Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.“End of Second Act.”The engulfment of the last straw on which he, the drowning man, had leant his weight, left Markworth without a single loophole of escape: he did not know where to turn.The Jew, Solomonson, had not only advanced him the money required for carrying on the unsuccessful lawsuit, but he was largely indebted to him besides; and Solomonson, he knew, was a very Shylock, and although he might bow and smile, and be the best of friends, and most cordial of bankers, while things were going on right and he saw some prospect of getting his money back with a large “pershentage” in addition, still Markworth was equally well aware that the Jew would rigorously exact his pound of flesh as soon as he saw the game was up, and the cards exposed, and he would be the first one to come upon him for the three thousand pounds, for which he held his bill.Markworth judged the child of Israel very rightly; and if he had not been a trifle earlier in the day in receiving that damming proof of the date of Susan’s coming of age, its disagreement with the date of the marriage, and the consequent working of the clause in the will, and its effect on his claims, he would have found Mr Solomonson so anxious about his welfare, and considerate about his movements, that he might have discovered some slight check, in the shape of acapias, was placed in the way of any desire he might evince to leave the kingdom, and rejoin his wife. Messrs Trump and Sequence had communicated with Markworth’s lawyers at the same time as they had done with him, so the news would soon reach other ears which would be attentive enough to the information, and note its effects. He did not have a very long start in his advance news; still it was sufficient. That was something at all events, and he just managed to catch the tidal boat that night, and was soon on his way to that Alsatia on the other side, where debtors, unless their shortcomings are of a criminal nature, may laugh in safety at their creditors in England.When Markworth was safely on board, and the steamer had ploughed through the muddy Southampton Water, and was dancing through the blue sea beyond, somewhat rough and leadeny at this season of the year, and the Southampton lights were far behind, his mind grew more composed, and he began to think over all that had happened.“Dolt that I was,” he said to himself, “not to have looked at that cursed register myself. In planning the whole scheme I neglected one of its most trifling, and yet most important points; and that has damned all! I see now how it all happened; the dates of Tom’s and the girl’s births came so close together, one on the 27th of August, and the other the 29th, that Clara jumbled the two together. The idiot! Curse her carelessness! But it was easy enough to mistake that 9 for a 7, and more fool I for trusting her! Curse my own folly! Treble fool, dolt, ass that I was! not to see to the thing myself!” He spoke out bitterly, looking out over the sea. “But I wonder how the devil it was those cursed lawyers and pettifoggers did not find out that mistake of the date before!” he added, afterwards, as if reflecting.There was some cause for Markworth’s wonderment at the lawyers’ oversight, as the discovery was as much a surprise to them as it was to him. But such things do happen sometimes; and many an important case having large interests at stake, has been decided ere now on just such a similar point, which has never been discovered or brought to light until just before, or indeed after, the case has gone into court. In many instances the lawyers have been grubbing and searching far and wide for remote proofs and impossible witnesses, when some little, straightforward clue has been lying under their eyes all the time, without being seized upon and made use of, or even dreamt of.In the case of Susan Hartshorne, the date of her marriage and her majority had been taken for granted to be coeval; and, indeed, there was so little difference in the date and in the figures, that some little allowance must be made for the palpable error of Trump, Sequence, and Co., which was only discovered just in time, as their case could never have been sustained in court for Susan could have proved her own sanity on Markworth’s side.That date only saved the dowager from having to pay over her daughter’s inheritance; but Markworth would never have allowed that mistake in the date to have occurred if he had known at first, as he knew latterly, what a great effect it would have in the working of Roger Hartshorne’s will.When he went down that first time to Doctors’ Commons he had read through the will carefully, but not carefully enough to understand the absolute forfeiture of Susan’s inheritance if she married before the age of twenty-one without her mother’s consent. Even when he had subsequently digested this fact, he had been so certain about the date that he had not given it an afterthought; and had, like Mrs Hartshorne’s lawyers, thought that the only thing he had to prove was her sanity at the time she married him.The three months that had passed since her marriage, the change of scene from the place of her childhood which was associated with her calamity, and the novel influences which had been brought to bear upon her, had so thoroughly altered her, as has been observed before, although too much stress cannot be placed on that point, that Susan was completely cured, to all intents and purposes. She was no more silly, foolish, or insane than Markworth himself, and few people would have taken him for an idiot.He had so thoroughly worked out her cure which he had planned when he had seen how malleable and easily influenced she was, for this especial purpose of putting her in the witness-box, having represented to her that she would have to come forward at some time and prove their marriage, or that her mother would tear her away from him—that she was quite prepared to be very strong evidence on his side. The very idea of her being taken back to The Poplars, and her mother, at whose name she still trembled, and grew frightened still, was sufficient to nerve her up to face a thousand juries, for the sake of her liberty and for Markworth, whom she now loved with more than the child’s trusting love with which she had first regarded him.That was all past now, however!There was no more necessity for her coming forward, Markworth thought savagely; no chance now for him to produce her triumphantly at the last moment before his adversaries, and say—“There! you say I have cajoled a lunatic into entering into an illegal contract of marriage with me, for the sake of appropriating her fortune. There is your alleged insane girl; examine her for yourselves, and prove your case if you can.”The opportunity was lost, and he had to withdraw from the battle before the very forces even were marshalled for the fight.He had played his game well, but one false move had lost him all, and what to do now he neither knew nor cared. All his aims and ends had become so bound up in the successful termination of that law suit, that now that he was vanquished he seemed to be completely shipwrecked.His last straw had sunk, and he was lost. He knew it and felt it!With a strong effort of his native indomitable will, he dismissed the past from his mind, and tried to concentrate his thoughts on some plan for the future.All hopes of getting any money from the Hartshornes were idle to indulge in; the old lady certainly would see him in Tartarus first before she gave him a penny; and Tom, although he had offered to take his sister back, and would provide for her, would as certainly not assist him, for he had seen from their last interview that Tom was not nearly of so plastic a nature as he had thought him at first. Besides, he was far away now. There was only the doctor to ask, and he would do nothing, he thought; and, above all, he could not go back to England himself.His best plan, therefore, would be to pack up his things when he arrived at Havre, and scrape together all the money he could by selling any unnecessary superfluities. He was not going to be “troubled with that girl any longer.”He would send Susan back to her home, and tell her people to do what they liked with her, as he had no further need of her.“Curse her!” he thought, for clogging himself to her, “the idiot! and curse myself, too, for my folly in not looking before I leaped.”He stopped on deck the whole night during the passage across, for he could not sleep, his mind was so at war with every thing. If he had gone below he might, perhaps, have discovered who two of his fellow passengers were, but he did not.Nemesis was with him, but he knew it not; and besides Nemesis there was another person, whom neither would have dreamt of seeing there.It was broad day now—a beautiful morning; but the morning had no charms for him; and he was glad when it waxed towards noon, and Havre came in sight with its quaint lighthouse, and its twin rows of houses on the heights above, and the muddy Seine with its Babel of a landing place.Themachine à vapeurquickly plied her way along, and in another half hour broadly opened her destination on her port bow.They were soon alongside the pier, and Markworth having no luggage, was not delayed in passing through theDouane.Saying to the officer—“Rien à declarer!” he passed rapidly along the gangway on to the pier, and up through the busy little streets, until he reached his lodgings in the Rue Montmartre.“Oh! Allynne! you’re come at last. I’ve been longing so to see you; it has been so lonely here all this time by myself,” said Susan, rising and going forward eagerly to meet him, as he opened the door of their little sitting room.“Stop! Damn it! I don’t want any humbug and foolishness. None of that snivelling for me,” he said, savagely, repulsing her as she came towards him.“Oh! Allynne! what have I done? Why are you angry with me?” said Susan, entreatingly.The slightest change in his voice affected her at once, and all her joy and gladness at his return was frozen up in a moment.When he perceived the effects of his words he relented and spoke kindly to her, and Susan was soothed in a moment.But he was ill at ease, for he was busily debating with himself all day how he should break the news of his going away to her. The day passed drearily enough for him, and he was longing for evening to come; the sickly gleams of the November sun angered him: he wanted the day and all its belongings to be shut out.Dreading that Solomonson might have sent a sheriff’s officer after him, he gave strict injunctions to the Mère Cliquelle to say he was not at home, and not to admit any one on any pretence at all to see him; at all events, during the day. In the evening it would not matter.Someone came in the afternoon he heard, and beyond a muttered oath at the intruder, whom he did not make any inquiries respecting, he was left to himself all day.He wanted to settle matters with Susan, and break the news to her, and he did not know how to set about it. He knew or fancied what might be the effects of a sudden shock on her. Evening came at last, and he felt he could not stop in any longer. So he told Susan he wanted her to come out with him for a walk.“Here, put on your bonnet at once, and come out for a walk. I want to speak to you seriously, and I can’t breathe in this stuffy little hole,” he said, suddenly, after a pause, looking round morosely at the quaint little room, with its gaudy belongings, and its half-starved little fire, composed of about a dozen small pieces of slimly cut fire-wood, arranged with mathematical precision, in the porcelain fire-place. The evenings were chilly now, and even the French pretence of a fire was necessary to warm the room.Susan was equipped in a moment; and they went out of the house, Markworth slamming the door behind him.“Mon Dieu!” said the little fat landlady, who was superintending the cooking of her supper, to her husband, looking out of the window of her kitchen above, as she heard the door bang, and saw the pair go down the steps. “Mon Dieu, Auguste! V’là Msieu et Madame qui’ls s’en vont sortir, et Monsieur, il ne fait que d’entrer!C’est bien tard promener!”