher to dispose of as she liked, to become a pauper and to give a fortuneto Lady Rose Bright?"

But although he was too astounded for speech, and his face showedstrange, stern lines, it was now that there awoke in his heart thepassionate longing to help her; he saw now her whole story in the mostpathetic light, from the little child deserted by her mother, to thewoman scorned and suffering, left by the same mother in such a gruesometemptation. The greatness of the sin provoked the passionate longing tosave her. The man who had given up Groombridge Castle and all itentailed had not one harsh thought for the woman who had fallen intocrime to avoid the poverty he had chosen for his own portion. 

"It's a hard, hard case, " he murmured, to Molly's surprise. 

She had been so occupied in her own outpouring that she had hardlythought of him at first, except as a human outlet for her story madesafe by the fact that he was a priest. But when he had betrayed hissilent but most eloquent amazement, she had suddenly realised what theeffect of her confidences might be on such a man, and half expectedanathemas to thunder over her head. 

Then he tried to find out whether there was any kind of hope that thewill had, in fact, been sent to her mother to be at her disposal. Butsuddenly Molly, who had herself suggested this idea, rent it to piecesand brought out the whole case against her mother (and, consequently, against herself) with a fierce logic of attack. 

This was more like the Molly whom he had known before, and Mark felt theatmosphere a little clearer. Having left not the faintest shadow of adefence for her own action, she suddenly became silent. After somemoments she leant forward. 

"Do you know, " she said, in a tone so low that he only just caught thewords, "I see now what must have happened. It is strange that I neverthought of it before. I see it now quite clearly. Of course the will andthe letter were wrongly addressed, and probably some letter to my motherwas sent to Lady Rose. "

"That does not follow, " said Father Molyneux. 

"But it's not unlikely, " argued Molly. "It is more probable that the twoletters should be put into the wrong envelopes than that one should beaddressed to the wrong person. It's a mistake that is made every day, only the results are usually of less consequence. It must have beencurious reading for my mother--that letter about herself to Lady RoseBright. "

"It is so difficult, " said Mark, feeling his way cautiously, "to be sureof not acting on fancied facts when there are so few to go upon. Do yousuppose that the detective in Florence had any definite plan of actiongiven to him by his employer? For just supposing that your guess isright, they may have got some clue to what happened in the letter thatwas sent by mistake to Lady Rose. Have you no notion at all whetherthey may not now have got some evidence to prove that there was anotherwill?"

Molly shook her head. 

"Do you think, " she said, "they would have been quiet all this time ifthere had been any real evidence at all? It is three years since SirDavid died, and six months since my mother died. "

She did not notice how Mark started at this information. Had MissDexter, then, been in possession of this letter to Lady Rose and thelast will for six months?

"You were not sent these papers at once?" he ventured to ask. 

"Yes; Dr. Larrone, who attended my mother, brought them to me. He leftFlorence two hours after she died. "

Another silence followed. 

"It seems to me that a great deal might be done by a privatearrangement. Probably their case is not strong enough, or likely to bestrong enough, for them to push it through. It should be arranged thatyou should receive the £1000 a year that Sir David intended to give yourmother. "

Molly laughed scornfully. 

"I'd rather beg my bread than be their pensioner. No, no; you entirelymistake the situation. I shall have no dealings with them at all--nononsense about arbitration or private arrangements. I won't give themany opportunity of feeling generous. It must"--she spoke very slowly andlooked at him fiercely--"with me it must be all or nothing, and"--shegot up suddenly and began smoothing her gloves over her wrists--"and asI don't choose to starve it must be all. But if I can't go through withit (which is quite possible) I shall throw up the sponge and get out ofthis world as quickly as possible. "

"If you have made up your mind, " said Mark sternly, "to defy God, inWhom I know that you believe, to defy the laws of man, whose punishment_may_ come, whereas His punishment must come, why have you told me allthis?"

"I had to tell some one; I was suffocating. You don't know"--she stoodlooking out of the window a strange expression of hunger and lonelinesssucceeding the fierceness of a few moments before--"you don't know whatit is to have in your own mind a long, long story about yourself thathas never been told. To have been lonely and hardly treated and deceivedand spurned, and never to have put your own case to any one human being!To have cried from childhood till twenty-two, knowing that nobody reallycared! There comes a time when you would rather say the worst ofyourself than keep silence. To accuse yourself is the natural thing;silence is the unnatural thing. "

"Good God!" said Mark, rising, "don't stop there. If you must accuseyourself, pass judgment also. Class yourself where you have chosen withyour eyes open to stand. Would you allow any amount of provocation andunhappiness to excuse a systematic fraud? Do you think that the thiefbrought up to sin has less or more excuse than you have? Are you theonly person who has known a lonely childhood? Can you tell me here inthis room that God never showed you what love really is? He has neverleft you alone, and you wish in vain now that He would leave you alone. For your present life is so unbearable that you feel that you maychoose death rather than go on with it. "

"I shall pay heavily for the relief of speech if I am to have a sermonpreached all to myself, " said Molly insolently. "I was speaking of theneed of human love; I was speaking of all I had suffered, and it is easyfor you to retort upon me that I might have had Divine Love only that Ichose to reject it. Tell me, were you brought up without a mother'slove?"

"No; I had--I have a mother who loves me almost too much. "

"Have you known real loneliness?"

"I believe every man and woman has known that the soul is alone. "

Molly shook her head. 

"That is a mood; mine was a permanent state. Have you ever known what itis to see God's will on one side, and all possibilities of humanhappiness, glory, success, and pleasure, opposed to it?"

The young man blushed deeply. 

"Yes, I have. "

Molly was checked. 

"I forgot, " she answered; "but still you don't understand. You were anintimate friend of God when He asked you for the sacrifice, whereas I--Ihad only an inkling, a suspicion of that Love. Besides, you were notasked to give all your possessions to your enemies! No; too much hasbeen asked of me. "

"Can too much be asked where all has been given?" asked Father Molyneux. 

"That is an old point for a sermon, " said Molly wearily. "You don'tunderstand; you are of no use to me. Good-bye! I don't think I shallcome again. "

CHAPTER XXX

THE BIRTH OF A SLANDER

After that visit to Father Molyneux the devil seems to have entered intoMolly. It was a devil of fear and, consequently, of cruelty. What shedid to harm him was at first unpremeditated, and it must be allowed thatshe had not at the moment the means of knowing how fearful a harm suchwords as hers could do. She said them too when terror had driven her toany distraction, and when wine had further excited her imagination. Still it would not be surprising to find that many who might haveforgiven her for a long, protracted fraud, would blot her out of theirown private book of life for the mean cruelty of one sentence. 

Not many hours had passed after the visit before Molly was furious withherself for her consummate folly in giving herself away to the youngpriest, who might even think it a duty to reveal what she said. 

She had once told Mark that she might soon come to hate him, as hatredcame most easily to her. There was now quite cause enough for thishatred to come into being. Molly had two chief reasons for it. First, she was in his power to a dangerous extent and he might ruin her if hechose; secondly, she was afraid of his influence--chiefly of theinfluence of his prayers--and she dreaded still more that he shouldpersuade her to ruin herself. 

One evening Molly had been with Mrs. Delaport Green and two young men toa play. It was a play that represented a kind of female "Raffles"--athief in the highest ranks of society, and the lady Raffles had blackhair. The lady stole diamonds, and fascinated detectives, and evenbeguiled the ruffianly burglar who had wanted the diamonds for himself. It was a far-fetched comparison indeed, but it worried and excited Mollyto the last degree. They went back to supper at Miss Dexter's house, andthere one more lady and another man joined them. They sat at a gorgeouslittle supper at a round table in the small dining-room, Mrs. DelaportGreen opposite Molly, and Lady Sophia Snaggs, a spirited, cheeryIrishwoman, separated from the hostess by Billy, with whom the latterhad always, in the past weeks, been ready to discuss the poverty and thefailings of Sir Edmund Grosse. Of the other two men, one was elderly, bald, greedy, fat and witty, and the other was a soldier, spare, red andrather silent but extremely popular for some happy combination ofqualities and excellent manners. It would seem hardly worth while to sayeven this little about them, only that it proved of some importance thatthe few people who heard Molly's words that night, and certainlyrepeated them afterwards, had unfortunately rather different and ratherwide opportunities of making them known. 

The Florentine looking-glasses that once belonged to Sir Edmund Grosse, with their wondrous wreaths of painted flowers, looked down from threesides of the room and reflected the pretty women and their gowns, theold silver, the rare glass, and the flowers. They were probablyrefreshed by the exquisite taste of the little banquet that might recallthe first reflection of their youth. Morally there was a rift within thelute among the guests, for Molly betrayed that Adela had got on hernerves. Lady Sophia Snaggs poured easy conversation on the troubledwaters, but at last the catastrophe could not be averted. 

At a moment when the others were silent Adela was talking. 

"Yes; I went to hear him preach, and it is so beautiful, you know. Crowds; the church was packed, and many people cried. You _should_ go. And then one feels how real it is for him to preach against the world, because he gave up so much. "

Molly drained her glass of champagne and leant across. 

"Whom are you talking about?"

"Father Molyneux. "

"I thought so. "

"Have you heard him preach?" asked Lady Sophy. 

"I used to, but I never go now. " She again leant forward and spoke thistime with unconcealed irritation. "Adela, I don't go now because I knowtoo much about him. "

There was immediate sensation. 

Molly slowly lit a cigarette. Even then she did not know what she wasgoing to say, but she had determined on the spur of the moment, andchiefly from sheer terror, to put Mark out of court if she possiblycould. 

"He is a humbug, " she proclaimed in her low, incisive tone. 

"Oh! come now, " said Billy. "A man who gave upGroombridge--extraordinary silly thing to do, but he is not a humbug!"

Molly turned on him. 

"Yes, he is. He knows he made a great mistake and he would undo it if hecould. "

"Molly, it can't be true!" cried Adela almost tearfully. "If you hadonly heard him preach last Sunday you couldn't say such hasty, unkind, horrid things!"

"It is true, " said Molly. 

"Our hostess is pleased to be mysterious, " said the fat man, and "youknow, " turning to Mrs. Delaport Green, "it's very likely that he issorry he made such a sacrifice, but I don't think that prevents itshaving been a noble action at the time. "

"Or makes him a humbug now, " said the soldier. "I believe he is anuncommonly nice fellow. "

"Oh! she means something else, " said Lady Sophia, looking at Molly withcuriosity. "What is it you have against him?"

Molly felt the table to be against her, and it added to her nervousirritability. She was not in any sense drunk, and the drugs she tookwere in safe doses at present; yet she was to a certain degreeinfluenced both by the champagne she had just taken, and the injectionshe had given herself when she came in from the theatre. 

"You will none of you repeat what I am going to say?"

"I probably shall, " said the big guest, "unless it is excessivelyinteresting; otherwise I never remember what is a secret and whatisn't. "

But Molly did not heed him. 

"Well, " she said, "it is a fact that Father Molyneux would give up theRoman Church to-morrow if a very intimate friend of mine, who couldgive him as much wealth as he has lost, would agree to marry him afterhe ceased to be a priest!"

"Oh! how dreadfully disappointing!" cried Adela. 

"Why shouldn't he?" said Billy. 

"It seems a come-down, " said the fat man; and the soldier said nothing. 

"Stuff and nonsense, " said Lady Sophia firmly. "Somebody has beenhumbugging you, Molly. "

But being a lady who liked peace better than warfare, she now went on tosay that she had had no notion how late it was until this moment, andthat she really must be off. Her farewell was quite friendly, butMolly's was cold. 

The departure of Lady Sophia made a welcome break, and, in spite of thehostess being silent and out of temper, the men managed to divert theconversation into less serious topics. But they were not likely toforget what Molly had impressed upon their minds by the strangevehemence with which she had emphasised her accusations. 

"She meant herself, I suppose?" asked Billy, when leaving the house withhis stout fellow guest. "Do you believe it?"

"It was very curious, very curious indeed. Do you know I rather doubt ifshe wholly and entirely believed it herself. "

Billy was puzzled for a moment, thinking that some difficult mentalproblem had been offered for his digestion. 

"Oh, I see, " he said, as he opened his own door with his latch-key. "Heonly meant that she was telling a lie; I suspect he is right too. "

CHAPTER XXXI

THE NURSING OF A SLANDER

Meanwhile, in shadowy corners of Westmoreland House, Miss Carew lived amonotonous but anxious life. For days together she hardly saw Molly, andthen perhaps she would be called into the big bed-room for a long talk, or rather, to listen to a long monologue in which Molly gave vent toviews and feelings on men and things. 

Molly's cynicism was increasing constantly, and she now hardly everallowed that anybody did anything for a good motive. She had moods inwhich she poured scandal into Miss Carew's half excited and curiousmind, piling on her account of the wickedness and the baseness of thepeople she knew intimately, of the sharks who pursued her money, and, most of all, she showered her scorn on the men who wanted to marry her. 

Listening to her Miss Carew almost believed that all the men Molly metwere _divorcés_, or notoriously lived bad lives, and hardly veiled theirintention to continue to do the same after obtaining her hand and hermoney. 

Molly would lie on a sofa, in a gorgeous kind of _déshabille_ which costalmost as much as Miss Carew spent on her clothes in the whole year, andapparently take delight in scaring her by these hideous revelations. She was so strange in her wild kind of eloquence, and it was soimpossible to believe all she said, that the doubt more than onceoccurred to Miss Carew whether it might be a case of the use of drugs. The extraordinary personal indulgence of luxury was unlike anything theolder woman had ever come across. Then there was no system, nothingbusiness-like about Molly as there often is in women of the modernworld. Miss Carew dimly suspected that any society of human beingsexpects some self-discipline, and some sacrifice to ordinary rules. Asit was she wondered how long Molly's neglect of small duties and herfrequent insolence would be condoned. 

All this, which had been coming on gradually, was positively nauseous tothe middle-aged Englishwoman whose nerves were suffering from thestrain, and she came to feel that it would be impossible to endure itmuch longer. It would be easier to drudge and trudge with girls in theschoolroom for a smaller salary than to endure life with Molly if shewere to develop further this kind of temper. 

For months now Miss Carew had lived under a great strain. From theevening when she had found Molly sitting on the floor with the tin boxopen before her, and old, yellow letters lying on the ground about it, she had been almost constantly uneasy. She could not forget the sight ofMolly crouching like a tramp in the midst of the warm, comfortable room, biting her right hand in a horrible physical convulsion. It was of nouse to try to think that Molly's condition that night was entirely theresult of illness, or that the loss of her unknown mother had upset herto that degree or at all in that way. The character of Molly's mentalstate was quite, quite different from the qualities that come of griefor sickness. Then had followed the very anxious nursing, during whichall other thoughts had been swallowed up in immediate anxiety andresponsibility. 

During Molly's convalescence, in the quiet days by the sea-side, MissCarew began to reflect on a kind of coherent unity in the delirious talkshe had listened to during the worst days of the illness. And she alsonoticed that Molly, by furtive little jokes and sudden, irrelevantquestions, was trying to find out what Miss Carew had heard her say. Then it became evident that Molly attributed all the excitement of thatnight to her subsequent illness--only once, and that very calmly, alluding to the fact of her mother's death. 

Miss Carew had no wish to penetrate the mystery of the black box and thefaded letters. She had a sort of instinctive horror of the subject, butshe could not but watch the fate of the box when they came back to theflat. Molly paid no attention to it whatever, and said in a naturaltone:

"I shall send my father's dispatch box and sword-case and my owndispatch boxes in a cab. Would you mind taking them and having them putin the little room next to my bed-room?"

But in the end Molly had taken them herself, as she thought Miss Carewhad a slight cold. Miss Carew always had a certain dislike to the doorof the little room next to Molly's, which had evidently been once usedfor a powder closet. She did not even know if the door were locked ornot, and she never touched the handle. She had an uncanny horror ofpassing the door, at least so she said afterwards; probably inretrospect she came to exaggerate her feelings as to these things. 

