‘THE DAYS HAVE VANISHED, TONE AND TINT.’
Maurice Clissold lost no time in setting about his search for Miss
Barlow, the quondam schoolmistress of Seacomb. But the first result of
his endeavours was a failure. The London Post Office Directory for the
current year knew not Miss Barlow. Barlows there were in its pages, but
they were trading Barlows; Barlows who baked, or Barlows who brewed;
Barlows who dealt in upholstery; Barlows who purveyed butcher’s meat; or
professional Barlows, who wrote Rev. before or M.R.C.S. after their
names. A spinster of the musical profession was not to be found among
the London Barlows.
In the face of this disappointment Maurice paused to consider his next
effort. Advertising in the _Times_ he looked upon as a last resource,
and a means of inquiry which he hoped to dispense with. So many spurious
Miss Barlows eager to hear of something to their advantage, would be
conjured into being by any appeal published in the second column of the
_Times_.
There remained to him the detective medium, but Maurice cherished a
prejudice against private inquiry offices, and would not for all the
wealth of this realm have revealed Muriel’s story to a professional
detective. He was resolved to succeed or fail in this business
single-handed.
‘If Miss Barlow is above ground her existence must be known to
somebody,’ he reasoned, ‘to musical people more particularly. I’ll go
down to the Albert Theatre and have a chat with the leader of the
orchestra. Your musical director is generally a man of the world, with a
little more than the average amount of brains. And I have heard Justina
speak very highly of Herr Fisfiz. Flittergilt’s new comedy is in
rehearsal, so I have an excuse for going behind the scenes.’
It was about noon on the day after his little entertainment to Mr.
Elgood that Maurice arrived at this decision. He went straight from his
club, where he had explored the Court Guide and Postal Directory, to the
snug little theatre in the Strand, where, after some parley with the
stage doorkeeper, he obtained admittance, and groped his way through
subterranean regions of outer darkness, and by some breakneck stairs, to
the side scenes, where, in a dim glimmer of daylight and fitful glare of
gas, he beheld the stage on one side of him, and the open door of the
green-room on the other.
Justina was rehearsing. Mr. Flittergilt, in a state of mental fever, sat
by the stage manager’s little table, manuscript and pencil in hand,
underlining here, erasing there, now altering an exit, now suggesting
the proper emphasis to give point to a sparkling sentence, evidently
delighted with his own work, yet as evidently painfully anxious about
the result.
‘I shan’t be satisfied with a moderate success,’ he told Maurice. ‘I
want this piece to make a greater hit than “No Cards.” You remember what
was said of Sheridan when he hung back from writing a new comedy. He was
afraid of the author of “The Rivals.” Now I don’t want that to be said
of _me_.’
‘No fear, dear boy,’ remarked Maurice. But Mr. Flittergilt’s exalted
mind ignored the interjection.
‘I want the public to see that I have not emptied my sack; that “No
Cards” was not my ace of trumps, but only my knave. I’ve queen, king,
and ace to follow! Did you hear the last scene?’ asked the author, with
a self-satisfied smile. ‘It’s rather sparkling, I think; and Elgood hits
the character to the life.’
Mr. Clissold did not approve this familiar allusion to the girl of his
choice.
‘I’ve only just this moment come in,’ he said; ‘I’m glad Miss Elgood
likes her new _rôle_.’
‘Likes it?’ cried Flittergilt, with an injured look. ‘It wouldn’t be
easy for any actress on the boards not to like such a part. “No Cards”
made Miss Elgood; but this piece will place her a step higher on the
ladder.’
‘Don’t you think there may be people weak-minded enough to believe that
Miss Elgood’s acting made “No Cards”?’ asked Maurice, quietly.
‘I can’t help people’s weak-mindedness,’ answered Mr. Flittergilt, with
dignity; ‘but I know this for a fact, that no acting—not of a Macready
or a Faucit—ever made a bad piece run over a hundred nights.’ And with
this assertion of himself Mr. Flittergilt went back to his table and his
manuscript, and began to badger the actors—being possessed by the idea
that because he was able to construct a play from the various foreign
materials at his command, he must necessarily be able to teach
experienced comedians their art.
