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 Ph?be, as her attendant. This Ph?be 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.’