Mrs. Wilfrid Ward - Great Possessions

M >> Mrs. Wilfrid Ward >> Great Possessions

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Canon Nicholls bent forward, and held out his long, white hands with an
eager gesture, as though he were wrestling with his infirmity in his
great longing to gain an outlook which would enable him to read a little
further 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 a
surgical operation while the patient is scratching your eyes out. If I
can leave my own point of view out of sight for the present I can be of
use, 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 in
the confessional. One or two people came to confession, and then the
church seemed to be empty. He knelt down to his prayers and soon became
absorbed. To-night he was oppressed in a new way by the sins, the
temptations, and the unutterable weakness of man; his failures; his
uselessness. Nothing else in Art had ever impressed him so much as the
figure of Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. That beautiful
figure, with all the freshness of its primal grace, stretching out its
arms from a new-born world towards the infinite Creator, had expressed,
with extraordinary pathos, the weakness, the failure, almost the
non-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 repined
at the littleness of it all, he felt rebuked. Could anything be little
that was so loved of God? If the primal truth, if Purity Itself and Love
Itself could make so amazing a courtship of the human soul, how dared
anyone despise what was so honoured of the King? No, under all the
self-seeking, the impure motives, the horrid cruelties of life, he must
never lose sight of the delicate loveliness, the pathetic aspiration,
the exquisite powers of love that are never completely extinguished. He
must see with God's eyes, if he were to do God's work. And in the
thought that it was, after all, God's work and not his own, Mark found
comfort. He had come into the church feeling the burden on his shoulders
very hard to bear, and now he made the discovery that it was not he who
was carrying it at all; he only appeared to have it laid upon him while
Another bore it for him.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE CONDEMNATION OF MARK

Two excellent and cheerful old persons were engaged in conversation on
the subject of Father Molyneux. The Vicar-General of the diocese, a
Monsignor of the higher, or pontifical rank, had called to see the
Rector of Mark's church, and had already rapidly discussed other matters
of varying importance when he said, leaning back in an old and faded
leather chair:

"What's all this about young Molyneux?"

Both men were fairly advanced in years and old for their age, for they
had both worked hard and constantly for many years on the mission. They
had to be up early and to bed late, with the short night frequently
interrupted by sick calls, and on a Sunday morning they had always
fasted till one o'clock, and usually preached two or even three times on
the same day. They had never known for very many years what it was to be
without serious anxiety on the matter of finance. Their lives had been
models of amazing regularity and self-control. Their recreations
consisted chiefly in dining with each other at mid-day on Mondays, and
spending the afternoon with whist and music. Probably, too, they had
dined with a leading parishioner once or twice in the week.

In politics they were mildly Liberal, more warmly Home Rulers, but they
put above all the interests of the Church. They were, too, fierce
partisans on the controversies about Church music, and had a zeal for
the beauty and order of their respective churches that was admirable in
its minuteness and its perseverance. They both had a large circle of
friends with whom they rejoiced at annual festivities at their Colleges,
and with whom they habitually and freely censured their immediate
authorities. Those who were warmest in their devotion to the Vatican
were often the most inclined to make a scapegoat of a mere bishop. But
now one of these two old friends had been made Vicar-General of the
diocese, and it was likely that the Rector would speak to him with less
than his usual freedom. Lastly, both men had that air of complete
knowledge of life which comes with the habits of a circle of people who
know each other intimately. And neither of them realised in the least
that 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, "we
can hardly get into the church for the crowd, and I am going to put up a
notice to ask ladies to wear small hats--toques; isn't that what they
call them?"

"I heard him once," said the Vicar-General, "and, to tell the truth, it
didn't seem up to much."

"Words," said the Rector; "it's Oxford all over. There must be a new
word for everything. Why, he preached on Our Lady the other day, and I
declare 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 find
anything new to say about Our Lady."

