POSSESSION.
Mr. Joseph Cayley., Junr., sate in his private room in the office of
Cayley & Hubbard. He was an unusually tall man, with a thin, cold, hard
face, black eyes, black hair, and an expression of extraordinary
solemnity. He looked as if none of his ancestors had ever laughed. A
shrewd and clear-headed man of business, he was remarkable at once for
his upright conduct of professional affairs, and for the uncompromising
frankness, with the extreme courtesy, of his personal demeanour. His
friends used to wonder how such a man and John Hubbard ever pulled
together; but they did, and their business was even better now than when
old Mr. Cayley took John Hubbard into partnership.
A card was handed to Mr. Cayley by one of the youths in the office. He
glanced at the card, looked at it attentively, and then there came over
his face a singular expression of concern, surprise, and almost fear.
"Show her in," he said, sharply, to the lad.
He rose and paced up and down the room for a moment; then he found
himself bowing into a chair a lady completely dressed in black, who had
just entered.
"Will you permit me," he said, fixing his big black eyes upon her, "to
ask my partner to join us? I anticipate the object of your
visit--and--and----"
"Does your partner live at Haverstock Hill?"
"Yes."
"I would rather speak with you alone, then," said the young lady,
calmly. "I have here a letter from my mother, Mrs. Brunel, to you. I
need not explain to you why the letter has not been delivered for years.
I was not to deliver it until necessity----"
"You need not explain," said Mr. Cayley, hurriedly taking the letter.
"This is addressed to my father; but I may open it. I know its
contents; I know everything you wish to know, Miss Brunel."
When he had opened the letter, he read it, and handed it to Annie
Brunel, who read these words--
"_Mr. Cayley,_
"_My daughter claims her rights._
"_Annie Marchioness of Knottingley._"
She looked at him, vaguely, wonderingly, and then at the faded brown
writing again. The words seemed to disappear in a mist; then there was
a soft sound in her ears, as of her mother's voice; and then a sort of
languor stole over her, and it seemed to her that she was falling
asleep.
"Take this glass of wine," was the next thing she heard. "You have been
surprised, alarmed, perhaps. But you know the handwriting to be your
mother's?"
"Yes," was the reply, in a low voice.
"And you understand now why you were to call upon us?"
"I don't know--I don't understand--my mother ought to be here now," said
the girl, in hurried, despairing accents. "If that letter means
anything, if my mother was a rich lady, why did she keep always to the
stage? Why conceal it from me? And my father?--where was he that he
allowed her to travel about, and work day after day and night after
night?"
"He was dead."
Many and many a time had Joseph Cayley rehearsed this scene upon which
he had now entered. His earliest initiation into the secrets of the
office was connected with it. It had been a legacy to him from his
father; and the unusual mystery and importance of the case had so
impressed him, that he used to imagine all the circumstances of the
young girl's coming to claim her own, and of his speeches and bearing
during the interview. He forgot all his elaborate speeches, and
remembering only the bare facts of the case, related them with as great
delicacy as he could. Now for the first time did Annie Brunel
understand the sad circumstances of her mother's story, and for the
moment she lost sight of everything else. She was away back in that
strange and mournful past, recalling her mother's patient bearing, her
heroic labour, her more than heroic cheerfulness and self-denial, and
the bitter loneliness of her last hours.
"It was his friends who kept him from her?" she asked, not daring to
look up.
The lawyer knew better; but he dared not tell the cruel truth to the
girl.
"Doubtless," he said. "Your father's friends were very proud, and very
much against his marrying an actress."
"And my mother feared my going among them?"
"Doubtless. But you need not do so now."
"Do they know who I am?"
"Yes, _my lady_."
He uttered the words, not out of compliment, but of set purpose. It was
part of the information he had to give her. She looked up to him with a
curious look, as if he were some magician who had suddenly given her
sacksful of gold, and was about to change the gold again into flints.
"If all this is true, why did I never hear it from any one else?"
"We alone knew, and your father's friends. They concealed the marriage
as well as they could, and certainly never would speak to any one about
you."
"And all these estates you speak of are mine?" she said, with a
bewildered look on her face.
"Yes."
"And all that money?"
"Certainly."
"Without the chance of anybody coming forward and saying it is not
mine?"
"There is no such chance that I know of, once you have been identified
as Lady Knottingley's daughter, and that will not be difficult."
"And I can do with the money what I like?" she asked, the bewilderment
turning to a look of joy.
"Most undoubtedly."
"Out of such sums as you mention, I could give 20,000*l.* to one person,
and the same amount to another?"
