Mrs. Wilfrid Ward - Great Possessions

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"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 L800 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 L3000 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 L3000 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 living
but did not want her child; that the ideal of motherly love had in her
own case been a complete fiction; that the mother of her imagination had
never existed, and, immediately afterwards, she had been given a glimpse
of the world's view of her own position as a young person best
concealed, or, at least, not brought too much forward.

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

It was not any scrupulous fear that it could be her duty to inquire
whether 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 Sir
David's will. It was not a fortune entered into with head erect and eyes
proudly facing a friendly world. Still, Molly was not daunted: the
combat with life was harder and quite different from what she had
foreseen, but she had always looked on her future as a fight.

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

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

Later in the day Molly wrote to the family lawyer, and consulted him as
to how to find a suitable lady with whom to stay in London. Mrs.
Carteret read and passed the letter. Seeing that Molly was determined to
go to London, she was anxious to help her as much as possible, without
calling down upon herself such letters of advice as the one from Lady
Dawning. It proved as difficult to find just the right thing in
chaperones as it is usually difficult to find exactly the right thing in
any form of humanity, and December and January passed in the search. But
in the end all that was to be wished for seemed to be secured in the
person of Mrs. Delaport Green, who was known to a former pupil of Miss
Carew's, and at length Molly went out of the rooms with the northern
aspect, and drove through the wood that sheltered under the shoulder of
the great green hill, with nothing about her to recall the child who had
come in there for the first time fourteen years ago, except that she
still had the look of one who waits for other circumstances and other
people.

CHAPTER VII

EDMUND GROSSE CONTINUES TO INTERFERE

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

"The General's two most intimate friends were killed about two months
after his death, and his servant died in the same action--probably
before Sir David himself. I have tried to find out if he had any talk on
his 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 he
went 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 to
Generals as an anxious parent seeking advancement in the Army for an
only son. He soon became discouraged as to obtaining any information
regarding David's later years, but some gossip on his younger days he
did glean. Nothing could have been better than David's record; he
seemed to have been a paragon of virtue.

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

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

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

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

When Lady Dawning had advised Mrs. Carteret to keep poor dear Johnny's
girl quietly in the country, she had by no means intended to let any of
her friends know anything about Molly. She had looked important and
mysterious when people spoke of Sir David Bright's amazing will, but she
made a real sacrifice to Johnny's memory by not divulging her knowledge
of facts or her own conclusions from those facts. But the enjoyment of
talking 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 a
relief to me to get the opinion of a man of the world; poor dear Anne
Carteret consults me, and I really don't know what to advise. Fancy!
that woman allows the girl L3000 a year, and Anne Carteret would
probably have acted on my advice and kept her quiet so that no one need
know anything of the wretched story, but the girl won't be quiet, and
will come up to London, and it seems so unsafe, don't you know? They are
looking for a chaperone, as nothing will make Anne come herself. And if
it all comes out it will be so unpleasant for poor dear Rose Bright to
meet this girl all dressed up with her money; don't you think so?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know nothing whatever about her," sighed the little woman, "and we
are only doing it because we are so dreadfully hard up; my maid says
that I shall soon not have a stitch to my back, and that would be so
fearfully improper. At least"--she hesitated--"I am doing it because
times are bad. Tim really knows nothing about it; I mean that he does
not know that Miss Dexter is a 'paying guest', and it does sound
horribly lower middle-class, doesn't it? But I'm so afraid Tim won't be
able to go to Homburg this year, and he is eating and drinking so much
already, and it's only the beginning of April. What will happen if he
can'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' at
once--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 a
cousin of Lady Dawning, but she is an orphan. I think I must call her
Molly at once," and the little round eyes looked wistful and kindly.

Sir Edmund was able from this to conclude rightly that Mrs. Delaport
Green was not aware of the existence of Madame Danterre, and would have
no suspicions as to the sources of the fortune that supplied Molly's
large allowance. It had, in fact, been thought wiser not to offer
explanations which had not been called for.

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

"Quite; she will pay--let me see--she will pay for the new motor, and
she will go to my dressmaker and keep her in a good temper. But, of
course, I shall have to make sacrifices and find her partners. I must
try 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, I
don't mean almond-shaped, but really very curiously-shaped eyes, full
of--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, she
hardly speaks, and then in such a low voice. I'll tell you now, I'll
tell you exactly what she reminds me of: do you know a picture in a very
big gallery in Florence of a woman who committed some crime? It's by one
of the pupils of one of the great masters; just try and think if you
don't know what I mean. Oh, must you go? But won't you come again, and
see how we get on, and how I bear up?"