Justina looked up from her book presently, and espied Mr. Clissold. Her
blush betrayed surprise, her eyes revealed that the surprise was not
unpleasant.
‘Have you come to criticise the new comedy?’ she asked. ‘That’s hardly
fair, though, for a piece loses so much at rehearsal. Mr. Flittergilt is
always calling us back to give us his own peculiar reading of a line. I
never saw such an excitable little man. But I suppose he’ll take things
more coolly when he has written a few more plays.’
‘Yes; he is new to the work as yet. I am glad to hear you have such a
good part.’
‘It is a wonderfully good part, if I can only act it as it ought to be
played.’
‘Is your leader, Herr Fisfiz, here this morning?’ asked Maurice.
‘He is coming presently. There’s a gavotte in the third act.’
‘You dance?’
‘Yes, Mr. Mortimer and I. Herr Fisfiz has written original music for
it—so quaint and pretty. You should stay to hear it, now you are here.’
‘I mean to stay till the rehearsal is over. I should like you to
introduce me to Mr. Fisfiz; I want to ask him a question or two about
some musical people.’
‘I shall be pleased to introduce you to each other. He is a very clever
man, not in music only, but in all kinds of things, and I think you
would like him.’
Maurice seated himself in a dark corner, near the prompter’s box, and
awaited Mr. Fisfiz, amusing himself by listening to the comedy, and
beholding his friend Flittergilt’s frantic exertions in the meanwhile.
He had been thus occupied nearly an hour when Mr. Fisfiz appeared,
attended by his _ame damnée_ in the person of the _repétiteur_. The
director was a little man, with a small delicate face, and a
Shakesperian brow; spoke English perfectly, though with a German accent,
and had no dislike to hearing himself talk, or to wasting a stray
half-hour in the society of a pretty actress, or even bestowing the
sunshine of his presence for a few leisure minutes on a group of
giggling ballet-girls. He was evidently a great admirer of Miss Elgood,
and inclined to be gracious to any one she introduced to him.
‘I think you’ll like the gavotte,’ he said, playing little pizzicato
passages on his violin, with a satisfied smile. ‘It sounds like Bach.’
Justina told him it was charming. The dance began presently, and though
she only walked through it, the grace of her movements charmed that
silent lover of hers, who sat in his corner and made no sign, lest in
uttering the most commonplace compliment he should betray that secret
which he had pledged himself to keep.
When the gavotte was finished, Justina brought Herr Fisfiz to the dark
corner, and left him there with Maurice, while she went on with her
rehearsal.
Mr. Clissold gave the gavotte its meed of praise, said a few words about
things in general, and then came to the question he wanted to ask.
‘There is a lady connected with the musical profession I am trying to
find,’ he said, ‘and it struck me this morning that you might be able to
assist me.’
‘I know most people in the musical world,’ answered Herr Fisfiz. ‘What
is the lady’s name?’
‘Miss Barlow.’
‘Miss Barlow. How do you spell the name?’
Maurice spelt it, and the director shook his head.
‘I know no one of that name. No Miss B-a-r-l-o-w,’ he said. ‘I never
heard of any one so called in the musical profession. Is your Miss
Barlow a concert singer? Young—an amateur, perhaps, who has not yet made
herself known?’
‘She is not a concert singer, and she must be middle-aged—probably
elderly. The last account I have of her goes back to ten years ago. She
may be dead and gone for anything I know to the contrary; but I have
heard that she was living in or near London ten years ago, giving
lessons in music, and that she was doing well. She was a retired
schoolmistress, and had made money, therefore was not likely to go in
for ill-paid drudgery. She must have had some standing in her
profession, I fancy.’
‘I know of a Madame Bâlo—B-â-l-o—who might answer to that description,’
said the leader, thoughtfully, ‘an elderly lady, a very fine pianiste.
She still receives a few pupils—chiefly girls studying for concert
playing; but I believe she does so more from love of her art than from
any necessity to earn money. She lives in considerable comfort, and
appears to be very well off.’