"Certainly. But you will forgive my saying that such bequests are not
usual--perhaps you will get the advice of a friend."
"I have only two friends--a Miss Featherstone, and an old gentleman
called Mr. Anerley. These are the two I mean."
Mr. Cayley opened his eyes with astonishment.
"Miss Featherstone of the ---- Theatre?"
"Yes."
"You propose to give her 20,000*l.*?"
"Yes," said the young girl, frankly, and with a bright happy look on her
face.
"The imprudence--the indiscretion--if I may say so!--(although it is no
business of mine, my lady, and we shall be glad to fulfil any of your
instructions). What could such a girl do with that sum of money?"
"What shall I do with all the rest--if it is real, which I can scarcely
believe yet? But I wish you to tell me truly what was my mother's
intention in keeping this secret from me. I was only to apply to you in
extreme need. No one knows how extreme my need is--how extreme it was
last night, when it drove me to take out that letter and resolve to
appeal to you."
"Your mother told my father why she should keep the secret from you.
She wished you never to undergo the wrongs she had suffered by coming in
contact with those people whose influence over your father she feared
and hated."
"And how she used to teach me always to rely upon the stage!" she said,
musingly, and scarcely addressing herself to the man before her.
"Perhaps I have done very wrong in relinquishing it. Perhaps I am to
have as miserable a life as she had; but it will not be through _them_."
"Now, my lady, there is no necessity why you should ever see one of the
family."
"And it was her wish that I should come to you when I was in extreme
distress----?"
"Distress! I hope not pecuniary----"
"That, and nothing else," said the girl, calmly.
Mr. Cayley was only too glad to become her banker until the legal
arrangements should permit of her stepping into a command of money such
as Harry Ormond himself had never owned.
"And in the meantime," she added, "you will not mention to any one my
having seen you. I do not know what I shall do yet. I fear there is
something wrong about it all--something unreal or dangerous; and when I
think of my poor mother's life, I do not wish to do anything in haste.
I cannot believe that all this money is mine. And the title, too--I
should feel as if I were on the stage again, and were assuming a part
that I should have to drop in an hour. I don't want all that money; I
should be afraid of it. If my mother were only here to tell me!"
Mr. Cayley was called away at this moment to see some other visitor. In
his absence John Hubbard came to the door of the room and looked in.
He saw before him a figure which he instantly recognised. The girl was
looking at the sheet of brown paper which bore her mother's name, her
eyes were wet, and her hands were clasped together, as if in mute
supplication to that scrap of writing to say something more and guide
her in this great emergency. John Hubbard guessed the whole situation
of affairs directly. Without a moment's hesitation, he entered, and
Annie Brunel looked up.
"My poor girl!" he said, in accents of deep compassion, with his pale
face twitching nervously, "I understand your sad position; and if you
had only remained in our house a few days longer, our counsel and advice
might have been of service to you in this crisis. How deeply you must
feel the want of a true and faithful adviser----!"
John Hubbard became aware that he had made a mistake. All the return
that his sympathetic consolation provoked was a calm and penetrating
look: and then, with a sudden change of manner, that surprised and half
frightened him, she rose to her feet, and said, coldly and proudly--
"I am here on business; it is Mr. Cayley I wish to see."
Bewildered alike by her manner and her speech, Mr. Hubbard only
blundered the worse.
"My lady," he said hurriedly, and with profound respect, "you will
forgive me if I have been too forgetful in offering you my sympathy.
But as an old friend--our old relations--the pleasant evenings----"
"Mr. Hubbard," she said, in the same tone (and before the clear, cold,
cruel notes of her voice the walls of his imaginative Jericho fell down
and crumbled into dust), "I am much obliged to you and your wife for
having employed me. I hope I did my work in return for the food I
received. As to your kindness, and the pleasant evenings spent in your
house, I have an impression which I need not put into words. You know I
had a conversation with your brother before I left your house which
seemed to explain your kindness to me. At the same time, I am as
grateful to you as I can be."
"That brother of mine again!" thought John Hubbard, with an inward
groan.
Mr. Cayley came into the room, and was surprised to find his partner
there.
"I wish to speak to you in private, sir," said Miss Brunel to Mr.
Cayley; and thus dismissed, John Hubbard retired, thinking of the poor
children who had been deprived of handsome little presents all through
the blundering folly of their uncle.
"Hang him!" said John Hubbard; "the best thing the fool can do is to
shoot himself and leave his money to the boys. As for _her_, he has set
her dead against me for ever. And now she will be Lady Annie
Knottingley, and my wife might have been her best friend, and we might
have lived, almost, at that splendid place in Berks--and the
children----"
There was no more miserable creature in London that day than the Count's
brother; and he considered himself an injured, ill-used, and virtuous
man.
