We sat there in terrible dismay. We all felt we should be taking some action. But what? Morwenna just walking out of the house. It didn’t make sense. There must have been a reason. There must have been a message if she went of her own accord.
And her departure might not have been discovered until about twelve hours after she left. What could have happened during those fateful twelve hours?
Uncle Peter came to the house with Aunt Amaryllis.
“This is an extraordinary affair,” he said. He felt certain that Morwenna had been kidnapped and that sooner or later a ransom would be demanded. Then we should have to go very carefully from there.
“But what is so strange,” said my mother, “is that she appears to have gone willingly.”
“She must have left some message,” said Aunt Amaryllis.
“The servants have been questioned,” Helena reminded her. “Nothing has been found.”
Uncle Peter said: “She was probably lured out of the house to where her kidnappers were waiting.”
“She would never have done such a thing,” I cried. “She would have been scared. If I had been here she would have told me. This wouldn’t have happened if I had been here.”
“It is all very mysterious,” said Uncle Peter, “and unfortunate that she should be staying at this house.”
I felt impatient with him. He was afraid, even at a time like this, that there would be some scandal which would harm Matthew’s parliamentary image; yet he would also be wondering if there might not be some good publicity in it. I could imagine his weighing this up. It was how he looked on everything.
“What we have to think about is Morwenna,” I said. “Where it happened is not important. All that matters is that it has happened.”
“We have to consider all the details carefully,” put in my father. “Where it happened … might be very important.”
“Her parents will know by now,” said Aunt Helena. “I can’t bear to think what their feelings are at this moment.”
“But what are we going to do?” I asked.
“We shall hear something in due course,” said Uncle Peter. “There will be a demand for a ransom, I expect. It has probably been sent to her parents. They are the ones they will have their eyes on.”
“It will be terrible for them,” said my mother.
I imagined Mr. and Mrs. Pencarron receiving a demand for money in exchange for the return of their daughter and threatening … what? … if they did not comply.
I felt frantic with anxiety. I could not bear to think of Morwenna in the hands of desperate men.
Later that day Mr. and Mrs. Pencarron arrived in London. They had aged considerably. It was immediately clear that they had no news of Morwenna.
“I can’t understand all this,” said Mr. Pencarron. “Our girl … what has she done? Why should they do this to her?”
“We should never have let her come to London,” mourned Mrs. Pencarron. “I always knew it was a wicked place.”
“We’ll find her,” said my father firmly.
“You will, won’t you?” pleaded Mrs. Pencarron. “What do you think they are doing to her?”
“They won’t harm her, that’s for sure,” replied my father. “They can only bargain for her if she is alive and well.”
“Alive … you don’t think …”
“Oh no … no … What I am telling you is that if she is well they can bargain for her. I expect sooner or later they will be asking for some money.”
“I’ll do anything to get my girl back,” cried Mr. Pencarron. “They can have all I’ve got.”
“We’d do anything … anything,” sobbed Mrs. Pencarron.
I went to her and put my arms round her. “She’s all right, Mrs. Pencarron. I know she’ll be all right.”
“Did she say anything to you?” she asked piteously. “Did she seem frightened that someone was going to take her away?”
“I was in Derbyshire with my parents,” I explained. “I wasn’t here. But I just feel she is all right. She must be.”
“And you weren’t here,” said Mrs. Pencarron almost accusingly.
I shook my head.
They were absolutely brokenhearted. Mrs. Pencarron kept telling everyone that she had given up hope of having a child … and then they had their little Morwenna. They would give anything … anything they had …
“If the press come round don’t tell them that,” said Uncle Peter. “The demand will go up. We will have to play this carefully.”
We were all relying on Uncle Peter. The existence of his dubious clubs from which he had made his great fortune was what my father called an open secret in the family, which meant that everyone knew of it and kept up the pretense that Uncle Peter’s business was perfectly respectable. But he would have knowledge of the underworld; all kinds of people came to his clubs; the matter would be better in his hands than anyone else’s.
He said there should not be too much said about the case until there was some notion as to what it was all about.
There must come a demand soon. The best thing for us to do was to wait for it.
It was hard. It was four days since Morwenna had disappeared and there was no news.
The Pencarrons, who had been taken off by my mother to Uncle Peter’s house where there was room for them, did not help matters. They were in a state of utter despair. If I had a chance I would tell Morwenna that she must never again think of herself as unloved. She meant everything to her parents.
Uncle Peter was making inquiries. The police were asking questions and we were all getting desperate. And then, one morning, when I was thinking, Here is another day without news, a cab drew up at the door and from it alighted Morwenna. She was not alone. A man was with her. I recognized him at once. He was Justin Cartwright, the man who had retrieved her purse when it was stolen from her.
“Morwenna!” I cried. “Where have you been?”
I was so delighted to see her that I had to stop myself from bursting into tears of relief. I hugged her to make sure she was real. I gazed at her. She looked very happy.
“Where have you been?” I demanded. “We have all been frantic.”