“Hein!” observed herbon homme, reflectively, from his seat in the corner, where he was salivating a stick of chocolate to pass the time while waiting anxiously for thepotageto be ready. “C’ n’est pas mon affaire!” and he proceeded to suck hischocolatcalmly, which he had withdrawn for a moment from his mouth for the exigencies of conversation.Markworth walked on rapidly, Susan keeping up with difficulty by his side, through the town, which was now partly overhung by the sea-fog, up to the heights of Ingouville, where the air was clearer, and the lights shone out from the trim little rows of villa residences.The promenade was quite deserted; but Markworth proceeded without speaking a word until he had passed all the houses, and had reached a lonely part of the road, with the cliff above the footpath, and a precipitous descent on the other side nearest the town, below which was the zigzag street, up which they had come.Markworth now stopped suddenly, seeing that Susan was quite out of breath from the exertions she had made to keep up with him.“At last,” he said, “I can speak to you quietly;” and he paused a second, as if to think over his words.He did not know that Nemesis was close behind him, for it was nearly dark: the thud of the sea in the distance, splashing against the pier, and the sound of the waters of the Seine at their embouchure, mingling with the tide, drowned even the sound of a passing footstep.It was a crisis in Markworth’s fate.“Susan,” he said, abruptly, “I have to leave you. I have to go away for a long time, and I shall send you back to-morrow to your people in England.”He spoke rapidly. To do him justice, he knew what a pang it would be to the poor girl; but he could not possibly take her with him, so he was anxious to get the “scene,” as he called it, over as quickly as he could.“Oh, Allynne! Allynne!” she cried out, piteously; “you are not going to leave me! I shall die if I go back there!”And she flung her arms round his neck, as if to hold him for ever. He was her life, her all!The avenger was close behind.“Don’t be so foolish, Susan!” Markworth said, in a half-angry, half-coaxing manner. “I’m not going to leave you now, child. I’m talking about to-morrow. I’ve been away before, and I can’t be with you always.”And he tried to unclasp her hands from his neck.“Oh, Allynne! I can’t go back there! I shall die! Take my money, everything I’ve got; but do let me stay with you—don’t send me back there!” she sobbed out in broken accents.The allusion to the money, and her entreaties seemed to madden him.“Have done, girl! Idiot!” he said, roughly, tearing away her hands with violence, and throwing her from him.The poor girl started back as pale as death, as if she had been shot.“Idiot! idiot!” she cried out, in tones that seemed to come from the depths of a broken heart. “Oh, Allynne! That word from you! from you!” she moaned, and wrung her hands in bitterness of spirit.As she started back—the pathway was very narrow—she stood on the very verge of the rocky precipice which bordered the road.And as she uttered the last words, her foot slipped. With a scream of genuine terror, re-echoed by Markworth, she fell back, and he could hear the heavy fall of a body below.“Good God!” he exclaimed aloud, rushing forward and peering into the gulf down which she had disappeared, “she must be killed!”He turned round hurriedly, for he could not get down to the bottom of the cliff without retracing his steps by the winding road up which they had just come.And, as he turned, he found himself face to face with—Clara Kingscott.End of Volume Two.
The engulfment of the last straw on which he, the drowning man, had leant his weight, left Markworth without a single loophole of escape: he did not know where to turn.
The Jew, Solomonson, had not only advanced him the money required for carrying on the unsuccessful lawsuit, but he was largely indebted to him besides; and Solomonson, he knew, was a very Shylock, and although he might bow and smile, and be the best of friends, and most cordial of bankers, while things were going on right and he saw some prospect of getting his money back with a large “pershentage” in addition, still Markworth was equally well aware that the Jew would rigorously exact his pound of flesh as soon as he saw the game was up, and the cards exposed, and he would be the first one to come upon him for the three thousand pounds, for which he held his bill.
Markworth judged the child of Israel very rightly; and if he had not been a trifle earlier in the day in receiving that damming proof of the date of Susan’s coming of age, its disagreement with the date of the marriage, and the consequent working of the clause in the will, and its effect on his claims, he would have found Mr Solomonson so anxious about his welfare, and considerate about his movements, that he might have discovered some slight check, in the shape of acapias, was placed in the way of any desire he might evince to leave the kingdom, and rejoin his wife. Messrs Trump and Sequence had communicated with Markworth’s lawyers at the same time as they had done with him, so the news would soon reach other ears which would be attentive enough to the information, and note its effects. He did not have a very long start in his advance news; still it was sufficient. That was something at all events, and he just managed to catch the tidal boat that night, and was soon on his way to that Alsatia on the other side, where debtors, unless their shortcomings are of a criminal nature, may laugh in safety at their creditors in England.
When Markworth was safely on board, and the steamer had ploughed through the muddy Southampton Water, and was dancing through the blue sea beyond, somewhat rough and leadeny at this season of the year, and the Southampton lights were far behind, his mind grew more composed, and he began to think over all that had happened.
“Dolt that I was,” he said to himself, “not to have looked at that cursed register myself. In planning the whole scheme I neglected one of its most trifling, and yet most important points; and that has damned all! I see now how it all happened; the dates of Tom’s and the girl’s births came so close together, one on the 27th of August, and the other the 29th, that Clara jumbled the two together. The idiot! Curse her carelessness! But it was easy enough to mistake that 9 for a 7, and more fool I for trusting her! Curse my own folly! Treble fool, dolt, ass that I was! not to see to the thing myself!” He spoke out bitterly, looking out over the sea. “But I wonder how the devil it was those cursed lawyers and pettifoggers did not find out that mistake of the date before!” he added, afterwards, as if reflecting.
There was some cause for Markworth’s wonderment at the lawyers’ oversight, as the discovery was as much a surprise to them as it was to him. But such things do happen sometimes; and many an important case having large interests at stake, has been decided ere now on just such a similar point, which has never been discovered or brought to light until just before, or indeed after, the case has gone into court. In many instances the lawyers have been grubbing and searching far and wide for remote proofs and impossible witnesses, when some little, straightforward clue has been lying under their eyes all the time, without being seized upon and made use of, or even dreamt of.
In the case of Susan Hartshorne, the date of her marriage and her majority had been taken for granted to be coeval; and, indeed, there was so little difference in the date and in the figures, that some little allowance must be made for the palpable error of Trump, Sequence, and Co., which was only discovered just in time, as their case could never have been sustained in court for Susan could have proved her own sanity on Markworth’s side.
That date only saved the dowager from having to pay over her daughter’s inheritance; but Markworth would never have allowed that mistake in the date to have occurred if he had known at first, as he knew latterly, what a great effect it would have in the working of Roger Hartshorne’s will.
When he went down that first time to Doctors’ Commons he had read through the will carefully, but not carefully enough to understand the absolute forfeiture of Susan’s inheritance if she married before the age of twenty-one without her mother’s consent. Even when he had subsequently digested this fact, he had been so certain about the date that he had not given it an afterthought; and had, like Mrs Hartshorne’s lawyers, thought that the only thing he had to prove was her sanity at the time she married him.
The three months that had passed since her marriage, the change of scene from the place of her childhood which was associated with her calamity, and the novel influences which had been brought to bear upon her, had so thoroughly altered her, as has been observed before, although too much stress cannot be placed on that point, that Susan was completely cured, to all intents and purposes. She was no more silly, foolish, or insane than Markworth himself, and few people would have taken him for an idiot.
He had so thoroughly worked out her cure which he had planned when he had seen how malleable and easily influenced she was, for this especial purpose of putting her in the witness-box, having represented to her that she would have to come forward at some time and prove their marriage, or that her mother would tear her away from him—that she was quite prepared to be very strong evidence on his side. The very idea of her being taken back to The Poplars, and her mother, at whose name she still trembled, and grew frightened still, was sufficient to nerve her up to face a thousand juries, for the sake of her liberty and for Markworth, whom she now loved with more than the child’s trusting love with which she had first regarded him.
That was all past now, however!
There was no more necessity for her coming forward, Markworth thought savagely; no chance now for him to produce her triumphantly at the last moment before his adversaries, and say—
“There! you say I have cajoled a lunatic into entering into an illegal contract of marriage with me, for the sake of appropriating her fortune. There is your alleged insane girl; examine her for yourselves, and prove your case if you can.”
The opportunity was lost, and he had to withdraw from the battle before the very forces even were marshalled for the fight.
He had played his game well, but one false move had lost him all, and what to do now he neither knew nor cared. All his aims and ends had become so bound up in the successful termination of that law suit, that now that he was vanquished he seemed to be completely shipwrecked.
His last straw had sunk, and he was lost. He knew it and felt it!
With a strong effort of his native indomitable will, he dismissed the past from his mind, and tried to concentrate his thoughts on some plan for the future.
All hopes of getting any money from the Hartshornes were idle to indulge in; the old lady certainly would see him in Tartarus first before she gave him a penny; and Tom, although he had offered to take his sister back, and would provide for her, would as certainly not assist him, for he had seen from their last interview that Tom was not nearly of so plastic a nature as he had thought him at first. Besides, he was far away now. There was only the doctor to ask, and he would do nothing, he thought; and, above all, he could not go back to England himself.
His best plan, therefore, would be to pack up his things when he arrived at Havre, and scrape together all the money he could by selling any unnecessary superfluities. He was not going to be “troubled with that girl any longer.”
He would send Susan back to her home, and tell her people to do what they liked with her, as he had no further need of her.
“Curse her!” he thought, for clogging himself to her, “the idiot! and curse myself, too, for my folly in not looking before I leaped.”