She was puzzled and confused: her health was not good, and her facultieswere dimmed. It was probably the strain of living with Molly whom shecould no longer control or guide, and who was so evidently in dire needof some one to do both. She felt dreadfully burdened withresponsibility, both as to the things she did understand and the thingsshe did not understand. What she could not understand was a sense ofmoral darkness, like a great, looming grey cloud, sometimes simply darkand heavy, and at other times a cloud electric with coming danger. Shefelt as if burdened with a secret which she longed to impart, only thatshe did not know what it was. At times it was as if she carried somemonstrous thing on her back, whilst she could only see its dark, shapeless shadow. Her self-confidence was going, and her culture was souseless. What good was it to her now to know really well the writings ofBurke, or Macaulay--nay, of Racine and Pascal? She had never beenreligious since her childhood, but in these long, solitary days in thegreat house that grew more and more gloomy as she passed about it whenMolly was out, she began to feel new needs and to seek for old helps. 

Molly was sometimes struck by the change in her companion. Miss Carewseemed to have grown so futile, so incoherent and funny, unlike the MissCarew who had been her finishing governess not many years ago. 

The sight of Carey's troubled, mottled face began to irritate Molly toan unbearable degree. 

"Why not have a treatment for eczema and have done with it? You used tohave quite a clear skin, " she cried, in brutal irritation one morning. 

"Oh! it's nerves--merely nerves, " said poor Miss Carew apologetically. 

"Then have a treatment for nerves, " cried Molly furiously. "It is tooridiculous to have blotches on your face because I have a bad temper!"

It was the night after the little supper party at which the slander wasborn that Molly said this rude thing, and then abruptly left thedrawing-room to join a hairdresser who was waiting upstairs. Almostimmediately afterwards Adela Delaport Green was standing over the stiffchair on which Miss Carew was sitting, very limp in figure, and holdinga damp handkerchief to her face. 

"How d'ye do? They told me Molly was here, " she said in a disappointedvoice, and her eyes ranged round the room with the alertness of asportswoman. 

Adela had come with a purpose; she had come there to right the wrong andto force Molly to tell the truth. 

"She was here a moment ago. She has just gone up to the hairdresser, "said Miss Carew as she got up, quickly restoring the damp handkerchiefto her pocket and composing her countenance, not without a certaindignity. She liked Adela, who was always friendly and civil wheneverthey met. 

That little lady threw herself pettishly into a deep chair. 

"So tiresome when I haven't a minute to spare, and I suppose he willkeep her nearly an hour?"

"Can I take a message?"

"Oh! no, thanks, dear Miss Carew, don't go up all those horrid steepsteps. Do rest and entertain me a little. I am sure you feel these hotdays terribly. "

"I find it very cool and quiet here, " said Miss Carew, a little sadly. 

"I'm afraid it's lonely, " cried Adela. 

"Well! I oughtn't to grumble about that. "

"No, you never do grumble, I know; but I feel sometimes that you must betired and anxious, placed, as you are, as the only thing instead of amother to poor, dear Molly!"

The fierce, quick envy betrayed in that "poor, dear Molly" did not reachMiss Carew's brain, and a little sympathy was very soothing. 

"Now, could any fortune stand this sort of thing?" asked Adela. 

The companion shook her head sadly, but would not speak. 

"You know that she has bought Sir Edmund Grosse's old yacht? And thatshe is taking one of the best deer forests in the Highlands? And is ittrue that she is thinking of buying Portlands?"

"Oh, yes!" sighed Miss Carew. "There is some new scheme every day. "

"She has everything the world can give, " said Adela sharply. "But, youknow, " she went on, "people won't go on standing her manners as they donow, even if she can pay her amazing way! Do you know that her cousin, Lady Dawning, declares she won't have anything more to do with her? Notthat that matters very much; old Lady Dawning hardly counts, now thatMolly has really great people as her friends, only little leaks let inthe water by degrees. "

A pause, and then suddenly:

"Do you know Father Molyneux?"

"Yes, " said Miss Carew, who was glad to change the subject. "He is verycharming. "

"I didn't know he was a friend of Molly's. "

"Oh! didn't you? She took a great fancy to him last autumn; he used tocome to luncheon. "

"Did he come often?"

"Oh! I think so, but I don't remember exactly. "

"And has he been coming here lately?"

"I really don't know. I have my meals by myself now; the hours were soirregular, and I am too old and dull for Molly's friends. I know shewent to see him a few days ago, and she came back looking agitated. Iwas rather glad--I thought it would be good for her, but I fear it wasnot. She has been more excited, I think, these two or three days. Hernerves are really quite overwrought; she allows herself no quiet. Yes;she was very much excited after seeing Father Molyneux. "

Miss Carew was talking more to herself than to Adela. 

"I thought perhaps he had pressed her to become a Roman Catholic;certainly he upset her in some way. "

Adela's small eyes were like sharp points as she looked at the olderwoman. 

Then was it really true? Oh! no; surely not. But then, what else couldhe have said to upset Molly?

At that moment Molly's maid came into the room. 

"Miss Dexter has only just heard that you were here, madam. She is verysorry you have been waiting. She wished me to say that she is obliged togo immediately to a sale at Christie's, and would you be able to go withher?"

Adela declined, perceiving that Molly was in no mind for a private talk, and having parted affectionately from Miss Carew, went her way to havea chat with Lady Dawning. 

In the afternoon she met several of her Roman Catholic acquaintances ata charity performance in a well-known garden, and she pumped all thoseshe could decoy in turn into a _tête-à-tête_ as to Father Molyneux. Shewas in reality devoured with the wish to know the truth. She had her ownthin but genuine share of ideality, and she had been more impressed byMark's renouncement of Groombridge Castle than by anything she had metwith before. 

But gradually, as she hunted the story, she gave him up, not because ofany evidence of any kind, but because she did not find him regarded asanything very wonderful. She had need of the enthusiasms of others tomake an atmosphere for her own ideals, and almost by chance she had notmet anyone much interested in the young preacher. Then she had dimbackwaters of anti-Popery in her mind, and they helped the reaction. Shehad come out, lance in rest, to defend the victim of calumny; in a veryfew days she had thrown him over, and was explaining pathetically toanybody who would listen that she had had a shock to her faith inhumanity. And the story, starting by describing her own state of mindand being almost entirely subjective, ended in bringing home to herlisteners with peculiar force the objective facts as asserted by Molly. Catholics, she found, when she came to this advanced state ofpropagation, were aghast at her story. They did not believe it, but theywere excessively annoyed, and were, for the most part, inclined to thinkthat Mark could not have been entirely prudent. But non-Catholics were, naturally, more credulous. 

A calumny is a quick and gross feeder. It has a thousand different waysof assimilating things "light as air, " or things dull from the ennuiwhich produced them, or things prickly with envy, or slushy, greenthings born of unconscious jealousy, or unpleasant things born of falsepieties, or hard views born of tired experience, or worldly products ofincredulity, or directly evil suggestions, or the repulsions of satiatedsensuality, or the bitter fruits of melancholia, or the foreshadowingsof insanity, or the mere dislike of the lower moralities for the higher, or the uneasiness felt by the ordinary in the presence of the rare, orthe revolt felt by the conventional against holier bonds, or the prattleof curiosity, or the roughness of mere vitality, or the fusion of mindsat a low level. 

This particular calumny was well watered and manured with all theseby-products of human life, and it grew to full size and height with arapidity that could not have been attained under less favourableconditions. 

BOOK IV

CHAPTER XXXII

ROSE SUMMONED TO LONDON

Rose was back in London the second week in July, summoned back ratherimperiously by Mr. Murray, Junior. The house had been shut up since thedeparture of her tenants at Whitsuntide, and she had hoped not to reopenit until the autumn. She had intended to go directly to her mother'shome in the country as soon as they could leave Paris. It was becoming aquestion whether it would be a greater risk for Lady Charlton to endurethe heat in Paris or the fatigues of the long journey. Mr. Murray'sletter decided them to move. Rose must go, and her mother would not staybehind alone. Lady Charlton decided to pay a month's visit to heryoungest daughter in Scotland, as Rose might be kept in London. 

It was a disappointment. The house in London would be nearly as stuffyas Paris. Rose disliked the season and was in no mood for the staleechoes of its dying excitements. She would not tell her friends that shewas back; she would keep as quiet as she had been in Paris. 

The first morning, after early service and breakfast, she went to thelibrary to wait for the lawyer's visit. It was the only room in whichto receive him; the dining-room, and drawing-room, and the littleboudoir upstairs, were not opened. Rose was inclined to leave them asthey were, with the furniture in brown wrappers, for the present; butshe would rather have seen Mr. Murray in any room but the library. 

The morning sun was full on the windows that opened to the rather drearygarden at the back. She wondered why Mr. Murray had written so urgently, and why Edmund Grosse had not written for several weeks. Up to now theyhad done all this horrid business between them, and she had only hadoccasional reports from her cousin. Now she must face the subject withthe lawyer himself. She was puzzled to account for the change in thesituation. 

At the exact moment he had mentioned, Mr. Murray's tall person with itsheavy, bent head appeared in the library. As they greeted they were bothconscious that it was in this same room, seated at the widewriting-table still in the same place, and still bearing the largephotograph of Sir David Bright, where he had first told her of thestrange dispositions of her husband's will. He remembered vividly herlook then--undaunted and confident--as she had gently but firmlyasserted that there must be another will. But had she not also said itwould never be found?

But the present occupied the lawyer much more than the past. He waseager and a little triumphant in his story of the progress of the case, and did not notice that the sweet face opposite to him became more andmore white as he went on. He told her all he had told Sir Edmund when hefirst got back from the yacht; he told of the mysterious visit he hadreceived from Dr. Larrone, and how he could prove from the letters ofthe Florentine detective that Madame Danterre had sent the doctor toEngland to take a certain small, black box to Miss Dexter. 

Then he paused. 

"I told Sir Edmund how our Florentine detective, Pietrino, had madefriends with one of the nurses, and that she described Madame Danterreordering the box to be opened and having a seizure--a heartattack--while the letters were spread out on her bed. Nurse Edith saidthen that she had put them back in a hurry and locked the box, and thatit had not been reopened by Madame Danterre. Some weeks later when shewas near her end, Madame Danterre had a scene with Dr. Larrone whichended in his consenting to take the box to London as soon as she wasdead, but the nurse was sure that the doctor was told nothing as to thecontents of the box. That was as much as we knew up to Easter, and whilewaiting for the arrival of Akers, and Stock, the other private who hadwitnessed the signature. They got here in Easter week, and I saw themwith Sir Edmund, and we both cross-questioned them closely. Akers'sevidence is beyond suspicion, and is perfectly supported by that ofStock. He described all that happened at the witnessing of the General'ssignature most circumstantially, but, of course, he knew nothing of thecontents of the paper. But now I have more important evidence than anywe have had so far, and the extraordinary thing is that Sir Edmund doesnot wish to hear it. I cannot understand why!"

Rose remained silent. She was looking fixedly at a paper-knife which sheheld in her hand. 

It suddenly struck the lawyer as a flash of most embarrassing lightthat possibly there was some complication of a dangerous and tender kindbetween Sir Edmund and his cousin. He could not dwell on such a notionnow--it might be absolute nonsense, but it made him go on hastily:

"I have had a visit from Nurse Edith, and as Pietrino suspected, sheknows much more than she would allow to him. I think she was waiting tosee if money would be offered for her information, but Pietrino wouldnot fall into the risk of buying evidence. He waited; she was watcheduntil she came to London, and she had not been here twenty-four hoursbefore she came to me. She declares now that, as she was gathering upthe papers, she had seen that the long letter Madame Danterre had beenreading when she had the attack of faintness was written to some onecalled Rose. She knew it was that letter which had done the mischief. She slipped it into her pocket when she put the rest away. I believe itwas naughty curiosity, but she wishes us to think that she knew thewhole scandal about the General's will, and did what she did from asense of justice. When off duty she took the paper to her room, and whenshe opened it she found the will inside it. In her excitement she calledthe housemaid, an Englishwoman with whom she had made friends, and shecopied the will while they were together, and the names of Akers andStock--of whom she could not possibly have heard--are in her copy. Ihave seen that copy, Lady Rose, and----" He paused and glanced at herfor a moment, and then his eyes sought the trees in the garden even asthey had done when he had made that other and awful announcement on theday of the memorial service to Sir David. Rose flushed a little, andher breathing came quickly, but she made no sign of impatience. 

"Sir David left the whole of his fortune to you subject to an annualpayment of a thousand a-year to Madame Danterre during her lifetime. "

Complete silence followed. Lady Rose either could not or would notspeak. Out of the pale, distinguished slightly worn face the eyes lookedat Mr. Murray with no surprise. Had she not always said that she did notbelieve the iniquitous will Mr. Murray had brought her to be the trueone, but had she not also maintained that the true will would never befound? She did not say so to Mr. Murray, but in fact she shrank frommaking too sure of Nurse Edith's evidence. She had so long forbiddenherself to believe in the return of worldly fortune or to wish for it. 

Mr. Murray coughed. No words of congratulation seemed available. At lasthe went on:

"Nurse Edith says she did not read the letter which was with the will. Directly she went on duty in the morning, and while Madame Danterre wasasleep she put the papers back in the black box and the key of the boxin its usual place in a little bag on a table standing close by the headof the bed. It was, as I have said, this same box which was put into Dr. Larrone's care before he started on his mysterious journey to see MissDexter. Now our position is very strong. We have evidence of thewitnessing of a paper by two men. We have the copy of the will made bythe nurse and witnessed by the housemaid, and it bears the signatures ofthose two men. Then you must remember that, in a case of this kind, thecourt is much more likely to set aside a will leaving property away fromthe family than if the will in dispute had been an ordinary one infavour of his relations. "

"Oh! it is horrible--too horrible!" cried Rose. "There must be somemistake. That young girl I met at Groombridge! Even if the poor motherwere really wicked, that girl cannot have carried it on!"

Rose had leant her elbows on the table, and clasped her white handstightly and then covered her face with them for a moment. 

"I can't believe it. I feel there is some terrible mistake, and we mightruin this girl's life. It would be ill-gotten, unblest wealth. "

The lawyer noted with surprise that these two--Sir Edmund and LadyRose--were not more anxious for wealth, rather less so, since both hadknown comparative poverty. 

"I don't believe anyone is the better for living on fraud, Lady Rose, and I don't believe you have any right to drop the case. You have tothink of Sir David's good name and of his wishes. The will you aresuffering from was a portentous wrong. "

Rose trembled. Had she not felt it the most awful, the most portentouswrong? Had it not burnt deep miserable wounds in her soul? The wholehorror of the desecration of her married life had been revealed to herin this room by this man. Did she need that he should tell her what thatmisery had been? The words he had used then were as well known to her asthe words he had used to-day. 

Rose said after a longer pause, and with slight hesitation:

"And Sir Edmund does not know what Nurse Edith told you? He has not seenthe copy of the will?"

"No; I wanted him to, but he refused to hear any more on the subject. Icannot understand it at all. " He spoke with considerable irritation, hisbig forehead contracted with a deep frown. "Sir Edmund, after making theguess on which the whole thing has turned, after discovering Akers andStock, after spending large sums in the necessary work----"

"Has he spent much money?" Rose flushed deeply. 

But Mr. Murray, who usually had more tact, was now too full of hisgrievance to pause. 

"He spent money as long as he could, and now takes no more interest inthe matter on the ground that he can no longer be of any use. Why, itwas his judgment we wanted, his perceptions; no one could be of more usethan Sir Edmund!"

"And who is paying the expenses now?"

