‘A SOUL AS WHITE AS HEAVEN.’
Two hours later Maurice Clissold was at the gate of Penwyn Manor. The
girl Elspeth admitted him. She had bound up her coarse black hair, which
had been rough and wild as a mustang’s mane when he last saw her, and
wore a neat stuff gown and a clean white muslin cap, instead of the
picturesque half gipsy costume she had worn on that former occasion.
This at least was a concession to Mrs. Penwyn’s tastes, and argued that
even Elspeth’s impish nature had been at last brought under Madge’s
softening influence.
‘Anything amiss with your grandmother?’ asked Maurice, surprised at not
seeing that specimen of the Meg Merrilies tribe.
‘Yes, sir, she’s very ill.’
‘What is the matter with her?’
‘Bilious fever,’ answered the girl, curtly; and Maurice passed on. He
had no leisure now to concern himself about Rebecca Mason, though he had
in no wise forgotten those curious facts which made her presence at
Penwyn Manor a mystery.
There were more dead leaves drifting about than on his last visit, and
the advance of Autumn had made itself obvious in decay, which all the
industry of gardeners could not conceal. The pine groves were strewn
with fallen cones. The chestnuts were dropping their prickly green
balls, the chrysanthemums and China asters had a ragged look, the glory
of the geranium tribe was over, and even those combinations of colour
which modern gardeners contrive from flowerless plants seemed to lose
all glow and brightness under the dull grey sky. To Maurice’s mind,
knowing that he was a messenger of trouble, the Manor House had a gloomy
look.
He asked to see the Squire, and was ushered at once into the library, a
room which Churchill had built. It was lighted from the top by a large
ground-glass dome, and was lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases of
ebonized wood, relieved with narrow lines of gold. In each of the four
angles stood a pedestal of dark green serpentine, surmounted by a marble
bust—Dante, Shakespeare, Voltaire, Goethe, the four great
representatives of European literature. A noble room, filled with the
noblest books. Such a room as a man, having made for himself, would love
as if it were a sentient thing. These books, looking down upon him on
every side, were as the souls of the mighty dead. Here, shut in from the
outer world, he could never be companionless.
Churchill was seated at a table reading. He started up at Maurice’s
entrance, and received him courteously, cordially even, so far as words
may express cordiality, but with a sudden troubled look which did not
escape Maurice, transient as it was.
‘Glad to see you here again, Clissold; but why didn’t you go straight to
the ladies? You’ll find them in the hall. Most of our friends have left
us, so you’ll be quite an acquisition this dull weather.’
‘You are very good, but I regret to say that the business which brings
me here to-day denies me the right to approach Mrs. Penwyn. I come as a
harbinger of trouble.’
Churchill’s face whitened to the lips, and his thin nervous hand
fastened with a tight grip upon the edge of the table against which he
stood, as if he could scarcely have held himself erect without that
support.
‘How frightened he looks!’ thought Maurice. ‘A man of his type oughtn’t
to be wanting in moral courage.’
‘And pray what is the nature of your evil tidings?’ Churchill asked,
recovering self-control. His resolute nature speedily asserted itself. A
faint tinge of colour came back to his sunken cheeks; his eyes lost
their look of sudden horror, and assumed a hard, defiant expression.
‘This property—the Penwyn estate—is very dear to you, I think?’
interrogated Maurice.
‘It is as dear to me as a man’s birthright should naturally be to him;
and it has been the happy home of my married life.’ This with a touch of
tenderness. In no moment of his existence, however troubled, could he
speak of Madge without tenderness.
‘Yet Penwyn can be hardly called your birthright, since you inherit it
by an accident,’ said Maurice, nervously, anxious to take the edge off
his unpleasant communication.
‘What is the drift of these remarks, Mr. Clissold? They seem to me
entirely purposeless, and pardon me if I add, somewhat impertinent.’
‘Mr. Penwyn, I am here to inform you that there is a member of your
family in existence who possesses a prior claim to this estate.’
‘You are dreaming, sir, or you are deceived by some impostor. I and my
child are the sole representatives of the Penwyn family.’
