Chapter IV

THERE was quite a little crowd in Standing to see poor Miss Brent's funeral go by; Mr. Braddon, the grocer had even gone so far, remembering the funeral of Queen Victoria, as to put his shutters up; for Standing was really fond of the fussy little lady, in its quiet way. She was always so exceedingly polite and pleasant to everybody, not " like a lady " at all, one half of the population said, presumably from the Radical point of view; "just like a real lady," the sterner feudalists declared. Therefore there were groups on that wet August afternoon as the small procession in broughams started on its five-mile drive to the Catholic cemetery at Newlands. Mrs. Braddon stood, with a look of true melancholy satisfaction on her face, in the door of the darkened shop, Mr. Braddon stood in front of his shutters, with his hat off and his coat on: and there was scarcely a door in the village that was not occupied at least by a woman and a couple of children. The postcart itself drew up, not at the postoffice at all, to give plenty of room.

But there was hardly any crowd at all as the single brougham drove back with Miss Tenterden, alone, inside it; because everybody was at tea, the men were come home from the farms and fields. Mr. Braddon, indeed, ran out, to take off his hat, for he knew quite well that Miss Tenterden had been something of a personage this last summer: he even had exhibited a couple of picture postcards of her in his window, to the bewilderment of humble, kindly Standing which could not conceive that a person who lived in so small a house actually in Standing Street could be of any importance anywhere else. But Mr. Braddon was having his tea too, when he heard the wheels, and ran out too late with his tribute of respect, his cheeks still working with bread and butter; and Marion never saw him after all.

She was still in something of a dream. For it appeared to her as if all her emotions had broken loose, and as if she could only watch them as from an isolated rock above the torrent. Those little combinations and groups she had attempted to form — the little reservoirs of bitterness that she had tried to make — all were now simply broken down under the shock of Maggie's death, and she was in confusion once more. She had had her moments of anguish: she had cried uncontrollably the first night after the death; she had had glimpses, broadening a little as the three days passed on, of what life would be like without that dear funny person with whom she had lived lately: she had broken down again altogether one morning when Rhadamanthus, without any provocation, suddenly turned and cursed her in the rose garden; and she had not even put on the green baize cover to silence him. But even now these were but glimpses; and the horrible need of being practical and businesslike to-day, and of saying the right things to the pair of relations sent " to represent " (she was given to understand) the famous Aunt Gwendolen who still throve upon her sick bed in Somersetshire — these duties had but increased the sense of unreality. The very funeral itself was but a rather senseless pageant.

She was a little puzzled about these representatives of Aunt Gwendolen; for it appeared to her that for some reason or another they were rather angry and severe. They were both ladies: but they had quite different names, and yet they were as politely cross to one another as two sisters: neither were their names anything like Brent, or the more formidable Savage of Aunt Gwendolen's.

They had made distant allusions to Marion's future which she had not in the least understood, and thought rather impertinent: they had eyed the furniture of the cottage, after lunch, and exchanged glances: they had, altogether, rather the air of tolerably well-bred female bailiffs who occasionally, under great provocation, forgot their manners. They had expressed sympathy, as if they were trying hard not to be sarcastic, about Marion's sad misfortune with her voice. With these two, she had driven, solemnly, all the way to Newlands, and then had deposited them at Newlands station to take the train back to London, and thence, she supposed, to Aunt Gwendolen and Somersetshire.

Her first real and piercing anguish to-day came as she went into the little cottage and shut the door. She had given leave to Mrs. Grant and Jenny to stay to tea with the housekeeper of the Newlands priest: Father Denny was to bring them back an hour later; and the silence, and the sense of emptiness, that the cottage wore, struck on her like a chill. It seemed to her, in those first minutes, as if indeed it was a symbol of her future.... She threw herself into the convent chair, whose cover was perpetually wearing out, in which Maggie sat when they were in the parlour together, and kissed its back. Then she broke into a storm of sobbing....

She went out after a few minutes, to take her things off; and noticed that a couple of letters were lying on the chest in the hall, and that the handwriting of the uppermost envelope was that of Max.

It was a very sympathetic and tender note which she read, still standing there. He was in Yorkshire for the week end, the letter said, to shoot on the twelfth, and had only just received hers, telling him of Maggie's death. He would be coming back through London, on his way to Farley, in three or four days. Could they not meet? He would be delighted to come down to her for a few hours, or would she prefer to meet him in town? He was horrified to think of the shock that she must have had. How was she? What plans had she for the immediate future? Could he be of the slightest use in any way at all?