"Ah! that is the reason why I wished to see you as soon as possible. Ifelt that I could not, without your approval, continue as we are now. The last cheque from Sir Edmund covered all expenses to the end of theyear. I have advanced what has been necessary since then, and if youreally wish the thing dropped, that is entirely my own affair. But I domost earnestly hope that you will not do anything so wrong. I feel verystrongly my responsibility towards Sir David's memory in this matter. "

"I feel, " said Rose, but her manner was irresolute, "that the scandalhas been forgotten by now; things come and go so fast. He will beremembered only as a great soldier who died for his country. "

"It may be forgotten, " said Mr. Murray in a stern voice she had neverheard before. "It may be forgotten in a society which is always needingsome new sensation and is always well supplied. But there is a lessfluctuating public opinion. We men of business keep a clearer view ofcharacter, and we know better how through all classes there is a verdictpassed on men that does not pass away in a season. Do you think, madam, that when men treasure a good name it is the gossip of a London seasonthey regard? No; it is the thoughts of other good men in which they wishto live. It is the sympathy of the good that a good man has a right to. I believe in a future life, but I don't imagine I know whether inanother world they rejoice or suffer pain by anything that affects theirgood name here. But I do know, Lady Rose, that deep in our nature is thesense of duty to their memory, and I cannot believe that such aninstinct is without meaning or without some actual bearing on departedsouls. I don't expect Sir David to visit me in dreams, but I do expectto feel a deep and reasonable self-reproach if I do not try to clear hisname. "

The heavy features of the solicitor had worked with a good deal ofemotion. The thought, the words "departed souls, " were no mere words tohim in these summer days while Mrs. Murray, Junior, was supposed to bedoing well after an operation in a nursing home, and the doctors wereinclined to speak of next month's progress and on that of the monthafter that, and to be silent as to any dates far ahead. In hisprofessional hours he did not dwell on these things, but it was theactual spiritual conditions of the life he and his wife were leadingthat gave a strange force to his words. 

"She never loved him, " thought Mr. Murray as he looked out of thewindow. He was on the same side of the writing-table that he had been onwhen he had first told her of the deep insult offered to her by SirDavid. He did not realise now the intensity of the contempt he had feltthen for the departed General as he looked at his photograph. It wasintolerable, he had thought then, that a man should have those large, full eyes, that straight, manly look and bearing, who had gone to hisgrave having deliberately planned that his dead hand should so deeplywound a defenceless woman, and that woman his sweet, young wife. Murray's mind was so full now of relief at the idea that Sir David haddone his best at the last, that in his relief he almost forgot that, ina woman's mind the main fact might still be that there had been a MadameDanterre in the case!

But Rose now, as when he had first told her of Madame Danterre'sexistence, was seeking with a single eye to find the truth. It hadseemed to her then a moral impossibility to believe that her husband hadmeant to leave this horrible insult to their married life. David hadbeen incapable of anything so monstrous; he had not in his charactereven the courage of such a crime. 

But now the key to the situation, according to Mr. Murray, was Molly;and Rose again brought to bear all that she had of perception, ofexperience, of instinct, to see her way clearly. She was silent; then atlast she looked up. 

"Mr. Murray, Miss Dexter could not commit such a crime. Why, I know her;I spent some days in a country house with her. I know her quite well, and I don't like her very much, but she really can't have done anythingof the kind, and therefore, the case won't be proved. I am sure itwon't. And if it fails only harm will be done to David's memory, notgood. "

"That is what Sir Edmund said, but believe me, Lady Rose, you haveneither of you anything to go upon. You think it impossible, but youdon't either of you see the immense force of the temptation. Some crimesmay need a villainous nature. This, if you could see it truly, onlyneeds one that is human under temptation, ignorant of danger, andambitious. "

"But then, was that why Edmund would have nothing more to do with thecase?" thought Rose. 

The look of clear, earnest, searching in Rose's eyes was clouded by afrown. 

The clock struck twelve. Mr. Murray rose. 

"I am half an hour late for an appointment. Lady Rose, forgive me; I aman old man, and maybe I take a harsh view of what passes before me. Butthere is nothing, let me tell you, that alarms me more in the presentday than the way in which men and women lose their sense of duty intheir sense of sentimental sympathy. "

CHAPTER XXXIII

BROWN HOLLAND COVERS

That afternoon Rose was standing by the window in the drawing-room whenshe became conscious that her gown was quite hot in the burning sun, and, undoubtedly, its soft, grey tone would fade. She drew back andpulled down the blinds. 

It was not the first time she had put off her black, for, in the Parisheat, it had become intolerable, and she had certainly enjoyed her visitto an inexpensive but excellent dressmaker, who had produced this greygown with all its determined simplicity. 

Rose looked round at the drawing-room now. The furniture in hollandcovers was stacked in the middle of the room; the pictures were wrappedin brown paper with large and rather unnecessary white labels printedwith "Glass" in red letters. The fire-irons were dressed in somethingthat looked like Jaeger and the tassels of the blinds hung in yellowcambric bags. Rose smiled a little as she recalled how strange andstrong an impression a room in such a state had made on her in herchildhood. The drawing-room in her London home had seemed incomparablymore attractive then than at any other time. Lady Charlton had oncebrought Rose up to see a dentist on a bright, autumn day. She had notbeen much hurt, but it was a great comfort when the visit was over. Sheand her mother had dinner on two large mutton chops, and some apricottartlets from a pastry-cook, things ordered by Lady Charlton with a viewto giving as little trouble as possible to two able-bodied women whowere living on board wages, and both of whom were, in private life, excellent cooks. Lady Charlton was anxious, too, not to give trouble bysending messages, having quite forgotten that there was also a boy wholived in the house. So, after lunch, she had gone out to find a cab forherself, and had left Rose to rest with a book on the big morocco sofain the dining-room. 

Rose had found her way to the drawing-room, and she could see now thehalf-open shutter and the rich light of the autumn sun turning all thedust of the air to gold in one big shaft of light. The child had neverseen the house when the family was away before, and with awestruck, mysterious joy, she had lifted corners of covers and peered under chairsand recognised legs of tables and footstools. Then she had stood up andtaken a comprehensive view of the whole of this world of mountains andvalleys, precipices and familiar little home corners, all covered inbrown holland, like sand instead of grass, all golden lights and softshadows. 

What had there been so very exciting in it--an excitement she couldstill recall as keenly now? Was it the greatness of the revolution, orsurprise at the new order of things? It was such a startlinginterruption of all the usual relations between the furniture of thehouse and its human beings. A great London house wrapped up in the oldway spoke more of the old order its influence, its importance, than didthe house when inhabited, and out of its curl papers. Nothing couldspeak more of law and order and care, and the "proper" condition ofthings, and the self-respect of housemaids, the passing effectiveness ofsweeps, and the unobtrusive attentiveness of carpenters! But to thechild there had been a glorious sense of loneliness and licence as shedanced up and down the broad vacant spaces and jumped over the rolls ofTurkey carpets. 

Rose envied that child now, with an envy that she hoped was not bitter. It is not because we knew no sorrows in our childhood that we would fainrecall it. It is because we now so seldom know one whole hour of itslicensed freedom, its absolute liberty in spite of bonds. 

A loud door-bell, as it seemed to Rose, sounded through the house as sheclosed the shutter she had opened when she came in. She knew whose ringit must be, and came quietly downstairs with a little frown. 

Edmund Grosse had been shown into the library. The room looked east, andwas now deliciously cool after the street. The dark blinds were half-waydown, and a little pretence at a breeze was coming in over the burntturf of the back garden. 

Edmund's manner as he met her was as usual, but tinged perhaps with alittle irony--very little, but just a flavour of it mingled with theimmense friendliness and the wish to serve and help her. 

Rose was, to his surprise, almost shy as she came into the room, but inanother moment she was herself. 

"Mamma has borne the journey splendidly. I've had an excellent accountin a long telegram this morning. "

But while she told him of their journey and of their life in Paris, arather piteous look came into the blue eyes. Was she not to hear any ofEdmund's own news? Was she not to be allowed to show any sympathy? Shemight not say how she had been thinking of him, dreaming of how nobly hehad met his troubles, praying for him in Notre Dame des Victories. Shesaw at once that she must not; there was something changed. It was tooodd, but she was afraid of him. She shook herself and determined not tobe silly. She would venture to say what she wished. 

"Are things----" she began, but her voice trembled a little as, raisingher head, she saw that he was watching her. "Are things as bad as youfeared?"

He at once looked out of the window. 

"Quite as bad as possible. I am just holding out till I can get somework. Long ago, soon after I left the Foreign Office, I was asked to dosome informal work in Egypt; they wanted a semi-official go-between fora time. I wish I had not refused then; I have been an ass throughout. IfI had even done occasional jobs they would have had some excuses forputting me in somewhere now on the ground of my having had experience. Ihave just written two articles on an Indian question, for I know thatpart of the world as well as anybody over here, and they may lead tosomething. Meanwhile, I am very well, so don't waste sympathy on me, Iam lodging with the Tarts, where everything is in apple-pie order. "

"Oh, I am glad you are with those nice Tarts!" cried Rose, with genuinewomanly relief, that in another class of life would have found form andexpression in some such remark as that she knew Mary Tart would keepthings clean and comfortable, and would do the airing thoroughly. 

Edmund's voice alone had made sympathy impossible, but he was a littleannoyed at the cheerful tone of Rose's words about the Tarts. It wasunlikely that she could have satisfied him in any way by speech or bysilence as to his own affairs. But why was she so very well dressed? Hehad got so accustomed to her in soft, shabby black that he was not sureif he liked this Paris frock; the simplicity of it was too clever. 

There was silence, and Rose rearranged a bowl of roses her sister hadsent her from the country. She chose out a copper-coloured bud and heldit towards him, and a certain pleading would creep into her manner asshe did so. 

Edmund smiled. She was really always the same quite hopeless mixture ofsoft and hard elements. 

"Have you seen Mr. Murray, Junior?" he asked. 

"Yes; he came this morning, and I can't conceive what to do. At last Igot so dazed with thinking that this afternoon I have tried to forgetall about it. "

"That will hardly get things settled, " said Edmund, rather drily. 

Tears came into her eyes, and were forced back by an effort of will. Then she told him quite quietly of Nurse Edith's evidence. 

"You mean, " he explained, "that there is a copy of the real will leavingeverything to you. I can hardly believe it. In fact, I find it harder tobelieve than when I first guessed at the truth. I suppose it is aneffect on the nerves, but now that we are actually proved right I amsimply bewildered. It seems almost too good to be true. "

Rose was also, it seemed, more dazed than triumphant. He felt it verystrange that she had not told him the great news as soon as he cameinto the room. 

"What made you say that you could not conceive what to do? There can beno doubt now. " He spoke quickly and incisively. 

"I cannot see, " she said at last, "what is right. Mr. Murray is verypositive, and absolutely insists that it is my duty to allow the thingto go on. "

"Of course, " Edmund interjected. 

"But then, if he is mistaken! He really believes that Miss Dexterreceived the will from Dr. Larrone and has suppressed it. "

Edmund got up suddenly, and looked down on her with what she felt to bea stern attention. 

"And that, " she concluded, looking bravely into the grave eyes bent onher, "I absolutely decline to believe!"

"Of course, " said Grosse abruptly, "it's out of the question. It's justlike a solicitor--fits his puzzle neatly together and is quite satisfiedwithout seeing the gross absurdity of supposing that such a girl couldcarry on a huge fraud. A perfectly innocent, fresh, candid girl, broughtup in a respectable English country house--the thing is ridiculous!"

He spoke with great feeling; he was more moved than she had seen him fora long time past, perhaps that was why she felt her own enthusiasm forMolly's innocence just a little damped. He sat down again as abruptly ashe had risen. 

"But it would be madness to drop the whole affair. This evidence ofNurse Edith's is really conclusive; and the only thing I can see to besaid on the other side would be that David might have sent the will toMadame Danterre to give her the option of destroying it. But there isjust another possibility, which Murray won't even consider, that Larronedestroyed the will on the journey. "

"Do you know, " said Rose, with a smile, "I believe it's conceivable thatit is in the box, but that she has never opened the box at all! Ibelieve a girl might shrink so much from reading that woman's papersthat she might not even open the box. "

"No one but a woman would have thought of such a possibility, but Idaresay you are right. "

He looked at her more gently, with more pleasure, and she instantly feltbrighter. 

"Then don't you think it would be possible to get at some plan, somearrangement with her? It seems to me, " she went on earnestly, "that weought to try to do it privately. Perhaps we might offer her theallowance that would have been made to her mother. If she could beconvinced herself that the fortune is not really hers she might give itup without all the horrid shame and publicity of a trial. "

"Yes, but the scandal was public, and you have to think of David's goodname. "

"Yes; but then you see, Edmund, the true will would be proved publicly, and the explanation of the delay would be that it had not been foundbefore. "

"She would have to expose her wretched mother. "

"Not more than the trial would expose her; whether we won the case orlost it, Madame Danterre must be exposed. But if I am right how could itbe done?"

"I think I had better do it myself, " said Edmund. "I could see MissDexter. I really think I could do it, feeling my way, of course. "

Rose did not answer. She locked her fingers tightly together assomething inarticulate and shapeless struggled in her mind and in herheart. She had no right, no claim, she thought earnestly, trying to keepcalm and at peace in her innermost soul. But she did not then orafterwards allow to herself what she meant by "right" or by "claim. "

She looked up a moment later with a bright smile. 

"Yes, " she said, "you would be the best--far the best. Miss Dexter wouldfeel more at her ease with you than with me or anyone I can think of. "

"Of course, I must consult Murray first, " said Edmund, absorbed in thethought of the proposed interview. "I ought to go now; I have anappointment at the Foreign Office--probably as futile as any of myefforts hitherto when looking for work. "

He spoke the last words rather to himself than to his cousin, and thenleft her alone. He did not question as he walked through the streetsacross the park whether he had been as full of sympathy to Rose as hehad ever been; he was far too much accustomed to his own constancy toquestion it now. But somehow his consciousness of Rose's presence hadnot been as apparent as usual. No half ironic, half tender comments onher attitude at this crisis had escaped him. He had been morebusiness-like than usual, and, man-like, he did not know it. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE WRATH OF A FRIEND

Canon Nicholls had had a hard fight with a naturally hot temper, and hisservant would have given him a very fair character on that point if hehad been applied to. But there came a stifling July morning when nothingcould please him. He had been out to dinner the night before, and it wasthe man's opinion that he had "eaten something too good for him. " He hadbeen to church early, and had come back without the light in his face heusually brought with him, as if the radiance from the sanctuary lamploved to linger on the blind face. He was difficult all the rest of themorning, and the kind, patient woman who read aloud to him and wrote hisletters became nervous and diffident, thinking it was her own fault. 

In the afternoon he usually took a stroll with his servant for guide, and then had a doze, after which he went to Benediction at aneighbouring convent. But to-day he settled into his arm-chair, and saidhe meant to stay there, and that he wanted nothing, and (with moreemphasis) nobody. 

He was, in truth, greatly disturbed in his mind. He had heard things hedid not like to hear of Mark Molyneux. He had been quite prepared forsome jealousy and some criticism of the young man he loved. Nobodycharms everybody, and if anybody charms many bodies, then the rest ofthe bodies, who are not charmed, become surprised and critical, if nothostile. It is so among all sets of human beings: the Canon was no acridcritic of religious persons, only he had always found them to be quitehuman. 

The immediate cause of the acute trouble the Canon was going throughto-day had been a visit of the day before from Mrs. Delaport Green. Adela, who, as he had once told Mark, sometimes looked in for a fewminutes, was under the impression that she very often called on the oldblind priest, and often mentioned her little attempts to cheer him upwith great complacence, especially to her Roman Catholic friends, as ifshe were a constant ray of light in his darkness. She had not seen himsince her return from Cairo, but her first words were:

"I was so sorry not to be able to come last week, " spoken with the airof a weekly visitor. 

But the Canon thought it so kind of her to come at all that he was nocritic of details in her regard. 