He stopped on deck the whole night during the passage across, for he could not sleep, his mind was so at war with every thing. If he had gone below he might, perhaps, have discovered who two of his fellow passengers were, but he did not.
Nemesis was with him, but he knew it not; and besides Nemesis there was another person, whom neither would have dreamt of seeing there.
It was broad day now—a beautiful morning; but the morning had no charms for him; and he was glad when it waxed towards noon, and Havre came in sight with its quaint lighthouse, and its twin rows of houses on the heights above, and the muddy Seine with its Babel of a landing place.
Themachine à vapeurquickly plied her way along, and in another half hour broadly opened her destination on her port bow.
They were soon alongside the pier, and Markworth having no luggage, was not delayed in passing through theDouane.
Saying to the officer—“Rien à declarer!” he passed rapidly along the gangway on to the pier, and up through the busy little streets, until he reached his lodgings in the Rue Montmartre.
“Oh! Allynne! you’re come at last. I’ve been longing so to see you; it has been so lonely here all this time by myself,” said Susan, rising and going forward eagerly to meet him, as he opened the door of their little sitting room.
“Stop! Damn it! I don’t want any humbug and foolishness. None of that snivelling for me,” he said, savagely, repulsing her as she came towards him.
“Oh! Allynne! what have I done? Why are you angry with me?” said Susan, entreatingly.
The slightest change in his voice affected her at once, and all her joy and gladness at his return was frozen up in a moment.
When he perceived the effects of his words he relented and spoke kindly to her, and Susan was soothed in a moment.
But he was ill at ease, for he was busily debating with himself all day how he should break the news of his going away to her. The day passed drearily enough for him, and he was longing for evening to come; the sickly gleams of the November sun angered him: he wanted the day and all its belongings to be shut out.
Dreading that Solomonson might have sent a sheriff’s officer after him, he gave strict injunctions to the Mère Cliquelle to say he was not at home, and not to admit any one on any pretence at all to see him; at all events, during the day. In the evening it would not matter.
Someone came in the afternoon he heard, and beyond a muttered oath at the intruder, whom he did not make any inquiries respecting, he was left to himself all day.
He wanted to settle matters with Susan, and break the news to her, and he did not know how to set about it. He knew or fancied what might be the effects of a sudden shock on her. Evening came at last, and he felt he could not stop in any longer. So he told Susan he wanted her to come out with him for a walk.
“Here, put on your bonnet at once, and come out for a walk. I want to speak to you seriously, and I can’t breathe in this stuffy little hole,” he said, suddenly, after a pause, looking round morosely at the quaint little room, with its gaudy belongings, and its half-starved little fire, composed of about a dozen small pieces of slimly cut fire-wood, arranged with mathematical precision, in the porcelain fire-place. The evenings were chilly now, and even the French pretence of a fire was necessary to warm the room.
Susan was equipped in a moment; and they went out of the house, Markworth slamming the door behind him.
“Mon Dieu!” said the little fat landlady, who was superintending the cooking of her supper, to her husband, looking out of the window of her kitchen above, as she heard the door bang, and saw the pair go down the steps. “Mon Dieu, Auguste! V’là Msieu et Madame qui’ls s’en vont sortir, et Monsieur, il ne fait que d’entrer!C’est bien tard promener!”
“Hein!” observed herbon homme, reflectively, from his seat in the corner, where he was salivating a stick of chocolate to pass the time while waiting anxiously for thepotageto be ready. “C’ n’est pas mon affaire!” and he proceeded to suck hischocolatcalmly, which he had withdrawn for a moment from his mouth for the exigencies of conversation.
Markworth walked on rapidly, Susan keeping up with difficulty by his side, through the town, which was now partly overhung by the sea-fog, up to the heights of Ingouville, where the air was clearer, and the lights shone out from the trim little rows of villa residences.
The promenade was quite deserted; but Markworth proceeded without speaking a word until he had passed all the houses, and had reached a lonely part of the road, with the cliff above the footpath, and a precipitous descent on the other side nearest the town, below which was the zigzag street, up which they had come.
Markworth now stopped suddenly, seeing that Susan was quite out of breath from the exertions she had made to keep up with him.
“At last,” he said, “I can speak to you quietly;” and he paused a second, as if to think over his words.
He did not know that Nemesis was close behind him, for it was nearly dark: the thud of the sea in the distance, splashing against the pier, and the sound of the waters of the Seine at their embouchure, mingling with the tide, drowned even the sound of a passing footstep.
It was a crisis in Markworth’s fate.
“Susan,” he said, abruptly, “I have to leave you. I have to go away for a long time, and I shall send you back to-morrow to your people in England.”
He spoke rapidly. To do him justice, he knew what a pang it would be to the poor girl; but he could not possibly take her with him, so he was anxious to get the “scene,” as he called it, over as quickly as he could.
“Oh, Allynne! Allynne!” she cried out, piteously; “you are not going to leave me! I shall die if I go back there!”
And she flung her arms round his neck, as if to hold him for ever. He was her life, her all!
The avenger was close behind.
“Don’t be so foolish, Susan!” Markworth said, in a half-angry, half-coaxing manner. “I’m not going to leave you now, child. I’m talking about to-morrow. I’ve been away before, and I can’t be with you always.”
And he tried to unclasp her hands from his neck.
“Oh, Allynne! I can’t go back there! I shall die! Take my money, everything I’ve got; but do let me stay with you—don’t send me back there!” she sobbed out in broken accents.
The allusion to the money, and her entreaties seemed to madden him.
“Have done, girl! Idiot!” he said, roughly, tearing away her hands with violence, and throwing her from him.
The poor girl started back as pale as death, as if she had been shot.
“Idiot! idiot!” she cried out, in tones that seemed to come from the depths of a broken heart. “Oh, Allynne! That word from you! from you!” she moaned, and wrung her hands in bitterness of spirit.
As she started back—the pathway was very narrow—she stood on the very verge of the rocky precipice which bordered the road.
And as she uttered the last words, her foot slipped. With a scream of genuine terror, re-echoed by Markworth, she fell back, and he could hear the heavy fall of a body below.
“Good God!” he exclaimed aloud, rushing forward and peering into the gulf down which she had disappeared, “she must be killed!”
He turned round hurriedly, for he could not get down to the bottom of the cliff without retracing his steps by the winding road up which they had just come.
And, as he turned, he found himself face to face with—
Clara Kingscott.
Volume Three—Chapter One.At Bay!“Gracious Heavens, Clara! What brings you here?” uttered Markworth, half in astonishment, half in terror, as he suddenly turned round, and was confronted by Miss Kingscott, immediately after Susan had fallen back over the precipice.“Murderer!” she exclaimed, standing right before him in the narrow pathway. “Thank God! I came in time to witness your crime!”“Woman!” cried Markworth, trying to brush past her. “You’re mad! What do you mean? Let me pass!”“Murderer!” she repeated, with withering bitterness, still blocking the way. “Murderer!”“Good God! Clara, what do you mean?”“Mean, Allynne Markworth? What do I mean! That you are caught at last in your own toils! I knew you were a swindler, a cheat, a villain! I can now prove that you are a murderer as well!”“For God’s sake, Clara, do not say that! You don’t think I’ve murdered the girl?”She still looked him full in the face, but made no reply; so he went on hurriedly—“Why, she fell over the cliff herself! I never touched her! I was just—”“Ha! ha!” she laughed, a cold, bitter laugh. “Tell that to the officers of justice who will be soon in pursuit of you! To the jury who will try you! To the judge who will sentence you to your final end! I don’t want to hear your lying story!”Markworth turned pale and shook with fear. “What do you mean, woman? Who will accuse me? God knows I never meant the poor girl any harm! She slipped, and fell back by accident; and I was just hastening down to her assistance when you—you—”“Murderer!”“Let me go, woman!” he cried, excitedly, shoving past the governess, who threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back.“She’s dying, perhaps! I’ll be too late! Curse you, let me go!”“Help! Help! Murder!” she screamed. “You’re mad! Let me go at once or it will be the worse for you.” And he struggled with her to get away, while the air rung with her loud screams for help. At length he got one arm free, although she still clung with desperation to him. “Curse you!” he muttered, between his clenched teeth, raising his fist and dealing her a savage blow in the face. “You’ve brought it on yourself!”Another half-uttered scream was checked on her lips, and she sank back in a heap on the ground, while Markworth rushed past her, and flew rather than ran down the heights.In spite of lung logic, Clara Kingscott’s cries for help remained unheard. No one came to her assistance; and when she recovered her consciousness after the insensibility produced by Markworth’s blow, she found herself cold and alone, lying stretched out along the side of the narrow path where she had fallen. And he? Where was he?Gone!After one half-stupefied thought as to where she was, she recollected all, and nerved herself up to the determination of following Markworth to the death! The blood was still trickling down her face from the dastardly blow she had received: it animated her with additional strength and fresh courage; and she seemed like a tigress, and snarled, as it were, at the sight of her own blood!Rising to her feet, she nearly stumbled at first from stiffness and faintness, but by force of will she quickly recovered her strength, and in a few moments felt better, and able to walk.She had marked the spot where Susan had disappeared; thither she bent her steps, and gazed down into the deep descent, hidden now, and black with the dark veil of night.Turning round, and retracing her steps down the winding path, she proceeded to search below. As she projected round an abrupt turn of the road she jostled against asergent de ville—mutual astonishment—explanations.Speaking rapidly to him in his native tongue, with which she was even better conversant than Markworth, and knew almost as well as a genuine Parisienne, she represented matters to the guardian of the peace. “A murder and an assault has been committed,” she said, eagerly gesticulating in her emotion.