She kissed the signature, as she finished.

The other letter was in a very businesslike hand, and looked entirely dull; and she left it lying there till she came downstairs again. Then, still standing again, she opened it and read it through: then she read it again, unable to believe what she read. Then she went into the parlour and sat down, with the letter still open in her hand. She understood at last the mystery of Aunt Gwendolen's representatives.

The letter was from Maggie's lawyers whom she knew perfectly by name. It stated, quite explicitly, that they had had instructions from Miss Brent, in the event of her death, to communicate at once with Miss Tenterden, and to inform her that the bulk of Miss Brent's property, amounting to about fourteen thousand pounds, had been bequeathed to her. The letter mentioned that it was Miss Brent's particular wish that no gift should be made by Miss Tenterden to Miss Brent's relations: these were already amply provided for: further that this wish was practically a matter of conscience, as it was Miss Brent's deliberate desire that the money should not be used for anti-Catholic propaganda, as it certainly would be if it fell into the hands of her own relations. All these instructions, the letter stated, were contained in a memorandum in Miss Brent's own hand, dated in the previous spring; this memorandum, as well as the actual will, were in the lawyers' possession, and a representative of the firm would be happy to wait upon Miss Tenterden immediately, with these documents, or to receive her by appointment, if she cared to call. A sentence at the end added that it might be convenient for Miss Tenterden to know also that all the furniture in the two houses, and all Miss Brent's personal property, was included in the bequest, with the exception of a few articles of jewellery, of no intrinsic value, that were specially left to Miss Gwendolen Savage.

It was only gradually, in her already dazed condition, that she understood how completely her circumstances were changed by the news. Instead of three hundred a year, she would now have about nine — not indeed a fortune, but sufficient to remove every anxiety and to settle the difficulties which she had begun to foresee as threatening the plans with regard to her marriage.

Then a thought struck her; and she read it again. No, it was absolutely clear that it was Maggie's deliberate wish that her relations should have nothing of it: how like Maggie, too, to insert that little clause about anti-Catholic propaganda! To refuse the legacy would be to traverse her friend's explicit wishes.

Then a second thought struck her; and at that she caught her breath. Once more she read the letter, but almost without attention; then she laid it on her knee and stared out at nothing. Something that was very nearly physical pain began to make itself felt about her heart.

It would be about half an hour later that she heard first the very loud rattle in the passage and then the very subdued tinkle in the kitchen which announced that some one was ringing the bell. She sat perfectly still: she was in no mood for visitors. Again came the rattle and again the tinkle; and again she sat still. But, as she heard the gate clash she could not resist peeping from the window; and there was the Panama hat and the grey suit of the Rector going by. An impulse seized her: she ran out, opened the front door, and called to him. He lifted his hat as he came towards her.

" I am extremely sorry for disturbing you," he said. " I simply meant to leave a card and inquire. I had no idea "

" The servants aren't back yet. Won't you come in?"

" Really, I think I had better not " he began

" I had no intention at all."

" No: but please come in," she said. It seemed to her that she simply must have a distraction from these new bewilderments; and she was sure he would not be tiresome or obtrusive.

He followed her in quite simply.

" I just wanted to express my sympathy," he said quietly, looking at her with his kindly eyes. " I knew that there is nothing more to be said."

They talked a few minutes very naturally about Maggie. He even allowed a touch of humour to come in, and the girl liked him for it.

" Well: I am sure she won't be disappointed," he said: " there are many mansions, after all; we both believe that; don't we? — though perhaps not quite in the same sense."

Marion smiled back at him.

" Oh! it'll be all right," she said, " so long as she isn't asked to live in any one else's mansion."

As he stood up to take his leave, again an impulse seized her.

" Sit down again, Mr. Cholmondeley, please; if you can spare the time. I want to ask you something. May I? And will you promise not to draw deductions?"

" I quite understand," he said. " Yes? "

" Supposing," she began slowly, seeking for her parallel, " yes: suppose some one's last wishes were that... that... oh! well; let's say, that you shouldn't go to Australia; and supposing you were absolutely sure that it was right for you to go. Could you — well — possibly be justified in using that person's steam-yacht to go there? "

She looked up at him, and, to her surprise, saw that his face looked distressed and anxious.

