Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.The Age of Miracles.“I sat by his mother one midsummer day,And she looked me through and throughAs I spoke of her lad who was far away,For she guessed that I loved him too!”Maggie’s Secret.“Lizzie, pull that pillow more under my head, will you, dear? I think, too, my feet are getting cold; I wish you would throw that shawl over me.”The speaker was our old acquaintance the dowager; but wonderfully changed both in appearance and voice since we last saw and heard her; and the young lady addressed in that affectionate and trusting manner was our own little Lizzie, the young incumbent’s sister, the beloved of Master Tom.Fancy her being now on such terms of intimacy with Tom’s mother! But it is a fact.Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis: this is the age of miracles, and we must not be surprised at anything that happens in our daily life when so many startling changes in science and art are worked out every day in the world around us.I don’t know how the first advance was made from the parsonage to The Poplars, but the worthy old doctor managed it all. That man, I venture to say, sir, or madam, who may be reading these lines, was most unhesitatingly one whom we used to term in schoolboy phraseology, a trump. He was a trump most certainly, even although all the other suits at cards be of fair and equable measure! A trump of trumps, arara avis, even amongst a horde of good fellows, and I affectionate him much, as our foreign friends put it.The doctor had already told Miss Lizzie that he would be glad to make use of her services as soon as the old lady was a little more sensible, and Lizzie had gladly consented to be made use of when the proper time should arrive.Doctor Jolly, from the experiences of the past, when he had so satisfactorily played the go-between in Tom and Lizzie’s young loves, was pretty well aware of the state of things between those two young persons. His own nature being an ardent one, and having often—to Deb’s intense misgivings and alarm—cultivated the tender passion himself, he was quite competent to sympathise with all lovers whose course of true love might not, through the stern opposition of unfeeling parents and worldly relations, run smooth. He could do this quite apart from his good nature, which would have forced him to befriend any one in trouble. But when he naturally liked a sighing lover like Master Tom, and had such a paternal interest in him, and when Miss Lizzie—the object beloved—was one of his own especial pets, one cannot wonder that the doctor threw himself into the breach with all the ardour of his ardent nature and good nature combined. He determined that he would befriend this young couple to the best of his ability. Although Fate had unkindly nipped all his littleaffaires du coeurin the bud, and destroyed all his tender Platonisms, he would have the satisfaction, at least, of seeing others happy.Accordingly, our friend Aesculapius having played go-between, subsequently became the trusted confidant to both the lovers. Tom, before his departure for the land of the Queen of Sheba’s descendants, had breathed out his heartburnings, his rage, his morbid determination, sighing furiously all the while, like Shakespeare’s typical furnace; and after Tom’s Hegira, Lizzie, with many little tender protestations and pearly sacrifices, had also unfolded her troubles to him. It was not for a long time, however, that Lizzie did this—not until the little heart had been wrung by keeping its trouble to itself for a very long, long time; but she need not have held back her confidence from the doctor—he knew all about it, and even if Tom had not told him of the ruthless separation which Fate had brought about, he could have easily guessed it from Andromeda’s martyr-like face.The dowager’s illness now enabled Doctor Jolly to befriend Lizzie, and consequently Tom also, much more efficiently than he might otherwise have been able to do.Putting aside the necessity which he thought existed for establishing theentente cordialebetween Lizzie and the mother of her adored, the good doctor was full of sympathy—in which he forgot all her former bad temper and malevolence towards him—for the poor old woman was lying grievously ill—sick unto death nearly, at 1 The Poplars. She was so ill, so changed, so friendless and deserted, only tended by strangers and hired servants, that Doctor Jolly thought that the best thing for her in common charity was to get some one to come and see her, and minister, who would be actuated in so doing by a higher and more of a brotherly-kindness principle than that of mere wage. With this idea revolving strongly in his head, the doctor could think of no one better suited for the post than Lizzie. By employing her, he would be able to achieve two purposes at once—kill two birds with one stone. Tom’s lady-love was willing and happy enough at the thought; the only thing that remained was to gain the old dowager’s consent for the arrangement, and this Doctor Jolly found much more easily done than he had thought possible.For a long time the old lady had remained speechless, and of course nothing could be done about it then. She was in such a state that the mere sight of a new face might have affected her fatally, much less the sight of a face which could be connected in her mind, if she could think, with former times and her quarrel with her son. But, by-and-bye, as the dowager became more sensible and was able to express her wishes by writing on a slate, and afterwards to speak when she got back her voice—what a changed voice it was!—the doctor mooted the matter.He suggested that she should have some one to sit and read with her for company’s sake, as he told her: it was bad for her to be alone with only a servant, and it would delay her recovery if she were not roused out of herself.She had at first given a vehement veto against the suggestion. She thought the doctor was going to prepare Miss Kingscott’s society for her, remembering Aesculapius’s old partiality in that quarter. But when he indignantly denied this, and told her he would not propose her company for any decent person—the doctor had learnt the governess’s treachery from Mr Trump—the old lady accepted very agreeably the offer of Lizzie Pringle’s society. She thought it quite a satisfactory substitute for the old lady whom she had dreaded the doctor was going to invite to wait on her.Doctor Jolly took Mrs Hartshorne at her word, and sent Lizzie up the very same afternoon that he got permission, for fear that the dowager might withdraw the same. He did not doubt that the moment the old lady knew Lizzie she would take to her, and then the rest lay in Lizzie’s own hands.Aesculapius was right. Within a week, the tender graces, and kindness, and soft ways of the young girl, had made way in the heart of the old woman which you would have never suspected, and she afterwards could hardly bear her out of her sight.Lizzie and the dowager were on the most affectionate footing. She, winning, ministering like an angel of mercy: the old lady accepting all her kindness, not saying much in words, but feeling in her heart an unknown love towards this little girl, who was winding herself into her affections in spite of herself.And Lizzie, you may be sure, was happy—happy at doing good—happy at ministering to affliction; above all, happy at helping Tom’s mother. Thus did Andromeda’s grief lessen: thus was she able to bear all the snapping and snarling of the old campaigner at home. This was her source of balm, which you might never have suspected.It was a strange association between the two: between the dowager of former days, with her harsh voice and querulous temper, and the gentle little girl who had won Tom’s love. There never would have been, one would think, any sympathy or companionship; but the dowager was very much altered now.“Wonders will never cease,” says the proverb; and Solomon adds, that “there is nothing new under the sun.” Consequently putting that and that together, as the old folks say, we ought not to be surprised at this unexpectedrapportbetween Tom’s mother and Lizzie.Far more wonderful than that wonderful recovery of reason poor Susan Hartshorne, under Markworth’s superintending care, was this change in the dowager, and the amelioration in her temper. But sickness and mental anxiety work strange changes! Shewaschanged!When the old lady’s recollection came back, she grieved very much over the death of her daughter, and seemed to accuse herself on that account. She told Lizzie that if she had not been so harsh and unlike a mother to Susan, all the past might never have happened. Lizzie tried to soothe her self-reproaches somewhat ineffectually, but when Dr Jolly combatted the old lady’s arguments, and had a long explanation with her, the dowager seemed much relieved, although she would express fervent hopes of seeing her daughter again—in heaven, and she did not any longer fret so much about Susan as she had done.The old lady’s thoughts and conversation after this turned on her dear Tom principally.Mrs Hartshorne was a very shrewd old lady, and as she got better her old shrewdness returned.She had not by any means forgotten the name of Miss Lizzie Pringle. She remembered very well Tom’s explanation with reference to that young lady and his crude ideas of wishing to get married; after a time she startled Lizzie nearly out of her seven little senses, by abruptly mentioning the subject, asking her what arrangement she had come to with Tom, and if they were still engaged.Lizzie told her “no,” indignantly: she would enter into no engagement with anyone whose family objected to her.The dowager was very much pleased at her pride in not holding Tom to his word when she had related the affair, and she probed Lizzie’s heart further by enquiring whether she loved Tom still.She did not care for him, if it would harm his prospects that is, and—and—The dowager looked very kind and cheerful and not stern at all, and all Lizzie’s love for the graceless Tom who had abandoned her in his senseless anger for her strict regard for duty, was poured out again into very sympathising ears, the dowager told her to cheer up—and “all would yet be well.”After this many were the dialogues between the old lady and the young girl about the absent warrior, and suggestions made about the probable time of his return, and surmises—on the older lady’s part—the junior only blushed and said nothing—as to what would happen when Tom did come back.The young man’s letters home to his mother were read out by Miss Lizzie. She took no interest in them at all, of course; but the old lady’s sight being somewhat defective and Tom’s calligraphy none of the clearest, it was absolutely necessary that the old lady’s companion should read them out for her. You may be quite certain that Lizzie did not peruse them afterwards quietly to herself, and enter with deep interest into all the young man’s deeds and doings. How the army was getting on satisfactorily towards Magdala: how splendid the scenery was: how he had had a monkey hunt, and had not caught one; and what fine figures the Abyssinian girls had. Of course Miss Lizzie did not toss her head at this, and say “Well, to be sure, sir; I wonder what next!”Whether she did or did not, Master Tom’s doings seemed to have great interest for the two. When they were talking about him, the old lady would recount with a maternal pride, which from a former knowledge of her character you might never have dreamt she possessed, incidents connected with the childhood of the warrior, to which Lizzie would listen with spell-bound attention.The dowager would relate how gentle Tom was when teething; how wonderfully he had borne that infantile malady, the measles; what marvellous escape he had had from breaking his neck when he tumbled down the back staircase. And then she would glide on to later experiences, and tell how well Tom got on at school; and how the old colonel of his regiment liked him, as indeed all did with whom the Saxon youngster came in contact.Lizzie would drink in all this with greedy ears; and never tire of hearing of the deeds and doings of this most extraordinary young man.So the time passed on, and Lizzie became even more domesticated at The Poplars than she was at the parsonage.Tom’s mother got to love her; and the young incumbent’s sister, much as she loved her brother, took a deeper interest in the big house and its belongings than she did in Herbert Pringle’s mansion.Thus while the latter was being peckedad libitumby the campaigner, Lizzie generally “made herself scarce,” and went up to The Poplars to talk about Tom—the never wearisome subject—with the old dowager.The campaigner’s rule might be rigid enough, but Lizzie laughed it to scorn. Instead of bandying words with the veteran, our little friend abandoned the field to her completely, and left her “alone in her glory.”She was unhappy no longer. There was balm in Gilead. Jupitertonanswas propitious: the doctor’s plans successful: the dowager gained over to Lizzie’s cause: the field fought: the battle won.Who would have thought of the “Fiddle-de-dee”-asserting-dowager ever being in Lizzie’s favour?The course of true love looked, for a wonder, as if it were going for once to run smooth. Miracles certainly will never cease: this is the age of them!
“I sat by his mother one midsummer day,And she looked me through and throughAs I spoke of her lad who was far away,For she guessed that I loved him too!”
“I sat by his mother one midsummer day,And she looked me through and throughAs I spoke of her lad who was far away,For she guessed that I loved him too!”
Maggie’s Secret.
“Lizzie, pull that pillow more under my head, will you, dear? I think, too, my feet are getting cold; I wish you would throw that shawl over me.”
The speaker was our old acquaintance the dowager; but wonderfully changed both in appearance and voice since we last saw and heard her; and the young lady addressed in that affectionate and trusting manner was our own little Lizzie, the young incumbent’s sister, the beloved of Master Tom.
Fancy her being now on such terms of intimacy with Tom’s mother! But it is a fact.Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis: this is the age of miracles, and we must not be surprised at anything that happens in our daily life when so many startling changes in science and art are worked out every day in the world around us.
I don’t know how the first advance was made from the parsonage to The Poplars, but the worthy old doctor managed it all. That man, I venture to say, sir, or madam, who may be reading these lines, was most unhesitatingly one whom we used to term in schoolboy phraseology, a trump. He was a trump most certainly, even although all the other suits at cards be of fair and equable measure! A trump of trumps, arara avis, even amongst a horde of good fellows, and I affectionate him much, as our foreign friends put it.