“I saw the villain throw a girl over that precipice above, and she or her body must be here! Let us search for her; help me to arrest the murderer! Have you heard no cries, seen no one?”No, thesergent de villehad seen no one: he had only just come up the road: the officer whom he had relieved had reported no disturbance.“Had madame cried out?Mon Dieu! really? He had heard no cries, in faith! It was very late for madame to be out—did she know what time it was?”“I suppose it is nearly ten o’clock,” replied Miss Kingscott.“Ma foi! Why it is close on morning. Madame cannot be well”—he meant that the lady, who certainly looked very bedraggled and disorderly, was something infinitely worse.“I tell you, officer,” exclaimed the governess, stamping her foot, and speaking angrily, “I am not mad or drunk; and, no matter what time it is—night or morning—I am telling you the truth! I know the man that has done this; his name is Markworth, and an Englishman; and I saw him shove the girl over the precipice, for I was close behind him at the time! I tried to stop him. He struck me; here is the cut on my forehead; you can see for yourself that I don’t lie. The blow made me faint, and I must have been insensible much longer than I supposed, but it is not too late! We may catch the villain yet. It is your duty to aid me! But let us first search for the girl; her body must be here!”Although strongly inclined to believe that the lady who addressed him was under the influence of absinthe or eau de vie, and that she had lost her way amongst the heights, and tumbling down had hurt herself, thus accounting for her blood-stained face and wild appearance, thesergent de villewas somewhat thrown off his first-formed opinion by her enthusiasm and the coherency of her story. He accordingly adjusted his lantern, and they looked about together in silence for some time. However, when no body of any murdered person was to be found, no traces of a sanguinary struggle to be seen, and everything looked as usual about the place, thesergent de villereturned to his original opinion.“I said Madame was not well!” he observed, in an aggrieved tone. “She had better go home to bed, and not be talking of any fabulous murders! Where does Madame reside?”“I tell you I saw the thing with my own eyes! He must have carried the body away and hidden it!”“Hush!ma petite,” said the man, soothingly. “Go home: it will be all right to-morrow!”“I won’t go home. I am quite in my senses, and it will be your fault if that man escapes. You ought to do your duty and arrest him. I shall complain to the Maire! Where does he live? I must see him! Take me there at once.”“C’est impossible!” replied the officer, coldly; “but Madame will find that I will do my duty,” he added, meaningly.“I must see the Maire! The murderer will escape!” went on the governess, hysterically.Thesergent de villeplaced her arm firmly within his own.“Madame will come with me,” he said, and he led her away.He was not going to wake up the Maire or Juge de Paix at that late hour of the night, or rather early hour of the morning, with such a cock and a bull story from a drunken woman. Why, he might lose his promotion should he disturb the slumbers of his superiors!Finding, therefore, that his entreaties for her to go home were treated only as deaf words, and that she would neither go herself nor tell where she lived, the astute officer conducted her carefully to the guard-house, under the plea of showing her where the Maire lived in order to get her along quietly, and had her comfortably locked up.The tables were turned with a vengeance! Markworth had got off scot free; and here was Clara Kingscott locked up in a police-station for the night as a disorderly character! Some allowance must be made, however, for thesergent de ville. Her story was so improbable, and she looked so strange and talked so excitedly, that the mistake might have been made even by one of our very bright and intelligent guardians of the peace, who never make such mistakes as, say, locking up a dying man perhaps on the charge of inebriety!Be that as it may, however, there was Clara Kingscott incarcerated in a cell, and powerless of action. There are strange things happen sometimes in fiction; but stranger things often occur in real life.
“Gracious Heavens, Clara! What brings you here?” uttered Markworth, half in astonishment, half in terror, as he suddenly turned round, and was confronted by Miss Kingscott, immediately after Susan had fallen back over the precipice.
“Murderer!” she exclaimed, standing right before him in the narrow pathway. “Thank God! I came in time to witness your crime!”
“Woman!” cried Markworth, trying to brush past her. “You’re mad! What do you mean? Let me pass!”
“Murderer!” she repeated, with withering bitterness, still blocking the way. “Murderer!”
“Good God! Clara, what do you mean?”
“Mean, Allynne Markworth? What do I mean! That you are caught at last in your own toils! I knew you were a swindler, a cheat, a villain! I can now prove that you are a murderer as well!”
“For God’s sake, Clara, do not say that! You don’t think I’ve murdered the girl?”
She still looked him full in the face, but made no reply; so he went on hurriedly—
“Why, she fell over the cliff herself! I never touched her! I was just—”
“Ha! ha!” she laughed, a cold, bitter laugh. “Tell that to the officers of justice who will be soon in pursuit of you! To the jury who will try you! To the judge who will sentence you to your final end! I don’t want to hear your lying story!”
Markworth turned pale and shook with fear. “What do you mean, woman? Who will accuse me? God knows I never meant the poor girl any harm! She slipped, and fell back by accident; and I was just hastening down to her assistance when you—you—”
“Murderer!”
“Let me go, woman!” he cried, excitedly, shoving past the governess, who threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back.
“She’s dying, perhaps! I’ll be too late! Curse you, let me go!”
“Help! Help! Murder!” she screamed. “You’re mad! Let me go at once or it will be the worse for you.” And he struggled with her to get away, while the air rung with her loud screams for help. At length he got one arm free, although she still clung with desperation to him. “Curse you!” he muttered, between his clenched teeth, raising his fist and dealing her a savage blow in the face. “You’ve brought it on yourself!”
Another half-uttered scream was checked on her lips, and she sank back in a heap on the ground, while Markworth rushed past her, and flew rather than ran down the heights.
In spite of lung logic, Clara Kingscott’s cries for help remained unheard. No one came to her assistance; and when she recovered her consciousness after the insensibility produced by Markworth’s blow, she found herself cold and alone, lying stretched out along the side of the narrow path where she had fallen. And he? Where was he?
Gone!
After one half-stupefied thought as to where she was, she recollected all, and nerved herself up to the determination of following Markworth to the death! The blood was still trickling down her face from the dastardly blow she had received: it animated her with additional strength and fresh courage; and she seemed like a tigress, and snarled, as it were, at the sight of her own blood!
Rising to her feet, she nearly stumbled at first from stiffness and faintness, but by force of will she quickly recovered her strength, and in a few moments felt better, and able to walk.
She had marked the spot where Susan had disappeared; thither she bent her steps, and gazed down into the deep descent, hidden now, and black with the dark veil of night.
Turning round, and retracing her steps down the winding path, she proceeded to search below. As she projected round an abrupt turn of the road she jostled against asergent de ville—mutual astonishment—explanations.
Speaking rapidly to him in his native tongue, with which she was even better conversant than Markworth, and knew almost as well as a genuine Parisienne, she represented matters to the guardian of the peace. “A murder and an assault has been committed,” she said, eagerly gesticulating in her emotion.
“I saw the villain throw a girl over that precipice above, and she or her body must be here! Let us search for her; help me to arrest the murderer! Have you heard no cries, seen no one?”
No, thesergent de villehad seen no one: he had only just come up the road: the officer whom he had relieved had reported no disturbance.
“Had madame cried out?Mon Dieu! really? He had heard no cries, in faith! It was very late for madame to be out—did she know what time it was?”
“I suppose it is nearly ten o’clock,” replied Miss Kingscott.
“Ma foi! Why it is close on morning. Madame cannot be well”—he meant that the lady, who certainly looked very bedraggled and disorderly, was something infinitely worse.
“I tell you, officer,” exclaimed the governess, stamping her foot, and speaking angrily, “I am not mad or drunk; and, no matter what time it is—night or morning—I am telling you the truth! I know the man that has done this; his name is Markworth, and an Englishman; and I saw him shove the girl over the precipice, for I was close behind him at the time! I tried to stop him. He struck me; here is the cut on my forehead; you can see for yourself that I don’t lie. The blow made me faint, and I must have been insensible much longer than I supposed, but it is not too late! We may catch the villain yet. It is your duty to aid me! But let us first search for the girl; her body must be here!”
Although strongly inclined to believe that the lady who addressed him was under the influence of absinthe or eau de vie, and that she had lost her way amongst the heights, and tumbling down had hurt herself, thus accounting for her blood-stained face and wild appearance, thesergent de villewas somewhat thrown off his first-formed opinion by her enthusiasm and the coherency of her story. He accordingly adjusted his lantern, and they looked about together in silence for some time. However, when no body of any murdered person was to be found, no traces of a sanguinary struggle to be seen, and everything looked as usual about the place, thesergent de villereturned to his original opinion.
“I said Madame was not well!” he observed, in an aggrieved tone. “She had better go home to bed, and not be talking of any fabulous murders! Where does Madame reside?”
“I tell you I saw the thing with my own eyes! He must have carried the body away and hidden it!”
“Hush!ma petite,” said the man, soothingly. “Go home: it will be all right to-morrow!”
“I won’t go home. I am quite in my senses, and it will be your fault if that man escapes. You ought to do your duty and arrest him. I shall complain to the Maire! Where does he live? I must see him! Take me there at once.”
“C’est impossible!” replied the officer, coldly; “but Madame will find that I will do my duty,” he added, meaningly.
“I must see the Maire! The murderer will escape!” went on the governess, hysterically.
Thesergent de villeplaced her arm firmly within his own.
“Madame will come with me,” he said, and he led her away.
He was not going to wake up the Maire or Juge de Paix at that late hour of the night, or rather early hour of the morning, with such a cock and a bull story from a drunken woman. Why, he might lose his promotion should he disturb the slumbers of his superiors!