‘There are secrets in every family, Mr. Penwyn. There has been a secret
in your family, religiously kept for more than twenty years, but lately
brought to light; in some part by my agency.’
‘What, sir, you have come into this house as a spy, while you have been
secretly assailing my position as inheritor of my cousin’s estate?’
‘I have not entered your house since I made the discovery I speak of.’
‘Your discovery has come about with marvellous rapidity, then, for it is
not long since you were my guest.’
‘My discovery has been arrived at quickly.’
‘Pray acquaint me with the nature of this mare’s-nest.’
‘I have to inform you that your uncle, George Penwyn, before leaving
England for the last time, privately married the daughter of his
father’s tenant, Michael Trevanard, of Borcel End.’
Churchill Penwyn laughed contemptuously.
‘I congratulate you upon having hit upon about the most improbable story
I ever heard of!’ he said. ‘My uncle, George Penwyn, married to old
Trevanard’s daughter! and nobody upon earth aware of the fact till you,
a stranger, unearthed it? A likely story, Mr. Clissold!’
‘Likely or unlikely, it is true, and I have sufficient evidence to prove
it, or I should not have broached the subject to you. I have in my
possession a certified copy of the entry in the marriage register at St.
John’s Church, Didmouth, Devonshire; and five letters in your uncle’s
hand, acknowledging Muriel Trevanard as his wife; also a sealed letter
from the same, committing her to the care of the late Mr. Tomlin,
solicitor, of Seacomb, in the event of her needing that gentleman’s
protection during her husband’s absence. Nor do I rely upon documentary
evidence alone. The vicar of Didmouth, who married your uncle to Miss
Trevanard, is still alive; and the principal witness of the marriage,
Muriel’s friend and confidante, is ready to support the claim of
Muriel’s daughter should you force her to appeal to the law, instead of
seeing, as I hope you will see, the advisability of an equitable
compromise. Miss Penwyn has no desire to exact her legal rights. She has
empowered me to suggest a fair and honourable alternative.’
Maurice proceeded to give a brief outline of Justina’s case, and to
suggest his own idea of an equitable settlement.
Churchill sat with folded arms, and gloomy face bent downward listening.
This story of Maurice Clissold’s seemed to him, so far, hardly worth
serious thought. It was so wildly improbable, so like the dream of a
fevered brain, that any claimant should come forward to dispute his hold
of wealth and station. Yet he told himself that Clissold was no fool,
and would hardly talk of documentary evidence which he was unprepared to
produce. On the other hand, this Clissold might be a villain, and the
whole business a conspiracy.
‘Let me see your copy of the register, sir,’ Churchill said,
authoritatively.
Maurice took a paper from his breast-pocket, and laid it on Mr. Penwyn’s
desk. Yes. It was formal enough.
‘George Penwyn, bachelor, gentleman, of Penwyn Manor, to Muriel
Trevanard, spinster, daughter of Michael Trevanard, farmer, of Borcel
End. The witnesses, Maria Barlow, spinster, school-mistress, of Seacomb;
and James Pope, clerk, Didmouth.’ If this were a genuine copy of an
existing entry there would be no doubt as to the fact of George Penwyn’s
marriage.
Both gentlemen were too much engrossed at this moment—Churchill
pondering the significance of the document in his hand, Maurice watching
his countenance as he meditated—to be aware of the opening of a door
near the fireplace, a door which fitted into the bookcase, and was
masked with dummy books. This door was gently opened, a woman’s face
looked in for an instant, and was quickly withdrawn. But the door,
although apparently closed, was not shut again.
‘And you pretend that there was issue to this marriage?’ said Churchill.
‘The lady whose claim I am here to assert is the daughter of Mr. George
Penwyn, by that marriage.’
‘And pray where has this young lady been hiding herself all her life,
and how is it that she has suffered her rights to be in abeyance all
this time?’
‘She was brought up in ignorance of her parentage.’
‘Oh! I understand,’ cried Churchill, scornfully. ‘Some Miss Jones, or
Smith, who has taken it into her wise young head—inspired doubtless by
some astute friend—that she may as well prove herself a Penwyn, if she
can. And you come to me with this liberal offer of a compromise to take
half my estate in the most off-hand way. Upon my word, Mr. Clissold, you
and this scheme of yours are a little too absurd. I can’t even allow
myself to be angry with you. That would be taking the thing too
seriously.’