" Remember about the deductions, please," she added quickly, " and, remember you're absolutely certain that it's right to go; and well, let's say that you've no chance, humanly speaking, of getting there without that steam-yacht, at least not for years. What ought you to do? "

He stood up.

" Miss Tenterden," he said, " I'm not a theologian. I don't know. I simply don't know. I would very much prefer that you shouldn't press me for an answer. It's about the most difficult problem in the world."

" But surely " she began.

" These are purely personal matters," he said hastily: " Miss Tenterden — I hate to say it; but these things depend wholly on one's own way of looking at things. I really don't know what I think: and I am quite sure I am not competent to advise you."

Again the heaviness fell on her; for she perceived that here was one more possible help that had failed her. She had asked him as simply as she would have asked a priest, never dreaming but that he would do his best to advise her; yet, obviously, he would not meet her on that level. He was a pleasant and a kindly man, but, like so many other pleasant and kindly men, he disliked complications. She sighed; it had been an impulse that had made her speak to him — an impulse arising from that isolation that seemed closing round her so inexorably — and there was no response.

She stood up, too.

" I understand," she said quietly. " Well: thank you so much for coming. It was really kind of you."

Ill

When the little party came back as dusk was coming on, Mrs. Grant went to look for her new mistress, telling Jenny to begin to prepare for supper. She wished just to satisfy herself that all was well.

But it was not until after a few minutes that she found her.at last going quickly up and down beyond the roses, still in her hat and black cloak, with a letter in her hand.

" I beg pardon, Miss," began the housekeeper. "Why, Miss!"

" What is it? " said the figure that turned and faced her.

" Nothing, Miss; I just came to see — you'll have supper at half-past eight as usual, Miss? "

She was trying to make out the expression on the girl's face. For the first moment it had seemed that it was not Miss Tenterden at all.

" Yes," said Marion...." Mrs. Grant."

"Yes, Miss?"

" I suppose Father Denny's back? "

" Yes, Miss; do you wish to see him, Miss? "

There was a pause before the other answered.

" No: it doesn't matter. I'll let you know if I do. Oh! and by the way, would you mind sending for Maximilian back again? He's been away long enough."

The figure resumed its pacing; and Mrs. Grant hurried back to the house to scold Jenny on general principles.

Half an hour later it was nearly dark: the housekeeper had glanced out of the low kitchen window once or twice, and each time had been able to make out the figure moving up and down. It seemed to her all very curious, and not at all the way in which grief should affect a young lady: she could understand, well enough, the fact that there were no tea-things to take away: that was most correct; it was a sign of the highest sensitiveness to be able to take no food; but to walk quickly up and down, and to speak almost sharply, was not in the least appropriate. But then Mrs. Grant remembered that this particular young lady always was a little strange, and not in the least like poor Miss Brent, who was " gone." And at that memory her own eyes filled with tears.

At a quarter-past eight it was too dark to see any one against the yew hedge; and, still a little uneasy, she sent Jenny out to say that it was a quarter-past eight, and that hot water had been taken upstairs. Jenny came back a minute later to say that Miss Tenterden was not in the garden.

" Nonsense, child! " said the housekeeper. " She was there ten minutes ago. I saw her; and she isn't in the house, because we'd have heard her come in."

Jenny reaffirmed that Miss Tenterden was not in the garden: and Mrs. Grant, with an exclamation of impatience, herself went out to look.

Within the little church, Marion knelt in the dusk, with her head on her hands, in an agony of conflict.

For it had come upon her suddenly, more than an hour ago, as she had read the lawyers' letter for the second time, that although she could not indeed hand back the legacy to Maggie's relations, she could not, conceivably, accept it for herself; and that her rush of relief was just one more bit of Divine mockery, like those that had preceded it. For an almost joyous minute or two she had seen the last difficulties rolled away; she had seen the prospect of her marriage suddenly approach: she had thought of Max's relief, and of the letter that she would write to him. And then, she had understood.