‘She is a foreigner, I suppose, from the name. The lady I mean is—or
was—an Englishwoman.’
‘Madame Bâlo is as British as you are. She may have married a foreigner,
perhaps. But I really don’t know whether she is a widow or a spinster.
She lives alone, in a nice little house in Maida Vale.’
‘I wonder whether she can be the lady I want to find? The description
seems to answer. She may have Italianized the spelling of her name to
make it more attractive to her patrons.’
‘Yes, you English seem to have a small belief in your own musical
abilities, since you prefer to entrust the cultivation of them to a
foreigner.’
‘Do you know this lady well enough to give me a note of introduction to
her?’ asked Maurice; ‘if I may venture to ask such a favour at the
beginning of our acquaintance.’
‘Delighted to oblige a friend of Miss Elgood’s,’ answered Mr. Fisfiz,
politely. ‘Yes, I know Madame Bâlo well enough to scribble a note of
introduction to her. She is a very clever woman, with a passion for
clever people. And I believe you belong to the world of letters, Mr.
Clissold?’
‘Yes, I have dabbled in literature,’ answered Maurice.
‘Just the very man to delight Madame Bâlo. She is a woman of mind. When
do you want the letter?’
‘As soon as ever you can oblige me with it. I dare say a line on one of
your cards would do as well. I merely wish to ask Madame Bâlo a few
questions about a young lady who was once a member of her establishment
at Seacomb; supposing that she is identical with the Miss Barlow I have
spoken of.’
‘I’ll do what you want at once,’ said Mr. Fisfiz.
He seated himself at the prompter’s table, and wrote on the back of a
card, in a neat and minute penmanship,—
‘DEAR MADAME,—Mr. Clissold, the bearer of this card, is a literary
gentleman of some standing, who wishes to make your acquaintance.
Any favour you may accord him will also oblige,
‘Yours very truly,
‘R. F.’
‘I think that will be quite enough for Madame Bâlo,’ he said.
Half an hour later Maurice was in a hansom, bowling along the Edgware
Road towards Maida Vale.
Here, on the banks of the canal, in a somewhat retired and even
picturesque spot, he found the abode of Madame Bâlo, stuccoed and
classical as to its external aspect, with a Corinthian portico, which
almost extinguished the house to which it belonged.
A neat maid-servant opened the iron gate of the small parterre in front
of the portico, and admitted him without question. She ushered him into
a drawing-room handsomely furnished, and much ornamented with divers
specimens of feminine handicraft—water-colour landscapes on the walls;
Berlin-work chair covers; a tapestry screen, whereon industrious hands
had imitated Landseer’s famous Bolton Abbey; fluffy and beady mats on
the tables and chiffoniers; and alabaster baskets of wax fruit and
flowers carefully preserved under glass shades.
A glance at these things told Maurice that he was on the track of the
original Miss Barlow. Such a collection of fancy-work could only belong
to a retired schoolmistress.
A grand piano, open, with a well-filled musicstand beside it, occupied
an important position in the room. Early as it was in the autumn, a
bright little fire burned in the shining steel grate.
Maurice had ample leisure to study the characteristics of the apartment
before Madame Bâlo made her appearance; but after examining all the
works of art, and roaming about the room somewhat impatiently for some
time, he heard an approaching rustle of silk, and Madame Bâlo entered,
splendid in black moire antique, profusely bugled and fringed, and a
delicate structure of pink crape and watered ribbon, which no doubt was
meant for a cap.
She was a smiling, pleasant-looking little woman, short and stout, with
a somewhat rubicund visage, and a mellow voice, nothing prim or
scholastic about her appearance, her distinguishing quality being rather
friendliness and an easy geniality.
‘Delighted to see any friend of Mr. Fisfiz,’ she said, with a gushing
little manner that had something fresh and youthful about it, in spite
of her sixty years; not affected juvenility, but the real thing.
‘Charming man, Mr. Fisfiz—one of the finest quartette players I know. We
have some pleasant evenings here now and then, when his theatre is shut.
