'WHAT, THEN, YOU KNEW NOT THIS RED WORK INDEED?'
Justina lived through the day and acted at night pretty much as she had
been accustomed to act; but she saw her audience dimly through a heavy,
blinding cloud, and the glare of the footlights seemed to her hideous
as the fires of Pandemonium. People spoke to her in the dressing-room
where she dragged on her shabby finery, and dabbed a little rouge on
her pale, wan face, and she answered them somehow, mechanically. She
had lived that kind of life among the same people so long that the mere
business of existence went on without any effort of her own. She felt
like a clock that had been wound and must go its appointed time. She
sat in a corner of the green-room, looking straight before her, and
thought how her bright new world had melted away; and no one took any
particular notice of her.
Mrs. Dempson had been kind and compassionate, and, after Justina's
fainting fit, had dabbed her forehead with vinegar and water, and sat
with her arm round the girl's waist, consoling her and reasoning with
her, reminding her that they had only known poor Mr. Penwyn a day and
a half, and that it was against nature to lament him as if he had been
a near relation or an old friend. Who, in sober middle age, when the
sordid cares of every-day life are paramount; who, when youth's morning
is past, can comprehend the young heart's passionate mystery—the love
which, like some bright tropical flower, buds and blooms in a single
day—the love which is more than half fancy—the love of a lover of no
common clay, but the fair incarnation of girlhood's poetic dream—love
wherein the senses have no more part than the phosphor lights of a rank
marsh in the clear splendour of the stars?
Justina kept the secret of her brief dream. She thought Mrs. Dempson,
and even her father, would have laughed her to scorn had she told them
that the generous young stranger had asked her to be his wife. She held
her peace, and shut herself in her garret chamber, and flung her weary
head face downward on the flock pillow, and thought of her murdered
lover—thought of the bright, handsome face fixed in death's marble
stillness, and cursed the wretch who had slain him.
Mr. Elgood and his daughter were both subpœnaed for the adjourned
inquest. The actor, who rather rejoiced in the opportunity of
exhibiting his powers in a new arena, and seeing his name in the
papers, appeared in grand form on the morning of the examination. He
had brushed his coat, sported a clean white waistcoat and a smart
blue necktie, wore a pair of somewhat ancient buff leather gloves,
and carried the cane which he was wont to flourish as the exasperated
father of old-fashioned comedy.
Justina entered the room pale as a sheet, and sat by her father's side,
with her large dark eyes fixed on the coroner, as if from his lips
could issue the secret of her lover's doom. She had the most imperfect
idea of the nature of an inquest, and the coroner's power.
The jury were seated round the coroner at the upper end of the room.
Mr. Pergament, the solicitor, stood at the end of the table ready to
put any questions he might desire to have answered by the witnesses.
On the right of the coroner, a little way from the jury, sat Maurice
Clissold, with a constable at his side. Nearly opposite him, and next
to the lawyer, stood the new master of Penwyn Manor, ready to prompt a
question if he saw his solicitor at fault. Churchill and Mr. Pergament
had gone into the case thoroughly together, with the Spinnersbury
detectives and the local constabulary, and had their facts pretty well
in hand.
The jury answered to their names, and the inquiry began, Mr. Pergament
interrogating, the coroner taking notes of the evidence. Mr. Elgood was
one of the first witnesses sworn.
'I believe you were in the company of the deceased on the night, or
rather morning, of the murder?' said the coroner.
'Yes, he supped at my lodging on that night.'
'Alone with you?'
'No. Mr. Dempson and his wife, and my daughter were of the party.'
'At what hour did Mr. Penwyn leave you?'
The actor's countenance assumed a look of perplexity.
'It was half-past twelve before we sat down to supper,' he said, 'but I
can't exactly say how long we sat afterwards. We smoked a few cigars,
and, to be candid, were somewhat convivial. I haven't any clear idea as
to the time; my daughter may know.'
'Why your daughter, and not you?'
'She let him out through the shop when he went away. Our apartments are
respectable but humble, over a chandler's.'
'And your daughter was more temperate than you, and may have some idea
as to the time? We'll ask her the question presently. Do you know if
Mr. Penwyn had any considerable sum of money about him at the time he
left you?'
'I don't know. He had entertained us handsomely at the "Waterfowl"
on the previous night, and he stood a carriage and any quantity of
champagne to the races that day, but I did not see him pay away any
money except for the standing-place for his carnage.'
'Did you see him receive any money on the racecourse?'
'No.'
'Was he with you all day?'
'From twelve o'clock till half-past six in the evening.'
'And in that time you had no knowledge of his winning or receiving any
sum of money?'
'No.'
'Do you know of his being associated with disreputable people of any
kind—betting men, for instance?'
'I know next to nothing of his associations. There was an old gipsy
woman who pretended to tell his fortune by the river side the day
before the races, when he and the rest of us happened to be walking
together. He gave her money then, and he gave her money on the race
day, when she was hanging about the carriage, begging for drink.'
Churchill Penwyn, who had been looking at the ground, in a listening
attitude hitherto, raised his eyes at this juncture, half in
interrogation, half in surprise.
'Is that all you know about the deceased?' continued Mr. Pergament.
'About all. I had only enjoyed his acquaintance six-and-thirty hours at
the time of the murder.'
'You can sit down,' said Mr. Pergament.
'Justina Elgood,' cried the summoning officer, and Justina stood up in
the crowded room, pale to the lips, but unfaltering.
Again Churchill Penwyn raised those thoughtful eyes of his, and looked
at the girl's pallid face.
'Not a common type of girl,' he said to himself.