She had cantered with a light hand over all sorts ofsubjects, --Westminster Cathedral, the reunion of Churches, her ownCatholic tendencies, her charities, the newest play (which she describedwell), and her anxiety because her husband ate too much. Then, at last, she lighted on Mark's sermons. 

Canon Nicholls spoke with reserve of Mark; he was shy of betraying hisown affection for him. 

"Yes; it is young eloquence, fresh and quite genuine, " he said inresponse to Adela's enthusiasm. 

"It sounds so very real, " said Adela, with a sigh. "One couldn'timagine, you know, that he could have any doubts, or that he could besorry, or disappointed, or anything of that sort--and yet----"

"And yet, what?" asked the Canon. 

"And yet--well, I know I am foolish, and I do idealise people and makeup heroes--I know I do! It is such a pleasure to admire people, isn'tit? And after he gave up being heir to Groombridge Castle! I was stayingthere when poor, dear Lord Groombridge got the news of his ordination, and it was all so sad and so beautiful, and now I can't bear to thinkthat Father Molyneux is sorry already that he gave it all up. "

"Sorry that he gave it up--!"

Adela gave a little jump in her chair. It made her so nervous to see ablind man excited. But curiosity was strong within her. 

"I am afraid it is quite true; a friend of mine who knows him quitewell, told me. "

"Told you _what_?"

"That he was unhappy, and has doubts or troubles of some kind. I didn'tunderstand what exactly, but she knows that he will give it all up--thevows and all that, I mean--if----"

"If what?"

Adela was not really wanting in courage. 

"If a certain very rich woman would marry him. It seems such acome-down, so very dull and dreadful, doesn't it?"

"You know all that's a lie!"

"Well, it was all told to me. "

"But you knew there was not a word of truth in it, only you wanted tosee how I would take it. And I thought you were a kind-hearted woman!How blind I am!"

Adela was galled to the quick. A quarrel, a scolding, would have beentolerable, and perhaps exciting, but this naïve disappointment inherself, this judgment from the man to whom she had been so good, wastoo much!

"I thought it was much more kind to let you know what everybody issaying, that you might help him. I am very sorry I have made a mistake, and that I must be going now. It is much later than I thought. "

"Must you?" There was the faintest sarcasm in the very polite tone ofthe Canon's voice. 

Nor had this conversation been all; for out at dinner that night theCanon had been worried with much the same story from a totally differentquarter. It was after the ladies had left the dining-room, and thegossip had been rougher. 

He gave all his thoughts to brooding over the matter next day. Markcould not have managed well--must have done or said something stupid, and made enemies, he reflected gloomily. 

Canon Nicholls had been young once, and almost as popular a preacher asMark, and he did not underrate the difficulties. But it was his firmpersuasion that, with tact and common-sense they were by no meansinsurmountable. What really distressed the old man was that perhaps Markhad been right in thinking that he personally could not surmount them. And it was Canon Nicholls's doing that he was not by this time a novicein a Carthusian Monastery! Therefore the Canon's soul was heavy withanxiety as to whether he had made a great mistake. 

"He must be a fool, or else it's just possible that he has got anuncommonly clever enemy. " The last thought revived the old man alittle, and he received his tea without any of the demonstrations ofdisgust he had shown on drinking his coffee at breakfast. 

Presently the subject of his thoughts came upon the scene, and thevisitor saw at once that his old friend was unlike himself. The Canonwas exceedingly alert from the moment Mark came into the room, trying tocatch up the faintest indication, in his voice or movements, as towhether he were in good or low spirits; he almost thought he heard aquick sigh as Mark sat down. He could not see that Mark was undeniablythinner and paler than he had been only a few weeks ago, and that hiseyes looked even more bright and keen in consequence. 

"Take some tea, " said the Canon; and then, when he had given him time todrink his tea, he turned on him abruptly. 

"I've heard some lies about you, and I'm going to tell you what theyare. "

"Perhaps it's better to be ignorant. "

"No, it's not, now why did you incite young men to Socialism in SouthLondon?"

"Good heavens!" said Mark. "Well, you shall catch it for that. I willread you every word of that paper; not a line of anything else shall youhear till you've been obliged to give your 'nihil obstat' to 'True andFalse Socialism, ' by your humble servant. "

"But that's not the worst that's said of you. "

"Oh, no! I know that. "

Perhaps if Canon Nicholls could have seen the strained look on the youngface he could have understood. As it was, he believed him to be takingthe matter too lightly. 

"When I was young, " he said, "I thought it my own fault if I madeenemies, and you know where there is a great deal of smoke there hasgenerally been some fire. "

"Then you mean to say, " answered Mark, in a voice that was hard from theeffort at self-control, "that you think it is my fault that lies aretold against me, although you _do_ call them lies?"

"Frankly, I think you must have been careless, " said the old man, leaning forward and grasping the arm of his chair. "I think you musthave had too much disregard for appearances. "

He paused, and there was a silence of several moments, while the tickingof the clock was quite loud in the little room. 

"Unless this is the doing of an enemy, " said Canon Nicholls. 

"I do not know that it is an enemy, " said Mark, "but I know there issome one who is excessively angry and excessively afraid because I knowa secret of great importance. "

"And that person is a woman, I suppose?"

"I cannot answer that, " said Mark. He was standing now with one elbow onthe end of the chimney-piece, and his head resting on his right hand, looking down at the worn rug at his feet. 

"Will you tell me exactly what it is they do say?" said Mark, stillspeaking with an effort at cheerfulness that aggravated the nervousstate of Canon Nicholls. 

And there followed another silence, during which Father Molyneuxrealised to himself with fear and almost horror that he was nearlyhaving a quarrel with the friend he loved so much, and on whose kindnesshe had always counted, and whose wisdom had so often been his guide. Hewas suffering already almost more than he owned to himself, and he hadcome into the room of the holy, blind old man as to a place of refuge. It gave him a sick feeling of misery and helplessness that there seemedin the midst of his other troubles the possibility of a quarrel withCanon Nicholls. This at least he must prevent; and so, leaning forward, he said very gently:

"Do tell me a little bit more of what you mean? I know you are speakingas my friend, and, believe me, I am not ungrateful. I am sure there is adefinite story against me. I wish you would call a spade a spade quiteopenly. "

"They have got hold of a story that you are tired of poverty and thepriesthood, and so on, and that you will give it all up if you canpersuade a certain very rich woman to marry you. "

"That is definite enough. " Mark was struggling to speak withoutbitterness. "And, for a moment, you thought----?" he could not finishthe sentence. 

"Good God! not for a fraction of a second. How can you?"

"Oh! forgive me, forgive me; I didn't mean it. "

Mark knelt down by the chair, tears were flowing from the blind eyes. Canon Nicholls belonged to a generation whose emotions were kept understern control; the tears would have come more naturally from Mark. Therewas a strange contrast between the academic figure of the old man in itsreserved and negative bearing, seriously annoyed with himself forbetraying the suffering he was enduring, and yet unable to check theflow of tears, and the eager, unreserved, sympathetic attitude of theyounger man. After a few moments of silence Mark rose and began tospeak in low, quick accents----

"It is a secret which is doing infinite harm to a soul made for goodthings, and yet it is a secret which I can tell no one, not even you--atleast, so I am convinced. But it is a secret by which people aresuffering. The result is that I cannot deal with this calumny as Ishould deal with it if I were free; and I believe that I have not got tothe worst of it yet. I see what it must lead to. "

He looked down wistfully for a moment, and then went on:

"Last year I had a dream that was full of joy and peace, and that seemedto me God's Will; but, through you, I came to see that I must give itup, and I threw myself into the life here with all my heart. And now, just when I had begun to feel that I was really doing a little good, nowthat I have got friends among the poor whom I love to see and help, Ishall be sent away more or less under a cloud. I shall lose friends whomI love, and whom it had seemed to me that I was called to help even atthe risk of my own soul. However, there it is. If I am not to be aCarthusian, if I am not to work for sinners in London, I suppose someother sphere of action will be found for me. I must leave it to Him Whoknows best. "

Canon Nicholls bent forward, and held out his long, white hands with aneager gesture, as though he were wrestling with his infirmity in hisgreat longing to gain an outlook which would enable him to read a littlefurther into the souls of men. 

"I cannot explain more definitely. It is a case of fighting for a soul, or rather fighting with a soul against the devil in a terrible crisis. I don't know what to compare it to. Perhaps it is like performing asurgical operation while the patient is scratching your eyes out. If Ican leave my own point of view out of sight for the present I can be ofuse, but I must let the scratching out of my eyes go on. "

Mark went to the church early that evening, as it was his turn to be inthe confessional. One or two people came to confession, and then thechurch seemed to be empty. He knelt down to his prayers and soon becameabsorbed. To-night he was oppressed in a new way by the sins, thetemptations, and the unutterable weakness of man; his failures; hisuselessness. Nothing else in Art had ever impressed him so much as thefigure of Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. That beautifulfigure, with all the freshness of its primal grace, stretching out itsarms from a new-born world towards the infinite Creator, had expressed, with extraordinary pathos, the weakness, the failure, almost thenon-existence of what is finite. "I Am Who Am" thundered Almighty Power, and how little, how helpless, was man!

And then, as Mark, weary with the misery of human life, almost repinedat the littleness of it all, he felt rebuked. Could anything be littlethat was so loved of God? If the primal truth, if Purity Itself and LoveItself could make so amazing a courtship of the human soul, how daredanyone despise what was so honoured of the King? No, under all theself-seeking, the impure motives, the horrid cruelties of life, he mustnever lose sight of the delicate loveliness, the pathetic aspiration, the exquisite powers of love that are never completely extinguished. Hemust see with God's eyes, if he were to do God's work. And in thethought that it was, after all, God's work and not his own, Mark foundcomfort. He had come into the church feeling the burden on his shouldersvery hard to bear, and now he made the discovery that it was not he whowas carrying it at all; he only appeared to have it laid upon him whileAnother bore it for him. 

CHAPTER XXXV

THE CONDEMNATION OF MARK

Two excellent and cheerful old persons were engaged in conversation onthe subject of Father Molyneux. The Vicar-General of the diocese, aMonsignor of the higher, or pontifical rank, had called to see theRector of Mark's church, and had already rapidly discussed other mattersof varying importance when he said, leaning back in an old and fadedleather chair:

"What's all this about young Molyneux?"

Both men were fairly advanced in years and old for their age, for theyhad both worked hard and constantly for many years on the mission. Theyhad to be up early and to bed late, with the short night frequentlyinterrupted by sick calls, and on a Sunday morning they had alwaysfasted till one o'clock, and usually preached two or even three times onthe same day. They had never known for very many years what it was to bewithout serious anxiety on the matter of finance. Their lives had beenmodels of amazing regularity and self-control. Their recreationsconsisted chiefly in dining with each other at mid-day on Mondays, andspending the afternoon with whist and music. Probably, too, they haddined with a leading parishioner once or twice in the week. 

In politics they were mildly Liberal, more warmly Home Rulers, but theyput above all the interests of the Church. They were, too, fiercepartisans on the controversies about Church music, and had a zeal forthe beauty and order of their respective churches that was admirable inits minuteness and its perseverance. They both had a large circle offriends with whom they rejoiced at annual festivities at their Colleges, and with whom they habitually and freely censured their immediateauthorities. Those who were warmest in their devotion to the Vaticanwere often the most inclined to make a scapegoat of a mere bishop. Butnow one of these two old friends had been made Vicar-General of thediocese, and it was likely that the Rector would speak to him with lessthan his usual freedom. Lastly, both men had that air of completeknowledge of life which comes with the habits of a circle of people whoknow each other intimately. And neither of them realised in the leastthat the minds of the educated laity were a shut book to them. 

"Well, " said the Rector, and after puffing at his pipe he went on, "wecan hardly get into the church for the crowd, and I am going to put up anotice to ask ladies to wear small hats--toques; isn't that what theycall them?"

"I heard him once, " said the Vicar-General, "and, to tell the truth, itdidn't seem up to much. "

"Words, " said the Rector; "it's Oxford all over. There must be a newword for everything. Why, he preached on Our Lady the other day, and Ideclare I don't think there were three sentences I'd ever heard before!And on Our Lady, too! A man must be gone on novelty who wants to findanything new to say about Our Lady. "

"It doesn't warm me up a bit, that sort of thing, " said theVicar-General. "I like to hear the things I've heard all my life. "

"Of course, " responded the other, "but you won't get that from ourpopular preachers, I can tell you, " and he laughed with some sarcasm. 

"Is he making converts?"

"Too many, far too many; that's just what I complain of. We shall have anice name for relapses here if it goes on like this. "

Both men paused. 

"You've nothing more to complain of?" asked the Monsignor. 

"No--no--" The second "no" was drawn out to its full length. "Of course, he's unpunctual, and he's often late for dinner. I don't know where hegets his dinner at all sometimes. And there are always ladies coming tosee him. If there are two in the parlour and another in the dining-room, and a young man on the stairs, it's for ever Father Molyneux they areasking for. And, of course, he has too much money given him for thepoor, and we have double the beggars we had last year. "

"But, " said the other, "you know there's more being said than all that. There's an unpleasant story, and it's about that I want to ask you. Well--the same sort of thing as poor Nobbs; you'll remember Nobbs?"

"Remember Nobbs! Why, I was curate with him when I first left theseminary. Now, there was a preacher, if you like! But it turned his headcompletely. Poor, wretched Nobbs! It's a dangerous thing to preach toowell, I'm certain of that. "

"Well, it's a danger you and I have been spared, " said the Monsignor, and they both laughed heartily. 

Then they got back to the point. 

"Well, " said the Rector, "there's a lady comes here sometimes who spoketo me about this the other day. It seems she went to see John Nicholls, and the poor old blind fellow bit her head off, but she thought sheought to tell somebody who might put a stop to the talk, and so she cameto me. There's some woman, a very rich Protestant, who gives out openlythat she is waiting till Molyneux announces that he doesn't believe inthe Church, and then they will marry and go to America. Then, anotherday Jim Dixon came along, and a friend of his had heard the tale fromsome Army man at his Club. It's exactly the way things went on aboutNobbs, you know, beginning with talk like that. Really, if it wasn't forhaving seen Nobbs go down hill I shouldn't think anything of it. YoungMolyneux is all straight so far, but so was Nobbs straight at first. "

"A priest shouldn't be talked about, " said the Monsignor. 

"Of course not, " said the Rector. 

"He has started too young, " the Monsignor went on, not unkindly; "it'sall come on in such a hurry; he ought to have had a country missionfirst. But my predecessor thought he'd be so safe with you. "

"But how can I help it?" asked the other hotly; "I'm sure I've done mybest! You can ask him if I haven't warned him from his very first sermonthat he'd be a popular preacher. I've even tried to teach him to preach. I've lent him Challoner, and Hay, and Wiseman, and tried to get him outof his Oxford notions, but he's no sooner in the pulpit than he's off ata hard gallop--three hundred words to a minute, and suchwords!--'vitality, ' 'personality, ' 'development, ' 'recrudescence, ''mentality'--the Lord knows what! And there they sit and gaze at himwith their mouths open drinking it in as if they'd been starved! No, no;it won't be my fault if he turns out another Nobbs--poor, miserable oldNobbs! Now his really were sermons!"

"Well, " said the other, in a business-like tone, "I am inclined to thinkit would be best for him to take a country mission for a few years. I'veno doubt he is on the square now, and that will give him time to quietdown a bit. He'll be an older and a wiser man after that, and he coulddo some sound, theological reading. Lord Lofton has been asking for achaplain, and we must send him a gentleman. I could tell him thatMolyneux had been a little overworked in London, and if he goes down tothe Towers at the end of July, no one will suppose he is leaving forgood, eh?"

