'THEY SHALL PASS, AND THEIR PLACES BE TAKEN?'
The letter which told Miss Bellingham that her lover was master of
Penwyn seemed to her almost like the end of a fairy tale. Lady Cheshunt
had dropped in to afternoon tea only a quarter of an hour before the
letter arrived, and Madge was busy with the old Battersea cups and
saucers, and the quaint little Wedgwood teapot, when the accomplished
serving man, who never abated one iota of his professional solemnity
because his wages were doubtful, presented Churchill's letter on an
antique salver.
'Put it on the table, please,' said Madge, busy with the tea-service,
and painfully conscious that the dowager's eye was upon her. She had
recognised Churchill's hand at a glance, and thought how daring, nay,
even impudent it was of him to write to her. It was mean of him to
take such advantage of her weakness that Sunday morning, she thought.
True, that in one fatal moment she had let him discover the secret she
was most anxious to hide; but she had given him no right over her. She
had made him no promise. Her love had been admitted hypothetically. 'If
we lived in a different world. If I had myself only to consider,' she
had said to him; which meant that she would have nothing to do with him
under existing circumstances.
She glanced at Viola, that fragile Sèvres china beauty, with her air of
being unfitted for the vulgar uses of life.
'Poor child! For her sake I ought to marry Mr. Balecroft, that pompous
Manchester merchant; or that vapid young fop, Sir Henry Featherstone,'
she thought, with a sigh.
'Read your letter, my dear love,' said Lady Cheshunt, leaning over the
tray to put an extra lump of sugar into her cup, and scrutinizing the
address of that epistle which had brought the warm crimson blood to
Madge Bellingham's cheeks and brow. The good-natured dowager permitted
herself this breach of good breeding, in the warmth of her affection
for Madge. The handwriting was masculine, evidently. That was all Lady
Cheshunt could discover.
Miss Bellingham broke the seal, trying to look composed and
indifferent, but after hurriedly reading Churchill's brief letter, gave
a little cry of horror.
'Good heavens! it is too dreadful!' she exclaimed.
'What is too dreadful, child?'
'You remember what we were talking about last Saturday night, when you
took so much trouble to warn me against allowing myself to—to entangle
myself—I think that's what you called it—with Mr. Penwyn.'
'With the poor Mr. Penwyn. I remember, perfectly; and that letter is
from him—the man has had the audacity to propose to you? You may well
say it is too dreadful.'
'His cousin has been murdered, Lady Cheshunt—his cousin, Mr. James
Penwyn.'
'And your man comes into the Penwyn estate,' cried the energetic
dowager. 'My dearest Madge, I congratulate you! Poor young Penwyn! A
boy at school, or a lad at the University, I believe. Nobody seems to
know much about him.'
'He has been murdered. Shot from behind a hedge by some midnight
assassin. Isn't that dreadful?' said Madge, too much shocked by the
tidings in her lover's letter to consider the difference this event
might make in her own fortunes. She could not be glad all at once,
though that one man whom her heart had chosen for its master was raised
from poverty to opulence. For a little while at least, she could only
think of the victim.
'Very dreadful!' echoed Lady Cheshunt. 'The police ought to prevent
such things. One pays highway rates, and sewer rates, and so forth,
till one is positively ruined, and yet one can be murdered on the very
high road one pays for, with impunity. There must be something wrong in
the legislature. I hope things will be better when our party comes in.
Look at that child Viola, she's as white as a sheet of paper—just as
if she were going to faint. You shouldn't blurt out your murders in
that abrupt way, Madge.'
Viola gave a little hysterical sob, and promised not to faint this
time. She was but a fragile piece of human porcelain, given to swooning
at the slightest provocation. She went round to Madge, and knelt down
by her, and kissed her fondly, knowing enough of her sister's feelings
to comprehend that this fatal event was likely to benefit Madge.
'Odd that I did not see anything of this business in the papers,'
exclaimed Lady Cheshunt. 'But then I only read the _Post_, and that
does not make a feature of murders.'
'Papa is at Newmarket,' said Viola, 'and Madge and I never look at the
papers, or hear any news while he is away.'
Madge sat silent, looking at Churchill's letter till every word seemed
to burn itself into her brain. The firm, straight hand, the letters
long and narrow, and a little pointed—something like that wonderful
writing of Joseph Addison's—how well she knew it!
'And yet he _must_ have been agitated,' thought Madge. 'Even his quiet
force of character could not stand against such a shock as this. After
what he said to me, too, last Sunday—to think that wealth and position
should have come to him so suddenly. There seems something awful in it.'