The doctor had already told Miss Lizzie that he would be glad to make use of her services as soon as the old lady was a little more sensible, and Lizzie had gladly consented to be made use of when the proper time should arrive.
Doctor Jolly, from the experiences of the past, when he had so satisfactorily played the go-between in Tom and Lizzie’s young loves, was pretty well aware of the state of things between those two young persons. His own nature being an ardent one, and having often—to Deb’s intense misgivings and alarm—cultivated the tender passion himself, he was quite competent to sympathise with all lovers whose course of true love might not, through the stern opposition of unfeeling parents and worldly relations, run smooth. He could do this quite apart from his good nature, which would have forced him to befriend any one in trouble. But when he naturally liked a sighing lover like Master Tom, and had such a paternal interest in him, and when Miss Lizzie—the object beloved—was one of his own especial pets, one cannot wonder that the doctor threw himself into the breach with all the ardour of his ardent nature and good nature combined. He determined that he would befriend this young couple to the best of his ability. Although Fate had unkindly nipped all his littleaffaires du coeurin the bud, and destroyed all his tender Platonisms, he would have the satisfaction, at least, of seeing others happy.
Accordingly, our friend Aesculapius having played go-between, subsequently became the trusted confidant to both the lovers. Tom, before his departure for the land of the Queen of Sheba’s descendants, had breathed out his heartburnings, his rage, his morbid determination, sighing furiously all the while, like Shakespeare’s typical furnace; and after Tom’s Hegira, Lizzie, with many little tender protestations and pearly sacrifices, had also unfolded her troubles to him. It was not for a long time, however, that Lizzie did this—not until the little heart had been wrung by keeping its trouble to itself for a very long, long time; but she need not have held back her confidence from the doctor—he knew all about it, and even if Tom had not told him of the ruthless separation which Fate had brought about, he could have easily guessed it from Andromeda’s martyr-like face.
The dowager’s illness now enabled Doctor Jolly to befriend Lizzie, and consequently Tom also, much more efficiently than he might otherwise have been able to do.
Putting aside the necessity which he thought existed for establishing theentente cordialebetween Lizzie and the mother of her adored, the good doctor was full of sympathy—in which he forgot all her former bad temper and malevolence towards him—for the poor old woman was lying grievously ill—sick unto death nearly, at 1 The Poplars. She was so ill, so changed, so friendless and deserted, only tended by strangers and hired servants, that Doctor Jolly thought that the best thing for her in common charity was to get some one to come and see her, and minister, who would be actuated in so doing by a higher and more of a brotherly-kindness principle than that of mere wage. With this idea revolving strongly in his head, the doctor could think of no one better suited for the post than Lizzie. By employing her, he would be able to achieve two purposes at once—kill two birds with one stone. Tom’s lady-love was willing and happy enough at the thought; the only thing that remained was to gain the old dowager’s consent for the arrangement, and this Doctor Jolly found much more easily done than he had thought possible.
For a long time the old lady had remained speechless, and of course nothing could be done about it then. She was in such a state that the mere sight of a new face might have affected her fatally, much less the sight of a face which could be connected in her mind, if she could think, with former times and her quarrel with her son. But, by-and-bye, as the dowager became more sensible and was able to express her wishes by writing on a slate, and afterwards to speak when she got back her voice—what a changed voice it was!—the doctor mooted the matter.
He suggested that she should have some one to sit and read with her for company’s sake, as he told her: it was bad for her to be alone with only a servant, and it would delay her recovery if she were not roused out of herself.
She had at first given a vehement veto against the suggestion. She thought the doctor was going to prepare Miss Kingscott’s society for her, remembering Aesculapius’s old partiality in that quarter. But when he indignantly denied this, and told her he would not propose her company for any decent person—the doctor had learnt the governess’s treachery from Mr Trump—the old lady accepted very agreeably the offer of Lizzie Pringle’s society. She thought it quite a satisfactory substitute for the old lady whom she had dreaded the doctor was going to invite to wait on her.
Doctor Jolly took Mrs Hartshorne at her word, and sent Lizzie up the very same afternoon that he got permission, for fear that the dowager might withdraw the same. He did not doubt that the moment the old lady knew Lizzie she would take to her, and then the rest lay in Lizzie’s own hands.
Aesculapius was right. Within a week, the tender graces, and kindness, and soft ways of the young girl, had made way in the heart of the old woman which you would have never suspected, and she afterwards could hardly bear her out of her sight.
Lizzie and the dowager were on the most affectionate footing. She, winning, ministering like an angel of mercy: the old lady accepting all her kindness, not saying much in words, but feeling in her heart an unknown love towards this little girl, who was winding herself into her affections in spite of herself.
And Lizzie, you may be sure, was happy—happy at doing good—happy at ministering to affliction; above all, happy at helping Tom’s mother. Thus did Andromeda’s grief lessen: thus was she able to bear all the snapping and snarling of the old campaigner at home. This was her source of balm, which you might never have suspected.
It was a strange association between the two: between the dowager of former days, with her harsh voice and querulous temper, and the gentle little girl who had won Tom’s love. There never would have been, one would think, any sympathy or companionship; but the dowager was very much altered now.
“Wonders will never cease,” says the proverb; and Solomon adds, that “there is nothing new under the sun.” Consequently putting that and that together, as the old folks say, we ought not to be surprised at this unexpectedrapportbetween Tom’s mother and Lizzie.
Far more wonderful than that wonderful recovery of reason poor Susan Hartshorne, under Markworth’s superintending care, was this change in the dowager, and the amelioration in her temper. But sickness and mental anxiety work strange changes! Shewaschanged!
When the old lady’s recollection came back, she grieved very much over the death of her daughter, and seemed to accuse herself on that account. She told Lizzie that if she had not been so harsh and unlike a mother to Susan, all the past might never have happened. Lizzie tried to soothe her self-reproaches somewhat ineffectually, but when Dr Jolly combatted the old lady’s arguments, and had a long explanation with her, the dowager seemed much relieved, although she would express fervent hopes of seeing her daughter again—in heaven, and she did not any longer fret so much about Susan as she had done.
The old lady’s thoughts and conversation after this turned on her dear Tom principally.
Mrs Hartshorne was a very shrewd old lady, and as she got better her old shrewdness returned.
She had not by any means forgotten the name of Miss Lizzie Pringle. She remembered very well Tom’s explanation with reference to that young lady and his crude ideas of wishing to get married; after a time she startled Lizzie nearly out of her seven little senses, by abruptly mentioning the subject, asking her what arrangement she had come to with Tom, and if they were still engaged.
Lizzie told her “no,” indignantly: she would enter into no engagement with anyone whose family objected to her.
The dowager was very much pleased at her pride in not holding Tom to his word when she had related the affair, and she probed Lizzie’s heart further by enquiring whether she loved Tom still.
She did not care for him, if it would harm his prospects that is, and—and—The dowager looked very kind and cheerful and not stern at all, and all Lizzie’s love for the graceless Tom who had abandoned her in his senseless anger for her strict regard for duty, was poured out again into very sympathising ears, the dowager told her to cheer up—and “all would yet be well.”
After this many were the dialogues between the old lady and the young girl about the absent warrior, and suggestions made about the probable time of his return, and surmises—on the older lady’s part—the junior only blushed and said nothing—as to what would happen when Tom did come back.
The young man’s letters home to his mother were read out by Miss Lizzie. She took no interest in them at all, of course; but the old lady’s sight being somewhat defective and Tom’s calligraphy none of the clearest, it was absolutely necessary that the old lady’s companion should read them out for her. You may be quite certain that Lizzie did not peruse them afterwards quietly to herself, and enter with deep interest into all the young man’s deeds and doings. How the army was getting on satisfactorily towards Magdala: how splendid the scenery was: how he had had a monkey hunt, and had not caught one; and what fine figures the Abyssinian girls had. Of course Miss Lizzie did not toss her head at this, and say “Well, to be sure, sir; I wonder what next!”
Whether she did or did not, Master Tom’s doings seemed to have great interest for the two. When they were talking about him, the old lady would recount with a maternal pride, which from a former knowledge of her character you might never have dreamt she possessed, incidents connected with the childhood of the warrior, to which Lizzie would listen with spell-bound attention.
The dowager would relate how gentle Tom was when teething; how wonderfully he had borne that infantile malady, the measles; what marvellous escape he had had from breaking his neck when he tumbled down the back staircase. And then she would glide on to later experiences, and tell how well Tom got on at school; and how the old colonel of his regiment liked him, as indeed all did with whom the Saxon youngster came in contact.
Lizzie would drink in all this with greedy ears; and never tire of hearing of the deeds and doings of this most extraordinary young man.
So the time passed on, and Lizzie became even more domesticated at The Poplars than she was at the parsonage.
Tom’s mother got to love her; and the young incumbent’s sister, much as she loved her brother, took a deeper interest in the big house and its belongings than she did in Herbert Pringle’s mansion.
Thus while the latter was being peckedad libitumby the campaigner, Lizzie generally “made herself scarce,” and went up to The Poplars to talk about Tom—the never wearisome subject—with the old dowager.
The campaigner’s rule might be rigid enough, but Lizzie laughed it to scorn. Instead of bandying words with the veteran, our little friend abandoned the field to her completely, and left her “alone in her glory.”
She was unhappy no longer. There was balm in Gilead. Jupitertonanswas propitious: the doctor’s plans successful: the dowager gained over to Lizzie’s cause: the field fought: the battle won.
Who would have thought of the “Fiddle-de-dee”-asserting-dowager ever being in Lizzie’s favour?
The course of true love looked, for a wonder, as if it were going for once to run smooth. Miracles certainly will never cease: this is the age of them!
Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.“Too Late! Too Late!”Markworth still sat in the same position in the untidy, ill-furnished private room at the sponging-house after the governess, his enemy, had left him—with his face hidden between his hands and his head bent down, the summer sun still streaming down on him, for the sun shines for rich and poor alike: for those in captivity, and for those that are free!Clara Kingscott, meanwhile, directed her steps once more to the offices of Mr Trump and his partner, in Bedford Row. She did not dread a refusal this time: she did not hold back for fear of being denied admission: she had news—news! to communicate now, and they must see her!“Mr Trump was out,” said one of the clerks.Miss Kingscott was in no hurry—although she was out of breath with the haste she had made from the hotelrestanteof Abednego—she “would wait until Mr Trump came in.”That would never do, thought the clerk; his master wouldn’t be pleased to find hisbête noirseated there in his outer office, ready to pounce upon him when he made his appearance. So fearful of a probable blowing up, the embryo Sheepskin tried again.“Mr Trump was busy; he could not see anyone to-day.”Miss Kingscott, however, was invincible—“she would wait until the lawyer was disengaged,” she said, calmly taking a seat unbidden.Worse and worse for Sheepskin, who was in an agony of terror as to what to do. In the midst of the excitement enters Mr Trump himself from his inner sanctum, accompanied by Doctor Jolly.“Bless my soul, Miss Kingscott!” exclaimed the latter; “who would have thought of seeing you here.” But the doctor seemed embarrassed; he did not offer his broad palm to the governess as he would have done in the old days at The Poplars; and his ruddy countenance was suffused with a deeper shade of crimson than was really habitual. Mr Trump advanced, however, to Miss Kingscott, and spoke out curtly in his cold, business voice.“What do you want here, madam? You have no business with me! and I told my clerks to say I was not in whenever you came here!” glaring round at the solitary embryo sheepskin, who quaked in his shoes; the other grisly clerk, whose hair had the semblance of the fretful porcupine, was not there—probably he was at lunch, and would “return in ten minutes,” as they all say.Miss Kingscott was not staggered by the lawyer’s facer; she was far too much wrapt up in her purpose to take notice of any rebuff, as she had had many already. She went in straight to her point, gasping with excitement as she spoke.“He’s found! He’s found!” she exclaimed.“Who’s found? What do you mean, madam?” said Mr Trump, who, thinking the governess was going to make a dash at him, cautiously retired behind the doctor: the latter uttering his usual, “God bless my soul!” was staring at his quondam flame in astonishment.“He’s caught at last! Caught at last!” continued the governess hysterically, waving her arms frantically all the while.“Who’s found? Who’s caught at last? Really, I do not comprehend you, madam; what is it to me whom you find or catch?”“Bless my soul!” ejaculated the doctor, hopelessly bewildered.“Fool!” exclaimed Miss Kingscott, in cutting bitterness—so sharp and short was her tone, that the word sounded like a pistol-shot. “Fool! Markworth is caught at last! Caught at last, do you hear? And I have caught him!”Mr Trump and the doctor stared at one another in blank surprise; the former recovered himself first.“Whew!” he whistled, between his closed teeth. “Oh, that’s it, is it! Well, and supposing he is caught, and that you have caught him, what is that to me?”It was the governess’s turn to be now surprised; she stared at Mr Trump in bewilderment.“Why—I thought—what do you mean?” she stammered.“I mean what I say, madam. What is it to me?” said the lawyer, coolly.“Bless my soul!” still ejaculated the doctor, in that stage of astonishment where one is described as “looking nine ways for Sunday.”Miss Kingscott now recovered herself.“You must be mad, I think,” she said, in her cold, grating voice. “Why, it is everything to you, as it is to me! Markworth is captured, do you hear? He is now arrested for debt; but the charge of murder has to be brought against him, and it is your place to accuse him. I have just left him,” she went on hurriedly, dashing out her short, sharp sentences. “He knows that he can expect no mercy from me, or anyone else! The law must now do its part! A warrant must be at once obtained! If you will not come forward and do your duty, I will! The blood of Susan Hartshorne cries out aloud for vengeance!”“Bless my soul!” said the doctor, aghast at the change in the bashful, timid governess of his former acquaintance, and staring with widening eyes at the stern Medea before him. “Bless my soul! Trump, why she does not know!”“Whew!” whistled the lawyer again. “And you have told him this?” he inquired aloud of Miss Kingscott. “A fiend of a woman!” he muttered, aside to the doctor.“Of course I have!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “Who had a better right than I to beard him at last? Have I not waited long enough, and tracked him all these months to have only that satisfaction? But it is come at last! I shall see him hanged, and then I shall be happy; my vengeance will be complete!”“God bless my soul!” murmured the doctor, in a tone of warm congratulation to himself. “Bless my soul—that she did not catchme! Why, she’s a regular devil! Worse than twenty dowagers!”The lawyer, meanwhile, was interrogating Miss Kingscott calmly, without apparently noticing her excitement. He had a wonderful sedative presently wherewith to cool this excitement down.“And where is Markworth now?” he asked.“He is where I’ve just left him, I believe. He was arrested this morning for a debt he owed to a Jew named Solomonson, who had advanced him money for carrying on that suit. He is locked up in a place somewhere in Chancery lane.”“Oh! yes; I know,” said Mr Trump, interrupting her; “Abednego’s, is it not?”“Yes, that’s the name,” answered the governess.“Hum-m!” ejaculated Mr Trump, musingly. “And you are going to bring this charge of murder against him, eh?”“I am!” she answered, sternly.“Well, Miss Kingscott, if you will wait a short time, I will go with you.”“I’ve waited long enough,” she said, impatiently. “Cannot you come now?”“No, I have some matters to settle first; but, I will not delay; and, besides, I must see Markworth himself first, before anything can be done.”“See Markworth! What do you want to see him for?” she exclaimed, in surprise. “Why I have seen him there already!”“That’s my business,” Mr Trump said, curtly; “but it will be better for you if you leave it in my hands. Will you meet me in half-an-hour at Abednego’s place in Chancery lane?”“I suppose I must,” said the governess, after hesitating a moment, for I “cannot act very well without you. But you will be certain to be there, won’t you?”“I always keep my word,” answered the lawyer, sententiously; “I will be there in half-an-hour.”“Very well,” said the governess; and she went to the appointed place and passed the time in restlessly walking up and down the pavement in front of the sponging-house, until Mr Trump should come.At the time appointed—it was now late in the afternoon, and legal hours were nearly over—as punctual as clockwork, Mrs Hartshorne’s lawyer made his appearance. He was accompanied by Doctor Jolly and a lady dressed in deep black, with her face closely veiled.“Who is she?” asked the governess, pointing to this lady, who leant on the doctor’s arm, and was trembling, as Miss Kingscott could see, although she could not distinguish her face. “Who is she? No stranger has any business with him or me!”“She has a right to be here,” answered the lawyer, as he rang the bell at the door of the sponging-house; “you will soon know all.”Miss Kingscott gazed searchingly at the stranger, and gave a start of half-amazement, half-terror; but the lawyer did not give her time to say anything. He asked for Markworth on the door being opened, and the Cerberus told him that he was upstairs in the private room, where he had given orders not to be disturbed.Mr Trump said he was his lawyer. Cerberus knew his vocation very well, for Mr Trump had paid many visits to clients in Abednego’s retirement before—and he was admitted after a little parley at the door, facilitated by the application of palm oil.“He’s upstairs on the second floor, the door right fronting you,” shouted the man, after them. “You’ll be sure to find him at home,” he added, with a chuckle at his own joke.The lawyer led the way up the dirty staircase, followed by Miss Kingscott: while the Doctor and the strange lady were close behind.Arrived at the door of the room in which Markworth was, Mr Trump knocked in vain for some time. He at length turned, the handle, and the four visitors walked in unbidden.Markworth was in the corner of the room: they could all see him.The lawyer called out to him, but got no answer: he went up to him.The man was dead!Markworth was sitting in the same place where the governess had left him in his misery. His bowed head lay between his clasped hands: the sun had gone down now, and no longer shone upon him with its golden gleams: his sun also had sunk to rest!The Doctor went forward and examined him. He had been dead more than an hour he said: cause—heart disease, probably brought on by strong excitement, or a sudden shock.All were startled at this unexpected appearance of pale death; even his enemy and Nemesis relented as she gazed on the lifeless mask of him whom she had so ruthlessly pursued, and drew back in horror at what she had done.But the stranger darted forward, and threw herself with a burst of grief on the motionless form of the dead man: sorrow and sympathy, friendship or hate, could no longer affect him now!As she did so, the stranger threw aside her veil: and the face of the mourner was the face of Susan Hartshorne, whom the dead man had been accused of having murdered.“Poor thing! poor thing!” murmured the doctor, as he turned away his head and walked towards the window to conceal his emotion. “Bless my soul! It’s a sad pity—a sad pity! But it is better as it is.”
Markworth still sat in the same position in the untidy, ill-furnished private room at the sponging-house after the governess, his enemy, had left him—with his face hidden between his hands and his head bent down, the summer sun still streaming down on him, for the sun shines for rich and poor alike: for those in captivity, and for those that are free!
Clara Kingscott, meanwhile, directed her steps once more to the offices of Mr Trump and his partner, in Bedford Row. She did not dread a refusal this time: she did not hold back for fear of being denied admission: she had news—news! to communicate now, and they must see her!
“Mr Trump was out,” said one of the clerks.
Miss Kingscott was in no hurry—although she was out of breath with the haste she had made from the hotelrestanteof Abednego—she “would wait until Mr Trump came in.”
That would never do, thought the clerk; his master wouldn’t be pleased to find hisbête noirseated there in his outer office, ready to pounce upon him when he made his appearance. So fearful of a probable blowing up, the embryo Sheepskin tried again.
“Mr Trump was busy; he could not see anyone to-day.”
Miss Kingscott, however, was invincible—“she would wait until the lawyer was disengaged,” she said, calmly taking a seat unbidden.
Worse and worse for Sheepskin, who was in an agony of terror as to what to do. In the midst of the excitement enters Mr Trump himself from his inner sanctum, accompanied by Doctor Jolly.
“Bless my soul, Miss Kingscott!” exclaimed the latter; “who would have thought of seeing you here.” But the doctor seemed embarrassed; he did not offer his broad palm to the governess as he would have done in the old days at The Poplars; and his ruddy countenance was suffused with a deeper shade of crimson than was really habitual. Mr Trump advanced, however, to Miss Kingscott, and spoke out curtly in his cold, business voice.
“What do you want here, madam? You have no business with me! and I told my clerks to say I was not in whenever you came here!” glaring round at the solitary embryo sheepskin, who quaked in his shoes; the other grisly clerk, whose hair had the semblance of the fretful porcupine, was not there—probably he was at lunch, and would “return in ten minutes,” as they all say.
Miss Kingscott was not staggered by the lawyer’s facer; she was far too much wrapt up in her purpose to take notice of any rebuff, as she had had many already. She went in straight to her point, gasping with excitement as she spoke.
“He’s found! He’s found!” she exclaimed.
“Who’s found? What do you mean, madam?” said Mr Trump, who, thinking the governess was going to make a dash at him, cautiously retired behind the doctor: the latter uttering his usual, “God bless my soul!” was staring at his quondam flame in astonishment.
“He’s caught at last! Caught at last!” continued the governess hysterically, waving her arms frantically all the while.
“Who’s found? Who’s caught at last? Really, I do not comprehend you, madam; what is it to me whom you find or catch?”
“Bless my soul!” ejaculated the doctor, hopelessly bewildered.
“Fool!” exclaimed Miss Kingscott, in cutting bitterness—so sharp and short was her tone, that the word sounded like a pistol-shot. “Fool! Markworth is caught at last! Caught at last, do you hear? And I have caught him!”
Mr Trump and the doctor stared at one another in blank surprise; the former recovered himself first.
“Whew!” he whistled, between his closed teeth. “Oh, that’s it, is it! Well, and supposing he is caught, and that you have caught him, what is that to me?”
It was the governess’s turn to be now surprised; she stared at Mr Trump in bewilderment.
“Why—I thought—what do you mean?” she stammered.
“I mean what I say, madam. What is it to me?” said the lawyer, coolly.
“Bless my soul!” still ejaculated the doctor, in that stage of astonishment where one is described as “looking nine ways for Sunday.”
Miss Kingscott now recovered herself.
“You must be mad, I think,” she said, in her cold, grating voice. “Why, it is everything to you, as it is to me! Markworth is captured, do you hear? He is now arrested for debt; but the charge of murder has to be brought against him, and it is your place to accuse him. I have just left him,” she went on hurriedly, dashing out her short, sharp sentences. “He knows that he can expect no mercy from me, or anyone else! The law must now do its part! A warrant must be at once obtained! If you will not come forward and do your duty, I will! The blood of Susan Hartshorne cries out aloud for vengeance!”
“Bless my soul!” said the doctor, aghast at the change in the bashful, timid governess of his former acquaintance, and staring with widening eyes at the stern Medea before him. “Bless my soul! Trump, why she does not know!”
“Whew!” whistled the lawyer again. “And you have told him this?” he inquired aloud of Miss Kingscott. “A fiend of a woman!” he muttered, aside to the doctor.
“Of course I have!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “Who had a better right than I to beard him at last? Have I not waited long enough, and tracked him all these months to have only that satisfaction? But it is come at last! I shall see him hanged, and then I shall be happy; my vengeance will be complete!”
“God bless my soul!” murmured the doctor, in a tone of warm congratulation to himself. “Bless my soul—that she did not catchme! Why, she’s a regular devil! Worse than twenty dowagers!”
The lawyer, meanwhile, was interrogating Miss Kingscott calmly, without apparently noticing her excitement. He had a wonderful sedative presently wherewith to cool this excitement down.
“And where is Markworth now?” he asked.
“He is where I’ve just left him, I believe. He was arrested this morning for a debt he owed to a Jew named Solomonson, who had advanced him money for carrying on that suit. He is locked up in a place somewhere in Chancery lane.”