"It doesn't warm me up a bit, that sort of thing," said the
Vicar-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 our
popular 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 a
nice 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 he
gets his dinner at all sometimes. And there are always ladies coming to
see 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 are
asking for. And, of course, he has too much money given him for the
poor, 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 the
seminary. Now, there was a preacher, if you like! But it turned his head
completely. Poor, wretched Nobbs! It's a dangerous thing to preach too
well, 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 spoke
to 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 she
ought to tell somebody who might put a stop to the talk, and so she came
to me. There's some woman, a very rich Protestant, who gives out openly
that she is waiting till Molyneux announces that he doesn't believe in
the Church, and then they will marry and go to America. Then, another
day Jim Dixon came along, and a friend of his had heard the tale from
some Army man at his Club. It's exactly the way things went on about
Nobbs, you know, beginning with talk like that. Really, if it wasn't for
having seen Nobbs go down hill I shouldn't think anything of it. Young
Molyneux 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's
all come on in such a hurry; he ought to have had a country mission
first. 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 my
best! You can ask him if I haven't warned him from his very first sermon
that 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 out
of his Oxford notions, but he's no sooner in the pulpit than he's off at
a hard gallop--three hundred words to a minute, and such
words!--'vitality,' 'personality,' 'development,' 'recrudescence,'
'mentality'--the Lord knows what! And there they sit and gaze at him
with 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 old
Nobbs! Now his really were sermons!"

"Well," said the other, in a business-like tone, "I am inclined to think
it would be best for him to take a country mission for a few years. I've
no doubt he is on the square now, and that will give him time to quiet
down a bit. He'll be an older and a wiser man after that, and he could
do some sound, theological reading. Lord Lofton has been asking for a
chaplain, and we must send him a gentleman. I could tell him that
Molyneux had been a little overworked in London, and if he goes down to
the Towers at the end of July, no one will suppose he is leaving for
good, eh?"

"Very well," answered the Rector; "I don't want anything said against
him, you know. I've had many a curate not half as ready to work as this
man."

"No, no; I quite understand. Well, I'll write to him in the course of
the week. And now about this point of plain chant?" And both men forgot
the existence of Mark as they waxed hot on melodious questions.

I can't believe that Jonathan loved David more than the second curate
had come to love Mark Molyneux in their work together. It is good to
bear the yoke in youth, and it is very good to have a hero worship for
your yoke fellow. Father Jack Marny was a young Kelt, blue-eyed,
straight-limbed, fair-haired, and very fair of soul. He would have told
any sympathetic listener that he owed everything to Mark--zeal for
souls, habits of self-denial, a new view of life, even enjoyment of
pictures and of Browning, as well as interest in social science. All
this was gross exaggeration, but in him it was quite truthful, for he
really thought so. He had the run of Mark's room, and they took turns to
smoke in each other's bedrooms, so as to take turns in bearing the
rector's observations on the smell of smoke on the upstairs landing.
Father Marny had a subscription at Mudie's--his only extravagance--and
he always ordered the books he thought Mark wished for, and Mark always
ordered from the London library the books he thought would most interest
Jack. Father Marny revelled in secret in the thought of all that might
have belonged to Mark, and he possessed, of course most carefully
concealed, a wonderful old print he had picked up on a counter, of
Groombridge Castle, exalting the round towers to a preposterous height,
while in the foreground strolled ladies in vast hoops, and some animals
intended apparently for either cows or sheep according to the fancy of
the purchaser.

But what each of the curates loved best was the goodness he discerned in
the other, and the more intimate they became the more goodness they
discerned. The very genuinely good see good, and provoke good by seeing
it, and reflect it back again, as two looking-glasses opposite to each
other repeat each other's light _ad infinitum_.

It was a Monday, and the rector had gone out to dinner, and the two
young men were smoking in the general sitting-room. Father Marny was
looking over the accounts of a boot club, and objurating the handwriting
of the lady who kept them. Mark was in the absolutely passive state to
which some hard-working people can reduce themselves; he had hardly the
energy 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 them
himself, 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 to
see any change in Mark, and he did not like his attitude. He did not
know till that moment how anxious he had been as to the possibility of
some change. He moved quickly forward and stood in front of the deep
chair in which Mark was sitting, leaning forward with his eyes fixed on
the carpet.

"Bad news?" he asked abruptly.

