‘IT IS TIME, O PASSIONATE HEART,’ SAID I.
The reason of Muriel’s conduct was fully explained by the fact of Mr.
Tomlin’s death. The one friend whom her husband’s forethought had
provided for her had been snatched away before the hour of her need, and
she had found herself alone, without help, counsel, or shelter.
Doubtless an overstrained respect for her promise—perhaps a latent fear
of Bridget Trevanard’s severe nature—had withheld her from revealing the
fact of her marriage and the manner of it. She had borne the deep agony
of shame rather than endanger her husband’s future. She had perhaps
argued that if her mother and father had been told the truth, nothing
would have prevented their communicating it to the Squire, and then
George would have been disinherited through her broken promise.
Woman-like, she had deemed her own peace—her own fair fame even—a
lighter sacrifice than her husband’s welfare, and she had kept silence.
With this additional evidence of George Penwyn’s letters, fully
acknowledging Muriel as his wife, Maurice felt that there was no further
cause for delay. The law could not be too soon set in motion, if the law
were needed to secure Muriel and Justina their rights. But before
appealing to the law he resolved upon submitting the whole case to
Churchill Penwyn and to Justina, in order to discover the possibility of
compromise. It would be a hard thing to reduce Churchill and his wife to
beggary. They had spent their money wisely, and done good in the land.
An equitable division of the estate would be better pleasing to
Maurice’s idea of justice than a strict exaction of legal rights, and he
had little doubt that Justina would think with him.
His first duty was to go to her and tell her all the truth, and he lost
no time in performing that duty. It was on Saturday morning that he
found the letters in the loft, and on Saturday evening he was in London,
with the quiet of Sunday before him in which to make his revelation.
He left a note for Justina at her lodgings,—
‘DEAR MISS ELGOOD,
‘Please do not go to church to-morrow morning, as I want to have a
long talk with you on a serious business matter, and will call at
eleven for that purpose.
‘Yours always,
‘MAURICE CLISSOLD.’
‘SATURDAY EVENING.’
He found her ready to receive him next morning at eleven, fresh and fair
in her simple autumn dress of fawn-coloured cashmere, with neat linen
collar and cuffs, a blue ribbon and silver locket, her sole ornaments.
His letter had filled her with vague apprehensions which Matthew
Elgood’s arguments had not been able to dispel.
‘What business can you have to talk about with me?’ she asked,
nervously, as she and Maurice shook hands. ‘I hope it is nothing
dreadful. Your letter has kept me in a fever ever since I received it.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. I ought to have said less, or more. It is a
serious business, but I hope not one that need give you pain, except so
far as your tenderness and compassion may be concerned for others. The
story I am going to tell you is a sad one, and has to do with your own
infancy.’
‘I can’t understand,’ she said, with a perplexed look.
‘Don’t try to understand until I have told you more. I shall make
everything very clear to you in due time.’
‘Papa may hear, I suppose?’ said she, with a glance at the comedian, who
had laid down his after-breakfast pipe, and was looking far from
comfortable.
‘Yes, I see no reason why Mr. Elgood should not hear all I have to say.
He will be able to confirm some of my statements.’
Matthew Elgood moved uneasily in his chair, emptied the ashes from his
pipe with a shaking hand, wiped his forehead with an enormous bandanna,
and then burst out suddenly:
‘Justina, Mr. Clissold is about to make a revelation. I know enough of
its nature to know that it will be startling. I think I’ve done my duty
by you, my girl; urged you on in your profession; taught you how to walk
the stage, how to make a point; taught you Miss Farren’s original
business in Lady Teazle. We’ve shared and shared alike, through good and
foul weather. Lear and his Fool couldn’t have stuck better by each
other. We’ve tramped the barren heath of life through storm and tempest,
and if you’ve had to wear leaky shoes sometimes, why, so have I. And if
you discover from Mr. Clissold,’ pointing his pipe at Maurice with
tremulous hand, ‘that I am not so much your father as I might have been
had nature intended me for that position, I hope your heart will speak
for me, and confess that I have done a father’s duty.’
With this closing appeal Mr. Elgood laid down his pipe, buried his face
in the big bandanna, and sobbed aloud.
Justina was on her knees at his feet in a moment, her arms around him,
his grizzled head drawn down upon her shoulder, soothing, caressing him.
‘Dear papa, what can you mean! Not my father?’
‘No, my love,’ sobbed the comedian. ‘Legally, actually, as a matter of
fact, I have no claim to that title. Morally, it is another pair of
shoes. I held you at the baptismal font—I have fed you many a time when
your sole refreshment was alike insipid and sloppy,—these hands have
guided your infantine steps, yet, I am not your father. Legally I have
no authority over you—or your salary.’
‘You are my father all the same,’ answered Justina, emphatically. ‘What
other father have I?’
‘Your legal parent has certainly been conspicuous by his absence, my
love. You were placed in my wife’s arms on the day of your birth—an
abandoned child—and from that hour to her death she honestly performed a
mother’s part.’