‘Remember, Mr. Penwyn, if I leave this house without arriving at some
kind of understanding with you I shall place the matter in the hands of
my solicitors without delay, and the law must take its course. However
protracted or costly the process by which Miss Penwyn may obtain her
rights, I have no doubt as to the ultimate issue. She would have been
contented with half your fortune. The law, if it give her anything will
give her all.’
‘So be it. I will fight her to the bitter end. First and foremost, this
marriage, supposing this document to be genuine,’ bringing down his
clenched fist upon the paper, and with an evil upward look at Maurice,
‘is no marriage!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A marriage with a person of unsound mind is no marriage. It is void in
law. There is Blackstone to refer to if you doubt me,’ pointing to a set
of volumes in dark brown Russia. ‘Now, Muriel, the daughter of Michael
Trevanard, has been deranged for the last twenty years. It is a
notorious fact to everybody in the neighbourhood.’
‘When that marriage took place, and for a year after the marriage,
Muriel was as sane as you or I. Her brain was turned by the shock she
experienced upon being informed suddenly of her husband’s awful death. I
can bring forward sufficient witnesses to prove the state of her mind up
to that time. And again you are to remember that the same authority you
have just quoted tells you that no marriage is voidable after the death
of either of the contracting parties.’
‘And you are prepared to prove that this young woman—this waif and
stray, brought up without the knowledge of her name or parentage—is the
legitimate daughter of my uncle, George Penwyn, and Muriel, his wife. Go
your ways, Mr. Clissold, and make the best use of your evidence,
documentary or otherwise. I will stand by my rights against you, and
would stand by them against a stronger cause than yours.’
He touched a spring bell, which stood on his desk,—a summons answered
with extreme promptitude.
‘The door,’ said the Squire, resuming his book, without so much as a
parting glance at his visitor.
Maurice was conducted to the porch, and left the house without having
seen Mrs. Penwyn or her sister. He was bitterly disappointed by the
result of his morning’s work, which had proved compromise impossible,
and left no course open to him save the letter of the law.
* * * * *
Scarcely had the library door closed on Maurice Clissold, when the other
door, which had been left ajar during the latter part of the interview,
was quietly opened, and Madge Penwyn stole to her husband’s side, knelt
down by him, and wound her arms round his neck. He had been sitting with
his face buried in his hands, trying to think out his position, when he
found her arms about him, his head drawn gently against her shoulder.
‘Dearest! I have heard all,’ she said, quietly.
‘You heard! Madge?’ he exclaimed, with a startled look. ‘Well, my love,
it matters very little. It is all the merest folly. There is no
possibility of what this man threatens.’
‘Churchill—husband—my beloved,’ she began with deepest feeling. ‘You do
not mean to oppose this claim?’
‘To the death.’
‘What? Surely you will accept the truth—if it is the truth—and surrender
fortune and estate. Oh! welcome change of fortune, love, that brings
some measure of atonement. I have never told you how hateful, how
horrible all our wealth and luxury has been to me since I have known——’
‘Hush, Madge! You know so much that you should know enough to be wise.
Do you think I am going to surrender these things? Do you think I am the
kind of man to sit down tamely and let a rogue hatch a conspiracy to rob
me of wealth and status? They have cost me too dear.’
‘They have cost you so dear that you can never have joy or peace with
them, Churchill. God shows us this way of getting rid of our burden. If
you have any hope of mercy, any desire to be forgiven, resign this
fortune. It is the price of iniquity. You can know no true repentance
while you retain it. If I had seen any way of your surrendering this
estate before now without exciting suspicion of the dreadful truth, I
should have urged the sacrifice upon you. I urge it now, with all the
strength of my love.’
‘It is useless, Madge. I could not go back to poverty, laborious days
and nights, the struggle for daily bread. I could not lead that kind of
life again.’
‘Not with me, Churchill? We could go away, to the other end of the
world. To Australia, where life is simpler and easier than in England.