"Very well, " answered the Rector; "I don't want anything said againsthim, you know. I've had many a curate not half as ready to work as thisman. "

"No, no; I quite understand. Well, I'll write to him in the course ofthe week. And now about this point of plain chant?" And both men forgotthe existence of Mark as they waxed hot on melodious questions. 

I can't believe that Jonathan loved David more than the second curatehad come to love Mark Molyneux in their work together. It is good tobear the yoke in youth, and it is very good to have a hero worship foryour yoke fellow. Father Jack Marny was a young Kelt, blue-eyed, straight-limbed, fair-haired, and very fair of soul. He would have toldany sympathetic listener that he owed everything to Mark--zeal forsouls, habits of self-denial, a new view of life, even enjoyment ofpictures and of Browning, as well as interest in social science. Allthis was gross exaggeration, but in him it was quite truthful, for hereally thought so. He had the run of Mark's room, and they took turns tosmoke in each other's bedrooms, so as to take turns in bearing therector's observations on the smell of smoke on the upstairs landing. Father Marny had a subscription at Mudie's--his only extravagance--andhe always ordered the books he thought Mark wished for, and Mark alwaysordered from the London library the books he thought would most interestJack. Father Marny revelled in secret in the thought of all that mighthave belonged to Mark, and he possessed, of course most carefullyconcealed, a wonderful old print he had picked up on a counter, ofGroombridge Castle, exalting the round towers to a preposterous height, while in the foreground strolled ladies in vast hoops, and some animalsintended apparently for either cows or sheep according to the fancy ofthe purchaser. 

But what each of the curates loved best was the goodness he discerned inthe other, and the more intimate they became the more goodness theydiscerned. The very genuinely good see good, and provoke good by seeingit, and reflect it back again, as two looking-glasses opposite to eachother repeat each other's light _ad infinitum_. 

It was a Monday, and the rector had gone out to dinner, and the twoyoung men were smoking in the general sitting-room. Father Marny waslooking over the accounts of a boot club, and objurating the handwritingof the lady who kept them. Mark was in the absolutely passive state towhich some hard-working people can reduce themselves; he had hardly theenergy to smoke. A loud knock produced no effect upon him. 

"Lazy brute!" murmured Father Marny, in his affectionate, clear voice, "can't even fetch the letters. " And a moment later he went for themhimself, and having flung a dozen letters over his companion's shoulder, went back to the accounts. 

Ten minutes later he looked up, and gave a little start. He was quick tosee any change in Mark, and he did not like his attitude. He did notknow till that moment how anxious he had been as to the possibility ofsome change. He moved quickly forward and stood in front of the deepchair in which Mark was sitting, leaning forward with his eyes fixed onthe carpet. 

"Bad news?" he asked abruptly. 

"Bad enough, " said Mark, and, very slowly raising his head, he gave asmile that was the worst part of all the look on his face. Jack Marnyput one hand on his shoulder, and a woman's touch could not have beenlighter. 

"It's not----?" he said, and then stopped. 

"Yes, it is, " Mark answered. "I am to be a domestic chaplain to thatpious old ass, Lord Lofton. It seems I need quiet for study--quiet torot in! My God! is that how I am to work for souls?"

It was, perhaps, better for Mark that Jack Marny broke down completelyat the news, for, by the time he had been forced into telling his friendthat it was preposterous to suppose that any man was necessary for God'swork, and that if they had faith at all they must believe that Godallowed this to happen, light began to dawn in his own mind. But he wasalmost frightened at the passionate resentment of the Kelt; he saw therewas serious danger of some outbreak on his part against the authorities. 

"They won't catch me staying here after you are gone!"

"Much good that would do me, " said Mark. "I should get all the blame. "

"They must learn that we are not slaves!" thundered the curate, his fairface absolutely black with wrath. 

"We are God's slaves, " said Mark, in a low voice, and then there wassilence between them for the space of half an hour. 

The door opened and a shrill voice cried out, "There's Tom Turner at thedoor asking for Father Mark, " and the door was banged to again. 

Tom Turner was the very flower of Mark's converts to a good life. 

Father Marny groaned at the name. 

"Let me see him, " he said. "Go out and get a walk. "

"I'd rather see him; I don't know how much oftener----"

The sentence was not finished. He had left the room in two strides. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

MENE THEKEL PHARES

The more Edmund reflected on the matter the more difficult he found itto decide what steps to take in order to approach Molly. In the firstimpulse he had thought only that here was the chance of serving her, ofproving her friend in difficulty, which he had particularly wished for. It would make reparation for the past--a past he keenly defended in hisown mind as he had defended it to Molly herself, but yet a past that hewould wish to make fully satisfactory by reparation for what he wouldnot confess to have been blameworthy. But when he tried to realiseexactly what he should have to tell Molly it seemed impossible. For howcould he meet her questions; her indignant protests? She would becomemore and more indignant at the plot that had been carried on againsther, a plot which Edmund had started and had carried on until quitelately, and which had also until quite lately been entirely financed byhim. Even if he baffled her questions, his consciousness of the factswould make it too desperately difficult a task for him to assume the_rôle_ of Molly's disinterested friend now, although in truth he felt assuch, and would have done and suffered much to help her. 

Edmund had by nature a considerable sympathy with success, with pluck, with men or women who did things well. There are so many bunglers inlife, so few efficient characters, and he felt Molly to be entirelyefficient. Even the over-emphasis of wealth in the setting of her lifehad been effective; it fitted too well into what the modern world wantedto be out of proportion. A thing that succeeded so very well couldhardly be bad form. Hesitation, weakness, would have made it vulgar;hesitation and weakness in past days had often made vulgar emphasis onrank and power, but in the hands of the strong such emphasis had alwaysbeen effective and fitting. There was a kind of artistic regret inEdmund's mind at the thought that this excellent comedy of life asplayed by Molly should be destroyed. And he had come to think itcertainly would be destroyed. 

One last piece of evidence had convinced him more than any other. 

Nurse Edith had a taste for the dramatic, and enjoyed gradualdevelopments. Therefore she had kept back as a _bonne bouche_, to beserved up as an apparent after-thought, a certain half sheet of paperwhich she had preserved carefully in her pocket-book since the night onwhich she had made the copy of Sir David Bright's will. It was theactual postscript to Sir David's long letter to Rose; the long letterNurse Edith had put back in the box and which had remained thereuntouched until Molly had taken it out. The postscript would not bemissed, and might be useful. It was only a few lines to this effect:

"P. S. --I think it better that you should know that I am sending a fewwords to Madame Danterre to tell her briefly that justice must be done. Also, in case anyone, in spite of my precautions to conceal it, isaware that I possessed the very remarkable diamond ring I mention inthis letter, and asks you about it, I wish you to know that I am sendingit direct to Madam Danterre in my letter to her. May God forgive me, and, by His Grace, may you do likewise. "

The sight of David's handwriting, the astonishing verification of hisown first surmise, the vivid memory of Rose unwillingly showing him theletter and the ring and the photograph she supposed to have beenintended for herself, had a very powerful effect on Edmund Grosse. Thewhole story was so clear, so well connected, it seemed impossible todoubt it. Yet he believed in Molly's innocence without an effort. Whatwas there to prove that Madame Danterre had not destroyed the will afterNurse Edith copied it? She had the key and the box within reach, and thedying, again and again, have shown incalculable strength--far greaterthan was needed in order to get at the will and burn it while a nursewas absent or asleep. 

Again, it was to Larrone's interest to destroy that will. They had onlyPietrino's persuasion of Larrone's integrity to set against thepossibility of his having opened the box on his long journey to England, against the possibility of his having read the will, and destroyed it, before he gave the box to Molly. He would have seen at once not onlythat his own legacy would be lost, but, what might have more influencewith him, he must have seen what a doubtful position he must hold inpublic opinion if this came to light. He had been the chief friend andadviser of Madame Danterre, who had paid him lavishly for his medicalservices from her first coming to Florence, and who had made no secretof the legacy he was to receive at her death. He had been with her atthe last, and was now actually carrying on her gigantic fraud by takingthe box to her daughter. Would it not have been a great temptation tohim to destroy the will while he had no fear of discovery rather thanput the matter in Molly's hands? Lastly came Rose's subtle femininesuggestion that the will might be in the box but that Molly had neveropened it. Some instinct, some secret fear of painful revelations, mighteasily have made her shrink from any disclosures as to her mother'spast. Rose was so often right, and the obvious suggestion, that such ashrinking from knowledge would have been natural to Rose and unnaturalto Molly, did not occur to the male mind, always inclined to think ofwomen as mostly alike. 

At the same time he was really unwilling to relinquish the _rôle_ ofintermediary. His thoughts had hardly left the subject since the hour ofhis talk with Rose, and it was especially absorbing on the day on whichMolly was to give a party, to which he was invited--and invited to meetroyalty. He decided that he must that evening ask his hostess to givehim an appointment for a private talk. 

Edmund arrived late at Westmoreland House when the party was in fullswing. He paused a moment on the wide marble steps of the well staircaseas he saw a familiar face coming across the hall. It was the EnglishAmbassador in Madrid, just arrived home on leave, as Edmund knew. He wasa handsome grey-haired man of thin, nervous figure, and he spranglightly to meet his old friend and put his hand on his arm. 

"Grosse!" he cried, "well met. " And then, in low, quick tones he added:"What am I going to see at the top of this ascent? This amazing youngwoman! What does it mean, eh? I knew the wicked old mother. Tell me, wasshe really married to David Bright all the time? Was it Enoch Arden theother way up? But we must go on, " for other late arrivals were joiningthem. When they reached the landing the two men stood aside for amoment, for they saw that it was too late for them to be announced. Royalty was going in to supper. 

A line of couples was crossing the nearest room, from one within. Thegreat square drawing-room was lit entirely by candles in the sconcesthat were part of the permanent decoration. But the many lights hardlypenetrated into the great depths of the pictures let into the walls. These big, dark canvases by some forgotten Italian of the school ofVeronese, gave the room something of the rich gloom of a Venetianpalace. Beyond a few stacks of lilies in the corners, Molly had donenothing to relieve its solemn dignity. As she came across it from theopposite corner, the depths of the old pictures were the background toher white figure. 

She was bending her head towards the Prince who was taking her down--atall, fair man with blue eyes and a heavy jaw. Then as she came near thedoorway she raised her head and saw Edmund. There was a strange, softlight in her eyes as she looked at him. It was the touch of soul neededto give completeness to her magnificence as a human being. The whitegirlish figure in that room fitted the past as well as the present. Thegreat women of the past had been splendidly young too, whereas we keepour girls as children, comparatively speaking. 

Molly had that combination of youth and experience which gives aspecial character to beauty. There was no detailed love of fashion inher gorgeous simplicity of attire; there was rather something subtly inkeeping with the house itself. 

The Prince turned to speak to the Ambassador, and the little processionstopped. 

Edmund was more artistic in taste than in temperament, and he was notimaginative. But he could not enjoy the full satisfaction of hisfastidious tastes to-night, nor had he his usual facility for speech. Hecould not bring himself to utter one word to Molly. They stood for thatmoment close together, looking at each other in a silence that waselectric. No wonder that Molly thought his incapacity to speak awonderful thing; others, too, noticed it. 

"What a bearing that girl has! What movement!" cried the Ambassador, as, after greeting the first few couples who passed him, he drew Grosse to acorner and looked at him curiously. But Edmund seemed moonstruck. Then, in a perfunctory voice, he said slowly. 

"What is the writing in that picture?"

"Mene Thekel Phares, " said his friend. "My dear Grosse! surely you knowa picture of the 'Fall of Babylon' when you see it? Now let us go wherewe shall not be interrupted. Tell me all about this girl with theamazing bearing and big eyes, whom princes delight to honour, andDuchesses to dine with! How did she get dear Rose Bright's money?"

Edmund had never disliked a question more. 

"I'll tell you all I know, " he said unblushingly, "but not to-night, oldfellow. It would take too long. "

And to his joy a countess and a beauty seized upon the terribly curiousdiplomatist and made him take her down to supper. And they agreed whilethey supped exquisitely that the real job dear old Grosse ought to begiven was that of husband to their hostess. 

"But then there is poor Rose Bright. "

"Lady Rose Bright would not have him when he was rich, " he objected. "No; this will do very nicely. If I am not mistaken (and I'm pretty wellread in human eyes), the lady is willing. "

After supper there was dancing. Edmund did not dance. He stood in acorner, his tall form a little bent, merely watching, and presently heturned away. He had made up his mind. He would not try to speak to Mollyto-night, and he would not ask her for a talk. 

She was dancing as he left the room, and he turned half mechanically towatch her. It was always an exquisite pleasure to see her dance. He lefther with a curious sense of farewell in his mind. Fate was coming fast, he knew; he could not doubt that for a moment. He was not the man toavert it. No one could avert it. It was part of the tragedy that, pityher as he might, he could not really wish to avert it. He would give nowarning. Some other hand must write "Mene Thekel Phares" on the wall ofher palace of pleasure and success. 

Edmund Grosse declined the task. 

Molly danced on in the long gallery between its walls of mirrors andtheir infinite repetitions of twinkling candles and dancing figurespleasantly confused to the eye by the delicate wreaths of gold foliagethat divided their panes. In the immeasurable depths of thosereflections the nearest objects melted by endless repetition into dimdistances, and the present dancing figures might seem to melt into a farpast where men and women were dancing also. 

Gallery within gallery in that mirrored world, with very little effortof imagination, might become peopled by different generations. As thefigures receded in space so they receded in time. Groups of humanbeings, with all the subtle ease of a decadent civilisation, ceded theirplace to groups of men and women who moved with more slowness anddignity in the middle distance of those endless reflections. And lookingdown those avenues of gilded foliage into that fancied past, the old crymight well rise to the lips: "What shadows we are, and what shadows wepursue!"

But, whether in the foreground of to-day, or in the secrets that themirrors held of a century before, or in the indistinguishable mist oftheir greatest depths, wherever the imagination roamed, it found inevery group of human beings a woman who was young and beautiful, and yetit could come back to the dancing figure of Molly without any shock ofdisappointment or disdain. 

"But it is daylight!" cried two young men who paused breathless withtheir partners by the high narrow windows, at the end of the gallery, and they threw back the shutters. The growing dawn mingled with thelights of the decreasing candles, with the infinite repetitions of themirror, with the soft music of the last valse. 

And Molly bore the light perfectly, as the chorus of praise and thanksand "good-nights" of the late stayers echoed round her. 

"Not 'good-night' but 'good-bye, '" said a very young girl, looking up atMolly with facile tears rising in her blue eyes. "We go away to-morrow, and this perfect night is the last!"

CHAPTER XXXVII

MARK ENTERS INTO TEMPTATION

The more he realised Molly's danger, the more he believed in herinnocence--the more anxious Edmund became to find a suitable envoy toapproach her from the enemy's side, and one who, if possible, wouldunderstand his position. 

Like most men who have a repugnance to clerical influence he had a greatidea of its power, and a perfect readiness to make use of it. He wasdelighted when he remembered having met Mark Molyneux at Molly's house. The meeting had not been quite a success, but this he did not remember. Edmund's half-sleepy easy manner had been more cordial, but not quite sogood as usual. He was just too conscious of the strangeness of the factthat Edmund Grosse should be talking with a "bon petit curé. " He knewFather Molyneux to be Groombridge's cousin, and to have been considereda man of unusual promise at Oxford, but, all the same, whatever he hadbeen, he was a priest now, and Grosse had never quite made up his mindas to his own manner to a priest. He was so practised in dealing withother people, but not with ecclesiastics. He did not in the leastrealise that the slight condescension and uncertainty in his manner, with all his effort at cordiality, was the outcome of a ratherdeeply-seated antagonism to the claims he conceived all priests to make, in their hearts, on the souls of men. I have known a man, not altogetherunlike Edmund Grosse, to cross the street in London rather than pass apriest on the same pavement. Grosse would not have been so foolish asthat, but still, it was not surprising that the two men did not get onparticularly well. All that Edmund now remembered of this chance meetingwas Molly's evidently deep interest in the young priest, and he recalledher saying at the time when she had been much moved by her mother'scruel letter, that she was going to hear Father Molyneux preach thatevening. From the avowedly anti-clerical Molly, that meant much. 