For the will had been made a few months ago, at a time when Maggie would as soon have thought of doubting Marion's fidelity to the Church, as of doubting her own; she had made that will in her confidence and generosity, believing that there would benefit by it one whom she loved and believed in: she had actually put in that little clause about her own relations, as if to emphasise that conscience came in. Well: since then, less than a week ago, her confidence had been completely overthrown, and Marion had revealed to her the true state of affairs, showing her that her future intentions were of such a character as to be incompatible with a profession of the Catholic religion. Of course Maggie had not had time to alter her will — it was as humanly certain as anything could be that such an idea had never even occurred to her mind; but it was also certain — was it not? — that if she had had time she would surely have done so. Was it conceivable that Maggie should wish that her money should go to support a woman, who had been once her friend, and who was living as if in wedlock with a man to whom, according to Maggie's whole-hearted conviction, she was not married — to a woman, moreover, who, in order to contract that union had forsaken the religion which Maggie held to be Divine?

That, then, was the side of conscience; and the stress of conflict came from the thought that at any rate legally and, many would think, morally as well, she had an absolute right to the bequest. Legally, of course, it was beyond question hers; and even morally, if it were regarded from her own standpoint, it was hers too. For, if.it were really true that she believed herself justified in marrying Max, under the conditions she proposed to accept — if she believed, in fact, that her broad-mindedness corresponded to truth as God saw it, more nearly than Maggie's narrow-mindedness, then indeed she was justified. For in any case the bequest would not be used in the only way in which Maggie had definitely expressed a wish that it should not: the relations would not have it: there was no anti-Catholic propaganda in the matter. On the contrary she had always contemplated the possibility of Max consenting later on to the promises, and herself asking him to do so. She did not in the least want to quarrel with the Church; the quarrel was of the Church's seeking, not hers. Then had she not a perfect right, even in the sight of God Himself, to accept this clearing of her path and this issue out of her troubles?

And, as she reached that point, once more the other side surged back; and she bent her head again upon her hands. She knew she must fight it out herself. In the first desperate moment of bewilderment she had tried to get help from another; and he had failed her.

Out there in the garden it had been no good. There had been no voice nor any that answered. On the one side the apse of the church, with the glimmer through the windows, had stood up against the darkening sky: on the other the sweep of the hills beyond the village; and she had faced these alternately — Grace and Nature — as she faced the alternatives within her own soul. So, at last, driven by the stress within, she had come into the church for a few minutes before it was locked up for the night, drawn there, subconsciously, if she had but known it, by her memories from the past, and consciously by a desire for space and silence and uninterruptedness. And, when she had got there, she had knelt down.

It was strange how, little by little, unperceived by herself in its process, this place soothed and quieted her. It was not that the conflict was less acute in itself, but that she felt more apart from it; and that, in spite of the fact that thought after thought presented itself to her now which hardly had occurred to her in the garden. Yet she was able to regard them now, without shrinking from their contemplation, as if caught in disloyalty.

For instance she was able now to examine, without passion or terror, that thought of hers, conceived long ago in the early morning, that Max might lose a little, at least, of his interest in her, now that her voice was gone and her stage-career ended.

But she passed on presently from that, since she was truly unable to imagine that there could possibly be any truth in it: after all, certainly she loved to think of Max on the moors in his delightful shooting costume, with that particular look in his eyes that she remembered, but she did not love him because he went deer-stalking: she loved Max, deer-stalking or otherwise. Very well, then; it was natural that he should love to watch her as Elsa and to hear her singing: but that could not possibly mean that he would cease to love her when she was only Marion Tenterden; for it was Marion Tenterden whom he loved.

So she moved on, and thought with real anguish (for this was solid enough) that without this money her marriage must be almost indefinitely postponed. It was all very well for Max to talk about his place in the City; but, in fact, he had not yet even approached the subject with his father. Yet with this bequest the way was perfectly clear: there was no reason why they should not be married in six months.

Yet even this anguish of indecision did not penetrate deeply in this atmosphere: or, rather, while it penetrated deeply, she was able to watch it without perturbation.

Suddenly she lifted her head again and looked before her.

The little church in itself was not in the least remarkable; it had been built by a priest with more zeal than money, and intentions that were better than his taste. It had no distinction; yet it was not at all offensive. Three lancet windows, without tracing, rose behind the high altar: the altar itself was decent and unpretentious: six brass candlesticks and a crucifix stood upon it. The white cloth glimmered in the dusk, and in the faint light cast by the sanctuary lamp. For the rest, there was nothing to attract attention: a statue of Blessed Mary stood to the right of the chancel arch; but it was so dark now that nothing but an outline could be discerned. Beyond it, still further to the right, the wavering light flickered on the silver pipes of the little positive organ which Father

Denny had recently installed. Marion herself had given a subscription to it, as she was " interested in music."