She turned to the man and said: “This is my husband, Angelet. I eloped with him. We were married at Gretna Green.”
The first thing I had to do was to get her to her parents and we set off immediately. As soon as the door was opened I shouted into the house: “She’s here. Morwenna’s back.”
There were exclamations of joy as, it seemed, the entire household were running into the hall. When the Pencarrons saw their daughter they flew at her and the three of them were there in a sort of huddle … just clinging to each other. There were tears in Mrs. Pencarron’s eyes. I could see her lips moving and I knew she was thanking God for giving her her daughter back. They did not ask for explanations. All they cared about was that she was back with them; she was safe and unharmed; and they were ready to forget their sufferings in the sheer joy of having her returned to them.
“Oh, Ma and Pa,” she said at last. “I didn’t think you’d be so worried.”
Then came the explanations.
“It was thoughtless of us,” said Justin Cartwright. “I take the blame. I persuaded her. She didn’t want to do it this way. But I feared objections. I could not bear the thought of losing her.”
Morwenna was smiling happily. I could not believe this. She was like a different person. She had cast off that hangdog look; she was desired, wanted; she was loved; she had had a romantic wedding and it was quite easy to see that she adored her husband.
I could have been angry with her if I was not so delighted. This was what I had always wanted for Morwenna. It was a pity she had had to put us all through such an ordeal to achieve it.
“You see,” explained Morwenna, “it all happened so suddenly.”
Justin went on humbly, looking at Mr. Pencarron, “The moment I saw your daughter I knew she was the only one for me. I fell in love at first sight. I did not be
lieve in such things … until now. I am afraid I acted thoughtlessly. But I was overwhelmed. I had to persuade her. … You se e, I feared there might be obstacles. I know I’m not good enough … and I was afraid. I can only hope that you will forgive me for all the terrible suffering I have caused you.”
“Well, I never,” said Mrs. Pencarron. “It’s like something out of a book.”
Uncle Peter was standing by, faintly cynical; not so Mr. Pencarron. It seemed to him the most natural thing in the world that a young man seeing his daughter should fall in love with her so madly that he persuaded her to elope with him.
“Morwenna wanted to leave a note,” went on Justin Cartwright, smiling wryly at Mr. Pencarron, “but I was afraid you would have us followed and prevent the marriage. I am entirely to blame. I hope … that Morwenna will give you a good account of me.”
Mr. Pencarron said gruffly: “Are you happy, my girl?”
“Oh, Pa … I am, I am.”
“Then that’s all we want don’t we, Mother?”
“That’s all we want,” said his wife.
Uncle Peter sent to the cellars for champagne that we might drink the health of the newlyweds.
“Then,” he added, “I daresay Mr. and Mrs. Pencarron will want to have a little talk with their son-in-law.”
There was a great deal of consternation in the family. Who was this Justin Cartwright? It seemed that he had no definite employment. He had been abroad for some years and had just returned home and was wondering what he would do. He had a little money and was what was called a gentleman of independent means. He and Morwenna would not be rich but he could provide for his wife—albeit modestly.
The police were called off the hunt. It was just another case of elopement. They turned up now and then and they wished people would give a little more thought to the trouble they were causing.
Uncle Peter thought that the incident could be of a little use to Matthew for the happy bride had been staying at his house. “People love a little romance,” he said. “Nothing like it for fixing one in the mind of the electorate. They’ll forget what happened, but they will remember it was a romantic affair and that it happened in your house. Romance only happens to nice people. It will be of some little use, I daresay.” The Pencarrons wanted their daughter and her husband to return with them to Cornwall for a proper wedding. This Gretna Green method was all very well, but what they had fancied for their Morwenna was a wedding with veil and orange blossom in St Ervan’s Church with guests in Pencarron Manor to follow.
So this was to take place; and I was sure Justin would be offered some executive post in the mine—although it was difficult to imagine him in that capacity. He seemed to me entirely the man about town.
Although it was a great relief to have Morwenna back with us safe and well, there were certain misgivings. Uncle Peter thought that it was very likely that the man was an adventurer; being one himself he very probably recognized another.
Grace was delighted for Morwenna. She said that even if she had been married because she was an heiress, was that not the reason why so many debutantes were married? It was absurd to hold up one’s hand in horror because someone had used a rather different method with the same object in view.
She said Morwenna was a girl who needed romance to pull her out of that mood of self-deprecation into which she had fallen, and what could be a better antidote to that than an elopement? Justin Cartwright at worst could be the same as many men who, during the season, were looking for an advantageous marriage; at best it could be genuine love which had prompted him to elope with Morwenna.
“Let us hope it is the latter,” she added.
And that was what we all did.
The Pencarrons returned to Cornwall, taking Morwenna and her husband with them. There was to be that ceremony at St Ervan’s and they would start making plans.