"Bad enough," said Mark, and, very slowly raising his head, he gave a
smile that was the worst part of all the look on his face. Jack Marny
put one hand on his shoulder, and a woman's touch could not have been
lighter.

"It's not----?" he said, and then stopped.

"Yes, it is," Mark answered. "I am to be a domestic chaplain to that
pious old ass, Lord Lofton. It seems I need quiet for study--quiet to
rot in! My God! is that how I am to work for souls?"

It was, perhaps, better for Mark that Jack Marny broke down completely
at the news, for, by the time he had been forced into telling his friend
that it was preposterous to suppose that any man was necessary for God's
work, and that if they had faith at all they must believe that God
allowed this to happen, light began to dawn in his own mind. But he was
almost frightened at the passionate resentment of the Kelt; he saw there
was 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 fair
face absolutely black with wrath.

"We are God's slaves," said Mark, in a low voice, and then there was
silence between them for the space of half an hour.

The door opened and a shrill voice cried out, "There's Tom Turner at the
door 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 it
to decide what steps to take in order to approach Molly. In the first
impulse he had thought only that here was the chance of serving her, of
proving her friend in difficulty, which he had particularly wished for.
It would make reparation for the past--a past he keenly defended in his
own mind as he had defended it to Molly herself, but yet a past that he
would wish to make fully satisfactory by reparation for what he would
not confess to have been blameworthy. But when he tried to realise
exactly what he should have to tell Molly it seemed impossible. For how
could he meet her questions; her indignant protests? She would become
more and more indignant at the plot that had been carried on against
her, a plot which Edmund had started and had carried on until quite
lately, and which had also until quite lately been entirely financed by
him. Even if he baffled her questions, his consciousness of the facts
would make it too desperately difficult a task for him to assume the
_role_ of Molly's disinterested friend now, although in truth he felt as
such, 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 in
life, so few efficient characters, and he felt Molly to be entirely
efficient. Even the over-emphasis of wealth in the setting of her life
had been effective; it fitted too well into what the modern world wanted
to be out of proportion. A thing that succeeded so very well could
hardly be bad form. Hesitation, weakness, would have made it vulgar;
hesitation and weakness in past days had often made vulgar emphasis on
rank and power, but in the hands of the strong such emphasis had always
been effective and fitting. There was a kind of artistic regret in
Edmund's mind at the thought that this excellent comedy of life as
played by Molly should be destroyed. And he had come to think it
certainly 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 gradual
developments. Therefore she had kept back as a _bonne bouche_, to be
served up as an apparent after-thought, a certain half sheet of paper
which she had preserved carefully in her pocket-book since the night on
which she had made the copy of Sir David Bright's will. It was the
actual postscript to Sir David's long letter to Rose; the long letter
Nurse Edith had put back in the box and which had remained there
untouched until Molly had taken it out. The postscript would not be
missed, 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 few
words to Madame Danterre to tell her briefly that justice must be done.
Also, in case anyone, in spite of my precautions to conceal it, is
aware that I possessed the very remarkable diamond ring I mention in
this letter, and asks you about it, I wish you to know that I am sending
it 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 his
own first surmise, the vivid memory of Rose unwillingly showing him the
letter and the ring and the photograph she supposed to have been
intended for herself, had a very powerful effect on Edmund Grosse. The
whole story was so clear, so well connected, it seemed impossible to
doubt it. Yet he believed in Molly's innocence without an effort. What
was there to prove that Madame Danterre had not destroyed the will after
Nurse Edith copied it? She had the key and the box within reach, and the
dying, again and again, have shown incalculable strength--far greater
than was needed in order to get at the will and burn it while a nurse
was absent or asleep.