I should be happy to see you at my little parties, Mr. Clissold, if you
are fond of chamber music.’
‘You are very kind. I should be pleased to make one of your audience,
however limited my powers of appreciation might be. But my call to-day
is on a matter of business rather than of pleasure, and I fear I am
likely to bore you by asking a good many questions.’
‘Not at all,’ said Madame Bâlo, with a gracious wave of the pink
structure.
‘First and foremost, then, may I venture to ask if you always spelt your
name as it is inscribed on the brass plate on your gate, or whether its
present orthography—the circumflex accent included—is not rather
fanciful than correct? Pray pardon any seeming impertinence in my
inquiry. The lady I am in quest of was proprietress of a school at
Seacomb, in Cornwall, eminently respected by all who knew her. It struck
me that you might be that very Miss Barlow.’
The lady blushed, coughed dubiously, and after a little hesitation,
answered frankly,—
‘Upon my word, Mr. Clissold, I don’t know why I should be ashamed of the
matter,’ she said, smiling. ‘It is a free country, and we are always
taught that we may do as we like with our own. Now nothing can be more
one’s own property than one’s name.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘When I came back to England, after a lengthened sojourn in romantic
Italy—the dream of my life through many a year of toil,—I found that I
was still too young, and of far too energetic a temperament to settle
down to idleness and retirement. I am speaking now of fifteen years ago.
In Italy I had cultivated and improved my powers as an instrumentalist,
and I had made myself mistress of the mellifluous language to which a
Dante and a Tasso have lent renown. In Italy I had been known as the
Signora Bâlo. Gradually I had fallen into the way of writing my name as
my Italian friends preferred to write it; and ultimately, when I
established myself in this modest dwelling, and issued my circulars, I
preferred to appeal to a patrician and fashionable public under the
Italianized name of Bâlo, and with the prefix Madame.’
‘Your explanation is perfect, Madame,’ replied Maurice, ‘and I thank you
sincerely for your candour. And now may I inquire if you remember among
your pupils at Seacomb a young lady of the name of Trevanard?’
Madame Bâlo looked agitated.
‘Remember Muriel Trevanard!’ she exclaimed. ‘I do indeed remember her.
She was my favourite pupil, a lovely girl, full of talent—a charming
creature.’
‘Have you any idea of her fate in after life?’
‘No,’ returned the schoolmistress, with a troubled look. ‘It ought to
have been brilliant, but I fear it was a blighted life.’
‘It was indeed,’ said Maurice, and then, as briefly as he could, told
Madame Bâlo the story of her pupil’s after life.
Madame Bâlo heard him with undisguised agitation. A little cry of
horrified surprise broke from her more than once during his narrative.
‘Now, after considering this case from every point of view, I arrived at
a certain conclusion,’ said Maurice.
‘And that was——’
‘That George Penwyn and Muriel Trevanard were man and wife, and that you
were aware of their marriage.’
It was some moments before Madame Bâlo recovered herself sufficiently to
reply. She sat looking straight before her, with a troubled countenance,
then suddenly rose, and walked up and down the room once or twice—made
as if she would have spoken, yet was dumb—and then as suddenly sat down
again.
‘Mr. Clissold,’ she said abruptly, after these various evidences of a
perturbed spirit, ‘you have made me a very miserable woman.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Madame Bâlo.’
‘That poor ill-used girl—that martyred girl—condemned by her own
mother—disgraced and exiled in her own home—tortured till her brain gave
way—was as honest a woman as I am—a true and loyal wife, bound to George
Penwyn legally and with my knowledge. Yes, there was a marriage, and I
was present at the ceremony. I foolishly permitted myself to be drawn
into Captain Penwyn’s boyish scheme of a secret marriage. It was to be
the mere legal marriage, only a tie to bind them for ever—but no more
than a tie until George should have won his father’s consent, or been
released by his father’s death, and they should be free to complete
their union. A foolish business, you will say, in the bud, but I was a
foolish woman, and I thought it such a grand thing for my pet pupil—my
bright and beautiful Muriel, whom I loved as if she had been my own
daughter—to win the young Squire of Penwyn.’