Finding, therefore, that his entreaties for her to go home were treated only as deaf words, and that she would neither go herself nor tell where she lived, the astute officer conducted her carefully to the guard-house, under the plea of showing her where the Maire lived in order to get her along quietly, and had her comfortably locked up.
The tables were turned with a vengeance! Markworth had got off scot free; and here was Clara Kingscott locked up in a police-station for the night as a disorderly character! Some allowance must be made, however, for thesergent de ville. Her story was so improbable, and she looked so strange and talked so excitedly, that the mistake might have been made even by one of our very bright and intelligent guardians of the peace, who never make such mistakes as, say, locking up a dying man perhaps on the charge of inebriety!
Be that as it may, however, there was Clara Kingscott incarcerated in a cell, and powerless of action. There are strange things happen sometimes in fiction; but stranger things often occur in real life.
Volume Three—Chapter Two.“Mishter Sholomonshon” prepares to Act: Much he gains by it!Matters seem somewhat forestalled, and a brief retrospect is needed.How came she there—his Nemesis? Politely bowed out, after she had avowed her share in Markworth’s conspiracy to Mr Trump, Clara Kingscott walked away from the lawyers’ offices in a perfect frenzy. She was ever tasting the cup of revenge, which she would have so gladly drunk to the dregs, and yet as she raised it to her lips it was ever being dashed away.It was maddening to her now to think that when she had planned to ruin Markworth at the eleventh hour, just when he was confident of success, by her appearance against instead of for him in the suit, that circumstances should so occur to defeat his ends without her aid being required. She had intended all along that her hand should deal him the blow, and that he should know it.True it was that all his hopes for getting Susan Hartshorne’s fortune were all passed away like last winter’s snow; that was some satisfaction for her to know, but then Markworth’s ill-luck was not caused by her; there was where the shoe pinched, and she felt foiled.What should she do now? She could not remain inactive. Reflecting a moment, she turned and walked hurriedly onward across Holborn, and down Chancery Lane, until she came to the offices of Solomonson and Isaacs.It was late now; so the place was closed up, and the children of Israel were gone home: After ringing in vain for some time, she had to give up her project until the morrow, and depart in peace.“He’ll escape me yet,” she muttered, “but I will be here early, and make assurance doubly sure.”And she turned on her heel and went away. Before she went home to her lodgings, however, she took the trouble to go round to the hotel where she had learnt that Markworth was staying, to ask whether he was there still. She was so afraid of his getting off before her vengeance could be felt. The porter told her that he was out, but that he had not left the hotel yet: he was expecting him in every minute, for a messenger had just brought a letter for him.“A messenger to see him?”She pondered a moment, and then she recollected that it must be the lawyers’ clerk, sent by Mr Trump to appoint the interview for the next day, when Markworth would hear the worst. She gave a sigh of satisfaction, and went to her lodgings contentedly.Messrs Solomonson and Isaacs came to their offices the next day at their usual time, about half-past ten o’clock, and proceeded to set about their introductory business. Letters had to be opened, documents arranged, the list of bankrupts in the papers looked to and compared with another list of their own of the men indebted to them; in fact, all the minutiae of their daily routine had to be seen to before setting actually to work and “interviewing” their clients, or more properly speaking, customers or borrowers, for they did more in usury than law, although the appellation “solicitors” was on their door plate. The term indeed was better suited to the clients than the firm.Mister Isaacs was at the moment engaged upon comparing the bankrupt lists, when a sudden exclamation from his partner Solomonson, who was opening the letters and glancing at their contents, startled him.“Father Abrahamsh!” ejaculated that worthy. “Gott in Himmell! how about der monish?”“Vat’s der matter, my tearsh?” enquired Isaacs, in anxious suspense. “Noting’s wrongsh mit der bank?”“No, mine Isaacs, it is not ter banksh! Mein Gott, der monish! der monish! It is all oop wit Markevorts; der shoot is ruined!”“Sholomonshon, ma tearsh, vat you mean? The suit lost! Vy it ain’t tried yet.”“No mein söhn, it is not trite and perhaps never vills!”And then he explained the purport of the letter.“It’s a svindel!” said Isaacs. “Ow butch did he get from you, Solomonshon?” he asked, although he well knew.“Eleving hundert! And we vos to get tree tousand—tree tousand pounds!”He told Isaacs a lie, and Isaacs knew it.“And now ve can’t get himsh? Is he got no monish?”“No monish, but vat der shoot vood have bringsh.”“And it is all gonesh?”“Ja, tso! all gonesh if de lettersh be true!”“And ve vood ’ave got tree tousaud, Sholomonshon?”“Ja! tree tousand pound! der villainsh! der swindlersh! Tree tousand poundsh, and look’d as shafe as der bank! Tree tousand poundsh; never no moresh!”The Jew repeated this over and over again, and almost wept in his anguish. It should have been mentioned before that Solomon was a Hebrew of Teutonic proclivities, and had emigrated from theJuden Strassein Berlin, where he had originally belonged before he took up with his partner Isaacs and set up business in Chancery Lane, London.After a hasty consultation Solomonson and Isaacs rushed off together to the offices of Messrs Trump, Sequence, and Co., to hear whether the ill-fated news was true.Any hopes they might have had were quickly dispelled. Mr Trump, who could not repress his dislike for the men who now confronted him, did not mince matters with them. He showed them all the proofs, and gave them the additional evidence that Markworth himself had been there at his especial notification, and was satisfied that the opposition was too great for him to continue the suit.Solomonson and Isaacs were not satisfied until they had read every tittle of the evidence, including Roger Hartshorne’s will, the baptismal certificate of Susan, and the marriage registry. It was all perfectly true, so they then heaped reproaches on Mr Trump for letting Markworth know before communicating with them. Indeed, they were both so violent that Mr Trump had to order them out of his office. They saw it was all up with them, and returned chagrined to their own den in Chancery Lane, to concert about what more should they do.They had no doubt that Markworth would be off early, but it was their business to try and catch him if possible. Never let it be said in Jewry that a debtor got off clear from their clutches: it would be a standing reproach against them from Dan even unto Beersheba, and they would never hear the end of it. Besides the money, the money, they could not afford to lose that!Once more the scene changes back to their den of usury. Solomonson had just taken out the bills Markworth had given from an escritoire in the corner of the room, and both he and Isaacs are pondering them over, and looking at the shares securities that their client had given them for the advance. The shares were in a financial company whose smash they had just read of in that morning’s paper! This news added “bad” to “worse.”“Fader Abrahamsh!” ejaculated Solomonson. “Oh der villainsh! der shvindlersh! Tree tousand pounds, Isaacs, all gonesh!” and they bewailed their fate in concert.Behold the children of Israel weeping and wailing, and making much lamentation over the loss of the presumptive three thousand pounds, which they would have gained if Markworth had won his suit against the old dowager of The Poplars. To them enters Clara Kingscott, governess, at present detective, Nemesis, and follower of their unlucky client. Affecting meeting.She went like another Ruth to glean what she could towards affecting her purpose in the fields of the rich Boaz. The Hebrews, although sharp enough, were at their wits’ end when Miss Kingscott entered, but she quickly worked them up to the point of action, after explaining the reason of her visit.“The news is true enough,” she said. “I was there and heard it all—when that letter was written to you; but have you not sent round yet to those lawyers? what do you propose to do?”“Doosh? Vat can ve doosh! der shoot is gone! and der svindlersh is gone too, and he has no monish!” said Solomonson, in the most lugubrious tones.“Why don’t you act?” said the governess, excitedly. “If I were a man I would arrest him and clap him into jail, and let him rot there until I got my money back. If I could not get my money I would get his life!”“De womansh is right, Sholomonshon, my shon,” said Isaacs.“Of course I am. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth—that is your creed, is it not? Can’t you get out a warrant against that villain, or something else, and have him stopped before he leaves the country? Why even I will go after him: he shall never escape my hate!”“Ja, tso!” exclaimed Solomonson, now fired by her words and animated by her desire for vengeance; “but a varrantsh ish no goots!”“A Kay shay?” suggested Isaacs.“Ja, dat is goot—der villainsh! But he was alvays squaresh vas mishter M., and it seems hart.”“Pshaw!” exclaimed Clara Kingscott, with intense scorn. “Do you think he will pay you if you let him get away?”That settled any lingering reluctance they might have had to proceed to extremities with their client, besides the loss of the money was rankling in their minds; so “Mishter Sholomonshon” started off down to the courts at Westminster to invoke the aid of her gracious Majesty “Victoria R. by the grace of God” in a documentary form.While the Hebrews were concerting measures for Markworth’s apprehension, Clara Kingscott proceeded down to his hotel to see whether the “biter” had yet been “bitten,” and if he had returned from the interview appointed with Mr Trump.She found he had come, and gone. The bird had flown! The porter said he had left in a cab with all his luggage for the Waterloo Station.Making sure he was off to Havre, where she had previously found out his address, she started off to Southampton, intending to follow him wherever he went. Before doing this she sent a few hasty lines to Messrs Solomonson and Isaacs by acommissionaire, telling them where Markworth was gone and she would follow him up, and let them know further; although certainly her information would not be of much use to them if he were out of the kingdom.The Jews in the meanwhile were crying “Havoc!” and trying very hard to “let loose the dogs of war.” They had some difficulty in obtaining theirca ça. No Judge was at chambers when they first went down; and then they lost much valuable time in swearing to an affidavit that Markworth was going to leave the country. Not that the fact of swearing any number of oaths, whether true or false, troubled them much—but he was “gone,” as the auctioneer cries, before they could touch him on the shoulder.A bailiff and detective were sent down after the absconding debtor to Southampton—Miss Kingscott had telegraphed up to the Jews late in the evening to say that she had seen him there; but they arrived too late, notwithstanding that the Jews had not spared the expense of luring a special train for them: they never grudged money when hunting money. But they arrived too late! Theca çaandne exeat regnowere both useless.Just as the Havre steamer had cast loose her fastenings, and was going out into the stream, the myrmidons of the law came down with the warrant for Markworth’s arrest: the proverb “better late than never” did not hold true in their case, however, for the man they were after could laugh them to scorn with every revolution of the steamboat’s paddles.Jewry was “sold” by the Gentile, and there went up a wail in Chancery Lane.
