‘FOR ALL IS DARK WHERE THOU ART NOT.’
Before the week was out Muriel was so far recovered as to be able to
bear a long journey, and so tranquil as to render that journey possible.
Her couch had been wheeled into a corner of the family sitting-room—she
had been brought back into the household life, and her father had
devoted himself to her with a quiet tenderness which went far to soothe
her troubled mind.
The old hallucinations still remained. She spoke of George Penwyn as
living, and she could not be brought to understand that the child who
had been taken from her an infant was now a woman. She had little
memory—no thought of the past or of the future—but she clung to her
father affectionately, and was grateful for his love.
Maurice had made all arrangements for Muriel’s journey before leaving
Cornwall, after his interview with Churchill. It had been settled that
Martin should bring his sister to the neighbourhood of London,
accompanied by Phœbe, as her attendant. This Phœbe was a bright active
girl, quite able to manage Muriel. Maurice was to find pleasant
apartments in the suburbs, where Muriel might be comfortably lodged. In
less than twenty-four hours after his departure from Borcel he had
telegraphed Martin to the effect that he had found pleasant lodgings in
a house between Kentish Town and Highgate, a house with a good garden.
Three days later Muriel came to take possession of these lodgings, worn
out with the long journey, but very tranquil. Her daughter was waiting
to receive her on the threshold of this new home.
Very sad, very strange was that meeting. The mother could not be made to
comprehend that this noble-looking girl who held her in her arms, and
sustained her feeble steps, was verily the child she had been robbed of
years ago. Her darling was to her mind still an infant. If they had
placed some feeble, wailing babe in her arms and called it hers, she
would have believed them, and hugged the impostor to her breast and been
happy; but she did not believe in Justina.
‘You are very kind to come,’ she said, gently, ‘and I like you; but it
is foolish of them to say you are my child. I am a little wrong in my
head, I know, but not so foolish as to believe that.’
On one occasion she was suddenly struck by Justina’s likeness to her
father.
‘You are like George,’ she said. ‘Are you his sister?’
Martin brought a famous doctor from Cavendish Square, one of the kindest
of men, to see Muriel. He talked to her for some time, inquired into the
history of her malady, and considered her attentively. His verdict was
that her case was hopeless.
‘I do not fear that her case will ever be otherwise than gentle,’ he
said, ‘nor do I recommend any more restraint than she has been
accustomed to, but I have no hope of cure. The shock which broke her
heart shattered her mind for ever.’
Justina heard this with deepest sorrow. All that filial love could offer
to this gentle sufferer she freely gave, devoting her days to her
mother, while her nights were given to the public. None could have
guessed how the brilliant actress—all sparkle and vivacity, living in
the character her art had created—spent the quiet hours of her daily
life. But she had Maurice always near her, and his presence brightened
every hour of her life.
He had laid his case before his lawyers, and even the cautious family
solicitor had been compelled to own that it was not altogether a bad
case. What was his astonishment, however, when, three days later, he was
told that Messrs. Pergament and Pergament had met his solicitors,
examined documents, discussed the merits of the case, and finally
pronounced their client’s willingness to surrender the estate, in its
entirety, without litigation.
‘But I told Mr. Penwyn of his cousin’s willingness to accept a
compromise, to take half the value of the estate, and leave him in
possession of the land,’ said Maurice.
‘Mr. Penwyn elects to surrender the estate altogether. An eccentric
gentleman, evidently.’
‘Then the whole business is settled; there will be no law suit.’
‘Apparently not,’ said the solicitor, drily.
Lawyers could hardly live if people were in the habit of surrendering
their possessions so quickly.
Maurice called on Messrs. Pergament and Pergament, and explained to the
head of that firm that the young lady for whom he was acting had no
desire to exact her full claim under Squire Penwyn’s will, that she
would prefer a compromise to depriving Mr. Penwyn and his wife of house
and home.
‘Very generous, very proper,’ replied Mr. Pergament. ‘I will communicate
that desire to my client.’
Justina was horrified at the idea of Churchill Penwyn’s renunciation.
All her old distrust of him vanished out of her mind—she thought of him
as generous, disinterested—abandoning estate and position from an
exalted sense of justice.
‘But it is not justice,’ she argued, ‘though it may be right according
to my grandfather’s will. It is not just that the child of the
elder-born should take all. Maurice, you must make some one explain my
wishes to Mr. Penwyn. I will not rob him and his wife of house and home.
I cannot have such a sin upon my head.’
‘My dearest, I fully explained your views to Mr. Penwyn. He treated me
with scornful indifference, and declared that he would fight for his
rights to the last. He has chosen to see things in a new light since
then. His line of conduct is beyond my comprehension.’
‘There must be some mistake, some misapprehension on his part. You must
see him again, Maurice, for my sake.’
‘My dear love, I don’t mind oscillating between London and Penwyn Manor
for the next six weeks if my so doing will in the smallest degree
enhance your happiness; but I do not believe I can make your views any
clearer to Mr. Penwyn than I made them at our last interview.’
‘My dear Justina,’ interposed Mr. Elgood, pompously, ‘the estate is
yours, and why should you hesitate to take possession of it? Think of
the proud position you will hold in the county; your brilliant table, at
which the humble comedian may occupy his unobtrusive corner. And I
think,’ he added, with a conciliatory glance at Maurice, ‘there is some
consideration due to your future husband in this matter.’
‘Her future husband would be as well pleased to take her without a
shilling as with Penwyn Manor,’ said Maurice, with his arm round
Justina.
‘Of course, my dear boy,—
“Love is not love
When it mingled with respects that stand
Aloof from the entire point.”
Shakespeare. You would take your Cordelia without a rood of her father’s
kingdom; but that is no reason why she should not have all she can get.
And if this Mr. Churchill Penwyn chooses to be Quixotic, let him have
his way.’
‘I will write to him,’ said Justina. ‘I am his kinswoman, and I will
write to him from my heart, as cousin to cousin. He shall not be reduced
to beggary because my grandfather’s will gives me power to claim his
estate. God’s right and man’s right are wide apart.’
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