Madame Bâlo said all this in little half-incoherent gushes, not strictly
calculated to make things clear.
‘If you would kindly give me a direct and succinct account of this
matter—so far as you were concerned in it or privy to it—you would be
doing me an extreme kindness, Madame Bâlo,’ said Maurice, earnestly.
‘Much wrong has been done that can never be repaired upon this earth;
but there is some part of the wrong that may perhaps be set right, if
you will give me your uttermost aid.’
‘It is yours, Mr. Clissold. Command me. You have no idea how fond I was
of that poor girl—how proud of the talents which it had been my
privilege to develop.’
‘Tell me everything; straightly, simply, fully.’
‘I will,’ replied Madame Bâlo, ‘and if I appear to blame in this unhappy
story, you must remember I erred from want of thought. I believed that I
was acting for the best.’
‘Most of our mistakes in this life are made under that delusion,’ said
Maurice, with his grave smile.
‘You want to know how I came to be mixed up in Muriel’s love affair?
First you must know that before he went to Eton, George Penwyn came to
me to be prepared for a public school. I was a mere girl, and had only
just set up my establishment for young ladies in those days, and I was
very glad to give two hours every morning to the Squire’s little boy,
who used to ride over to Seacomb on his Exmoor pony in the charge of a
groom. A very dear little fellow he was at nine years old. I grounded
him in French and Latin—and even taught him the rudiments of Greek
during the year and a half in which I had him for a pupil, my own dear
father having given me a thorough classical education: and, without
vanity, I do not think many little lads went to Eton that year better
prepared than George Penwyn. He was a grateful, warm-hearted boy, and he
never forgot his old friend, or the old-fashioned garden with the big
yellow egg-plums on the western wall. He came to see me many a time in
his summer holidays, and afterwards when he was in the army. I never
knew him to be three days at home without spending a morning with me. He
was about the only young man I ever let come in and out of my house
without restraint, for I knew he was the soul of honour.’
‘Did he first see Muriel Trevanard in your house?’
‘No, he was abroad at the time Muriel was with me. My first knowledge of
his acquaintance with Muriel, and of his love for her, came from his own
lips, and came to me as a surprise.’
Madame Bâlo paused, with a sigh, and then continued her story.
‘Captain Penwyn came to me one day, just before the Michaelmas
holidays—it was about a year after Muriel had gone home for good—and
asked me for half an hour’s private talk. Well do I remember that calm
September afternoon, and his bright, eager face as he walked up and down
together in the garden at Seacomb, by the sunny wall, where the last of
the figs and plums were ripening. He told me he was madly in love with
Muriel Trevanard—deeper in love than he had ever been in his life—in
fact, it was the one true passion of his life. “I may have fancied
myself in love before,” he said, “but this is reality.” I tried to laugh
him out of his fancy, reminded him of the difference in station between
himself and a tenant farmer’s daughter; asked him what his father would
say to such an infatuation. “That’s what I’m here to talk about,” said
George. “You know what my father is, and that I might just as well try
to turn the course of those two rivers we used to read about when you
were grinding me as to turn my father from his purpose. He has made up
his mind that I am to marry land—he dreams of land, sleeping and
waking—and spends half his time in calculating the number of his acres.
If I refuse to marry land he will disinherit me, and one of my younger
brothers will get Penwyn. Now you know how fond I am of Penwyn, and how
fond all the people round Penwyn are of me; and you may imagine that it
would be rather a hard blow for me to lose an estate which I have always
looked upon as my birthright.”
‘“I should think so, indeed,” said I.
‘“But I love Muriel Trevanard better than house or land,” replied he,
“and I would rather lose all than lose her.”’
‘What did you say to this?’ asked Maurice.