Matters seem somewhat forestalled, and a brief retrospect is needed.
How came she there—his Nemesis? Politely bowed out, after she had avowed her share in Markworth’s conspiracy to Mr Trump, Clara Kingscott walked away from the lawyers’ offices in a perfect frenzy. She was ever tasting the cup of revenge, which she would have so gladly drunk to the dregs, and yet as she raised it to her lips it was ever being dashed away.
It was maddening to her now to think that when she had planned to ruin Markworth at the eleventh hour, just when he was confident of success, by her appearance against instead of for him in the suit, that circumstances should so occur to defeat his ends without her aid being required. She had intended all along that her hand should deal him the blow, and that he should know it.
True it was that all his hopes for getting Susan Hartshorne’s fortune were all passed away like last winter’s snow; that was some satisfaction for her to know, but then Markworth’s ill-luck was not caused by her; there was where the shoe pinched, and she felt foiled.
What should she do now? She could not remain inactive. Reflecting a moment, she turned and walked hurriedly onward across Holborn, and down Chancery Lane, until she came to the offices of Solomonson and Isaacs.
It was late now; so the place was closed up, and the children of Israel were gone home: After ringing in vain for some time, she had to give up her project until the morrow, and depart in peace.
“He’ll escape me yet,” she muttered, “but I will be here early, and make assurance doubly sure.”
And she turned on her heel and went away. Before she went home to her lodgings, however, she took the trouble to go round to the hotel where she had learnt that Markworth was staying, to ask whether he was there still. She was so afraid of his getting off before her vengeance could be felt. The porter told her that he was out, but that he had not left the hotel yet: he was expecting him in every minute, for a messenger had just brought a letter for him.
“A messenger to see him?”
She pondered a moment, and then she recollected that it must be the lawyers’ clerk, sent by Mr Trump to appoint the interview for the next day, when Markworth would hear the worst. She gave a sigh of satisfaction, and went to her lodgings contentedly.
Messrs Solomonson and Isaacs came to their offices the next day at their usual time, about half-past ten o’clock, and proceeded to set about their introductory business. Letters had to be opened, documents arranged, the list of bankrupts in the papers looked to and compared with another list of their own of the men indebted to them; in fact, all the minutiae of their daily routine had to be seen to before setting actually to work and “interviewing” their clients, or more properly speaking, customers or borrowers, for they did more in usury than law, although the appellation “solicitors” was on their door plate. The term indeed was better suited to the clients than the firm.
Mister Isaacs was at the moment engaged upon comparing the bankrupt lists, when a sudden exclamation from his partner Solomonson, who was opening the letters and glancing at their contents, startled him.
“Father Abrahamsh!” ejaculated that worthy. “Gott in Himmell! how about der monish?”
“Vat’s der matter, my tearsh?” enquired Isaacs, in anxious suspense. “Noting’s wrongsh mit der bank?”
“No, mine Isaacs, it is not ter banksh! Mein Gott, der monish! der monish! It is all oop wit Markevorts; der shoot is ruined!”
“Sholomonshon, ma tearsh, vat you mean? The suit lost! Vy it ain’t tried yet.”
“No mein söhn, it is not trite and perhaps never vills!”
And then he explained the purport of the letter.
“It’s a svindel!” said Isaacs. “Ow butch did he get from you, Solomonshon?” he asked, although he well knew.
“Eleving hundert! And we vos to get tree tousand—tree tousand pounds!”
He told Isaacs a lie, and Isaacs knew it.
“And now ve can’t get himsh? Is he got no monish?”
“No monish, but vat der shoot vood have bringsh.”
“And it is all gonesh?”
“Ja, tso! all gonesh if de lettersh be true!”
“And ve vood ’ave got tree tousaud, Sholomonshon?”
“Ja! tree tousand pound! der villainsh! der swindlersh! Tree tousand poundsh, and look’d as shafe as der bank! Tree tousand poundsh; never no moresh!”
The Jew repeated this over and over again, and almost wept in his anguish. It should have been mentioned before that Solomon was a Hebrew of Teutonic proclivities, and had emigrated from theJuden Strassein Berlin, where he had originally belonged before he took up with his partner Isaacs and set up business in Chancery Lane, London.
After a hasty consultation Solomonson and Isaacs rushed off together to the offices of Messrs Trump, Sequence, and Co., to hear whether the ill-fated news was true.
Any hopes they might have had were quickly dispelled. Mr Trump, who could not repress his dislike for the men who now confronted him, did not mince matters with them. He showed them all the proofs, and gave them the additional evidence that Markworth himself had been there at his especial notification, and was satisfied that the opposition was too great for him to continue the suit.
Solomonson and Isaacs were not satisfied until they had read every tittle of the evidence, including Roger Hartshorne’s will, the baptismal certificate of Susan, and the marriage registry. It was all perfectly true, so they then heaped reproaches on Mr Trump for letting Markworth know before communicating with them. Indeed, they were both so violent that Mr Trump had to order them out of his office. They saw it was all up with them, and returned chagrined to their own den in Chancery Lane, to concert about what more should they do.
They had no doubt that Markworth would be off early, but it was their business to try and catch him if possible. Never let it be said in Jewry that a debtor got off clear from their clutches: it would be a standing reproach against them from Dan even unto Beersheba, and they would never hear the end of it. Besides the money, the money, they could not afford to lose that!
Once more the scene changes back to their den of usury. Solomonson had just taken out the bills Markworth had given from an escritoire in the corner of the room, and both he and Isaacs are pondering them over, and looking at the shares securities that their client had given them for the advance. The shares were in a financial company whose smash they had just read of in that morning’s paper! This news added “bad” to “worse.”
“Fader Abrahamsh!” ejaculated Solomonson. “Oh der villainsh! der shvindlersh! Tree tousand pounds, Isaacs, all gonesh!” and they bewailed their fate in concert.
Behold the children of Israel weeping and wailing, and making much lamentation over the loss of the presumptive three thousand pounds, which they would have gained if Markworth had won his suit against the old dowager of The Poplars. To them enters Clara Kingscott, governess, at present detective, Nemesis, and follower of their unlucky client. Affecting meeting.
She went like another Ruth to glean what she could towards affecting her purpose in the fields of the rich Boaz. The Hebrews, although sharp enough, were at their wits’ end when Miss Kingscott entered, but she quickly worked them up to the point of action, after explaining the reason of her visit.
“The news is true enough,” she said. “I was there and heard it all—when that letter was written to you; but have you not sent round yet to those lawyers? what do you propose to do?”
“Doosh? Vat can ve doosh! der shoot is gone! and der svindlersh is gone too, and he has no monish!” said Solomonson, in the most lugubrious tones.
“Why don’t you act?” said the governess, excitedly. “If I were a man I would arrest him and clap him into jail, and let him rot there until I got my money back. If I could not get my money I would get his life!”
“De womansh is right, Sholomonshon, my shon,” said Isaacs.
“Of course I am. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth—that is your creed, is it not? Can’t you get out a warrant against that villain, or something else, and have him stopped before he leaves the country? Why even I will go after him: he shall never escape my hate!”
“Ja, tso!” exclaimed Solomonson, now fired by her words and animated by her desire for vengeance; “but a varrantsh ish no goots!”
“A Kay shay?” suggested Isaacs.
“Ja, dat is goot—der villainsh! But he was alvays squaresh vas mishter M., and it seems hart.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Clara Kingscott, with intense scorn. “Do you think he will pay you if you let him get away?”
That settled any lingering reluctance they might have had to proceed to extremities with their client, besides the loss of the money was rankling in their minds; so “Mishter Sholomonshon” started off down to the courts at Westminster to invoke the aid of her gracious Majesty “Victoria R. by the grace of God” in a documentary form.
While the Hebrews were concerting measures for Markworth’s apprehension, Clara Kingscott proceeded down to his hotel to see whether the “biter” had yet been “bitten,” and if he had returned from the interview appointed with Mr Trump.
She found he had come, and gone. The bird had flown! The porter said he had left in a cab with all his luggage for the Waterloo Station.
Making sure he was off to Havre, where she had previously found out his address, she started off to Southampton, intending to follow him wherever he went. Before doing this she sent a few hasty lines to Messrs Solomonson and Isaacs by acommissionaire, telling them where Markworth was gone and she would follow him up, and let them know further; although certainly her information would not be of much use to them if he were out of the kingdom.
The Jews in the meanwhile were crying “Havoc!” and trying very hard to “let loose the dogs of war.” They had some difficulty in obtaining theirca ça. No Judge was at chambers when they first went down; and then they lost much valuable time in swearing to an affidavit that Markworth was going to leave the country. Not that the fact of swearing any number of oaths, whether true or false, troubled them much—but he was “gone,” as the auctioneer cries, before they could touch him on the shoulder.