As for myself, I remained a little longer in London; Grace was with us most of the time; we bought materials and talked of wedding plans. Gervaise came to London and we had a few wonderful days together; we went again to the opera and we had luncheon alone together—permitted now that we were officially engaged. And then I said goodbye to Gervaise.
I should not see him again until we married.
Back at Cador there was no talk of anything but the coming wedding. Morwenna had had her ceremony. They had thought it best to have the whole thing completed so that they would feel that Morwenna was really married and they could not feel that until the ceremony in St Ervan’s took place. So there were hasty preparations. Morwenna had her white gown and orange blossom; she was married in the church and many returned to Pencarron to take part in the reception.
I wished I had been there in time to participate.
“Never mind,” said Morwenna, “I shall certainly come to yours.”
She was like a different person. There was no doubt that she was happy and, as she had never expected to be, she enjoyed it all the more. In those days she went about in a state of dazed bliss. Justin was very tender to her. I liked him for that, although I could not rid myself of the idea which Uncle Peter had sown in my mind that he might be an adventurer. The Pencarrons were certainly very wealthy and Morwenna was their only child. Marriage with her must seem a good proposition to any needy young man seeking an heiress.
But when his father-in-law offered to take him into the business he politely declined. He was grateful. It was a great honor, Morwenna told me he said, but he could not do it.
“He is so noble,” she went on. “He says he wants to support his wife without the help of her father. He can do it, and although she may not be as rich in her new life as she was with her parents, she would be well looked after. Wasn’t that wonderful of him? You see, he is so used to living in town. He wouldn’t fit into a rural society.”
“I can see that,” I said.
“He’s like Gervaise. You couldn’t see him in the country either, could you?”
I admitted she was right.
“Pa has offered to give us a house in London for a wedding present but he is having difficulty in getting Justin to agree to take it. You see, he doesn’t want to take anything.”
“Where was he living then?” I asked.
“In a hotel.”
“He could hardly expect you to live in a hotel.”
“No. So I think that for my sake he will accept Pa’s offer. They don’t really want me to go to London. They would like us to settle here.”
“What do you feel about it, Morwenna?”
“Oh, I want to be where Justin is. Mother and Pa can come up and stay with us … often. And we can come down here.”
“It sounds like a good arrangement. And you are very happy, aren’t you, Morwenna?”
She nodded. “Life is wonderful,” she said. “So unexpected. Those awful balls … those dinner parties. I never knew what to say to anybody and I would sit there feeling that everyone was trying to think up excuses to get away from me.”
“And Justin changed all that.”
“He was quite different from anyone else. He really wanted to be with me. He listened to what I had to say. He made me feel that I was interesting. It has changed everything.”
“I hope you will always be as happy as you are now, Morwenna.”
“I shall always be happy as long as I have Justin.”
I thought: The man is a miracle worker. He has changed her completely. Or is it simply Love?
The weeks flew by. My wedding dress was ready. We had it made in Plymouth. It lacked the grandeur of my court dress but it was very beautiful. There was my veil and orange blossom. I should be the typical bride.
As Morwenna had been, I was married in St Ervan’s. My father gave me away and Morwenna was my matron of honor. Gervaise was a very handsome bridegroom and I was proud of him. The reception followed, toasts were drunk and, with the help of Gervaise, I cut the cake. We left the guests while I went up to change into my going-away costume.
Grace and my mother were
with me. My mother was emotional as most mothers are when their daughters get married. I suppose they think the relationship will never be the same again, and they have lost some part of a daughter to a stranger.
I threw my arms about her, remembering all we had been to one another.
I said: “We are going to see each other often. I shall come to Cador and you must come to London.”
She nodded, too tearful to speak.
We were to live in London. My parents, as the Pencarrons had with Morwenna, were presenting us with a house as a wedding present. It seemed the most sensible of gifts to a married pair who had to find a home for themselves. Morwenna and I promised each other that we would have an exciting time helping each other to choose our new homes; and one thing which delighted us was that we should be neighbors.
The prospect ahead seemed full of pleasure; and in the meantime Gervaise and I were about to leave on our honeymoon which was to be spent in the South of France.
Grace patted the sleeve of my jacket and smoothed the skirt. We had bought it in London and she had helped to choose it. I felt it was very elegant and there was a little hat with a curling blue-tinted ostrich feather with it.
“You look lovely,” said my mother. “Doesn’t she, Grace?”
Grace agreed.
And then I went down to Gervaise who was waiting for me and whose looks told me that he agreed with them.
When we arrived at the station the train was already in. We had a first-class carriage to ourselves.
“How fortunate!” I cried.
“Arranged,” said Gervaise, “with Machiavellian cunning.”
And we were laughing together.
We were to stay the first night in a London hotel before we continued our journey the next day.
“It will be the first time I have ever been out of England,” I said.
“Is that why you are so excited?”
“The sole reason,” I told him.
“Angelet,” he said severely, “you must not tell your husband lies.”
“What will you do if I decide I shall?”
“I shall be forced to take drastic action.”
Pool of St. Branok Page 18