‘I told him that he was simply mad to think about Muriel, except as he
might of a beautiful picture which he had seen in a gallery. But I might
as well have reasoned with the wind. He had made up his mind that life
without Muriel wasn’t worth having. If ever I saw passionate, reckless,
all-absorbing love in my life, I saw it in him. Nothing would content
him but that Muriel and he should be married before he went abroad with
his regiment. He only wanted the tie, the certainty that nothing less
than death could part them. He would ask no more than that she should be
legally his wife, and would wait a fitting time to take her away from
her father’s house, and proclaim his marriage to the world. Nothing
would be gained by my repeating the arguments I used. They were of no
avail. He held to his foolish romantic purpose of calling Muriel his
wife before he left England. “I shall only be away a year or two,” he
said, “and who knows but I may gain a shred of reputation before I come
back—return full major, perhaps, and be able to soften my father’s
flinty heart?” He told me that he wanted my help, but if I refused it
the marriage would take place all the same. He would not leave England
until he had made Muriel his own.’
‘And you consented to help him?’
‘He talked me out of my better reason. Mr. Clissold, I must confess to a
romantic temperament, and that reason is not my strong point. I was
touched by the intensity of his love—the romance of the situation—and
after a long argument, and doing my uttermost to dissuade George from
the step he contemplated, I ultimately promised him my aid—and pledged
myself to the strictest secrecy. Muriel was to be asked to spend the
Michaelmas holidays with me, and then we were to go quietly to a little
watering-place in Devonshire, where no one would know anything about us,
or about George Penwyn. George was to slip up to Exeter for the licence,
and everything was to be managed in such a way as to prevent the
possibility of suspicion on the part of the Squire.’
‘Did Muriel consent readily to such a plan?’
‘I think not. But, however unwillingly, her consent had been given
before she came to me, and when I, as woman to woman, asked her if she
really wished this marriage to take place she told me yes, she wished
all that George wished. He had a foolish idea that her father and mother
would oblige her to marry some one else if he left her unfettered, she
told me, and nothing would satisfy him but that indissoluble bond. Well,
we went to Didmouth, the quietest little seaport town you can well
imagine, and here Muriel and I lived in lodgings, while George had his
quarters at the hotel. I think those were happy days for both of them.
The country round Didmouth is lovely, and they used to wander about
together all day long on the hills, and in the lanes where the
blackberries were ripening, and the ferns beginning to change their
tint. I never saw such innocent, happy lovers. The simplest things
pleased and interested them. They were full of hope for the future, when
the old Squire should relent. I don’t know how they supposed he would be
brought to change his ideas, but they had some vague notion that he
would come round to George’s way of thinking in a year or two. As the
wedding day drew near their spirits drooped a little, for it was an
understood thing that they were to part at the church door, and meet no
more until the Squire’s consent had been won, lest, by any imprudent
meeting, they should betray the secret of their union, and bring about
George’s disinheritance. I made them both promise most solemnly that
they would not meet after the wedding until George had told his father
all, and settled his future fate for good or evil. I stood beside Muriel
at the altar; I signed my name in the parish register. I saw bride and
bridegroom kiss with their parting kiss, and then I took my old pupil
off to the Didmouth coach—there was no rail to Didmouth in those
days—and by nightfall we were back in Seacomb, worn out both of us with
the emotions of that curious wedding day. A few days later Muriel went
back to Borcel End, and I saw no more of her till the following
Christmas, when I drove over to the farm one afternoon to say good-bye
to my old pupil, after having advantageously disposed of my school in
rather a sudden way, and on the eve of my departure for the Continent. I
could only see Muriel in the presence of her mother and father, who
received me with old-fashioned ceremoniousness, and gave me no
opportunity of being alone with my pupil. And thus I left Cornwall
ignorant of any need that Muriel might have of my friendship, counsel,
or aid. I looked upon George Penwyn’s marriage as the foolish whim of a
headstrong young man, passionately in love; but I had no thought that
peril or ruin could come of that act; and I looked forward hopefully to
the time when Captain Penwyn would return and claim his wife before all
the world. Whether the old Squire did or did not forego his threat of an
unjust will, it would be no bad thing for Muriel to be a captain’s or a
major’s wife, I thought, even if her husband were landless, or
fortuneless. Better than marrying trade or agriculture, I told myself.