We could know peace again; for you might dare to hope, if your sacrifice
were freely made, that God had accepted it as an atonement.’
‘Can I atone to the dead? Will James Penwyn, in his untimely grave, be
any better off because some impostor riots in the wealth that ought to
have been his? A left-handed atonement that!’
‘But if you find that this girl is no impostor?’
‘The lawyers will have to decide that. If she can establish her right,
you and I, and our boy, will have to say good-bye to Penwyn.’
‘Happy loss if it lighten the burden of your sin. Do you think that I
shall be sorry to leave this place, Churchill? I have never known peace
here since——’
She threw herself upon his breast with a shuddering sigh.
‘Madge, my dearest, my angel of love and compassion, be content to abide
the issue of events. Leave all to me.’
‘No, Churchill,’ she answered, raising her head, and looking at him with
grave and earnest eyes, ‘I am not content. You know that since that
bitter day I have left you in peace. I have not wearied you with my
tears. I have suffered in secret, and have made it the chief duty of my
life to lighten your burden, so far as in me lay. But I can be content
no longer. The wealth that has weighed upon my soul can now be given up,
with honour. The world can find no subject for slander in your quiet
surrender of an estate for which a new claimant has arisen. And we can
begin life afresh together, love, your soul purified by sacrifice, your
conscience lightened, your peace made with God. We can begin life anew
in some distant land, humbly, toilfully; so far away from all past
cares, that your wrong-doing may seem no more than the memory of an evil
dream, and all the future open for manifold good deeds that shall weigh
against that one dreadful sin.’
She seemed like an angel pleading with him for the salvation of his
soul, yet he resisted her.
‘It is useless, Madge. You do not know what you are talking about. I
could not live a life of obscurity. It would be moral suicide.’
‘Will you choose between me and fortune, Churchill?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That unless you give up this estate you must give up me. I will live
here no longer, share your ill-gotten wealth no longer!’
‘Think of your boy.’
‘I do think of him. God forbid that my son should ever inherit Penwyn.
There is the curse of blood upon every rood of land. Let it pass into
other hands—guiltless hands!’
‘Give me time to think, Madge; you bewilder me by this sudden attack.’
‘Think as long as you like, dearest; only decide rightly at last.’ And
with one long kiss upon his pale forehead, she left him.
Once alone, he set himself to think out his position—to face this new
aspect of things.
Could this alleged heiress—impostor or not—rob him of his estate? Was it
possible for George Penwyn’s marriage, and the identity of George
Penwyn’s child, to be proved in a court of law; proved so indisputably
as to dislodge him from his position as possessor of the estate?
‘No,’ he told himself, ‘the strength will be all on my side. The law
does not encourage claimants of this stamp. If it did, no man’s estate
would be secure, no real property would be worth ten years purchase.’
He had taken a high tone with Maurice Clissold; had affected to regard
the whole matter as an absurdity, but now, face to face with the facts
that had been put before him, he felt that the question was serious, and
that he could not be too prompt in action.
He looked at a railway time-table, and found that he would have just
time enough to catch the next up train from Seacomb, a slowish train,
not reaching London till late in the evening.
‘I will go up to town and see Pergament,’ he said to himself, as he
touched the bell.
‘Tell them to bring round the dog-cart at once. I shall want Hunter.’
‘Any particular horse, sir?’
‘Yes, Wallace.’
Wallace was the fastest horse in the stable—always excepting the
Squire’s favourite, Tarpan, which had never been degraded by harness.
While the dog-cart was being got ready, Churchill wrote to his wife,
‘MY DEAREST,
‘I am going to London to inquire into this business. Be calm, be
brave, as befits my noble wife.
‘Your own till death,
‘C. P.’
This brief note addressed and sealed, the Squire went upstairs to his
dressing-room, crammed a few things into his travelling bag, and went
down to the porch with the bag in his hand, just as the dog-cart drove
up. Wallace, a big, deep-chested bay, in admirable condition, fresh and
eager for the start; the groom breathless, having dressed himself
against time.