Edmund knew nothing of the recent talk about Mark, although Mrs. Delaport Green had tried to sigh out some insinuations on the subject intalking to him. Perhaps he was a less receptive listener than of yore, when he had more empty spaces in his mind than he had this year. Hereceived, indeed, a faint impression that Mrs. Delaport Green wassentimentalising over some disappointment she was suffering underacutely with regard to the popular preacher, and had felt her motive tobe curiosity to gain information from himself on some point of which heknew nothing. But if he had been more attentive he might have gainedenough information to make him hesitate to involve poor Mark in Molly'saffairs. 

Almost as soon as he had thought of consulting Mark, he proposed thenotion to Rose, who was enthusiastic in its support. 

It is not necessary to give his letter to Father Molyneux, which had tobe long and careful, and was written after consultation with Mr. Murray. 

Mr. Murray was quite in favour of an informal interview, and disposed toagree in the choice of Father Molyneux as ambassador. "I am not afraidof your letting Miss Dexter know the strength of our case, " he said. "Father Molyneux must judge for himself how far it is wise to frightenMiss Dexter for her own sake. He is, as I understand, to try to persuadeher to produce the will, and I suppose he will assume that she does notknow of its existence among her mother's papers. This would save herpride, and you might come to terms if she would produce it. If you fail, the next course would be for me to insist on an interview, and to carrythings with a high hand. I should say, in effect: 'We are aware that SirDavid Bright made a will on his way to Africa, and we can prove that itwas sent by mistake to your mother, because we have a witness who saw itin her box. It was in her box when it was handed to Dr. Larrone, and ithas been traced, therefore, into your hands. We have a copy of it whichwe can produce if you have destroyed the original, and, if you have notdone so, we can get an order of the court compelling you to produce it. You cannot deny the fact that the will was sent to Madame Danterre bymistake, for you have the letter which accompanied it, and we have thepostscript to the letter taken from the box by a witness whom we areprepared to call. Will you produce the box in which, no doubt, the willhas escaped your notice, or shall we get the order of the court? Thewill has, as I have said, been traced into your hands. ' I doubt if anywoman (at all events one such as you describe Miss Dexter) would resist, and no solicitor whom she consulted, and to whom she told the truth, would advise her to do so--no respectable solicitor, that is to say, and no prudent one. "

When Edmund showed Rose his letter to Father Mark she had only onecriticism to make. She felt that Edmund took too easily for granted thatthe priest would be ready to put his finger into so very hot a pie. Father Mark must be appealed to more earnestly to come to the rescue, and less as if it were quite obvious that he would be ready to do so aspart of his natural business in life. Edmund agreed to add somesentences at her suggestion. 

It is important to realise Mark's state of mind, at the time when thisstrong, additional trial was to come upon him. 

With the full approval of his friend, Canon Nicholls, Mark decided notto take the decree of banishment from London without remonstrance. Hewas not astonished at the result of the talk against him. That his onegreat enemy should have poisoned the wells so easily was not verysurprising. He could not help knowing that the very keenness and ardourof his friends had produced prejudice against him. There was, among thereligious circles in London, a perhaps healthy suspicion of hero worshipfor popular preachers, and of any indiscreet zeal. The great ReligiousOrders knew how to deal with life, and it was safer to have anenthusiasm for an Order than for an individual. Seculars were the rightpeople for daily routine and work among the poor, but for a youngsecular priest to become a bright, particular star was unusual andalarming. 

Jealousy is the fault of the best men because it eludes their mostvigilant examinations, and, while their energy is taken up with visibleenemies, it dresses itself in a complete and dignified disguise andcomes out either as discretion or zeal or a love of humility. 

Mark saw all this less clearly than did the blind Canon, but he realisedit enough not to be surprised at the quick growth of the seed Molly hadsown in well-prepared ground. 

But the blow he did not expect came from his own rector. He went to him, thinking he would back him up in his efforts to get an explanation ofthis sudden order, and he was told, between pinches of snuff, that hehad much better do as he was bid without making a fuss, and that he wasbeing sent to an excellent berth, which was exactly what he needed. Therector was sorry to lose him certainly, but he thought it was the bestpossible arrangement for himself. There was something of grunts andsniffs between the short phrases that did not soften them. Mark becamespeechless with hurt feeling. 

It became clearly evident to Canon Nicholls that the rector and one ortwo of the older priests who had wind of the matter could not see whythere should be any fuss about it. Young Molyneux was under no cloud;why should he behave as if it were a disgrace to be chaplain to poor oldLord Lofton? Was he crying out because London would be in such a bad waywithout him? What the Canon could not get them to see was the effect onpublic opinion. To send Mark away now was to advertise backbiting untilit might become a real scandal. They could not see beyond their ownimmediate circle; if all the priests knew he was really a good fellowthey thought that quite enough. They had a horror of a man makinghimself talked of outside, but they had no notion of giving him thechance to right himself with the outside world. It was much better thathe should go away and be forgotten. 

Canon Nicholls had always been of opinion that the secular clergy inEngland were more hardly treated than the regulars. They were expectedto have the absolute detachment of monks, without the support that aReligious Order gives to its subjects. They were given the standards ofthe cloister in the seminary, and then tumbled out into life in theworld. No one in authority seemed anxious not to discourage a youngsecular priest. To be regular and punctual, to avoid rows, and to keepout of debt were the virtues that naturally appealed to the approval ofa harassed bishop. But a zeal that put a man forward and brought himinto public notice was likely to be troublesome, and such men wereseldom very good at accounts. The type of young man which Markresembled, according to the priests who discussed the question, was nota popular one among them. As a type it had not been found to wash well. 

Canon Nicholls was not popular among them for other reasons, but chieflybecause of a biting tongue. He would let his talk flow without tact ordiplomacy on these questions, and often did far more harm than good, inconsequence. He fairly stormed to one or two of his visitors at theabsurdity of hiding a man away because of unjust slander. It was thevery moment in which he ought to be brought forward and supported inevery way. The fact was that the man was to be sacrificed to thesupposed good of the Church, only no one would say so candidly. Whereas, in reality, by justice to the man the Church would be saved from ascandal!

Mark was outwardly very calm, but he was changed. His friends said thathis vitality and earnestness were bound to suffer in the struggle forself-repression. His sermons were becoming mechanical tasks and theconfessional a weariness. He made his protest, as Canon Nicholls wished, but after the talk with his rector he knew it was useless. He wrappedhimself in silence, even with Father Jack Marny. He began, halfconsciously, to be more self-indulgent in details and the only subjecton which he ever showed animation was a projected holiday inSwitzerland. He once alluded to the possibility of going to Groombridgefor the shooting. 

At first he had not allowed Father Marny to take any of his now painfulwork among the people he was so soon to leave, but, after a week or two, he acquiesced. What was the use when he was to leave them for good andall? It were better they should learn at once to get on without him. Father Marny, in passionate sympathy, was ready to work himself to deathand acknowledge no fatigue. It was easy to conceal fatigue or anythingelse from Mark in his preoccupied state of mind. He showed no interestwhen Lord Lofton wrote him a most warmly and tactfully expressed letterof welcome, in which he told the coming chaplain that he must notsuppose there was not work in plenty to be done for souls in thecountry. 

"Humbugging old men and women who want pensions and soup and blankets!"Mark said with unusual irritation, as he flung the letter to his friend. 

But to the curate Mark was as much above criticism as a martyr at thefoot of the gallows. 

Strangely enough, the first break into this moral fog that was settlingdown in his spiritual world was, of all unlikely things, the letter fromEdmund Grosse. 

When he got Edmund's letter Mark was sulking--there is no other word forit--over his answer to Lord Lofton, which ought to have gone severaldays ago. Of course he was bound by his mission oath to go where he wasplaced, but the authorities might at least have waited to hear from himbefore handing him over as if he were a parcel or a Jesuit. He readEdmund's cramped writing with a little difficulty, and then threw thethree sheets it covered on to the table with a bang, and jumped up. 

"Dash it!" he cried, "this is rather too much. "

He did not stop to think that Edmund could not have been so idiotic asto write that letter if he had known of the state of the case betweenhim and Miss Dexter. It only seemed at the moment that it was anotherinstance of cruelty and utter unfairness, part of the same treatment hewas receiving, which expected a man to be a plaster saint with nothought for himself, no natural feelings, no sense of his ownreputation! First of all he was to be buried, torn from his friends, from his work for souls, from the joy of the Good Shepherd seeking thelost sheep. He was to lose all he loved and for which he had given uphis life, his career, his position, and, for the first time, heenumerated among his sacrifices the possession of Groombridge. Then heblushed for shame--also for the first time. How little _that_ had been, compared to what he had to do now! What had he to do now? And here theLittle Master made his great mistake. He came out of the fog and shadow, he came into the light because he thought it was safe now. 

What had Mark to do that was so much harder? To submit to authority andforgive its blunders. He hesitated for a moment; he almost thought itwas that. Then came the light, and he saw the real crux. What he had todo was to forgive Molly Dexter. He was startled by the revelation, asmen are startled who have been in love without knowing it. He had beennursing hatred and revenge without knowing it, for, until he had becomebitter at the treatment of the authorities, he had felt no anger againstMolly. She had simply been the patient who would scratch out the eyes ofthe surgeon. He was surprised into a quiet analysis of the discovery, and then his thoughts stood quite still. It was only necessary for anoble soul to _see_ such a temptation for him to _fight_ it. But hepassed back from that to the whole of the wrath and hurt feeling that herecognised too. He was angry with those in authority who expected him tobehave like a saint; he had been angry vaguely with Sir Edmund Grosse, but more with circumstances that also demanded of him that he shouldbehave like a saint and do the very worst thing for himself and confirmthe calumny against him by acting as Molly's confidential friend! But hecould not be equally angry at the same time with Miss Dexter, with hisown authorities, with Edmund Grosse, and with circumstances. One injuryalone might have been different, but taken together they suggested aplot and intention. Whose plot? Whose intention?

And the answer was thundered and yet whispered through hisconsciousness. Is was God's plot, God's Will, God's demand, that heshould do the impossible and behave like a saint!

Mark had said easily enough in the first noble instinct of bearing hisblow well: "We are God's slaves. " But that first light had graduallybeen obscured. He had not felt then that the impossible was demanded ofhim. He had come to feel it, and to feel it without remembering thatman's helplessness was God's opportunity. Had he forgotten, erased fromthe tablets of his mind and heart, all he had loved and trusted most?Now all was terribly clear. Augustine, in a decadent, delicate age, hadnot minced matters, and had insisted that all hope must be placed in HimWho would not spare the scourge. "Oftentimes, " he had cried, "does ourTamer bring forth His scourge too. " Mark took down the old, worn book. 

"In Him let us place our hope, and until we are tamed and tamedthoroughly--that is, are perfected--let us bear our Tamer.... Whereas, when thou art tamed, God reserveth for thee an inheritance which is GodHimself.... For God will then be _all in all_; neither will there be anyunhappiness to exercise us, but happiness alone to feed us.... Whatmultiplicity of things soever thou seekest here, He alone will beHimself all these things to thee. 

"Unto this hope is man tamed, and shall his Tamer then be deemedintolerable? Unto this hope is man tamed, and shall he murmur againsthis beneficient Tamer, if He chance to use the scourge?... 

"Whether, therefore, Thou dealest softly with us that we be not weariedin the way, or chastisest us that we wander not from the way, _Thou artbecome our refuge, O Lord_. "

As Mark read, the pain of too great light was softened to him. What hadbeen hard, white light, glowed more rosy until it flushed his horizonwith full glory. 

It wanted a small space in time, but a mighty change in the spirit, before Mark read Edmund's letter with a keen wish to enter into its fullmeaning, and judge it wisely. Having come to himself, he was, as ever, ready to give that self away. He was full of a strange energy; he smiledto feel that the strokes of the lash were unfelt, while consciousnesswas lost in love. This was God's anæsthetic. But it thrilled the soulwith vitality, and in no sense but the absence of pain did it suspendthe faculties. He had no doubt, no hesitation, as to what he must do. Hewould go to Molly, he must see her at once, but not a word should passhis lips of what Edmund wanted him to say. Not a moment must be lost. Who might not betray her danger and destroy her opportunity? Molly mustbe brought to do this thing of herself without any admixture of fear, without any aim or object but to sacrifice all for what was right. Heyearned with utter simplicity that this might be her way out. Let her doit for herself. Let her do it of herself, thought Mark--not because sheis afraid, not because her vast possessions appear the least insecure. And the action would be far more noble just because, at the moment ofrenunciation, the world would, for the first time, suspect her guilt. ToMark it seemed now the crowning touch of mercy that the criminal shouldbe allowed to drink deep of the chalice. "Her own affair"--that was whatthe dying mother had said of the unfortunate child to whom she offeredso gross a temptation. 

And in the depths of his mind there was the conviction that it was aparticular truth as to this individual soul, that not only would theheroic be the only antagonist to the base, but that some such moralrevolution alone could be the beginning of cleansing of what had becomefoul, and the driving out of the noxious and the vile. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

NO SHADOW OF A CLOUD

It was in the evening, and Edmund was waiting in Rose's drawing-roomuntil she should come back from a meeting of one of her charitablecommittees. 

He was walking up and down the room with a face at once very grave andvery alert. Even his carriage during the last few weeks had seemed toRose to have gained in firmness and dignity, and perhaps she was right. Nor had she failed to notice that one or two small, straight pieces ofgrey hair could now be seen near the temples. He looked a little older, a little more brisk, a little more firm, and distinctly more cheerfulsince his reverses. It is no paradox to speak of cheerfulness in sorrow, or to say that the whole nature may be happier in grief than in the daysof apparent pleasure. It is not only in those who have acquired deepreligious peace that this may be true, for even in gaining energy and abalance in natural action, there may be happiness amidst pain. 

Rose came in without seeing that anyone was in the room, and gave astart when she saw the tall figure by the window. The evening lightshowed him a little grey, a little worn in appearance, a little moreopenly kindly in the dark eyes. Something that she had fancied dim andclouded lately--only once or twice, not always--now shone in his facewith its full brightness. 

"Has anything happened, Edmund? Have you come to tell me anything?"

He came across the room to her and took her hand in silence, and thensaid:

"You look tired. Have you had tea?"

"Oh, never mind tea, " she answered. "Do tell me! Seriously, somethinghas happened?"

"It is nothing of any consequence--nothing that need disturb you in theleast. It is only about my own stupid affairs, and, on the whole, it isvery good news. I have just come from the Foreign Office, and they havetold me there that I am to have that job in India, and that the sooner Iam ready to start the better. "

As he spoke he turned from her with a sudden, quick hurt in his heart. It was, after all, only of great importance to himself. He knew shewould be kindly glad that he had got the post he wanted. Had she notalways urged him to some real work? Had she not pressed him again andagain during the last four years, consciously and unconsciously, tobring out all his talents and to do a man's work in a man's way? So shewould be simply glad, and she would wave him "God speed, " and would, nodoubt, pray for him at those innumerable services she attended, andwrite to him long, gentle, feminine letters full of details about allsorts of matters, good or indifferent, and she would ask about hishealth and press him to take care of himself and tell him of any wordthat was spoken kindly of him here in England. And she would somehowmanage to know, or think she knew, that he was doing great things in theEast. And so, no doubt, in the two years in which he was away therewould be no apparent break in this very dear intimacy. But what, inreality, would he know of her inmost feelings, of her loneliness, of hersufferings, of any repentance that might come to her, any softeningtowards himself? He seemed to see all of the two years that were to comein a flash as he stood silent on one side of the neglected tea-table, and Rose stood silent, turning away from him on the other. 