A bailiff and detective were sent down after the absconding debtor to Southampton—Miss Kingscott had telegraphed up to the Jews late in the evening to say that she had seen him there; but they arrived too late, notwithstanding that the Jews had not spared the expense of luring a special train for them: they never grudged money when hunting money. But they arrived too late! Theca çaandne exeat regnowere both useless.
Just as the Havre steamer had cast loose her fastenings, and was going out into the stream, the myrmidons of the law came down with the warrant for Markworth’s arrest: the proverb “better late than never” did not hold true in their case, however, for the man they were after could laugh them to scorn with every revolution of the steamboat’s paddles.
Jewry was “sold” by the Gentile, and there went up a wail in Chancery Lane.
Volume Three—Chapter Three.On the Trail.It was not until late in the morning that Clara Kingscott was let out of the cell in the police-station, where she had been locked up, and was taken to be examined beforeMonsieur le Chef des sergents de ville.Although she was full of natural indignation at the treatment that she met with, to gain her purpose, she was forced to dissemble her anger, and answer all the questions put to her in a cool and collected manner.Having taken care also to arrange her toilette and efface the traces of bedragglement, her appearance had its due effect, and Monsieur le Chef comprehended the case in a moment.It was a mistake arising from the want of perspicacity of an over-zealous officer, and the Chef entreated Madame—he begged pardon, Mademoiselle—to accept a hundred thousand apologies for the unfortunate mistake which had subjected her to such treatment.Trop de zelewas poor satisfaction for being arrested, locked up, and losing her vengeance; but Mademoiselle smiled sweetly, told the officer not to mention it, and now that she had gained his ear went on eagerly to tell her tale.The Chef listened attentively to Miss Kingscott’s narration, making short notes in a memorandum book before him, knitting his brows, glancing at her every now and then interrogatively with his sharp pistolling eyes, and pulling the waxed ends of his black moustacheà l’Empereurmeditatively as she proceeded with her strange recital.It did not astonish the Chef, however. The French police are never astonished,Le Garde meurt, mais ne se rend pas: Monsieur le Chef was only perplexed, but his perplexity grew greater the more he heard.That a murder should have been committed anywhere was not such a very surprising thing in itself; but that a murder should take place in Havre, Havre which was under his own especial supervision,c’était impossible! It was a thing incredible.It was absurd on the face of it. Hissergents de villeknew their duty too well to allow it; but still he interrogated Mademoiselle, and put down the answers she gave to his various questions in his note book. All the circumstances of the case should be looked into and investigated, although they certainly seemed incredible. It struck the Chef, however, that Mademoiselle’s narrative was too clear and succinct to be made up: besides, a few initiatory inquiries would readily reveal whether her premises were true or false.The Chef touched a hand-bell on his table, and a subordinate officer quickly answered the summons. To him some directions were given, in a low earnest voice, so low that Miss Kingscott could not catch their purport: the man then withdrew.“Attendez un moment, Mademoiselle, il reviendra bientôt,” said the Chef, in an apologetic tone.Miss Kingscott had to wait nearly half-an-hour until the messenger came back.More whispering with the Chef, and comparing of note books; the news was evidently important, for the latter looked grave and puzzled; but as soon as the underling withdrew, he again addressed the governess.“I find you have told me the truth about yourself,” he commenced.“Your politeness is great to have doubted my word: I thought all Frenchmen were renowned for their gallantry!” interposed the lady.“Circumstances must plead my excuse, Mademoiselle,” continued the Chef, making an elaborately polite bow; “the law must be assured before it can act. I find that you came to Havre yesterday, that about mid-day you went to the Hotel du Coté d’Or, secured a room, and left your luggage. Thepropriétairementions that you have stopped there before, and gives you a good character.”“A thousand thanks,” said Miss Kingscott, with a sneer.“Mademoiselle will understand that it is my duty to make these enquiries.Allons! That, after remaining a short time at the Hotel du Côte d’Or,” continued the Chef, calmly, as if reading out from an affidavit, “you went out, leaving word that you would return again to dinner, but you did not go back, andMonsieur le propriétairewas plunged into the deepest uneasiness at your non-appearance: I believe I am so far correct.”The Chef paused here a moment, as if to to have his observation to be confirmed.“Après?” inquired the lady, and nodded her head for him to go on.“I have also learnt,” continued the Chef, “that this man Markworth, whom you accuse, was a gentleman, English, and has lived with a lady whom he called his wife, and who was of delicate health for more than three months past at the house of Madame Cliquelle, commonly calledla Mère Cliquelle, at the houseNuméro7,Rue Montmartre; that this man Markworth has been in the habit of quitting his apartments for short intervals, leavingmadame sa femmebehind him, and crossing over to England, from whence he has generally returned after an absence of two or three days. That, after one of these short absences, he came back yesterday—Mademoiselle probably crossed the channel in the same boat with Monsieur?”“I did.”“This man Markworth, after coming back remained in his apartments all day until the evening. The Mère Cliquelle says that she heard no high words (grosses paroles) between Monsieur Markworth and his wife. She has observed that Madame was very delicate and very fond of Monsieur, and that he was always very gentle and kind to her—in fact that they were an attached couple. Well, this Monsieur Markworth remained in all day until the evening, he gave orders to the Mère Cliquelle to admit nobody to see him. One person called and enquired particularly to see him in the afternoon—perhaps that was Mademoiselle?”“It was,” answered Miss Kingscott.“You were not admitted to see Monsieur?”“I was not admitted,” she answered, sententiously.The Chef went on. “So says the Mère Cliquelle. In the evening about seven o’clock she and her husband also both declare that Monsieur et Madame Markworth went out apparently for a walk. Shortly after they went out a big stout English gentleman called and enquired for them; he was told they were out, and said he would return again at nine o’clock. About that time, as near as the Mère Cliquelle and her husband could judge, Markworth came back alone without his wife. Monsieur Cliquelle, who saw him, says he looked pale, and was out of breath, as if from running; and he told him that Madame Markworth was unwell, that he had taken her to see some friends at Lugonville, that he only came back to fetch some things for her, and would bring her home in the morning. Monsieur Markworth after remaining in his apartments perhaps half an hour or more went out, as the husband of the Mère Cliquelle supposed to Lugonville and his wife, taking a small travelling portmanteau with him; nothing further has been seen of Markworth or his wife, or of the fat Englishman who said he would return to the house in question at nine o’clock last night. Does Mademoiselle follow me? She will see that her story is partly confirmed by other circumstances.”“I told you nearly all that myself, before!” she observed, angrily.“Certainly, Mademoiselle! But your statement had to be confirmed.”“And now, what are you going to do?”“The machinery of justice shall be at once set in motion!” said the Frenchman, grandiloquently, in the fashion of his countrymen.“And I?”“Mademoiselle will do me the honour of accompanying me to the Bureau ofMonsieur le Juge de Paix, to make her deposition. But we must attend to other things first,” saying which the Chef again touched the hand-bell that lay within easy reach on his table. The same officer appeared again as before.“Send Auguste and Dèchemal to me at once.”Enter twomouchardsin plain clothes.The Chef addressed the one he called Dèchemal first—did anyone ever know the real name of a French spy?—“You went to that house in the Rue Montmartre just now, did you not?”“Oui, Mon Chef,” he answered monosyllabically.“Well, go there again. Arrest the Mère Cliquelle and her husband, take them to the office of the Juge de Paix, and await me there.”“Oui, Mon Chef,”—Exit firstmouchard.“Auguste!”“Oui; Mon Chef.”“Go down to the office of the English steam-boats. See what passengers leave this morning. Ask also along the quays if any boatman took any person or persons across to Honfleur, or any place adjoining, last night or this morning. Make enquiries, too, at the hotels and cabarets, if they have received any fresh lodgers since nine o’clock yesterday evening, and whom. Report to me at the Juge de Paix’s in half an hour, or as soon as you can.”“Oui, Mon Chef.” Exit secondmouchard, as stealthily as the other—serpentine in movements both.“Allons, Mademoiselle,” said the Chef, rising from his chair of office and bowing to Nemesis, “if you will follow me, we will now act our parts. The machinery of justice is already in motion.”Clara Kingscott accompanied the functionary of the law, civil in every respect, out of his office and into the street. At his notification their steps were first directed up the hill to the spot where she pointed out as having confronted Markworth. The Chef busied himself with taking notes as deftly as any “chiel.” She also indicated the place on the verge where she had seen Susan disappear. They then descended the pathway where she supposed the girl would have fallen. More keen observation and note taking on the part of the Chef. No apparent results however, for not a trace could be seen of anybody.Suddenly the Chef paused in the act of taking notes with one hand and pulling the ends of his waxed moustache with the fingers of the other. He perceived a piece of rag evidently torn off a dress, clinging to the rocks. It was dark crimson in colour, and was a piece of merino dyed that hue. He took it up triumphantly, and held it forth for Miss Kingscott’s inspection.“Voilà!” he exclaimed.The governess did “look there,” and examined the fragment curiously; a glance of recognition flickered on her face, which the Chef at once perceived.“Ha!” he said, “you see something? You recognise the dress of your compatriot?” with much guttural rolling of his R’s.“I do!” she answered, “I can swear that Susan Hartshorne wore a dress like that the last time I saw her alive.”“It is well! We have now some proof, but we must discover what has been done with the body. Mademoiselle will now accompany me to the bureau of the Juge de Paix,” he added, after a reflective pause, filled up with more notation and twirling of the somewhat stiff ends of the “hirsute appendage on his upper lip.”The Chef leading this time and Miss Kingscott following behind, the two were soon walking rapidly together towards the imposing residence of the official alluded to.