Lady Cheshunt had quite recovered her habitual gaiety by this time, and
dismissed James Penwyn's death as a subject that was done with for the
moment, merely expressing her intention of reading the details of the
event in the newspapers at her leisure.
'And so, my dear Madge, Mr. Penwyn wrote to you immediately,' she said.
'Doesn't that look _rather_ as if there were some kind of understanding
between you?'
'There was no understanding between us, Lady Cheshunt, except that I
could never be Mr. Penwyn's wife while he was a poor man. He understood
that perfectly. I told him in the plainest, hardest words, like a woman
of the world as I am.'
'You needn't say that so contemptuously, Madge. I'm a woman of the
world, and I own it without a blush. What's the use of living in the
world if you don't acquire worldly wisdom? It's like living ever so
long in a foreign country without learning the language, and implies
egregious stupidity. And so you told Churchill Penwyn that you couldn't
marry him on account of his poverty! and you pledged yourself to wait
ten or twenty years for him, I suppose, and refuse every decent offer
for his sake?'
'No, Lady Cheshunt, I promised nothing.'
'Well, my dear, Providence has been very good to you: for, no doubt,
if Mr. Penwyn had remained poor you'd have made a fool of yourself
sooner or later for his sake, and gone to live in Bloomsbury, where
even I couldn't have visited you, on account of my servants. One might
get over that sort of thing one's self, but coachmen are so particular
where they wait.'
Her ladyship rattled on for another quarter of an hour, promised Madge
to come and stay at Penwyn Manor with her by and by, congratulated
Viola on her sister's good fortune, hoped that her dear Madge would
make a point of spending the season in London when she became Mrs.
Penwyn; while Madge sat unresponsive, hardly listening to this flow
of commonplace, but thinking how awful fortune was when it came thus
suddenly, and had death for its herald. She felt relieved when Lady
Cheshunt gathered up her silken train for the last time, and went
rustling downstairs to the elegant Victoria which appeared far too
fairy-like a vehicle to contain that bulky matron.
'Thank Heaven she's gone!' cried Madge. 'How she does talk!'
'Yes, dear, but she is always kind,' pleaded Viola, 'and so fond of
you.'
Madge put her arms round the girl and kissed her passionately. That
sisterly love of hers was almost the strongest feeling in her breast,
and all Madge's affections were strong. She had no milk-and-water love.
'Dearest!' she said softly, 'how happy we can be now! I hope it isn't
wicked to be happy when fortune comes to us in such a dreadful manner.'
'You do care a little for Mr. Penwyn, then, dear?' said Viola, without
entering upon this somewhat obscure question.
'I love him with all my heart and soul.'
'Oh, Madge, and you never told me!'
'Why tell you something that might make you unhappy? I should never
have dreamt of marrying Churchill but for this turn in Fortune's
wheel. I wanted to make what is called a good marriage, for your sake,
darling, more than for my own. I wanted to win a happy home for you, so
that when your time came to marry you might not be pressed or harassed
by worldly people as I have been, and might follow the dictates of your
own heart.'
'Oh, Madge, you are quite too good,' cried Viola, with enthusiasm.
'And we may be very happy, mayn't we, my pet?' continued the elder,
'living together at a picturesque old place in Cornwall, with the great
waves of the Atlantic rolling up to the edge of our grounds—and in
London sometimes, if Churchill likes—and knowing no more of debt and
difficulty, or cutting and contriving so as to look like ladies upon
the income of ladies' maids. Life will begin afresh for us, Viola.'
'Poor papa!' sighed Viola, 'you'll be kind to him, won't you, Madge?'
'My dearest, you know that I love him. Papa will be very glad, depend
upon it, and he will like to go back to his old bachelor ways, I dare
say, now that he will not be burthened with two marriageable daughters.'
'When will you be married, Madge?'
'Oh, not for ever so long, dear; not for a twelvemonth, I should think.
Churchill will be in mourning for his cousin, and it wouldn't look well
for him to marry soon after such a dreadful event.'
'I suppose not. Are you to see him soon?'
'Very soon, love. Here is his postscript. 'Madge read the last lines of
her lover's letter: '"I shall come back to town directly the inquest is
over, and all arrangements made, and my first visit shall be to you."'
'Of course. And you really, really love him, Madge?' asked Viola,
anxiously.
'Really, really. But why ask that question, Viola, after what I told
you just now?'
'Only because you've taken me by surprise, dear; and—don't be angry
with me, Madge—because Churchill Penwyn has never been a favourite of
mine. But of course now I shall begin to like him immensely. You're so
much better a judge of character than I am, you see, Madge, and if you
think him good and true——'
'I have never thought of his goodness or his truth,' said Madge, with
rather a gloomy look. 'I only know that I love him.'