Churchill took the reins, and the light vehicle was soon spinning along
that well-made road with which the Squire of Penwyn had improved his
property. Less than an hour, and Mr. Penwyn was seated in a railway
carriage on his way to London.
He was at Mr. Pergament’s office early next morning; indeed, more than
half an hour before the arrival of that gentleman, who came in at ten
o’clock, fresh and sleek of aspect, with a late tea-rosebud in the
buttonhole of his glossy blue coat.
Great was the solicitor’s astonishment at beholding Churchill.
‘My dear Mr. Penwyn, this _is_ a surprise. One does not expect to see a
man of your standing in town in the dead season. Indeed, even I, a
humble working bee in the great hive, have been thinking of getting as
far as Aix-les-Bains, or Spa. But you are not looking well. You look
careworn—fagged.’
‘I have reason to look so,’ answered Churchill; and then explained the
motive of his journey.
He told Mr. Pergament all that Clissold had told him, without reserve,
with a wonderful precision and clearness. The lawyer listened intently,
and with gravest concern.
But before he said a word in reply, Mr. Pergament unlocked a tin case
inscribed ‘Penwyn,’ took out a document, and read it from the first line
to the last.
‘What is that?’ asked Churchill.
‘A copy of your grandfather’s will. I want to be quite sure how you
stand as regards this claimant.’
‘Well?’
‘I am sorry to say that the will is dead against you. If this person can
be proved to be the daughter of George Penwyn, she would take the
estate, under your grandfather’s will. There is no doubt of that.’
‘But how is she to prove her identity with the child said to be born at
Borcel End, and whose birth was made such a secret?’
‘Difficult, perhaps; but if she has been in the charge of the same
people all her life, and those people are credible witnesses——’
‘Credible witnesses!’ cried Churchill, contemptuously. ‘The man who has
brought up this girl belongs to the dregs of society, and if, by a
little hard swearing he can foist this stray adoption of his upon
society as the rightful owner of the Penwyn estate, do you suppose he
will shrink from a little more or less perjury? Credible witnesses! No
man’s property in the land is secure if claimants such as this can arise
“to push us from our stools.”’
‘This Mr. Clissold is a gentleman, and a man of good family, is he not?’
‘He belongs to decent people, I believe, but that is no reason why he
should not be an adventurer. There are plenty of well-born adventurers
in the world.’
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ replied Mr. Pergament, blandly. In his private
capacity, as a Christian and a gentleman, he was benevolently
sympathetic; but the idea of a contested estate was not altogether
unpleasing to his professional mind.
‘Who are Mr. Clissold’s lawyers?’
‘Messrs. Willgross and Harding.’
‘A highly respectable firm—old established—in every way reputable. I do
not think they would take up a speculative case.’
‘I do not feel sure that they will take up this case, though Mr.
Clissold appeared to think so,’ answered Churchill. ‘However, your
business is to be prepared. Remember, I shall fight this to the bitter
end. Let them prove the marriage if they can. It will be for our side to
deny that there was ever any issue of that marriage.’
‘Humph,’ mused the lawyer. ‘There, assuredly, lies the weakness of their
case. Child’s birth not registered, child brought up by strolling
player. Yes, we will fight, Mr. Penwyn. Pray keep your mind easy. I will
get counsel’s opinion without delay if you desire it, and I suppose in a
case so nearly affecting your interests you would prefer an unprejudiced
opinion to being your own adviser. The best men shall be secured for our
side.’
‘Which do you call the best men?’
Mr. Pergament named three of the most illustrious lights of the equity
bar.
‘Very good men in their way, no doubt,’ said Churchill, ‘but I would
rather have Shinebarr, Shandrish, and—say, McStinger.’
Mr. Pergament looked horrified.
‘My dear sir, clever men, but unscrupulous, notoriously unscrupulous.’
‘My dear Pergament, when a gang of swindlers hatch a conspiracy to
deprive me of house and home, I don’t want my rights defended by
scrupulous men.’
‘But, really, Shandrish, a man I never gave a brief to in my life,’
remonstrated the solicitor.
‘What does that signify? It is my battle we have to fight, and you must
let me choose my weapons.’
------------------------------------------------------------------------