Very foolish, no doubt; but my dear old father, who taught me the
classics, taught me a good many prejudices into the bargain, and though
I had to get my living as a school-mistress, I always looked down upon
trade. It pleased me to think that the girl, whose mind I had formed,
had a gentleman for her husband, and a gentleman descended from one of
the oldest families in Cornwall. And now, Mr. Clissold, that is the
whole of my story. From the time I left Seacomb I never heard from
Muriel Penwyn, though I had given her my London agent’s address when we
parted, an address from which letters would always be forwarded to me.’
‘You heard of her husband’s death, I suppose?’
‘Not till nearly six months after it happened, when I saw an account of
the poor fellow’s melancholy fate in an Italian newspaper, a paragraph
copied from _Galignani_. You may imagine that my heart bled for Muriel,
yet I dared not write to express my sympathy, fearing to betray a secret
which she might prefer to keep hidden for ever from her parents. The
foolish marriage was now no more than a dream, I thought; a shadow which
had passed across the sunshine of her bright young life, leaving grief
and pain in its track, but exercising no serious influence on her
future. “She will get over her sorrow in a year or so, and marry some
good-looking farmer, or Seacomb shopkeeper, after all,” I thought,
bitterly disappointed at this sad ending to my pretty little romance. I
wrote to a friend at Seacomb soon after to inquire about my old pupil,
putting my questions with assumed carelessness. My friend replied that
Miss Trevanard was still unmarried and with her parents—a dull life for
the poor girl, she feared,—but she understood that Miss Trevanard was
well. This was all I could hear.’
‘The breaking of a heart is a quiet transaction,’ said Maurice, ‘hardly
noticeable to the outward world. Small-pox is a far more obvious
calamity.’
Madame Bâlo sighed. She felt that she had some cause for remorse on the
subject of Muriel Trevanard, that she had taken too little trouble about
the young wife’s after fate—had been too much absorbed by her own
musical studies, her Continental friends and her own interests
generally.
‘What was the name of the church at Didmouth where the marriage took
place?’ asked Maurice.
‘The parish church, St. John’s.’
‘And the date of the marriage?’
‘September 30th, 1847.’
This was all that Madame Bâlo could tell him and all that he wanted to
know. It seemed to him that his course was tolerably clear. He had three
distinct facts to prove. First the marriage, then the birth of the
infant, and finally Justina’s identity with that infant.
His three witnesses would be—
1. Miss Barlow, to prove the marriage.
2. Old Mrs. Trevanard, who could testify to the birth of the child.
3. Matthew Elgood, in whose custody Justina had been from the day of
her birth, and whose evidence, if held worthy of credence, must
needs establish her identity with the child born at Borcel End.
On leaving Madame Bâlo, with whom he parted on excellent terms, Maurice
went straight to his solicitors, Messrs. Willgross and Harding, of Old
Square, good old family solicitors,—substantial, reliable, sagacious.
Before the younger partner, his especial friend and counsellor, he laid
his case.
Mr. Harding heard him with a thoughtful countenance, and was in no haste
to commit himself to an opinion.
‘Rather difficult to dispossess such a man as this Mr. Churchill Penwyn,
on the testimony of a strolling player,’ he said. ‘It’s a pity you
haven’t witnesses with better standing in the world. It might look like
a got-up case.’
‘There is the evidence of the parish register at Didmouth Church.’
‘To prove the marriage. Yes; but only an old blind woman to prove the
birth of an heiress, and only this Elgood to show that the infant was
entrusted to him. And on the strength of his evidence you want to claim
an estate worth seven thousand a year for a young actress at the Albert
Theatre. The story is very pretty, very romantic, but, upon my word, Mr.
Clissold, between friends, if I were you, I would not take much trouble
about it.’
‘I will take whatever trouble may be needful to prove Justina’s
legitimacy,’ replied Maurice, with decision. ‘The estate is a secondary
consideration.’
‘Of course, a mere bagatelle. Well, one of our clerks shall go down to
Didmouth to make a copy of the entry in the register.’
‘I’ll go with him,’ said Maurice.
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