CHAPTER XII ‘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.