“Oh! yes; I know,” said Mr Trump, interrupting her; “Abednego’s, is it not?”
“Yes, that’s the name,” answered the governess.
“Hum-m!” ejaculated Mr Trump, musingly. “And you are going to bring this charge of murder against him, eh?”
“I am!” she answered, sternly.
“Well, Miss Kingscott, if you will wait a short time, I will go with you.”
“I’ve waited long enough,” she said, impatiently. “Cannot you come now?”
“No, I have some matters to settle first; but, I will not delay; and, besides, I must see Markworth himself first, before anything can be done.”
“See Markworth! What do you want to see him for?” she exclaimed, in surprise. “Why I have seen him there already!”
“That’s my business,” Mr Trump said, curtly; “but it will be better for you if you leave it in my hands. Will you meet me in half-an-hour at Abednego’s place in Chancery lane?”
“I suppose I must,” said the governess, after hesitating a moment, for I “cannot act very well without you. But you will be certain to be there, won’t you?”
“I always keep my word,” answered the lawyer, sententiously; “I will be there in half-an-hour.”
“Very well,” said the governess; and she went to the appointed place and passed the time in restlessly walking up and down the pavement in front of the sponging-house, until Mr Trump should come.
At the time appointed—it was now late in the afternoon, and legal hours were nearly over—as punctual as clockwork, Mrs Hartshorne’s lawyer made his appearance. He was accompanied by Doctor Jolly and a lady dressed in deep black, with her face closely veiled.
“Who is she?” asked the governess, pointing to this lady, who leant on the doctor’s arm, and was trembling, as Miss Kingscott could see, although she could not distinguish her face. “Who is she? No stranger has any business with him or me!”
“She has a right to be here,” answered the lawyer, as he rang the bell at the door of the sponging-house; “you will soon know all.”
Miss Kingscott gazed searchingly at the stranger, and gave a start of half-amazement, half-terror; but the lawyer did not give her time to say anything. He asked for Markworth on the door being opened, and the Cerberus told him that he was upstairs in the private room, where he had given orders not to be disturbed.
Mr Trump said he was his lawyer. Cerberus knew his vocation very well, for Mr Trump had paid many visits to clients in Abednego’s retirement before—and he was admitted after a little parley at the door, facilitated by the application of palm oil.
“He’s upstairs on the second floor, the door right fronting you,” shouted the man, after them. “You’ll be sure to find him at home,” he added, with a chuckle at his own joke.
The lawyer led the way up the dirty staircase, followed by Miss Kingscott: while the Doctor and the strange lady were close behind.
Arrived at the door of the room in which Markworth was, Mr Trump knocked in vain for some time. He at length turned, the handle, and the four visitors walked in unbidden.
Markworth was in the corner of the room: they could all see him.
The lawyer called out to him, but got no answer: he went up to him.
The man was dead!
Markworth was sitting in the same place where the governess had left him in his misery. His bowed head lay between his clasped hands: the sun had gone down now, and no longer shone upon him with its golden gleams: his sun also had sunk to rest!
The Doctor went forward and examined him. He had been dead more than an hour he said: cause—heart disease, probably brought on by strong excitement, or a sudden shock.
All were startled at this unexpected appearance of pale death; even his enemy and Nemesis relented as she gazed on the lifeless mask of him whom she had so ruthlessly pursued, and drew back in horror at what she had done.
But the stranger darted forward, and threw herself with a burst of grief on the motionless form of the dead man: sorrow and sympathy, friendship or hate, could no longer affect him now!
As she did so, the stranger threw aside her veil: and the face of the mourner was the face of Susan Hartshorne, whom the dead man had been accused of having murdered.
“Poor thing! poor thing!” murmured the doctor, as he turned away his head and walked towards the window to conceal his emotion. “Bless my soul! It’s a sad pity—a sad pity! But it is better as it is.”
Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.Retrospective and Progressional.In order to explain Susan’s reappearance under these exceptional circumstances, it will be necessary that we should retrace our steps and return to a date some months back in our narrative.It will be remembered that when Doctor Jolly paid his visit to Havre in the previous winter, he, after enquiring unsuccessfully for Susan at the house of the Mère Cliquelle, in the Rue Montmartre, went off for a walk (to pass the time until his ward should return) in the very same direction that Markworth and Susan, with Clara Kingscott dogging their heels, had taken—towards the heights of Ingouville.The Doctor picked his steps carefully, for it was dusk, and he was in a strange place, and he wished to establish certain landmarks in his mind, by which he might regain the Rue Montmartre when his stroll was over, and he should think it time to return.Doctor Jolly had the address of his hotel on a printed card in his pocket: he was not going to make another mistake, such as he had made earlier in the day; and if any doubts arose in his mind as to his exact latitude and longitude, he had resolved to hand the card of the hotel, which he had previously secured, to the nearest policeman or cabman. Oh! the doctor was very ’cute and business-like.But he did not wish to return there just yet. He wanted to see Susan, and have his mind set at rest about her before the night was over. And so the doctor walked on in a desultory way, carefully studying the topography of the street as he sauntered along, and pondering over recent events in his mind.He was wondering at the chain of circumstances which had brought him wandering about “this confounded foreign, outlandish place!” at nightfall, and “in the depth of winter too, by Gad!” he soliloquised, as he inhaled the foggy air of the dull November night, which made him puff and wheeze beneath the comforter, which in remembrance of Deb’s solicitude, he still kept carefully wrapped round his neck.When he came to one of the roads leading up to the heights above, the doctor paused a moment to recover his breath; he had never been “any great hand at walking,” as he would have told you himself; and the distance he had already traversed, short though it was, had by this time affected his wind.While he was resting a moment, and debating in his mind whether he should ascend the footpath in front of him, or yet retrace his steps to the Rue Montmartre, he heard a sound near him as of one groaning in pain. It was like the noise of the battle to the war-horse, or the salt smell of the sea to a mariner; and the doctor pricked up his ears, all his senses aroused at the idea of pain and suffering being suggested to him: to minister to the ills of nature was his special vocation.He searched about and followed the sound—it led him up higher to a ledge on the cliff above; and there in the dim twilight he made out the form of a human figure lying stretched on thedébriswhich had fallen away with it apparently from the summit above.To see and perceive was, with the staunch old doctor, but secondary to acting.He climbed up as hastily as his portly form would permit to the ledge, and bent over a figure, which was nearly motionless. “Bless my soul!” he ejaculated in alarm and surprise. “God bless my soul! Why, it is poor Susan! How on earth did she come here?” As he bent to lift her up she lay like a log in his arms.The doctor however did not waste any time in vain regrets or in exclamations of wonder: he was a medical man, and his first care was to examine the motionless form of the girl, to see how far she was hurt. She had only fainted, he shortly perceived, and he set to work at once to revive her.Thanks to a pocket flask of brandy, which he had fortunately brought with him, he soon contrived to put a little life into the girl; and he was able after a time to raise her up, when she opened her eyes and gave a groan of pain. She apparently did not know where she was or recognise the doctor; she only moaned, “Take me home! Take me home!”One of her arms broken, and a cut on her head; but, otherwise, she had most providentially escaped. She had probably fainted at the time she shrieked out before falling backwards over the cliff. Being thus supine, she could not struggle; so instead of receiving fatal injuries as a man might have done, who attempted to resist his fall she was unhurt, with the exception of a few trifling injuries, which time would soon repair. But she was very much shaken, and the doctor did not know what to do with her, as she could hardly walk, and he was not strong enough to carry her, as he might have done in his earlier days.The place was quite deserted. The doctor could not see a soul, and much as he disliked Frenchmen, he would have been glad to come across then the most “miserable foreign vagabond” who might have been sent on his way; but no one came, and as it was getting darker and darker, and night coming on, the doctor had to pull his wits together.He was a man of action: to wager with possible improbabilities his creed, so he did not hesitate long. While the girl was sobbing and moaning to herself, and crying out in half-incoherent language “Allynne! Allynne!” he lifted her up bodily, and tried to get her home to her own place in theRue Montmartre.But the night was dark, as has been before observed, and the doctor missed the landmarks, which he had so carefully jotted down on the tablets of his memory. He was in the right direction, but when he got to the foot of the street of which he was in search, he lost altogether hiscarte du pays. Just then he saw afiacre, and at the same time he arrived at a sudden determination; what it was, will be presently shown.The doctor bethought him that he had come over to Havre especially to try and get Susan home, and separate her from Markworth. Why on earth should he take her back now to the place where she would still be with him? Here she was unconscious, and he was her proper guardian appointed by her father. He would—“Yes, I will, I’ll be damned if I don’t!” he said, to himself; “take her back to England on my own account, without asking anybody’s leave or license!” And the doctor carried his determination into effect between that night and the next day.Thefiacrearriving opportunely, the doctor hailed it; and lifting Susan in, gave the driver the card of his hotel, “The Queen of Savoy,” which he had kept so carefully in his waistcoat pocket for such an emergency as losing his way: he and his charge—now more recovered—were presently set down at that famous hostelry, where the doctor had Susan at once put to bed, guarding her all the while with jealous watchfulness: he was afraid Markworth might step in at the last moment to claim her, and that his trouble would be thrown away.In the morning—Susan being still nearly unconscious—he had her carried on board the early packet for England; and the same evening the doctor, to his intense satisfaction, had her on English ground.At Southampton, Susan was unfortunately taken very ill; and Doctor Jolly could not carry out his intention of removing her at once to his own house as he had intended.The shock, the fall, the mental anxieties she had suffered, brought on an attack of brain fever; and Susan was for days struggling between life and death. When she was out of danger, the doctor, leaving her in the care of a trustworthy nurse, went home to see about his practice—which he thought must be at sixes and sevens from his prolonged absence—and to make preparations for Susan’s return to The Poplars.When he got to Bigton, however, the doctor heard of the alarming illness of the old dowager, and his plans became upset.He went off at once to Hartwood village, and found the old lady unconscious, although the respectable Dobbins, hislocum tenenshad treated her, the doctor allowed, as well as he could have done himself under the sudden paralytic shock she had sustained.Doctor Jolly had consequently to neglect Susan for a few days, in order to attend to her mother; and when he did go back for her, he determined that he would not bring her home to The Poplars—where everything would remind her of her former life—but would take her to his own house at Bigton.Here, accordingly, Susan was removed as soon as she was able to travel from Southampton; and here the good old Deb, the doctor’s sister, nursed the girl back to life, and to a knowledge of the past and present, with more than a mother’s care, tenderly aided by the doctor himself.It may be remembered by the reader, in our retrospect, that Mr Trump met Doctor Jolly soon after he returned from abroad; and the two had some explanation together, which resulted in the fact of the lawyer being pleased with himself at having taken no active part in the proceedings of the French police after Susan’s disappearance and supposed death—although he had inserted a mortuary notice in theTimes.Mr Trump’s gratulation is thus easily explained. The advertisement of Susan’s death was not contradicted, in the first place because it was rather late in the day to do it now, and in the second, the doctor advised no steps being taken in the matter, or else Markworth might return and claim the girl.Mr Trump, however, made one omission, which, as a lawyer, he ought to have attended to earlier. He did not communicate with the French police until some weeks had elapsed—not until in fact after Miss Kingscott had left Havre, in disgust at not hearing anything there of the hunted man, and come to prosecute her watch in London. Thus it was that she knew nothing of these revelations; and the polite Chef did not think it worth his while, or the expenditure of adix centimesstamp, to informcette femme diable, as he termed her, any more about the matter.When Susan recovered her senses and her memory, the only thing remained fixed in her mind was the idea that Markworth had gone off and left her. She seemed to remember only the words which he had spoken before she had been alarmed and started back to the edge of the cliff that night. She remembered nothing of the fall, and her subsequent removal by the doctor to England. All the present was easily explained to her mind as a natural consequence of what Markworth had told her, that he had to go away, and that he was going to send her back home again; here she was accordingly.As she became well, however—there could be no question of her reason now, for she was as sensible as possible, although timid in manner, as she always would be—she appeared to dread the idea of being taken back to her mother’s house, which very naturally the doctor had suggested.As soon as the old lady was able to bear the unexpected news—the doctor and Lizzie had broken to her very gently the fact of Susan, her daughter, whom she supposed dead, and whose death she accused herself of causing, was still alive!