When he raised his eyes, he almost felt a surprise that the figure, alittle turned away from him, was not dressed in a plain, white frock, and that the shadows and the flickering sunlight making its way throughthe mulberry leaves were not still upon her; for that was how, throughlife and in eternity, Rose would be present in the mind of her lover. 

Time had gone; it seemed now as nothing. Whatever changes had comebetween, he felt as if he saw in the averted face that same expressionof sorrowful denial and gentle resistance that had baffled him now forover twelve years. It was still that his soul asked something of thisother purer, gentler, more unworldly, more loving soul, which she, withall her beneficence would not give him. He did no think of theimpracticability of any question of marriage; he did not think in anydefinite sense of their relations as man and woman. At other times hehad known so frequently just the overpowering wish for the possession ofthe woman he loved best, but now she stood to him as the history of hismoral existence here below, and he felt as if, in missing her, he shouldmiss the object and crown of his life. 

At last silence became intolerable. He moved as though he wanted tospeak and could not, and then he said huskily, almost gruffly:

"It is not 'good-bye' to-day, of course, " and then he laughed at thefeebleness of his own words. 

Rose turned to him at that, and he was not really surprised to see thatthe tears were flowing rapidly over her cheeks--tears so large that theysplashed like big raindrops on the white hands which were clasped asthey hung before her. But that made it no easier. He thought very littleof those tears; he felt even a little bitter at their apparentbitterness. He hardened at the sight of those tears; they made him feelthat he could leave her with more dignity, more firmness in his ownmind, than he had ever thought would be possible. 

"Vous pleurez et vous êtes roi?" He hardly knew that he had muttered thewords as he so often muttered a quotation to himself. But Rose did nothear them. She was too preoccupied with her own thoughts and feelings tonotice him closely. Ah! if she had but known before what it would be tolose him! She was horrified as she felt her self-control failing her, and an enormous agony entering into possession of all her faculties. Shewas so startled, so amazed at this revelation of herself. If she hadfelt less, she would have thought more for him. She did not think for amoment what that silent standing by her side meant for him. She knew atlast the selfishness of passion. She wanted him as she had never wantedanyone or anything before. She could only think of the craving of herown heart, the extraordinary trouble that possessed it. Those who havehad a passing acquaintance with love, those who have sown brief passagesof love thoughts over their early youth, can form no notion of whatthat first surrender meant to Rose. "Too late!" cried the tyrant love, the only tyrant that can carry conviction by its mere fiat to theinnermost recesses of a nature. "Too late!--it might have been, but notnow; it is all your own doing; you made him suffer once; you are theonly one to suffer now. You are crying now the easy tears of a child, but there are years and years before you when the tears will not come, call for them as you may; they cannot go on coming from a broken heart. They flow away out of the fissures, and then the dryness and barrennessof daily misery will not let them come again. "

"He never cared as I do, " thought Rose; "he does not know what it is!"

She called her persecutor "it"; she shrank from its name even now withan unutterable embarrassment. When she did turn to Edmund it was more asif to confide to him what she was suffering from someone else; it was sohabitual to her to turn to him. What was the use? what was the use? Howcould she use him against himself? No, no; she must, she must controlherself. She must not tell him; she must let him go quite quietly now;she must make no appeal to the past; he was too generous--she did notwant his generosity. She put her hands to her forehead and pushed thehair backwards. 

"I'm not well, I think, " she said; "the room at the meeting was stuffy. I--I didn't quite understand what you said--I'm glad. "

She sank on to a chair, and then got up again. 

"I'm glad you've got what you wanted, but I'm startled--no, I mean I'mnot quite well. I don't think I can talk to-day--I don'tunderstand--I----"

She stood almost with her back to him then. 

He was so amazed at her words that he could not speak at all. This wasnot sweetness, kindness, pity; this was something else, somethingdifferent; it was almost a shock!

"I am so silly, " she said, with a most absurd attempt at a naturalvoice, "I think I must----" Her figure swayed a little. 

Edmund watched her with utter amazement. All his knowledge of women wasat fault, and that child in the white frock--where was she? Where wasthat sense of his soul's history and its failure, its mystic tragedy, just now? Gone, quite gone, for he knew now that that long tragedy wasended. But Rose did not know it. 

He moved, half consciously, a few feet towards the door. 

"Rose, " he said, in a very low voice, "if it has come at last, don'tdeny it! I have waited patiently, God knows! but I don't want it nowunless it is true. For Heaven's sake do nothing in mere pity!"

"But it has come, Edmund; it has come!" she interrupted him, so quicklythat he had barely time to reach her before she came to him. 

And yet it had been many years in coming--so many years that he couldhardly believe it now; could hardly believe that the white hands he hadwatched so often trembled with delight as they caressed him; couldhardly believe that the fair face was radiant with joy when he, Edmund, ventured to kiss her; could hardly believe that it was of her own wishand will that she leant against him now!

"I ought not to have said it was the stuffy room, ought I?"

It was the sweetest, youngest laugh she had ever given. Then she lookedup at the ceiling where the sun flickered a little. 

"Edmund, it is better than if I had known under the mulberry tree. Tellme you forgive me all I have done wrong. I could not, " she gasped alittle, "have loved you then as I do now, because I had known no sorrowthen. "

And Edmund told her that she was forgiven. But one sin she confessedgave him, I fear, unmixed delight; she was so dreadfully afraid that shehad lately been a little jealous!

Strange--very strange and unfathomable--is the heart of man. It did noteven occur to him as the wildest scruple to be at all afraid that he hadbeen lately a little, ever so little, less occupied with the thought ofher. No shadow of a cloud rested on the great output of a strong man'sdeep affection. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

"WITHOUT CONDITION OR COMPROMISE"

It was on the same evening that Mark succeeded in seeing Molly. He hadfailed the day before, but at the second attempt he succeeded. 

It was the first time he had entered Westmoreland House, and he hadnever, even in the autumn weeks when Miss Dexter had been most cordialto him, tried to see her except by her own invitation. Altogether theposition now was as embarrassing as it is possible to conceive. He hadbeen her confidant as to a crime for which the law sees no kind ofpalliative, no possible grounds for mercy. As he greeted her it wantedlittle imaginative power to feel the dramatic elements in the picture. Molly was standing in the middle of the great drawing-room dressed insomething very white and very beautiful. At any other moment he musthave been impressed by the subdued splendour of the room, and the graceand youth of the dominating figure in the midst. Mark was too absorbedto-day in the spiritual drama which he must now force to its conclusionto realise that he had also come to threaten the destruction of Molly'smaterial world and all the glory thereof. He had, too, so far forgottenhimself, that the mischief Molly had wrought against him had faded intothe background of his consciousness. His absorbing anxiety lay in theextreme difficulty of his task. It would need an angel from Heaven, gifted too with great knowledge of human nature, to accomplish what hemeant to attempt. First he would throw everything into the desperateendeavour to make her give up the will simply and entirely from thehighest motives. But what possibility was there of success? Why shouldhe hope that, just because he called and asked her for it, she wouldgive up all that for which she had sold her soul? He could not feel thathe was a prophet sent by God from whose lips would fall such inspiredwords that the iron frost would thaw and the great depths of her naturebe broken up. In fact, he felt singularly uninspired, and very muchembarrassed. And when he had tried the impossible (he said to himself), and had given her the last chance of going back on this ugly fraud fromnobler motives than that of fear, and had failed--he must then enter onthe next stage and must merge the priest's office in that of theambassador. He must bring home to her that what she clung to was alreadylost, and that nothing but shame and disgrace lay before her. He had thecase, as presented by Sir Edmund's letter in all its convictingsimplicity, clearly in his mind--quite as clearly as the facts ofMolly's own confession to himself. It would not be difficult to crushthe criminal, to make her see the hopeless horror of the trial that mustfollow unless she consented to a compromise. But it was the completenessof her defeat that he dreaded the most; it was for that last stage ofhis plan that he was gathering unconsciously all his nerve-powertogether. He seemed to hear with ominous distinctness her words at theirlast meeting: "If I can't go through with it (which is quite possible)I shall throw up the sponge and get out of this world as soon as I can. "That had been spoken without any sort of fear of detection, without theleast suspicion that she would have no choice in the matter of giving upher ill-gotten wealth. What he dreaded unutterably was the despair thatmust overpower her as he developed the long chain of evidence againsther. As he came into her presence, overwhelmed with these thoughts, hewas also anxiously recalling two mental notes. He must make her clearlyunderstand that he had not betrayed her by one word or hint to SirEdmund Grosse or any living human being; and secondly, he thought itvery important to impress upon her that Sir Edmund and Lady Rose were ofopinion that Larrone had suppressed the will or that Molly had neveropened the box which contained it--were, in fact, of any or everyopinion except that Molly was guilty of crime. For the rest he could, atthis eleventh hour, hardly see anything clearly, and as he shook handswith Miss Dexter an unutterable longing to escape came over him. Molly'sgreeting was haughty--almost rude--but that seemed to him natural andinevitable. He made some comment on a political event which she did notpretend to answer, and then as if speech were almost impossible, heactually murmured that the weather was very hot. 

Then he became silent and remained so. For quite a minute neither spoke. 

Molly was not naturally silent, naturally restrained. She moved uneasilyabout the room; she lit a cigarette, and threw it away again. At lastshe stood in front of him. 

"What made you come to-day?" she asked. 

Her large restless eyes looked full of anger as she spoke. 

"I came to-day partly because I am going away very soon, so I thoughtthat it might be----" He hesitated. 

"But where are you going?" Molly asked abruptly. 

"I am to take a chaplaincy at Lord Lofton's. "

"And your preaching?" cried Molly in astonishment. 

"Is not wanted, " said Mark. 

"And your poor?"

"Can get on without me. "

"You are to be buried in the country?" she cried in indignation; "youare to leave all the people you are helping? But what a horrible shame!What, "--she suddenly turned away as a thought struck her--"what can bethe reason?"

"It seems, " he said very quietly, "that I have been foolish; people aretalking, things are said against me, and things should not be saidagainst a priest. But I did not come here to talk about myself. I camehere----" He paused. 

Molly sat down close to the empty fireplace, and was bending over it, her very thin figure curiously twisted, and one foot twitchingnervously. 

"You are going away, " she said suddenly, "and it is my doing. I did notknow I was doing that; it felt as if hitting at you were the only way todefend myself. Good God! I shall have a lot to answer for!"

She did not turn round; she crouched lower on the low chair andshuddered. 

"And you, " she went on in a low voice, "you want to save my soul! I havealways been afraid you would get the best of it, and now I havedestroyed your life's work. Did you know it was I who was talkingagainst you?"

"I did. "

"And that I have said everything I dared to say against you ever since Itold you my secret?"

"Yes; more or less I knew. "

"Why didn't you tell your authorities the truth long ago?"

"How could I?"

Molly made no answer. She got up in silence and took a key from herpocket and moved toward a small bureau between the windows. She unlockedthe lower drawer and took out a packet of papers, and in the middle ofthis packet was an envelope in which lay the key of the room upstairs. Her movements were slow but unhesitating, and when she left the roomMark had not the slightest idea of what she would do. If he had seen herface as she slowly mounted the great well staircase he might haveunderstood. 

How simple it all was. She reached the top of the many steps with littleloss of breath; she turned to the right into the dark passage that ledto her own room, passed her own door, and put the key in the lock of theone next to it. She knew so exactly which box she sought, though she hadnever seen it since the day when Dr. Larrone brought it to her. Althoughshe had actually come in the cab that brought the small boxes from theflat, she had succeeded in not recognising that one among the numberheaped up together. She knew exactly where it stood now, and how manythings had been piled above the boxes from the flat with seemingcarelessness, but by her orders. 

The shutters were closed, but she could have found that box in inkydarkness, and now a ray from between the chinks fell upon it. She didnot think now of how often she had told herself that she did not knowwhat the box was like. Now it seemed to have been the only box she hadever known in her life. The cases on the top of it were heavy, and Mollyhad to strain herself to move them, but she was very strong, and everyreserve of muscular power was called out unconsciously to meet her need. She did not know that her hands were covered with dust, and that bloodwas breaking through a scratch over the right thumb made by a jaggednail. 

When she came back into the drawing-room, Father Molyneux was sittingwith his back towards her, looking with unseeing eyes into the trees ofthe park. She moved towards him and held out a long envelope. 

"Take it away, " she said, "If I have ruined your life, you have ruinedmine. "

She moved with uncertain steps to the chimney-piece, leant upon it, and, turning round, looked wildly at the envelope in his hands. 

"Why didn't you come for it before?" she asked him. 

Mark could not answer. He was absolutely astonished at what hadhappened. He could hardly believe that he held in his hand a thing ofsuch momentous importance. He had nerved himself for a great fight, buthe had not known what he should say, how he should act, andthen--amazing fact--a few minutes after he came into the room, andwithout his having even asked for it, the will was put into his hands!Nothing had been said of conditions or compromise; she only asked theamazing question why he had not come for it _before_!

"You were right, " she mused, "right to leave me alone. I wonder, do youremember the words that have haunted me this summer?--Browning's wordsabout the guilty man in the duel:

 'Let him live his life out, Life will try his nerves. '

It has tried my nerves unbearably; I could not go on, I have not thestrength. I might have had a glorious time if I had been a littlestronger. As it is, it's not worth while. "

It is impossible to convey the heavy dreariness of outlook conveyed byher voice and manner. There seemed no higher moral quality in it all. 

"Half a dozen times I have nearly sent for you. But"--she did notshudder now, or make the restless movements he had noticed when he firstcame in: Molly had regained the stillness which follows afterstorms--"as soon as you are gone I shall be longing to have it backagain. Men have done worse things than I have for thirty thousand ayear! It won't be easy to be a pauper; I think it would be easier tokill myself. "

She was silent again, and Mark could not find one word that he was notafraid to say--one word that might not quench the smoking flax. 

"I had to give it to you without waiting to talk of the future, or Imight not have given it at all. But I should be glad if the case couldbe so arranged that my mother's name and my own should not be dragged inthe mud. It is only an appeal for mercy--nothing else. " Her voicetrembled almost into silence. 

"I think that is all safe, " said Mark. "I think if you will leave it allin my hands I can get better conditions for you than you suppose now. They will be only too glad. "

"But I gave it to you without conditions. " Her manner for the moment wasthat of a child seeking reassurance. 

"Thank God! you did, " he cried, with an irrepressible burst of sympathy. 

"It's not much for a thief to have done, is it? But now I should like todo it all properly. Tell me; ought I to come away from here to-day, andgive everything I have here to Lady Rose? If I ought, I will!"

"No, certainly not, " said Mark. "I have been asked to offer you liberalconditions if you would agree to a compromise. I said they had come toquite the wrong person. No, no, don't think I told them. They have freshevidence that there was a will, and they believe they know thatimportant papers were brought to you by Dr. Larrone when your motherdied. "

"And you came to frighten me with this?" There was a touch of reproachin her tone. 

"No, I came, hoping you would give me the paper, as you have done, without knowing this. "

Evidently this news impressed Molly deeply, but she did not want todiscuss it. Presently she said:

"I am glad you came in time before I was frightened. How you have wantedto make me save my soul! You have helped me very much, but I cannot savemy soul. "

"But God can, " said Mark. 

"You see, " she went on, "I never know what I am going to do--going tobe--next. Imagine my being a thief! It seems now almost incredible. AndI don't know what may come next. "

For a second she looked at him with wild terror in her eyes. 

"Think how many years I have before me. How can I hope that I----?"

"You will do great, great good, " said Mark, with emotion. 

She shook her head. 

"David committed a worse sin than yours. "

Molly smiled, a little, incredulous, grey smile, for a moment. 