‘And never had less than a mother’s love!’ cried Justina. ‘Do not fear,
dear papa, that anything I may hear to-day can ever lessen my affection
for you. We have borne too much misfortune together not to love each
other dearly,’ she added, with a touch of sadness.
‘Say on, sir!’ exclaimed the actor, with an oratorical flourish of his
bandanna; ‘she is staunch, and I fear not the issue.’
Maurice told his story in plainest words—the story of Muriel’s marriage
and Muriel’s sorrow. Justina heard him with tears of tenderness and
pity.
‘Now, Justina,’ he said, after having explained everything, ‘you
understand that you have a legal claim to the Penwyn estate. Your
grandfather’s will bequeathed the property to George Penwyn, your
father, or his issue, male or female. If a daughter inherited, her
husband, whomsoever she married, was to assume the name of Penwyn. I
have taken the trouble to read the will, and I have no doubt as to your
position. You can file a bill in chancery—or your next friend for
you—to-morrow, and you can oust Churchill Penwyn from house and land,
wealth and social status. It will be rather hard upon his wife, who is a
very sweet woman, and has done much good in her neighbourhood.’
‘Do you think I want his money or his land?’ cried Justina, indignantly.
‘Not a sixpence—not a rood. I only want the name you say I have a right
to bear—James Penwyn’s name. To think that we were cousins! Poor James!’
‘You dislike Churchill Penwyn. This would be a grand revenge for you.’
‘I dislike him because I have never been able to rid myself of the idea
that he had some hand, directly or indirectly, in his cousin’s death.
But I do not wish to injure him. I leave him to God and his own
conscience. If he has sinned as I believe he has, life must be bitter to
him—in spite of wealth and position.’
‘Are you not intoxicated by the notion of being Lady of Penwyn Manor?’
asked Maurice.
‘No. I am content to be what I am—to earn my own bread, and live happily
with poor old papa,’ laying her hand lovingly on the comedian’s
shoulder.
A welcome hearing this for Maurice Clissold, who had feared lest change
of fortune should work a fatal change in the girl he loved. But he
suppressed all emotion, and went on in his business-like tone.
‘Well, Justina, since you seem to regard your right to the Penwyn estate
with supreme indifference, you will be the more likely to fall into my
way of thinking. Looking at the case from an equitable standpoint, it
does certainly appear to me that, although by the old Squire’s will you
are entitled to the whole of the property, it would be not the less an
injustice were you to claim all. It would seem a hard thing to deprive
Churchill Penwyn altogether of an estate which he has administered with
judgment and benevolence. My idea, therefore, is that I, as your next
friend, if you will allow me the privilege of that position, should
state the case to Mr. Penwyn, and propose a compromise, namely, that he
should mortgage the estate for a sum of money amounting to half its
value, and should deliver that money to you. His income would in this
manner be reduced by one-half, by the interest on this sum, and it would
be at his discretion to save money, even with that smaller income, and
lessen the amount of the mortgage out of his accumulations, as the years
went on. I think this would be at once a fair and liberal proposal,
making his change of fortune as light as possible.’
‘I do not want any of his money,’ said Justina, impetuously.
‘My love, that is simply childish,’ exclaimed Mr. Elgood.
‘Let me act for you, Justina; trust me to deal generously with the
Squire and his wife.’
‘I will trust you,’ she answered, looking up at him with perfect faith
and love.
‘Trust me in this and in all things. You shall not find me unworthy of
your confidence.’
And this was all that was said about the Penwyn estate. Maurice spent
the rest of the day with Justina, took her to Westminster Abbey in the
afternoon to hear a great preacher, and walked with her afterwards in
the misty groves of St. James’s Park, and then and there, feeling that
he was now free to open his heart to her, told her in truest, tenderest
words, how the happiness of his future life was bound up in her; how,
rich or poor, she was dearer to him than all the world beside.
And so, in the London fog and gloom, under the smoky metropolitan trees,
they plighted their troth—Justina ineffably happy.
‘I thought you did not care for me,’ she said, when all had been told.
‘I thought you only cared for James Penwyn’s memory,’ answered Maurice.
‘Poor James! That love was like a midsummer night’s dream.’
‘And this is reality?’
‘Yes.’
He held her to his beating heart under the autumnal trees, and kissed
her with the kiss of betrothal.
‘My love! my dearest! my truest! my best!—what is wealth or position, or
all this bitter world can give and take away, measured against love like
ours?’ And after this homily, which Justina remembered a great deal
better than the great preacher’s sermon, they turned their faces
homewards, and arrived just in time to prevent the utter ruin of the
dinner, which their tardiness had imperilled.
‘You wouldn’t have liked to see a pretty little bit of beef like that
reduced to the condition of a deal board, now, would you?’ asked Mr.
Elgood, pointing to the miniature sirloin.
Maurice and Justina interchanged smiles. They were thinking that they
would be content to dine upon deal boards henceforward, so long as they
dined together.
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