At these things then she looked; and, as she looked was aware that something was happening.

Now the church was practically dark with shadows, at least in all but the sanctuary itself; and it was also as silent as death. It stood at the remote end of the village, on the only piece of ground that could be obtained for it fifteen years ago; and the villagers were within doors. But it appeared to this girl, overwrought and strained as she was, that the darkness and the silence of which she was aware were too profound to be produced by physical conditions only: they had a quality in them, not merely negative — which is all that they have a right to — but as being the vehicle and the covering of something very positive indeed; and this positive something at once terrified and fascinated her.

For a moment or two she fought against it, as a child fights against his terrors in the dark; and then she could fight no more. For the place seemed charged with force; and the force was irresistible; and she knelt there, unable to stir, with her hair prickling on her head, and her clasped hands suddenly turned cold. She did not know what she expected. Now it was the sanctuary lamp that frightened her; now the dark curtains over the little tabernacle below; now the tilted shoulder and head of the statue against the faint luminosity of the sanctuary wall. Each of these in turn appeared to her as the focus from which the power would manifest itself; and from each it passed: and it seemed rather that the place itself was full of energy.

And then, without warning, it was the presence of Maggie, she thought, that approached her; and the effect of that presence was as the effect of the dreams she had, now and again, of her father, in which he appeared to her at once dead and alive, himself, yet infinitely mysterious and august, with a secret which he could not utter. So there came on her now this thought of Maggie; and she glared, moving her eyes only, for she dared not move her head, towards the heavy shadows on this side and that of the chancel arch, looking for the coming out of them of that figure that had been carried this afternoon down the stairs of the cottage, out to the hearse, and so along the country road.

In those moments all else seemed remote: the very conflict that had so surged in her soul just now — Max, the cottage, Father Denny, the village, her past and her future — these things became secondary and apart in the terrific reality of the present. And yet it was not all terrific; there was a strange sensation of pleasure mingled with the very fear. It was as the smile that Maggie had worn as she died in silence, terrifying, but also sweet.

It was nearly a quarter to nine before Mrs. Grant bethought herself of the church. Indeed she had thought of it before, but had dismissed it again: it was not Miss Tenterden's way to go to church all by herself, she had noticed lately. But, after she had gone through the cottage, and down the garden, and even a little way up the street, and, finally had heard from Jenny whom she had despatched round to the back door of the presbytery, to inquire of the priest's housekeeper, that Miss Tenterden had not been there all day, at last she went round herself to the west door of the church and looked in.

The church seemed to her, coming from outside, where faint twilight still lingered, as black as night; but she thought she heard a sort of sob (as she described it to Mrs. Mulligan afterwards) and the next moment down came Miss Tenterden, not even genuflecting, so far as she could see, and caught hold of her.

"Why, Miss, wherever have you been?" demanded Mrs. Grant.

" Come away: come away," whispered the girl. " Shut the door behind you. I can't."

Certainly poor Miss Tenterden was terribly upset, thought Mrs. Grant: and little wonder after all she had been through to-day. She shut the door, as she was bidden; and, as she did it, round came Father Denny to lock up. She noticed Miss Tenterden straighten herself up a little, when she saw the priest: but she said nothing; nor did he.

" Dear me, Miss," she said as they walked back the few yards that separated the church from the cottage, " you've been a long time in church."

" Have I, Mrs. Grant? "

" Yes, Miss."

"Would Jenny mind sleeping in my room to-night? I'm... I'm rather upset."

" Why of course she shall, Miss! "

" Thanks."

She seemed to recover, thought Mrs. Grant, as soon as she got back into the house.

When Mrs. Grant came in at the end of supper, she seemed entirely herself again.

" Mrs. Grant," she said, " don't say anything to Jenny, if you haven't already."

" I have, Miss: and she's been moving her bed in."

" Oh! very well then. But only for to-night. She can go back to her own room to-morrow."

" Very good, Miss. Night prayers as usual, I suppose, Miss."

" Yes, please: at a quarter to ten. And what about the cat?"

" He'll be back to-morrow morning, Miss."