—the dowager wanted her immediately to be brought to The Poplars; but when the doctor proposed it to Susan, she shrank back in alarm at the suggestion. The poor girl had such a nervous dread of ever beholding the painful scenes of her miserable childhood, and any allusion to the place or to her mother caused her such trembling fits, and seemed to make her to withdraw herself into herself, that the doctor saw that, for some time at least, the eventuality of Susan’s removal must be postponed.When matters were explained to the dowager, she agreed with Doctor Jolly that Susan had better remain at his house, although she would not hear of it until he consented to accept remuneration. Fancy how changed the dowager was when she now was anxious to force money on one unwilling to receive it!Susan still lived, therefore, at Bigton, undisturbed, with the doctor and his worthy sister; indeed, Deb took such a fancy to Susan, with her fair, grief-marked face, and frightened manner, that in a little while—although she at first grumbled at her coming there to interrupt thetête-à-têtelife of Damon and her Pythias—she could not bear the idea of parting with her: there is no such pet in the world as an “old maid’s child.”By-and-bye, when Susan was quite recovered, as she expressed a desire to see Havre again, and the house where she had lived so happily with Markworth, the doctor took her over. The Mère Cliquelle and herpetit bon homme, were delighted to seeLa belle Madameagain—it seemed like a resurrection from the dead to them, and they were in a great puzzle about all the circumstances of the case, which the doctor’s explanation, although delivered in his loudest voice, utterly failed to solve.The Mère Cliquelle and her husband still let lodgings in their comfortable little house in theRue Montmartre; and if you wantun appartement bien garni, a cheerful hostess, and a landlord who “spiks Inglis,” decidedly broken, and has a partiality for chewing chocolate and bon-bons, you cannot do better than “take their first-floor!”Although she was anxious to re-visit these scenes again, Susan did not care to stop after she got there. The place made her sad and melancholy, and she said she wished to go away the next day: the doctor, you may be certain, did not oppose her, and they returned to England immediately.They crossed the Channel, however,viaFolkestone, and went through London, as Mr Trump wished for Susan to sign some documents referring to the property she inherited under her father’s will—property which there was now no chance or loophole left for Markworth to lay claim to.Thus it was that Doctor Jolly and Susan were both in London on the spot where Clara Kingscott had caught the man she pursued at last.And here they now were in company with the lawyer, and the woman who so persistently hated him, in the presence of the dead man!It was a sad shock to Susan; but a more fearful one to Clara Kingscott, who felt herself a betrayer, like Judas Iscariot when he discovered our Saviour with his accursed kiss. Remorse preyed upon her and gave her no rest. She afterwards, it is believed, entered a convent in the South of France, and is now a lay sister of the order of the Bleeding Heart!Markworth’s death released him from all his liabilities! It can be imagined what a wail went up in Jewry when the knowledge that he had escaped them became fully known to those modern Shylocks, Solomonson and Isaacs. They tore their beards, they wept, they cursed by their gods the Gentile who had out-witted them; but it was of no use, they could not get their money back. Death is regardless of human bonds and obligations, and although the Shylocks got much additional avoirdupois weight of flesh beyond their original pound, the Jews thought themselves sadly victimised. They got no pecuniary satisfaction for the large sums they had advanced their former client; even the change which had been left out of Mrs Martin’s five pound note did not come to them: it was taken out of the pockets of the dead man by the Cerberus of the sponging-house, who thought it better to appropriate the said moneys to his own use rather than leave them to be a source of wrangling to others.Seeing that nothing could be got out of him now, the harpies left Markworth’s body to its fate. An inquest was held, a verdict given, “Died by the visitation of God,” and the unfortunate schemer would have been buried at the expense of the parish, had it not been for Mr Trump, who defrayed the cost out of his own pocket.Thus ended Markworth’s life. He had schemed and planned, it is true, to enrich himself at the expense of others, but he was not, perhaps, so bad altogether, as one would, perhaps, at the first blush suppose. If we were to analyse the men around us, and enquire into the motives which plan their actions, independently of the actions themselves, we might find many whose principles are like those of the man who has been depicted in these pages—many, perhaps, far worse.
In order to explain Susan’s reappearance under these exceptional circumstances, it will be necessary that we should retrace our steps and return to a date some months back in our narrative.
It will be remembered that when Doctor Jolly paid his visit to Havre in the previous winter, he, after enquiring unsuccessfully for Susan at the house of the Mère Cliquelle, in the Rue Montmartre, went off for a walk (to pass the time until his ward should return) in the very same direction that Markworth and Susan, with Clara Kingscott dogging their heels, had taken—towards the heights of Ingouville.
The Doctor picked his steps carefully, for it was dusk, and he was in a strange place, and he wished to establish certain landmarks in his mind, by which he might regain the Rue Montmartre when his stroll was over, and he should think it time to return.
Doctor Jolly had the address of his hotel on a printed card in his pocket: he was not going to make another mistake, such as he had made earlier in the day; and if any doubts arose in his mind as to his exact latitude and longitude, he had resolved to hand the card of the hotel, which he had previously secured, to the nearest policeman or cabman. Oh! the doctor was very ’cute and business-like.
But he did not wish to return there just yet. He wanted to see Susan, and have his mind set at rest about her before the night was over. And so the doctor walked on in a desultory way, carefully studying the topography of the street as he sauntered along, and pondering over recent events in his mind.
He was wondering at the chain of circumstances which had brought him wandering about “this confounded foreign, outlandish place!” at nightfall, and “in the depth of winter too, by Gad!” he soliloquised, as he inhaled the foggy air of the dull November night, which made him puff and wheeze beneath the comforter, which in remembrance of Deb’s solicitude, he still kept carefully wrapped round his neck.
When he came to one of the roads leading up to the heights above, the doctor paused a moment to recover his breath; he had never been “any great hand at walking,” as he would have told you himself; and the distance he had already traversed, short though it was, had by this time affected his wind.
While he was resting a moment, and debating in his mind whether he should ascend the footpath in front of him, or yet retrace his steps to the Rue Montmartre, he heard a sound near him as of one groaning in pain. It was like the noise of the battle to the war-horse, or the salt smell of the sea to a mariner; and the doctor pricked up his ears, all his senses aroused at the idea of pain and suffering being suggested to him: to minister to the ills of nature was his special vocation.
He searched about and followed the sound—it led him up higher to a ledge on the cliff above; and there in the dim twilight he made out the form of a human figure lying stretched on thedébriswhich had fallen away with it apparently from the summit above.
To see and perceive was, with the staunch old doctor, but secondary to acting.
He climbed up as hastily as his portly form would permit to the ledge, and bent over a figure, which was nearly motionless. “Bless my soul!” he ejaculated in alarm and surprise. “God bless my soul! Why, it is poor Susan! How on earth did she come here?” As he bent to lift her up she lay like a log in his arms.
The doctor however did not waste any time in vain regrets or in exclamations of wonder: he was a medical man, and his first care was to examine the motionless form of the girl, to see how far she was hurt. She had only fainted, he shortly perceived, and he set to work at once to revive her.
Thanks to a pocket flask of brandy, which he had fortunately brought with him, he soon contrived to put a little life into the girl; and he was able after a time to raise her up, when she opened her eyes and gave a groan of pain. She apparently did not know where she was or recognise the doctor; she only moaned, “Take me home! Take me home!”
One of her arms broken, and a cut on her head; but, otherwise, she had most providentially escaped. She had probably fainted at the time she shrieked out before falling backwards over the cliff. Being thus supine, she could not struggle; so instead of receiving fatal injuries as a man might have done, who attempted to resist his fall she was unhurt, with the exception of a few trifling injuries, which time would soon repair. But she was very much shaken, and the doctor did not know what to do with her, as she could hardly walk, and he was not strong enough to carry her, as he might have done in his earlier days.
The place was quite deserted. The doctor could not see a soul, and much as he disliked Frenchmen, he would have been glad to come across then the most “miserable foreign vagabond” who might have been sent on his way; but no one came, and as it was getting darker and darker, and night coming on, the doctor had to pull his wits together.
He was a man of action: to wager with possible improbabilities his creed, so he did not hesitate long. While the girl was sobbing and moaning to herself, and crying out in half-incoherent language “Allynne! Allynne!” he lifted her up bodily, and tried to get her home to her own place in theRue Montmartre.
But the night was dark, as has been before observed, and the doctor missed the landmarks, which he had so carefully jotted down on the tablets of his memory. He was in the right direction, but when he got to the foot of the street of which he was in search, he lost altogether hiscarte du pays. Just then he saw afiacre, and at the same time he arrived at a sudden determination; what it was, will be presently shown.
The doctor bethought him that he had come over to Havre especially to try and get Susan home, and separate her from Markworth. Why on earth should he take her back now to the place where she would still be with him? Here she was unconscious, and he was her proper guardian appointed by her father. He would—“Yes, I will, I’ll be damned if I don’t!” he said, to himself; “take her back to England on my own account, without asking anybody’s leave or license!” And the doctor carried his determination into effect between that night and the next day.
Thefiacrearriving opportunely, the doctor hailed it; and lifting Susan in, gave the driver the card of his hotel, “The Queen of Savoy,” which he had kept so carefully in his waistcoat pocket for such an emergency as losing his way: he and his charge—now more recovered—were presently set down at that famous hostelry, where the doctor had Susan at once put to bed, guarding her all the while with jealous watchfulness: he was afraid Markworth might step in at the last moment to claim her, and that his trouble would be thrown away.
In the morning—Susan being still nearly unconscious—he had her carried on board the early packet for England; and the same evening the doctor, to his intense satisfaction, had her on English ground.
At Southampton, Susan was unfortunately taken very ill; and Doctor Jolly could not carry out his intention of removing her at once to his own house as he had intended.
The shock, the fall, the mental anxieties she had suffered, brought on an attack of brain fever; and Susan was for days struggling between life and death. When she was out of danger, the doctor, leaving her in the care of a trustworthy nurse, went home to see about his practice—which he thought must be at sixes and sevens from his prolonged absence—and to make preparations for Susan’s return to The Poplars.
When he got to Bigton, however, the doctor heard of the alarming illness of the old dowager, and his plans became upset.
He went off at once to Hartwood village, and found the old lady unconscious, although the respectable Dobbins, hislocum tenenshad treated her, the doctor allowed, as well as he could have done himself under the sudden paralytic shock she had sustained.
Doctor Jolly had consequently to neglect Susan for a few days, in order to attend to her mother; and when he did go back for her, he determined that he would not bring her home to The Poplars—where everything would remind her of her former life—but would take her to his own house at Bigton.
Here, accordingly, Susan was removed as soon as she was able to travel from Southampton; and here the good old Deb, the doctor’s sister, nursed the girl back to life, and to a knowledge of the past and present, with more than a mother’s care, tenderly aided by the doctor himself.
It may be remembered by the reader, in our retrospect, that Mr Trump met Doctor Jolly soon after he returned from abroad; and the two had some explanation together, which resulted in the fact of the lawyer being pleased with himself at having taken no active part in the proceedings of the French police after Susan’s disappearance and supposed death—although he had inserted a mortuary notice in theTimes.
Mr Trump’s gratulation is thus easily explained. The advertisement of Susan’s death was not contradicted, in the first place because it was rather late in the day to do it now, and in the second, the doctor advised no steps being taken in the matter, or else Markworth might return and claim the girl.
