Great Possessions | Page 4

intended to make his will. More than once after that she
tried to persuade me to speak to him about it, but I disliked the subject
too much."
Mr. Murray looked as if he wished that Lady Rose would go on talking;
he seemed to expect more from her, but, as nothing more came, he
made a great effort and plunged into the subject.
"The will I have here"--he held up the papers as he spoke--"was, in fact,
made a few months after Sir David inherited Mr. John Steele's large

fortune, and there was no subsequent alteration to it, but this time last
year we were directed to make a codicil to this will, and I was away at
the time. My brother, who is my senior partner, ventured to urge Sir
David to make a new will altogether, but he declined."
There was silence in the room for some moments. Mr. Murray leant
over the writing-table now, and both hands were occupied in smoothing
out the papers before him.
"It is the worst will I have ever come across," he said quite suddenly,
the professional manner gone and the vehemence of a strong mind in
distress breaking through all conventionality. Rose drew herself up and
looked at him coldly. In that moment she completely regained her
self-possession.
"It is absolutely inexplicable," he went on, with a great effort at
self-control. "Sir David Bright leaves this house and £800 a year to you,
Lady Rose, for your lifetime, and a few gifts to friends and small
legacies to old servants." He paused. Rose, with slightly heightened
colour, spoke very quietly.
"Then the fortune was much smaller than was supposed?"
"It was larger, far larger than any one knew; but it is all left away."
Rose was disturbed and frankly sorry, but not by any means miserable.
She knew life, and did not dislike wealth, and had had dreams of much
good that might be done with it.
"To whom is it left?" she asked.
"After the small legacies I mentioned are paid off, the bulk of the
fortune goes"--the lawyer's voice became more and more business-like
in tone--"to Madame Danterre, a lady living in Florence."
"And unless anything is sent to me from South Africa, this will is law?"
"Yes."

Rose covered her face with her hands; she did not move for several
moments. It would not have surprised Mr. Murray to know that she was
praying. Presently she raised her face and looked at him with troubled
eyes, but absolute dignity of bearing.
"And the codicil?"
"The codicil directs that if you continue to live in this house----"
Rose made a little sound of surprised protest.
"----the ground rent, all rates, and all taxes are to be paid. A sum much
larger than can be required is left for this purpose, and it can also be
spent on decorating or furnishing, or in any way be used for the house
and garden. It is an elaborate affair, going into every detail."
"Should I be able to let the house?"
"For a period of four months, not longer. But should you refuse to live
in this house, this sum will go with the bulk of the fortune. We had
immediate application on behalf of Madame Danterre from a lawyer in
Florence as soon as the news of the death reached us. It seems that she
has a copy of the will."
"Has she"--Rose hesitated, and then repeated, "Has Madame Danterre
any children?"
"I do not know," said Mr. Murray. "Beyond paying considerable sums
to this lawyer from time to time for her benefit, we have known nothing
about her. There has been also a large annual allowance since the year
when Sir David came into his cousin's fortune." There was another
silence, and then Mr. Murray spoke in a more natural way, though it
was impossible to conceal all the sympathy that was filling his heart
with an almost murderous wrath.
"After all, the General had plenty of time before starting for the war to
arrange his affairs; he was not a man who would neglect business. I
came here with a faint hope--or I tried to think it was a hope--that you

might have another will in the house. I'm afraid this--document
represents Sir David Bright's last wishes." There was a ring of
indignant scorn in his voice.
Rose looked through the window on to the thin black London turf
outside, and her eyes were blank from the intensity of concentration.
She had no thought for the lawyer; if he had been sympathetic even to
impertinence she would not have noticed it.
She was questioning her own instincts, her perceptions. No, it was
almost more as if she were emptying her mind of any conscious action
that her whole power of instinctive