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

"Oh, we will do the most delightful things, now that you have come; we
must, of course, do balls and plays, and then we will have quite a quiet
day in the country in the new motor, and we will take some very nice men
with us. And then you won't mind sometimes coming to see people who are
ill 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 it
need not take long."

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

Mrs. Delaport Green stared for a moment; then she jumped up and ran
forward with extended hands to greet a lady in a plain coat and skirt
and 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 poor
people I told you about. Do tell her what you really mean about liking
people best when they are unconscious, and you will both forgive me if I
write one tiny little note meanwhile?"

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

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

The hostess having meanwhile asked four people to dinner, came rustling
back, 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 and
asked questions about a number of poor people by name, and made love to
her in many ways, until the latter, cheered and refreshed by the
sunbeam, went out to seek the first of a series of 'busses between
Chelsea and Hoxton.

Mrs. Delaport Green gave a little sigh.

"I must order the motor. The dear thing needn't have come your very
first night, need she? It makes me miserable to leave you, but I was
engaged to this dinner before I knew that you existed even! Isn't it odd
to 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 with
Tim, because he is dining at his club. Promise me that you won't let Tim
bore you: he likes horrid fat people, so I don't think he will; and are
you sure you have got everything you want?"

Molly's impressions of her new surroundings were written a few weeks
later 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 that
Sir Edmund Grosse was so attentive. Adela did not seriously mind Sir
Edmund's indifference to herself if he were only a constant visitor at
her house, but she was far from understanding the motives that drew him
there to see Molly. In fact, having decided, on the basis of his own
theory of the conduct of Madame Danterre, that Molly had no right to any
of the luxuries she enjoyed, he had been prepared to think of her as an
unscrupulous and designing young woman. Somehow, from the moment he
first saw her he felt all his prejudices to be confirmed. There was
something in Molly which appeared to him to be a guilty consciousness
that the wealth she enjoyed was ill-gotten. Miss Dexter, he thought, had
by no means the bearing of a fresh ingenuous child who was innocently
benefiting by the wickedness of another. The poor girl was, in fact,
constantly wondering whether the people she met were hot partisans of
Lady Rose Bright, or whether they knew of Madame Danterre's existence,
and if so, whether they had the further knowledge that Miss Molly Dexter
was that lady's daughter. They might, for either of these reasons, have
some secret objection to herself. But she was skilful enough to hide
the symptoms of these fears and suspicions from the men and women she
usually came across in society, who only thought her reserve pride, and
her occasional hesitations a little mysterious. From Sir Edmund she
concealed less because she liked him much more, and he kindly
interpreted her feelings of anxiety and discomfort to be those of guilt
in a girl too young to be happy in criminal deceit. With his experience
of life, and with his usually just perceptions, he ought to have known
better; but there is some quality in a few men or women, intangible and
yet unmistakable, which makes us instinctively suspect present, or
foretell future, moral evil; and poor Molly was one of these. What it
was, on the other hand, which made her trust Sir Edmund and drew her to
him, it would need a subtle analysis of natural affinities to decide. No
doubt it was greatly because he sought her that Molly liked him, but it
was not only on that account. Nor was this only because Edmund was
worldly wise, successful, and very gentle. There was a quality in the
attraction that drew Molly to Edmund that cannot be put into words. It
is the quality without which there has never been real tragedy in the
relations of a woman to a man. In the first weeks in London this
attraction 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 problem
of whether to prolong Molly's visit or not would be settled for her by a
quite new development. Then she doubted, and watched, and was puzzled.

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

As Lent was drawing to a close, Mrs. Delaport Green became much occupied
at the thought of how many services she wished to attend. "One does so
wish one could be in several churches at once," she murmured to a devout
lady at an evening party. But, finding one of these churches to be
excessively crowded on Palm Sunday, she had gone for a turn in the
country in her motor with a friend, "as, after all, green fields, and a
few early primroses make one realise, more than anything else in the
world, the things one wishes one could think about quietly at such
seasons."

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

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

Their luggage, their bags, and their maid looked perfect on the day of
departure, and Tim had gone off to Brighton in an excellent temper. Mrs.
Delaport Green trod on air in pretty buckled shoes, and patted the toy
terrier under her arm and felt as if all the society papers on the
bookstall 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 with
great satisfaction. "Very likely Sir Edmund is coming to Groombridge.
Why does one always think that everybody going by the same train is
coming 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 thought
he was going abroad for Easter."

When the three hours' journey was ended and the friends emerged on the
platform, they were both glad to see Sir Edmund's servant again and the
luggage with his master's name. There was a crowd of Easter holiday
visitors, and Mrs. Delaport Green and Molly were some moments in making
their way out of the station. When they were seated in the carriage that
was to take them to the Castle, Mrs. Delaport Green turned expectantly
to the footman.

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