Mr Trump, however, made one omission, which, as a lawyer, he ought to have attended to earlier. He did not communicate with the French police until some weeks had elapsed—not until in fact after Miss Kingscott had left Havre, in disgust at not hearing anything there of the hunted man, and come to prosecute her watch in London. Thus it was that she knew nothing of these revelations; and the polite Chef did not think it worth his while, or the expenditure of adix centimesstamp, to informcette femme diable, as he termed her, any more about the matter.
When Susan recovered her senses and her memory, the only thing remained fixed in her mind was the idea that Markworth had gone off and left her. She seemed to remember only the words which he had spoken before she had been alarmed and started back to the edge of the cliff that night. She remembered nothing of the fall, and her subsequent removal by the doctor to England. All the present was easily explained to her mind as a natural consequence of what Markworth had told her, that he had to go away, and that he was going to send her back home again; here she was accordingly.
As she became well, however—there could be no question of her reason now, for she was as sensible as possible, although timid in manner, as she always would be—she appeared to dread the idea of being taken back to her mother’s house, which very naturally the doctor had suggested.
As soon as the old lady was able to bear the unexpected news—the doctor and Lizzie had broken to her very gently the fact of Susan, her daughter, whom she supposed dead, and whose death she accused herself of causing, was still alive!—the dowager wanted her immediately to be brought to The Poplars; but when the doctor proposed it to Susan, she shrank back in alarm at the suggestion. The poor girl had such a nervous dread of ever beholding the painful scenes of her miserable childhood, and any allusion to the place or to her mother caused her such trembling fits, and seemed to make her to withdraw herself into herself, that the doctor saw that, for some time at least, the eventuality of Susan’s removal must be postponed.
When matters were explained to the dowager, she agreed with Doctor Jolly that Susan had better remain at his house, although she would not hear of it until he consented to accept remuneration. Fancy how changed the dowager was when she now was anxious to force money on one unwilling to receive it!
Susan still lived, therefore, at Bigton, undisturbed, with the doctor and his worthy sister; indeed, Deb took such a fancy to Susan, with her fair, grief-marked face, and frightened manner, that in a little while—although she at first grumbled at her coming there to interrupt thetête-à-têtelife of Damon and her Pythias—she could not bear the idea of parting with her: there is no such pet in the world as an “old maid’s child.”
By-and-bye, when Susan was quite recovered, as she expressed a desire to see Havre again, and the house where she had lived so happily with Markworth, the doctor took her over. The Mère Cliquelle and herpetit bon homme, were delighted to seeLa belle Madameagain—it seemed like a resurrection from the dead to them, and they were in a great puzzle about all the circumstances of the case, which the doctor’s explanation, although delivered in his loudest voice, utterly failed to solve.
The Mère Cliquelle and her husband still let lodgings in their comfortable little house in theRue Montmartre; and if you wantun appartement bien garni, a cheerful hostess, and a landlord who “spiks Inglis,” decidedly broken, and has a partiality for chewing chocolate and bon-bons, you cannot do better than “take their first-floor!”
Although she was anxious to re-visit these scenes again, Susan did not care to stop after she got there. The place made her sad and melancholy, and she said she wished to go away the next day: the doctor, you may be certain, did not oppose her, and they returned to England immediately.
They crossed the Channel, however,viaFolkestone, and went through London, as Mr Trump wished for Susan to sign some documents referring to the property she inherited under her father’s will—property which there was now no chance or loophole left for Markworth to lay claim to.
Thus it was that Doctor Jolly and Susan were both in London on the spot where Clara Kingscott had caught the man she pursued at last.
And here they now were in company with the lawyer, and the woman who so persistently hated him, in the presence of the dead man!
It was a sad shock to Susan; but a more fearful one to Clara Kingscott, who felt herself a betrayer, like Judas Iscariot when he discovered our Saviour with his accursed kiss. Remorse preyed upon her and gave her no rest. She afterwards, it is believed, entered a convent in the South of France, and is now a lay sister of the order of the Bleeding Heart!
Markworth’s death released him from all his liabilities! It can be imagined what a wail went up in Jewry when the knowledge that he had escaped them became fully known to those modern Shylocks, Solomonson and Isaacs. They tore their beards, they wept, they cursed by their gods the Gentile who had out-witted them; but it was of no use, they could not get their money back. Death is regardless of human bonds and obligations, and although the Shylocks got much additional avoirdupois weight of flesh beyond their original pound, the Jews thought themselves sadly victimised. They got no pecuniary satisfaction for the large sums they had advanced their former client; even the change which had been left out of Mrs Martin’s five pound note did not come to them: it was taken out of the pockets of the dead man by the Cerberus of the sponging-house, who thought it better to appropriate the said moneys to his own use rather than leave them to be a source of wrangling to others.
Seeing that nothing could be got out of him now, the harpies left Markworth’s body to its fate. An inquest was held, a verdict given, “Died by the visitation of God,” and the unfortunate schemer would have been buried at the expense of the parish, had it not been for Mr Trump, who defrayed the cost out of his own pocket.
Thus ended Markworth’s life. He had schemed and planned, it is true, to enrich himself at the expense of others, but he was not, perhaps, so bad altogether, as one would, perhaps, at the first blush suppose. If we were to analyse the men around us, and enquire into the motives which plan their actions, independently of the actions themselves, we might find many whose principles are like those of the man who has been depicted in these pages—many, perhaps, far worse.
Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.“See the Conquering Hero comes.”The Abyssinian war was ended! that gallant exploit of British arms, however marvellous in its inception, and second only to the march of Cyrus to the Sea that we read of in Xenophon, was actuallyun fait accompli! The captives were rescued, and the host returned, leaving Abyssinia pretty much as it was before it set out, with the exception of King Theodore being no longer in the land of the living. Peace to the bones of his sable majesty, who deserves some credit for his pluck, even if his ideas on the subject of diplomacy were at fault.Although we have been saddled with a debt of some ten millions more or less—probably more, on account of the expedition—still it was a glorious feat for our country.That “Britons never will be slaves,” or allow their fellow-countrymen to remain in captivity, is a remarkably comfortable axiom to hug to one’s heart cannot be denied; and beyond the credit we have gained from the successful termination of the “war,” and the kudos for the manner in which it was carried through from first to last, in spite of apparently insurmountable difficulties, the Abyssinian mission has done much to restore our old Continental reputation.Sadly tarnished has the latter been of late years by the “old womanish” policy of certain foreign secretaries of ours, inreDenmark, and one or two other like matters, not to speak of the moral cowardice and practical stupidity we displayed in the non-recognition of the ill-fated Confederate party in America; but we have not heard the last of that question yet!VideMr Sumner and the Alabama claims.It would be useless to the point of our story, as well as out of place here, to chronicle the different steps of the Abyssinian army, so ably detailed by the graphic author of “The March to Magdala.”Suffice it to say that the expedition started and succeeded in its purpose; and our hero, Master Tom, as one of its component parts, may be said to have gone, and seen, and conquered like one of the rest, and was, after a time, on his way home again.Tom Hartshorne was ignorant of most that had occurred since he left home. He had read and grieved over the intelligence of his sister Susan’s death, which he had come across in a stray copy of theTimesat Zoulla; but his grief was of very short duration, for the very next day after he read the announcement he received a letter from Mr Trump, telling him that it was all a mistake, and Susan was not dead at all, although his mother, the dowager, was seriously ill. Beyond this—and puzzled he was, too, with the conflicting accounts—Tom knew nothing of the chops and changes brought about at The Poplars and in its neighbourhood during his absence; he had no one to correspond with him, and although he had written frequently to his mother in the meanwhile, the lawyer’s letter was the only communication he had received about home matters since he left England, and home, and Lizzie, the year before, for the far East.His means of information being thus so scant, you may be sure that Tom’s imagination was additionally busy; and Tom had plenty to occupy his mind in thinking of a past most important episode in his life, which you may guess was connected with somebody—“you know who”—and allowing his thoughts to dwell on the future, his future, so pregnant for him of joy or sorrow. Which was it to be?Time alone could tell; and Time, that ill-featured old gentleman, who will persist in playing with edged tools, decided favourably, in spite of his usual malevolence.Tom came home at last, to find his way smooth, and his lot cast in pleasant places; but it was some time before he did so.You see he was connected with the staff, and had to return to Bombay with the major portion of the expeditionary army; and there he was detained, arranging this thing and that, until it was waxing late in the summer, when he gazed on the Sunderbunds behind him; late in the summer when he beheld again the donkey boys of Cairo; still latter when he steamed down the Mediterranean and past “The Rock,” and up the Bay of Biscay, and landed at Southampton; but he came at last, although the month of August had again come round ere Tom set foot on British soil, and revisited his native place.The dowager had been “picking up,” as Doctor Jolly said, all this time; and although she could not walk about—one of her sides was paralysed still—yet she was very cheerful, and could speak fluently enough.Lizzie was in the room—the parlour where his mother had told him “Fiddle-de-dee!” when he told his love—with her when he came home—and you may guess the meeting between the three. How the mother sobbed over her darling boy; how she grieved over the change in him; how Lizzie’s face wore little tell-tale blushes when he spoke to her; and how he, too, blushed, when his mother called out to him, when he was going to shake hands with her politely—“Why don’t you kiss her, Tom? You know you would, you scamp, if I were not here.”But the old lady would not let him out of her sight; and although Tom was dying to have more explanation with Lizzie, he had to wait for a chance.When Lizzie rose to go it was late in the afternoon, a bright August afternoon. Tom told her he wanted to speak to her, as she was going to the door, and asked her if he might come down to the parsonage. “He wanted to see Pringle:” he was actually dying to see the young incumbent.And Lizzie, with a still more tell-tale blush, and a sudden casting down of the pretty violet eyes, and a resting of the long black lashes on her cheek, had murmured to him—“Come!”Later on, when the mother and son had had still quieter conversation, and Tom got away, he bent his steps towards the parsonage, his mother wishing him “God speed” on his errand. What on earth could that errand be?Fortunately, not only was the old campaigner away for the day—she had taken to visiting and bullying the young incumbent’s sick parishioners for him now, and priming them with tracts when a cheerful word would have better suited their ailments; but Pringle was also out with his wife, and Tom found Lizzie alone at home—alone in a very little conservatory, which had witnessed his love-tale before, and where he had parted from her, telling her that she was a heartless jilt.Lizzie was in the self-same little conservatory, pretending to be very busy putting pots up, and poking about with her trowel, as if horticulture was the ultimate aim and end of existence. She was trying to be very unconscious—oh! what a very feeble pretence it was—and endeavoured to receive Master Tom as if he were an ordinary afternoon caller. Such a very faint endeavour it was.Tom went forward eagerly. He was not going to be baulked this time, and his military experience had taught him that a determined assault was the best way of securing an enemy’s capitulation.He went forward, and with one hand he seized the little taper fingers of the young lady; his other arm, the unblushing dog placed round her waist, forcing Miss Lizzie to drop her trowel, and thus reducing her means of defence.He looked down into the deep violet eyes which were looking up into his own with—what shall you call it?—wonder or indignation?“Well, Lizzie!” Tom said.Lizzie said nothing; but it appeared to be “well.” And then what a long tale had to be told. What a number of explanations and conjectures, and enquiries, and assertions!Tom wanted her to tell him here, in this very spot, where she had treated him so cruelly, that she was sorry for what she had done. Of course she was, and it “should not occur again,” with such a supplicating little gesture.Then Lizzie must be informed over and over again in the strongest terms of assertion that the English language was capable of, whether Tom “really” loved her and cared for her so much.Imagine the protestations that ensued: the multiplicity of lover’s honied words and oaths: then Tom’s enquiries to the same effect, which had also to be confirmed, and soda capo.It took a good many “wells” before the interview was satisfactorily terminated, and Tom returned exultant to The Poplars to tell his mother of his happiness.
