‘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.’