"I may be good to-day. I may be full of peace and joy even to-night--butto-morrow? You told me once that I should only know true joy if I hadbeen humbled in the dust. I am low enough now, but the comfort has notcome yet, and, even if God comforts me, it won't last. I shall still beI, and life is so long. "

"You must trust Him--you must indeed. He will find a solution. You areexhausted now with the victory you have gained. Rest now, and then dothe good things you have done before. Trust in the higher side of yourcharacter; God gave it to you. Believe me, He has called you to greatthings. "

As he spoke she covered her face with her hands, and a deep blush ofshame rose from her neck to her forehead, visible through the thin, white fingers. 

"I suppose He will find a way out. As I can't understand how you havecared so much to save my soul, I suppose I can understand His love stillless. Must you go? You will pray for me, I know. "

She held out her hand with a look of generous appeal to his forgiveness. 

"God bless you!" he said, with complete sympathy, and then he went awayto seek an interview with Sir Edmund Grosse. 

Molly sank down on a low seat by the window. Then she went slowlyupstairs, dragging her feet a little from fatigue, and took out of thetin box the packet of very old letters. She burned them one by one, witha match for each, kneeling in front of the empty fireplace in herbed-room. They told the story of her mother's attempt to persuade SirDavid of their marriage during his illness in India. It was not a prettystory--one of deceit and intrigue. It should disappear now. 

Then she sat down in a deep chair in the window. She stayed very still, curled up against the cushion behind her, her eyes fixed on the ground. She was hardly conscious of thought; she was trying to recall thingsMark had said, murmuring them over to herself. She was trying not tosink into the depths of humiliation and despair. It was a blind clingingto a vague hope for better things, with a certain torpor of all herfaculties. 

Then gradually things in the vague gloom became definite to her. "No, "she said to them with entreaty, "not to-night. My life is only justdead. I am tired by the shock--it was so sudden--only let me rest tillmorning, and in the morning I will try to face it. "

She had, it seemed, quite settled this point; the present and the futurewere to be left; a pause was absolutely necessary. Then followed quicklythe sharp pang of a fresh thought. It was not in her power to makethings pause. She could not make a truce by calling it a truce. If shedid not realise things now and act now herself, others would come uponthe scene. Even to-night Sir Edmund Grosse might know. She shivered. Perhaps he was being told now. It would be insufferable to endure hiskindness prompted by Rose's generous forgiveness. But ought she to findanything unbearable? Was she going to revolt at the very outset? She wasnot trained in spiritual matters, but it seemed to her that any revoltwould betray a want of reality in her reparation, and in this greatchange of feeling she wanted above all things to be real. She tried toface what must come next. How could she hand over Westmoreland House? Itcould not be done as quietly as she had handed that letter to FatherMark. The house had been bought with the great lump sum Madame Danterrehad accumulated in Florence--much of that money had been put in the bankbefore Sir David died. Perhaps if they were ready to come to terms, asFather Mark had said, an arrangement would be suggested in which Mollywould not be expected to refund what she had spent, and would have thepossession of Westmoreland House and its contents. The sale wouldrealise enough to save her from actual want, and yet she would not bereceiving a pension from Lady Rose. Her mind got out of gear and flashedthrough these thoughts until, unable to check it in any way, she burstinto tears. She felt the self-deception of such plans with physicalpain. What was that money in the bank at Florence but blackmail gatheredin during Sir David's life? "Why cannot I be straight even now?" shewhispered. She was still sitting on the couch with one leg drawn upunder her, gazing intently at the ground. No, the only money shepossessed was £2000 invested at 3½ per cent. "£70 a year--that isless than I have given Carey, or the cook, or the butler. "

The fact was that while her heart and soul had gone forward in dumb painin utter darkness with the single aim of undoing the sin done, the mindstill lagged and reasoned. This is a peculiar agony, and Molly had todrink of that agony. 

Gradually and mercilessly her reason told her that an arrangement withLady Rose, the appearance of having the right of possession inWestmoreland House, the readiness of all concerned to bury the story, and the possession of a fair income, would make it possible to live inher own class quietly but, if tactfully, with a good repute. Then thethought of any kind of compromise became intolerable to her, and sherealised that it was a fancy picture, not a real temptation. 

To pretend that Westmoreland House was her own she could not do, butwhat was the alternative? Dragging poverty and shame, and with noopportunity for hiding what had passed, for living it down. Even if shedid the impossible to her pride and consented to receive a goodallowance from Lady Rose, it would not be at all the same in the world'sview as the dignified income that could be raised from WestmorelandHouse, and from her mother's jewels and furniture. Her fingersunconsciously touched the pearls round her neck. Surely she need notspeculate as to how her mother obtained the magnificent jewels which shehad worn up to the end? Then more light came--hard and cold, but clear. If Molly had been innocent these things might have been so, but Mollyhad committed a fraud on a great scale. It would be by the mercy of theinjured that she would be spared the rigours of the law. It was by thesupreme mercy of God that she had had the chance of making the sacrificebefore it was forced from her. And could she shrink from mere ordinarypoverty, from a life such as the vast majority of men and women areliving on this earth? She did not really shrink in her will. It was onlya mechanical movement of thought from one point to another. Was it muchpunishment for what she had done to be very poor? Would it not be betterto be unclassed--to live among people who help each other much becausethey have little to give? Would it not be the way to do what Father Markhad said she should try to do--those good things she had done before?She could nurse, she could watch, she was able to do with little sleep. She would be very humble with the sick and suffering now. And it wouldnot surely be wrong to go and find such a life far away from where shehad sinned? She began to wonder if she need stay and live through allthe complications of the coming days. Must it be the right thing to staybecause it was the most unbearable? She thought not. There are timeswhen recklessness is the only safety. If she did not burn her ships nowshe could not tell what temptations might come. But she would not let itbe among her motives that thus she would thereby escape unbearable pityfrom Lady Rose and the far sterner magnanimity of Edmund Grosse. Shewould act simply; she would ask Rose a favour; she would ask her toprovide for Miss Carew. 

Half consciously again her hands went to her throat. She unclasped thepearl necklace that Edmund had seen on Madame Danterre's withered neckin the garden at Florence. She slipped off four large rings, and thengathered up a few jewels that lay about. "One ought not to leavevaluables about, " she thought, and she did not know that she added"after a death. "

If Miss Carew had been in the room she would probably not haveunderstood that anything special was going on. Molly moved quietlyabout, collecting together on a little table by the cupboard, rings, brooches, buckles, watches--anything of much value. She sought and foundthe key of the little safe in the wardrobe and put away these objectswith the large jewel cases already inside it. She also put with them hercheque book and her banker's book. A very small cheque book on adifferent bank where the interest of the £2000 had not been drawn on forsix months, she put down on her writing table. Then she looked round theroom. Was there nothing there really her own, and that she cared to keepeither for its own sake or because it had belonged to someone she hadloved? An awful sense of loneliness swept over her as she looked roundand could think of nothing. Each beautiful thing on walls or tables thatshe looked at seemed repulsive in its turn, for it had either belongedto Madame Danterre or been bought with her money. There was not so muchas a letter which she cared ever to see again. She had burnt Edmund'sfew notes when she first came to Westmoreland House. 

She had once met a woman who had lost everything in a fire. "I haveeverything new, " she wailed, "nothing that I ever had before--not aphotograph, not a prayer-book, nor an old letter. I don't feel that I amthe same person. " The words came back now. "Not the same person, " andsuddenly a sense of relief began to dawn upon her. 

 "Alone to land upon that shore With not one thing that we have known before. "

Oh, the immensity of such a mercy! That hymn had made her shiver as achild; how different it seemed now! Molly knelt down by the couch, andher shoulders trembled as a tempest of feeling came over her. Criminalshardened by long lives of fraud have been known to be happier afterbeing found out--simply because the strain was over. They had destroyedtheir moral sense. Molly's conscience was alive, though torn, bleeding, and debased. She could not be happy as they were, but yet there was thelifting of the weight as of a great mountain rolled away. She was afraidof the immense sense of relief that now seemed coming upon her. Couldshe really become free of the horrible Molly of the last months--thisnoxious, vile, lying, thieving woman? What an awful strain that womanhad lived in! She had told Mark that what frightened her was the thoughtthat she would still be herself. She longed now to cut away everythingthat had belonged to her. Might she not by God's grace, in poverty andhard work, with everything around her quite different from the past, might she not quite do to death the Molly who had lived in WestmorelandHouse? The cry was more passionate than spiritual perhaps, but thelonging had its power to help. She rose and again moved quietly aboutthe room of the dead, bad woman, which must be left in order for the newowners. She put some things together--what was necessary for a night ortwo--and felt almost glad that she had a comb and brush she had not yetused. There was a bag with cheap fittings Mrs. Carteret had given her asa girl, which would hold all she needed. And then she remembered thatshe had something she would like to take away; it was a nurse's apron, and in its pocket a nurse's case of small instruments. They were whatshe used when nursing with the district nurse in the village at home. Then she sat down and wrote a cheque and a note, and proceeded to takethem downstairs. The cheque was for £30 out of the little Dexter chequebook, and the note was an abrupt little line to tell a friend that shecould not dine out that night. She "did not feel up to it" was the onlyexcuse given, and a furious hostess declared that Miss Dexter had becomeperfectly insufferable. She seemed to think that she could do exactly asshe chose because she was absurdly rich. 

The butler was able to give Molly £30 in notes and cash, and it was hisopinion that she wanted the money for playing cards that night. Mollycrept upstairs again with a foreign Bradshaw in her hand. She looked outthe train for the night boat to Dieppe. It left Charing Cross at 9. 45. She had chosen Dieppe for the first stage of her journey--of which sheknew not the further direction--for two reasons. The first was becauseshe knew that she ought to stay within reach if it were necessary forher to do business with her own or Lady Rose's solicitors. She wasdetermined not to give any trouble she could avoid giving, in thebusiness of handing over that which had never belonged to her. At thistime of year the journey to Dieppe would be no difficulty, and shewanted to go there rather than to Boulogne or any other French port, because she had the address of a very cheap and clean _pension_ in whichMiss Carew had passed some weeks before coming to live with Molly inLondon. From that _pension_ Molly could write the letters she feltphysically incapable of writing to-night. The only note she determinedto write at once was to Carey, asking her to remain at WestmorelandHouse and to tell the servants that Miss Dexter had gone abroad. Shetold her that she had gone to the _pension_ at Dieppe, but earnestlyinsisted that she should not follow her. She begged her to do nothingbefore getting a letter that she would write to her at once on arrivingat Dieppe. She also asked her to keep the key of the safe which sheenclosed in her letter. Molly sealed the letter, and then felt somehesitation as to when and how to give it to Miss Carew. She finallydecided to send it by a messenger boy from the station when it would betoo late for Miss Carew to follow her, and when it would still be intime to prevent any astonishment at her not returning home that night. 

Miss Carew, thinking that Molly had gone out to dinner, came into herbed-room to look for a book. The night was hot and oppressive, but noone had raised the blinds since the sun had set, and the room was sodark that she did not at once see Molly. She started nervously, halfexpecting one of Molly's impatient and rude exclamations on beingdisturbed, and, with an apology, was going away when Molly said gently:

"Stay a minute, Carey; I'm not going to dine out to-night. "

"But there is no dinner ordered, and I have just had supper. I am goingout this evening to see a friend. "

"Never mind, " Molly interrupted, "I can't eat anything. I am going outfor a drive in a hansom in the cool. Would you mind saying that I shallnot want the motor?"

"My dear! are you not well?"

"Not very. " And suddenly Miss Carew began to read the great change inher face. "It has none of it been very good for me, Carey; you have beenquite right. This house and all was a mistake. You have never said it, but I have seen it in your eyes. And it has not even been in quite goodtaste for me to make such a splash--you thought that too. I'm going tostop it all now, dear, and probably the house will be sold; it's been anunblest sort of thing. "

Miss Carew stared. The tone was so different from any she had ever heardin Molly's voice; it was very gentle, but exhausted, as if she had beenthrough an acute crisis in an illness. 

"Carey dear, you have always been so kind to me, and I have been veryunkind to you. You will have to know things that will make you hate anddespise me to-morrow. But would you mind giving me one kiss to-night?"

Miss Carew was very nervous at this request, but happily all the bestside of her was roused by something in Molly that, in spite of a vastdifference, recalled the Molly of seven years ago when she had firstseen her. It was a real kiss--a kind of pact between them. 

"I wonder if she will ever wish to do the same again!" thought Molly. 

Then Miss Carew left her and she called the maid, who brought at herbidding a long black cloak and a small black toque--insignificantcompared to anything else of Molly's. 

The mistress of Westmoreland House drove away in a hansom, with a bag inher hand, at twenty minutes past seven. 

There is a small house with a little chapel attached to it in a road inChelsea where some Frenchwomen, who were exiled from their own country, have come to dwell. It is built on Sir Thomas More's garden, and itpossesses within its boundaries the mulberry tree under which thechancellor was sitting when they came to fetch him to the Tower. It is apoor little house with very poor inmates, and a poor little chapel. Butin that chapel night and day, without a moment's break, are to be foundtwo figures (when there are not more) dressed in plain brown habits andblack veils. And on the altar there is always a crowd of lightedcandles, in spite of the poverty of the chapel. It is a very smallchapel and oddly shaped. The length of the little building is from northto south, and the altar is to the east. There are but few benches, butthey run the full length of the building. Strange things are known bythese women, who never go farther than the small garden at the back, ofthe life of the town about them. Some men and more women get accustomedto coming daily into the chapel with its unceasing exposition, and tolove its silence and its atmosphere of rest and peace. Some never makethemselves known; others sometimes ask to see a nun, and thus graduallythese recluses come to know memorable secrets in human lives. 

Molly had often been there in the weeks which she had afterwards called"my short fit of religious emotion. " She chose to go there to-night, tospend there her last hour in London. 

The little chapel was fairly cool, and through a door very near thealtar, open to the garden, came the scent of mignonette on the air. Besides the motionless figures at the altar-rail there was no one elsein the chapel. 

At eight o'clock two small brown figures came in and knelt bowed down inthe middle of the sanctuary. The two who had finished their watch roseand knelt by the side of those who relieved guard. Then the four rosetogether, and the two newcomers took up their station, and the othersleft them. And the incessant oblation of those lives went on. What avast moral space lay between their lives and Molly's! What a contrast!

Molly had had no home, but they had given up their homes for this. Mollyhad pined in vain for human love; they had turned away from it. Mollyhad rebelled against all restraints; they had chosen these bonds. Mollyhad sinned, against even the world's code, for love of the world; andthey had rejected even the best the world could give. 

Was it unjust, unfair that the boon they asked for in return was givento them?

If, on the one hand, Molly had inherited evil tendencies and had fallenon evil circumstances, does it seem strange that she could share in goodas well as in evil?

It is easy to take scandal at Molly's inherited legacy of eviltendencies. It is easy to take scandal at the facility of herforgiveness. The two stumbling-blocks are in reality the two aspects ofone truth, that no human being stands alone and that each gains orsuffers with or by his fellows. 

The sinless women pleaded for sinners in a glorious human imitation ofthe Divine pleading. And the exuberant vitality poured by the Conquerorof death into the human race, flowing strongly through that tiny chapel, had carried the little, thin, stagnant stream of Molly's soul into thegreat flood of grace that purifies by sorrow and by love. 

Molly knelt in one of the back benches with her eyes fixed on themonstrance, in a very agony of sorrow and self-abasement. I would not ifI could analyse that penitence. Happily as life goes on we shrink more, not less, from raising even the most reverent gaze on the secret placesof the soul. We do not know in what form, if in any form at all, and notrather, in a light without words, the Divine Peace reached her. Was it, "Go in peace, thy sins are forgiven thee?" Or was it perhaps, "This dayshalt thou be with Me in Paradise?" We cannot tell. Only the lay-sisterwho saw Molly go out with the little black bag in her hand saidafterwards that the lady had seemed happy. 

THE END. 

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