The appearance of John Hubbard had done this one good thing--it had
determined Annie Brunel to make up her mind. It recalled so forcibly
the loneliness and misery, the humiliation and wretchedness of these
past months, that she instantly resolved never, if she could help it, to
come into contact with such people again. With this wealth at her
command, she was free. She could choose such friends, and scenes, and
pursuits as she liked best; she could--and here the warm heart of her
leapt up with joy--she could reach out her hand to those friends who
might be in want--she could be their secret protector, and glide in like
an invisible fairy to scare away the wolf from their door by the
sunshine of her gilded and luminous presence. This splendid
potentiality she hugged to her heart with a great joy; and as she went
away from Mr. Cayley's office (after a long interview, in which he
explained to her the legal aspects and requirements of the situation)
there was a fine happy light on her face. She no longer doubted that it
was all real. She already felt the tingling of a full hand; and her
brain was busy with pictures of all the people to whom that hand was to
be freely extended. In many a romance had she played; but never a
romance like this, in which all the world but herself was ignorant of
the secret. She would go about, like an emperor with a bundle of
pardons in his pocket, like a kindly spirit who would transform the
coals in poor men's grates into lumps of gleaming rubies, and diamonds,
and emeralds. She would conceal her mysterious power; and lo! the
invisible will would go forth, and this or that unhappy man or
woman--ready to sink in despair before the crushing powers of
circumstance--would suddenly receive her kindly help, and find himself
or herself enriched and made comfortable by an unknown agency.
Like every one who has suffered the trials of poverty, she fancied that
nearly all the ills of life were attributable to want of money, and she
saw in this wealth which had become hers a magnificent instrument of
amelioration. She had a very confused notion of Mr. Cayley's figures.
She knew the value of five pounds, or twenty, or even a hundred; but
when it came to thousands, comprehension failed her. She could not tell
the difference between a hundred and fifty thousand pounds and the same
sum per annum; both quantities were not reducible to the imagination,
and consequently conveyed no distinct impression. She knew vaguely that
the money at her command was inexhaustible; she could give each of her
friends--certainly she had not many--a fortune without affecting
(sensibly to herself) this accumulation of banker's ciphers.
So she walked westward through the crowded city, weaving dreams. Habit
had so taught her to dread the expense of a cab, that she never thought
of employing a conveyance, although she had in her pocket fifty pounds
which Mr. Cayley had pressed upon her. She was unaware of the people,
the noise, the cold January wind, and the dust. Her heart was sick with
the delight of these vague imaginings, and the inexpressible joy of her
anticipations was proof against those physical inconveniences which,
indeed, she never perceived.
Yet her joy was troubled. For among all the figures that her heart
loved to dwell upon,--all the persons whom she pictured as receiving her
munificent and secret kindness--there was one with whom she knew not how
to deal. What should she give to Will Anerley? The whole love of her
heart he already possessed; could she, even though he were to know
nothing of the donor, offer him money? She shrank from such a suggestion
with apprehensive dislike and repugnance; but yet her love for him
seemed to ask for something, and that something was not money.
"What can I do better than make him marry Dove, and forget me?" she said
to herself; and she was aware of a pang at her heart which all Harry
Ormond's money, and twenty times that, could not have removed.
For a little while the light died away from her face; but by-and-by the
old cheerful resolute spirit returned, and she continued her brisk walk
through the grey and busy streets.
"Mr. Cayley," she said to herself, talking over her projects as a child
prattles to its new toys, "fancies Mr. Anerley had thirty or forty
thousand pounds. If I send him that, they will all go down to Kent
again, and Dove will win her lover back to her with the old
associations. They might well marry then, if Will were not as fiercely
independent as if he were a Spanish Duke. I could not send him money;
if he were to discover it, I should die of shame. But it might be sent
to him indirectly as a professional engagement; and then--then they
would marry, I know--and perhaps they might even ask me to the wedding.
And I should like to go, to see Dove dressed as a bride, and the look on
her face!"
Dove did not know at that moment what beautiful and generous spirit was
scheming with a woman's wit to secure her welfare--what tender projects
were blossoming up, like the white flowers of charity and love, in the
midst of the dull and selfish London streets. But when Annie Brunel,
having walked still farther westward, entered the house which the
Anerleys occupied, and when she came into the room, Dove thought she had
never seen the beautiful dark face look so like the face of an angel.