The Abyssinian war was ended! that gallant exploit of British arms, however marvellous in its inception, and second only to the march of Cyrus to the Sea that we read of in Xenophon, was actuallyun fait accompli! The captives were rescued, and the host returned, leaving Abyssinia pretty much as it was before it set out, with the exception of King Theodore being no longer in the land of the living. Peace to the bones of his sable majesty, who deserves some credit for his pluck, even if his ideas on the subject of diplomacy were at fault.
Although we have been saddled with a debt of some ten millions more or less—probably more, on account of the expedition—still it was a glorious feat for our country.
That “Britons never will be slaves,” or allow their fellow-countrymen to remain in captivity, is a remarkably comfortable axiom to hug to one’s heart cannot be denied; and beyond the credit we have gained from the successful termination of the “war,” and the kudos for the manner in which it was carried through from first to last, in spite of apparently insurmountable difficulties, the Abyssinian mission has done much to restore our old Continental reputation.
Sadly tarnished has the latter been of late years by the “old womanish” policy of certain foreign secretaries of ours, inreDenmark, and one or two other like matters, not to speak of the moral cowardice and practical stupidity we displayed in the non-recognition of the ill-fated Confederate party in America; but we have not heard the last of that question yet!VideMr Sumner and the Alabama claims.
It would be useless to the point of our story, as well as out of place here, to chronicle the different steps of the Abyssinian army, so ably detailed by the graphic author of “The March to Magdala.”
Suffice it to say that the expedition started and succeeded in its purpose; and our hero, Master Tom, as one of its component parts, may be said to have gone, and seen, and conquered like one of the rest, and was, after a time, on his way home again.
Tom Hartshorne was ignorant of most that had occurred since he left home. He had read and grieved over the intelligence of his sister Susan’s death, which he had come across in a stray copy of theTimesat Zoulla; but his grief was of very short duration, for the very next day after he read the announcement he received a letter from Mr Trump, telling him that it was all a mistake, and Susan was not dead at all, although his mother, the dowager, was seriously ill. Beyond this—and puzzled he was, too, with the conflicting accounts—Tom knew nothing of the chops and changes brought about at The Poplars and in its neighbourhood during his absence; he had no one to correspond with him, and although he had written frequently to his mother in the meanwhile, the lawyer’s letter was the only communication he had received about home matters since he left England, and home, and Lizzie, the year before, for the far East.
His means of information being thus so scant, you may be sure that Tom’s imagination was additionally busy; and Tom had plenty to occupy his mind in thinking of a past most important episode in his life, which you may guess was connected with somebody—“you know who”—and allowing his thoughts to dwell on the future, his future, so pregnant for him of joy or sorrow. Which was it to be?
Time alone could tell; and Time, that ill-featured old gentleman, who will persist in playing with edged tools, decided favourably, in spite of his usual malevolence.
Tom came home at last, to find his way smooth, and his lot cast in pleasant places; but it was some time before he did so.
You see he was connected with the staff, and had to return to Bombay with the major portion of the expeditionary army; and there he was detained, arranging this thing and that, until it was waxing late in the summer, when he gazed on the Sunderbunds behind him; late in the summer when he beheld again the donkey boys of Cairo; still latter when he steamed down the Mediterranean and past “The Rock,” and up the Bay of Biscay, and landed at Southampton; but he came at last, although the month of August had again come round ere Tom set foot on British soil, and revisited his native place.
The dowager had been “picking up,” as Doctor Jolly said, all this time; and although she could not walk about—one of her sides was paralysed still—yet she was very cheerful, and could speak fluently enough.
Lizzie was in the room—the parlour where his mother had told him “Fiddle-de-dee!” when he told his love—with her when he came home—and you may guess the meeting between the three. How the mother sobbed over her darling boy; how she grieved over the change in him; how Lizzie’s face wore little tell-tale blushes when he spoke to her; and how he, too, blushed, when his mother called out to him, when he was going to shake hands with her politely—
“Why don’t you kiss her, Tom? You know you would, you scamp, if I were not here.”
But the old lady would not let him out of her sight; and although Tom was dying to have more explanation with Lizzie, he had to wait for a chance.
When Lizzie rose to go it was late in the afternoon, a bright August afternoon. Tom told her he wanted to speak to her, as she was going to the door, and asked her if he might come down to the parsonage. “He wanted to see Pringle:” he was actually dying to see the young incumbent.
And Lizzie, with a still more tell-tale blush, and a sudden casting down of the pretty violet eyes, and a resting of the long black lashes on her cheek, had murmured to him—
“Come!”
Later on, when the mother and son had had still quieter conversation, and Tom got away, he bent his steps towards the parsonage, his mother wishing him “God speed” on his errand. What on earth could that errand be?
Fortunately, not only was the old campaigner away for the day—she had taken to visiting and bullying the young incumbent’s sick parishioners for him now, and priming them with tracts when a cheerful word would have better suited their ailments; but Pringle was also out with his wife, and Tom found Lizzie alone at home—alone in a very little conservatory, which had witnessed his love-tale before, and where he had parted from her, telling her that she was a heartless jilt.
Lizzie was in the self-same little conservatory, pretending to be very busy putting pots up, and poking about with her trowel, as if horticulture was the ultimate aim and end of existence. She was trying to be very unconscious—oh! what a very feeble pretence it was—and endeavoured to receive Master Tom as if he were an ordinary afternoon caller. Such a very faint endeavour it was.
Tom went forward eagerly. He was not going to be baulked this time, and his military experience had taught him that a determined assault was the best way of securing an enemy’s capitulation.
He went forward, and with one hand he seized the little taper fingers of the young lady; his other arm, the unblushing dog placed round her waist, forcing Miss Lizzie to drop her trowel, and thus reducing her means of defence.
He looked down into the deep violet eyes which were looking up into his own with—what shall you call it?—wonder or indignation?
“Well, Lizzie!” Tom said.
Lizzie said nothing; but it appeared to be “well.” And then what a long tale had to be told. What a number of explanations and conjectures, and enquiries, and assertions!
Tom wanted her to tell him here, in this very spot, where she had treated him so cruelly, that she was sorry for what she had done. Of course she was, and it “should not occur again,” with such a supplicating little gesture.
Then Lizzie must be informed over and over again in the strongest terms of assertion that the English language was capable of, whether Tom “really” loved her and cared for her so much.
Imagine the protestations that ensued: the multiplicity of lover’s honied words and oaths: then Tom’s enquiries to the same effect, which had also to be confirmed, and soda capo.
It took a good many “wells” before the interview was satisfactorily terminated, and Tom returned exultant to The Poplars to tell his mother of his happiness.
Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.Grand Tableaux.Typical characteristics, however decided, vary with the effects of time and change; and so the dowager had altered very much for the better, as regards her temper and disposition applied to the amenities of daily life, after that attack of paralysis she had had: the arrival of Tom at home again also did much to effect a cure, and she was now by far a more agreeable old woman than when she was first introduced to our notice.The certainty that Susan was alive and well, and the knowledge that she was comfortably situated, and no questions of money remaining between them, also tended to preserve the old lady’s equanimity; and her direct wish was now to see Tom married and done for—then she said, she would be satisfied, and could go to her grave in peace beneath the green turf of Hartwood churchyard, where many a generation of the Hartshorne’s of The Poplars slept their last sleep. Her one desire was to see “her boy” united to her pet Lizzie—that very Lizzie whom she had formerly railed at acrimoniously for “an artful minx!”Miss Lizzie had certainly played her cards well. She could not have succeeded better in gaining her object if she had schemed ever so shrewdly, like our old friend the campaigner, instead of acting according to the dictates of her own truthful, tender little heart.The mistress of The Poplars now idolised her, and could not bear the quondam minx to be ever out of her sight. Although Lizzie used to come up every day to see her from the parsonage—now by no means her happy home—and spend long hours reading to her, or casting up her farm accounts, or else working silently by her side, the old lady would grudge her going away; and long before the hour when she generally came up of a day to make her visit, the old lady would be eagerly looking out for her.The dowager had never relied so on anyone else but herself within the memory of anyone acquainted with her. It was a wonderful transformation in her, and “Garge” and the other servant would canvas each other on the state of the “ould leddy,” and since she had given up her scolding and general cantankerousness, they voted unanimously that “she warn’t all right—that she warn’t,” although they, too, took to Lizzie as much as their mistress.Under these circumstances Lizzie perceived that her presence was so much required at The Poplars that she must make a virtue of necessity, and consent to take the graceless Master Tom for a partner for better or worse. You see Master Tom was so pleading, and he had gone through such a deal for her sake, that she must reward him somehow or other for his constancy; and then old Mrs Hartshorne told her she already looked upon her as a daughter, and entreated her so tenderly to be so in reality, that Lizzie, who as I have said before had a very tender little heart, could not resist all these pleadings combined. Tom did say such nonsense, and went on so, that she must put a stop to it, and they did not want her at the parsonage now! So hadn’t she better?She debated the point, and as a woman who hesitates—Byron tells us, and he ought to have known—generally capitulates, Lizzie “wouldn’t,” and wound up by consenting. The magnet was very strong, and her heart was such a very susceptible little bit of steel, that she was attracted to the ultimate goal of love, and “the happy day” was fixed.Summer was gay now again. A year had passed since Tom and Lizzie became first acquainted; and what a wonderful year of events that had been! But it was not so very extraordinary. What a change one year—nay one month, brings to some of us stragglers in the sea of ever-moving life around us!But the year had passed with all its hopes and fears—with all its troubles and trials, and summer was come again to gladden their heart once more: a summer not only of the season, but one also of joy and happiness, and new-sprung gladness in their hearts. A summer in their lives—May it be the precursor of many such.The grass was green, so were their memories of what had been, and their thoughts of the future. The sky was bright, so was their horizon of expected bliss. The birds sang gaily, so did their hearts with pent-up happiness. Time, the great arbitrator, ruled propitiously.On the day Tom Hartshorne came of age, he and Lizzie were married in the gaily-decked chapel at Hartwood. It was a very quiet little wedding though; quite a contrast to the gorgeous ceremony which had taken place so many months previously at Bigton, under the campaigner’s auspices, and that worthy lady turned up her nose at the whole affair, and would not grace it with her presence. Indeed, quite a little disagreement had arisen between herself and her son-in-law, the young incumbent, in consequence, the upshot of which was that the campaigner removed her bag and baggage from the parsonage, shaking off the metaphorical dust from her feet, and wondering how “they would get on without her.”They did get on, however, much more satisfactorily. With the era of a mother’s abdication, the languid Laura became much more bustling and busy, and the parsonage more like home to its occupants, Pringle appearing again quite in his old colours, and preaching far better sermons now than he had since he entered the bonds of matrimony: he had been quite weighted down by the campaigner’s metal.Lady Inskip, it is believed, husbanded her anger against Carry, and offered to go and conduct the household of the other son-in-law, but the wily Captain Miles having politely declined the offer, the campaigner retreated to a boarding house at Southsea, where she lorded it over the other boarders and watched over the education of her young hopeful, that imp “Morti-mer,” who was being instructed in the elements of navigation, at a naval academy, at the well-known watering place, contiguous to the old port of Portsmouth: there we leave her.Tom Hartshorne was married by the Reverend Jabez, of Bigton, that divine having ceased to regard the young incumbent so unfairly, ever since the Bishop of Chumpchopster had recognised him; and besides, the offices of the Reverend Herbert Pringle were required to give away the bride, the charming little Lizzie.The solitary bell of the old church rang out as joyfully as it could, and seemed to be a peal all in itself: the affair went off most satisfactorily, the old dowager being wheeled down in a bath chair, in order to be present; and then Tom and Lizzie went off for a three weeks’ honeymoon to the Isle of Wight, that blessed spot for novitiates in matrimony.They then returned, and settled down at The Poplars, and long may they live there happily. Why, it was only the other day they were married, so much cannot be said of their after life. Knowing the fair-haired Saxon Tom, however, and sweet violet eyes so well, you may be pretty certain that you would search long and widely to find a happier couple in the country round.It was apparently rather young for Tom to marry and settle down, but he was, with his twenty-one years and experience, older than a good many people of nearly ten years advance in age. Some people look and are older than the calendar puts them down. I shall never forget a well-known military friend, who got into the army under age, in consequence of his old looks. He had a magnificent beard at sixteen, and looked as old as thirty. His brother officers in the mess used to swear that poor — was “born” with whiskers!Poor fellow! He afterwards fell at Lucknow.Susan still lives at the old doctor’s house in Bigton, with the cheery Damon and the austere virgin, “Pythiasina,” as she ought to be called. Perhaps when the cycle of cradles and pap and babydom once more come round at The Poplars, and little voices are heard in the grim old house—grim now no longer, but lighted up by Lizzie’s presence—the daughter of the house may return again to their old home, and “Garge” be charmed once more with the presence of his dearly loved “Leetle Mees.”She seems very happy in her present place, and has quite recovered from the shock of Markworth’s death, and is a very different Susan from the girl of a twelvemonth or so back.The old dowager is quite changed, too, and is “as merry as a grig, God bless my soul,” as the doctor says. She does not grind down the tenants so much now, however, and quite startled a farmer the other day by letting him off a portion of back rent, which he had gone up in fear and trembling to The Poplars to excuse himself from paying just then.And now, reader, the play is nearly ended—the landscape is completed. The prompter’s bell rings, the curtain is about to rise or fall, it does not matter which, and the last touches only remain to be put to the picture, ere the public be admitted to the view, or the scene closes.In conclusion, it behoves theDeus et Machinaof the puppet show—the painter of the canvas—to offer some little explanation touching the characters introduced, explanation which will tend, perhaps, to elucidate apparent anachronisms with regard to persons and purposes, and acting like the straysoupçonof Chinese white on the superstratum of the finished pencil drawing, heighten the effects of light and shade.An attempt has been made to portray the struggle of WillversusPower, of Opportunity against Destiny; and to show the contests which sometimes arise between the worse and better feelings of our nature, and how each and all of us are often “Caught in a Trap” of our own making! It depends upon the reader to decide whether the attempt has been a success or a failure; and he or she can fit on each passion or feeling to the particular human peg or character on which they think it best should hang.Above all, the writer wished to draw attention to the looseness of the law, and its vagaries applied to our social and moral life, as evinced in Susan’s case. The character and history of the girl is no romance, for Susan is taken from actual existence; still the fallacy of the current ideas on the subject of lunacy and its laws has been already exposed by an abler pictorial pen than that of the writer.Markworth and Clara Kingscott are no unusual types: search the daily police and criminal intelligence, and you will come across their “doubles.” Speaking in the language of thecuisine, the meats provided have been fair and hearty, and if theplatbe over-seasoned or not sufficiently spiced, the blame rests on thechef, and not on the viands.Ring away, prompter! Lower the curtain. The play is ended:le jeu est fait. The scene closes on the well-known forms and faces; and, as the curtain drops on the general tableau at the end, I can still see the cheery, weather-beaten face of Doctor Jolly, and hear him exclaiming, in his usual way, with his hearty voice and contagiousbonhomie—“Bless my soul, sir! How are you? How-de-doo?”The End.
