“Why, then,” said Margaret, with just anger, “why, then, keep the money, Justine. I would rather eat peas and porridge, and sleep on straw, than take a shilling with such ill-will from you, girl.” Then, turning to Piers, she added, “Thank you, good gentleman, but I’ll stay where I am. Let Justine keep her gold. I don’t want such an ill-will gift.”
“Mother,” answered Piers. “You may take the money from my hands, then. It is yours. Justine’s good or ill-will has now nothing to do with it. I give it to you from the noble young lady whom your daughter has wronged so greatly that the gallows would be her just desert. She gives up this money–which she has no right to–as some atonement for her crime. Is not this the truth, Justine?” he asked sternly; and the woman answered, “Yes.” Then turning to the Master, he added, “To this fact, and to Justine’s admission of it, you are witness.”
The Master said, “I am.” Then addressing Margaret, he told her to go back to her place, and think over the good fortune that had so unexpectedly come to her; what she wished to do with her money; and where she wished to make her future home. And the mother curtsied feebly and again turned to her child,–
“If I go back to the old cottage in Downham–the old cottage with the vines, and the bee skeps, and the long garden, will you come with me, and we will share all together?”
“No.”
“Let her alone, Mother,” said Exham. “She is going to the furthest American colony she can reach. Only in some such place, will she be safe from the punishment of her wrong-doing.”
“Justine, then, my girl, good-bye!”
No answer.
“Justine, good-bye!”
No answer.