Again, it was to Larrone's interest to destroy that will. They had only
Pietrino's persuasion of Larrone's integrity to set against the
possibility 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 only
that his own legacy would be lost, but, what might have more influence
with him, he must have seen what a doubtful position he must hold in
public opinion if this came to light. He had been the chief friend and
adviser of Madame Danterre, who had paid him lavishly for his medical
services from her first coming to Florence, and who had made no secret
of the legacy he was to receive at her death. He had been with her at
the last, and was now actually carrying on her gigantic fraud by taking
the box to her daughter. Would it not have been a great temptation to
him to destroy the will while he had no fear of discovery rather than
put the matter in Molly's hands? Lastly came Rose's subtle feminine
suggestion that the will might be in the box but that Molly had never
opened it. Some instinct, some secret fear of painful revelations, might
easily have made her shrink from any disclosures as to her mother's
past. Rose was so often right, and the obvious suggestion, that such a
shrinking from knowledge would have been natural to Rose and unnatural
to Molly, did not occur to the male mind, always inclined to think of
women as mostly alike.

At the same time he was really unwilling to relinquish the _role_ of
intermediary. His thoughts had hardly left the subject since the hour of
his talk with Rose, and it was especially absorbing on the day on which
Molly was to give a party, to which he was invited--and invited to meet
royalty. He decided that he must that evening ask his hostess to give
him an appointment for a private talk.

Edmund arrived late at Westmoreland House when the party was in full
swing. He paused a moment on the wide marble steps of the well staircase
as he saw a familiar face coming across the hall. It was the English
Ambassador in Madrid, just arrived home on leave, as Edmund knew. He was
a handsome grey-haired man of thin, nervous figure, and he sprang
lightly 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 young
woman! What does it mean, eh? I knew the wicked old mother. Tell me, was
she really married to David Bright all the time? Was it Enoch Arden the
other way up? But we must go on," for other late arrivals were joining
them. When they reached the landing the two men stood aside for a
moment, 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. The
great square drawing-room was lit entirely by candles in the sconces
that were part of the permanent decoration. But the many lights hardly
penetrated into the great depths of the pictures let into the walls.
These big, dark canvases by some forgotten Italian of the school of
Veronese, gave the room something of the rich gloom of a Venetian
palace. Beyond a few stacks of lilies in the corners, Molly had done
nothing to relieve its solemn dignity. As she came across it from the
opposite corner, the depths of the old pictures were the background to
her white figure.

She was bending her head towards the Prince who was taking her down--a
tall, fair man with blue eyes and a heavy jaw. Then as she came near the
doorway she raised her head and saw Edmund. There was a strange, soft
light in her eyes as she looked at him. It was the touch of soul needed
to give completeness to her magnificence as a human being. The white
girlish figure in that room fitted the past as well as the present. The
great women of the past had been splendidly young too, whereas we keep
our girls as children, comparatively speaking.

Molly had that combination of youth and experience which gives a
special character to beauty. There was no detailed love of fashion in
her gorgeous simplicity of attire; there was rather something subtly in
keeping with the house itself.

The Prince turned to speak to the Ambassador, and the little procession
stopped.

Edmund was more artistic in taste than in temperament, and he was not
imaginative. But he could not enjoy the full satisfaction of his
fastidious tastes to-night, nor had he his usual facility for speech. He
could not bring himself to utter one word to Molly. They stood for that
moment close together, looking at each other in a silence that was
electric. No wonder that Molly thought his incapacity to speak a
wonderful 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 a
corner 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 know
a picture of the 'Fall of Babylon' when you see it? Now let us go where
we shall not be interrupted. Tell me all about this girl with the
amazing bearing and big eyes, whom princes delight to honour, and
Duchesses 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, old
fellow. It would take too long."

And to his joy a countess and a beauty seized upon the terribly curious
diplomatist and made him take her down to supper. And they agreed while
they supped exquisitely that the real job dear old Grosse ought to be
given 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 well
read in human eyes), the lady is willing."

After supper there was dancing. Edmund did not dance. He stood in a
corner, his tall form a little bent, merely watching, and presently he
turned away. He had made up his mind. He would not try to speak to Molly
to-night, and he would not ask her for a talk.

She was dancing as he left the room, and he turned half mechanically to
watch her. It was always an exquisite pleasure to see her dance. He left
her 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 to
avert it. No one could avert it. It was part of the tragedy that, pity
her as he might, he could not really wish to avert it. He would give no
warning. Some other hand must write "Mene Thekel Phares" on the wall of
her palace of pleasure and success.

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