Typical characteristics, however decided, vary with the effects of time and change; and so the dowager had altered very much for the better, as regards her temper and disposition applied to the amenities of daily life, after that attack of paralysis she had had: the arrival of Tom at home again also did much to effect a cure, and she was now by far a more agreeable old woman than when she was first introduced to our notice.
The certainty that Susan was alive and well, and the knowledge that she was comfortably situated, and no questions of money remaining between them, also tended to preserve the old lady’s equanimity; and her direct wish was now to see Tom married and done for—then she said, she would be satisfied, and could go to her grave in peace beneath the green turf of Hartwood churchyard, where many a generation of the Hartshorne’s of The Poplars slept their last sleep. Her one desire was to see “her boy” united to her pet Lizzie—that very Lizzie whom she had formerly railed at acrimoniously for “an artful minx!”
Miss Lizzie had certainly played her cards well. She could not have succeeded better in gaining her object if she had schemed ever so shrewdly, like our old friend the campaigner, instead of acting according to the dictates of her own truthful, tender little heart.
The mistress of The Poplars now idolised her, and could not bear the quondam minx to be ever out of her sight. Although Lizzie used to come up every day to see her from the parsonage—now by no means her happy home—and spend long hours reading to her, or casting up her farm accounts, or else working silently by her side, the old lady would grudge her going away; and long before the hour when she generally came up of a day to make her visit, the old lady would be eagerly looking out for her.
The dowager had never relied so on anyone else but herself within the memory of anyone acquainted with her. It was a wonderful transformation in her, and “Garge” and the other servant would canvas each other on the state of the “ould leddy,” and since she had given up her scolding and general cantankerousness, they voted unanimously that “she warn’t all right—that she warn’t,” although they, too, took to Lizzie as much as their mistress.
Under these circumstances Lizzie perceived that her presence was so much required at The Poplars that she must make a virtue of necessity, and consent to take the graceless Master Tom for a partner for better or worse. You see Master Tom was so pleading, and he had gone through such a deal for her sake, that she must reward him somehow or other for his constancy; and then old Mrs Hartshorne told her she already looked upon her as a daughter, and entreated her so tenderly to be so in reality, that Lizzie, who as I have said before had a very tender little heart, could not resist all these pleadings combined. Tom did say such nonsense, and went on so, that she must put a stop to it, and they did not want her at the parsonage now! So hadn’t she better?
She debated the point, and as a woman who hesitates—Byron tells us, and he ought to have known—generally capitulates, Lizzie “wouldn’t,” and wound up by consenting. The magnet was very strong, and her heart was such a very susceptible little bit of steel, that she was attracted to the ultimate goal of love, and “the happy day” was fixed.
Summer was gay now again. A year had passed since Tom and Lizzie became first acquainted; and what a wonderful year of events that had been! But it was not so very extraordinary. What a change one year—nay one month, brings to some of us stragglers in the sea of ever-moving life around us!
But the year had passed with all its hopes and fears—with all its troubles and trials, and summer was come again to gladden their heart once more: a summer not only of the season, but one also of joy and happiness, and new-sprung gladness in their hearts. A summer in their lives—May it be the precursor of many such.
The grass was green, so were their memories of what had been, and their thoughts of the future. The sky was bright, so was their horizon of expected bliss. The birds sang gaily, so did their hearts with pent-up happiness. Time, the great arbitrator, ruled propitiously.
On the day Tom Hartshorne came of age, he and Lizzie were married in the gaily-decked chapel at Hartwood. It was a very quiet little wedding though; quite a contrast to the gorgeous ceremony which had taken place so many months previously at Bigton, under the campaigner’s auspices, and that worthy lady turned up her nose at the whole affair, and would not grace it with her presence. Indeed, quite a little disagreement had arisen between herself and her son-in-law, the young incumbent, in consequence, the upshot of which was that the campaigner removed her bag and baggage from the parsonage, shaking off the metaphorical dust from her feet, and wondering how “they would get on without her.”
They did get on, however, much more satisfactorily. With the era of a mother’s abdication, the languid Laura became much more bustling and busy, and the parsonage more like home to its occupants, Pringle appearing again quite in his old colours, and preaching far better sermons now than he had since he entered the bonds of matrimony: he had been quite weighted down by the campaigner’s metal.
Lady Inskip, it is believed, husbanded her anger against Carry, and offered to go and conduct the household of the other son-in-law, but the wily Captain Miles having politely declined the offer, the campaigner retreated to a boarding house at Southsea, where she lorded it over the other boarders and watched over the education of her young hopeful, that imp “Morti-mer,” who was being instructed in the elements of navigation, at a naval academy, at the well-known watering place, contiguous to the old port of Portsmouth: there we leave her.
Tom Hartshorne was married by the Reverend Jabez, of Bigton, that divine having ceased to regard the young incumbent so unfairly, ever since the Bishop of Chumpchopster had recognised him; and besides, the offices of the Reverend Herbert Pringle were required to give away the bride, the charming little Lizzie.
The solitary bell of the old church rang out as joyfully as it could, and seemed to be a peal all in itself: the affair went off most satisfactorily, the old dowager being wheeled down in a bath chair, in order to be present; and then Tom and Lizzie went off for a three weeks’ honeymoon to the Isle of Wight, that blessed spot for novitiates in matrimony.
They then returned, and settled down at The Poplars, and long may they live there happily. Why, it was only the other day they were married, so much cannot be said of their after life. Knowing the fair-haired Saxon Tom, however, and sweet violet eyes so well, you may be pretty certain that you would search long and widely to find a happier couple in the country round.
It was apparently rather young for Tom to marry and settle down, but he was, with his twenty-one years and experience, older than a good many people of nearly ten years advance in age. Some people look and are older than the calendar puts them down. I shall never forget a well-known military friend, who got into the army under age, in consequence of his old looks. He had a magnificent beard at sixteen, and looked as old as thirty. His brother officers in the mess used to swear that poor — was “born” with whiskers!
Poor fellow! He afterwards fell at Lucknow.
Susan still lives at the old doctor’s house in Bigton, with the cheery Damon and the austere virgin, “Pythiasina,” as she ought to be called. Perhaps when the cycle of cradles and pap and babydom once more come round at The Poplars, and little voices are heard in the grim old house—grim now no longer, but lighted up by Lizzie’s presence—the daughter of the house may return again to their old home, and “Garge” be charmed once more with the presence of his dearly loved “Leetle Mees.”
She seems very happy in her present place, and has quite recovered from the shock of Markworth’s death, and is a very different Susan from the girl of a twelvemonth or so back.
The old dowager is quite changed, too, and is “as merry as a grig, God bless my soul,” as the doctor says. She does not grind down the tenants so much now, however, and quite startled a farmer the other day by letting him off a portion of back rent, which he had gone up in fear and trembling to The Poplars to excuse himself from paying just then.
And now, reader, the play is nearly ended—the landscape is completed. The prompter’s bell rings, the curtain is about to rise or fall, it does not matter which, and the last touches only remain to be put to the picture, ere the public be admitted to the view, or the scene closes.
In conclusion, it behoves theDeus et Machinaof the puppet show—the painter of the canvas—to offer some little explanation touching the characters introduced, explanation which will tend, perhaps, to elucidate apparent anachronisms with regard to persons and purposes, and acting like the straysoupçonof Chinese white on the superstratum of the finished pencil drawing, heighten the effects of light and shade.
An attempt has been made to portray the struggle of WillversusPower, of Opportunity against Destiny; and to show the contests which sometimes arise between the worse and better feelings of our nature, and how each and all of us are often “Caught in a Trap” of our own making! It depends upon the reader to decide whether the attempt has been a success or a failure; and he or she can fit on each passion or feeling to the particular human peg or character on which they think it best should hang.
Above all, the writer wished to draw attention to the looseness of the law, and its vagaries applied to our social and moral life, as evinced in Susan’s case. The character and history of the girl is no romance, for Susan is taken from actual existence; still the fallacy of the current ideas on the subject of lunacy and its laws has been already exposed by an abler pictorial pen than that of the writer.
Markworth and Clara Kingscott are no unusual types: search the daily police and criminal intelligence, and you will come across their “doubles.” Speaking in the language of thecuisine, the meats provided have been fair and hearty, and if theplatbe over-seasoned or not sufficiently spiced, the blame rests on thechef, and not on the viands.
Ring away, prompter! Lower the curtain. The play is ended:le jeu est fait. The scene closes on the well-known forms and faces; and, as the curtain drops on the general tableau at the end, I can still see the cheery, weather-beaten face of Doctor Jolly, and hear him exclaiming, in his usual way, with his hearty voice and contagiousbonhomie—
“Bless my soul, sir! How are you? How-de-doo?”