It was not until late in the morning that Clara Kingscott was let out of the cell in the police-station, where she had been locked up, and was taken to be examined beforeMonsieur le Chef des sergents de ville.
Although she was full of natural indignation at the treatment that she met with, to gain her purpose, she was forced to dissemble her anger, and answer all the questions put to her in a cool and collected manner.
Having taken care also to arrange her toilette and efface the traces of bedragglement, her appearance had its due effect, and Monsieur le Chef comprehended the case in a moment.
It was a mistake arising from the want of perspicacity of an over-zealous officer, and the Chef entreated Madame—he begged pardon, Mademoiselle—to accept a hundred thousand apologies for the unfortunate mistake which had subjected her to such treatment.
Trop de zelewas poor satisfaction for being arrested, locked up, and losing her vengeance; but Mademoiselle smiled sweetly, told the officer not to mention it, and now that she had gained his ear went on eagerly to tell her tale.
The Chef listened attentively to Miss Kingscott’s narration, making short notes in a memorandum book before him, knitting his brows, glancing at her every now and then interrogatively with his sharp pistolling eyes, and pulling the waxed ends of his black moustacheà l’Empereurmeditatively as she proceeded with her strange recital.
It did not astonish the Chef, however. The French police are never astonished,Le Garde meurt, mais ne se rend pas: Monsieur le Chef was only perplexed, but his perplexity grew greater the more he heard.
That a murder should have been committed anywhere was not such a very surprising thing in itself; but that a murder should take place in Havre, Havre which was under his own especial supervision,c’était impossible! It was a thing incredible.
It was absurd on the face of it. Hissergents de villeknew their duty too well to allow it; but still he interrogated Mademoiselle, and put down the answers she gave to his various questions in his note book. All the circumstances of the case should be looked into and investigated, although they certainly seemed incredible. It struck the Chef, however, that Mademoiselle’s narrative was too clear and succinct to be made up: besides, a few initiatory inquiries would readily reveal whether her premises were true or false.
The Chef touched a hand-bell on his table, and a subordinate officer quickly answered the summons. To him some directions were given, in a low earnest voice, so low that Miss Kingscott could not catch their purport: the man then withdrew.
“Attendez un moment, Mademoiselle, il reviendra bientôt,” said the Chef, in an apologetic tone.
Miss Kingscott had to wait nearly half-an-hour until the messenger came back.
More whispering with the Chef, and comparing of note books; the news was evidently important, for the latter looked grave and puzzled; but as soon as the underling withdrew, he again addressed the governess.
“I find you have told me the truth about yourself,” he commenced.
“Your politeness is great to have doubted my word: I thought all Frenchmen were renowned for their gallantry!” interposed the lady.
“Circumstances must plead my excuse, Mademoiselle,” continued the Chef, making an elaborately polite bow; “the law must be assured before it can act. I find that you came to Havre yesterday, that about mid-day you went to the Hotel du Coté d’Or, secured a room, and left your luggage. Thepropriétairementions that you have stopped there before, and gives you a good character.”
“A thousand thanks,” said Miss Kingscott, with a sneer.
“Mademoiselle will understand that it is my duty to make these enquiries.Allons! That, after remaining a short time at the Hotel du Côte d’Or,” continued the Chef, calmly, as if reading out from an affidavit, “you went out, leaving word that you would return again to dinner, but you did not go back, andMonsieur le propriétairewas plunged into the deepest uneasiness at your non-appearance: I believe I am so far correct.”
The Chef paused here a moment, as if to to have his observation to be confirmed.
“Après?” inquired the lady, and nodded her head for him to go on.
“I have also learnt,” continued the Chef, “that this man Markworth, whom you accuse, was a gentleman, English, and has lived with a lady whom he called his wife, and who was of delicate health for more than three months past at the house of Madame Cliquelle, commonly calledla Mère Cliquelle, at the houseNuméro7,Rue Montmartre; that this man Markworth has been in the habit of quitting his apartments for short intervals, leavingmadame sa femmebehind him, and crossing over to England, from whence he has generally returned after an absence of two or three days. That, after one of these short absences, he came back yesterday—Mademoiselle probably crossed the channel in the same boat with Monsieur?”
“I did.”
“This man Markworth, after coming back remained in his apartments all day until the evening. The Mère Cliquelle says that she heard no high words (grosses paroles) between Monsieur Markworth and his wife. She has observed that Madame was very delicate and very fond of Monsieur, and that he was always very gentle and kind to her—in fact that they were an attached couple. Well, this Monsieur Markworth remained in all day until the evening, he gave orders to the Mère Cliquelle to admit nobody to see him. One person called and enquired particularly to see him in the afternoon—perhaps that was Mademoiselle?”
“It was,” answered Miss Kingscott.
“You were not admitted to see Monsieur?”
“I was not admitted,” she answered, sententiously.
The Chef went on. “So says the Mère Cliquelle. In the evening about seven o’clock she and her husband also both declare that Monsieur et Madame Markworth went out apparently for a walk. Shortly after they went out a big stout English gentleman called and enquired for them; he was told they were out, and said he would return again at nine o’clock. About that time, as near as the Mère Cliquelle and her husband could judge, Markworth came back alone without his wife. Monsieur Cliquelle, who saw him, says he looked pale, and was out of breath, as if from running; and he told him that Madame Markworth was unwell, that he had taken her to see some friends at Lugonville, that he only came back to fetch some things for her, and would bring her home in the morning. Monsieur Markworth after remaining in his apartments perhaps half an hour or more went out, as the husband of the Mère Cliquelle supposed to Lugonville and his wife, taking a small travelling portmanteau with him; nothing further has been seen of Markworth or his wife, or of the fat Englishman who said he would return to the house in question at nine o’clock last night. Does Mademoiselle follow me? She will see that her story is partly confirmed by other circumstances.”
“I told you nearly all that myself, before!” she observed, angrily.
“Certainly, Mademoiselle! But your statement had to be confirmed.”
“And now, what are you going to do?”
“The machinery of justice shall be at once set in motion!” said the Frenchman, grandiloquently, in the fashion of his countrymen.
“And I?”
“Mademoiselle will do me the honour of accompanying me to the Bureau ofMonsieur le Juge de Paix, to make her deposition. But we must attend to other things first,” saying which the Chef again touched the hand-bell that lay within easy reach on his table. The same officer appeared again as before.
“Send Auguste and Dèchemal to me at once.”
Enter twomouchardsin plain clothes.
The Chef addressed the one he called Dèchemal first—did anyone ever know the real name of a French spy?—“You went to that house in the Rue Montmartre just now, did you not?”
“Oui, Mon Chef,” he answered monosyllabically.
“Well, go there again. Arrest the Mère Cliquelle and her husband, take them to the office of the Juge de Paix, and await me there.”
“Oui, Mon Chef,”—Exit firstmouchard.
“Auguste!”
“Oui; Mon Chef.”
“Go down to the office of the English steam-boats. See what passengers leave this morning. Ask also along the quays if any boatman took any person or persons across to Honfleur, or any place adjoining, last night or this morning. Make enquiries, too, at the hotels and cabarets, if they have received any fresh lodgers since nine o’clock yesterday evening, and whom. Report to me at the Juge de Paix’s in half an hour, or as soon as you can.”
“Oui, Mon Chef.” Exit secondmouchard, as stealthily as the other—serpentine in movements both.
“Allons, Mademoiselle,” said the Chef, rising from his chair of office and bowing to Nemesis, “if you will follow me, we will now act our parts. The machinery of justice is already in motion.”
Clara Kingscott accompanied the functionary of the law, civil in every respect, out of his office and into the street. At his notification their steps were first directed up the hill to the spot where she pointed out as having confronted Markworth. The Chef busied himself with taking notes as deftly as any “chiel.” She also indicated the place on the verge where she had seen Susan disappear. They then descended the pathway where she supposed the girl would have fallen. More keen observation and note taking on the part of the Chef. No apparent results however, for not a trace could be seen of anybody.
Suddenly the Chef paused in the act of taking notes with one hand and pulling the ends of his waxed moustache with the fingers of the other. He perceived a piece of rag evidently torn off a dress, clinging to the rocks. It was dark crimson in colour, and was a piece of merino dyed that hue. He took it up triumphantly, and held it forth for Miss Kingscott’s inspection.
“Voilà!” he exclaimed.
The governess did “look there,” and examined the fragment curiously; a glance of recognition flickered on her face, which the Chef at once perceived.
“Ha!” he said, “you see something? You recognise the dress of your compatriot?” with much guttural rolling of his R’s.
“I do!” she answered, “I can swear that Susan Hartshorne wore a dress like that the last time I saw her alive.”
“It is well! We have now some proof, but we must discover what has been done with the body. Mademoiselle will now accompany me to the bureau of the Juge de Paix,” he added, after a reflective pause, filled up with more notation and twirling of the somewhat stiff ends of the “hirsute appendage on his upper lip.”
The Chef leading this time and Miss Kingscott following behind, the two were soon walking rapidly together towards the imposing residence of the official alluded to.
Volume Three—Chapter Four.Poor Andromeda!While events were thus hastening on abroad, all was quiet at home, both at The Poplars and the parsonage. Fancy Andromeda’s lamentations when Perseus left her! and in her place picture Lizzie, since Tom had gone.It was now autumn, or rather winter, for the month of November was well in hand, and Christmas was “coming,” as the adage says.—Some people’s Christmases seem always coming.It was now autumn. The trees were leafless, with their skeleton boughs stretched out like spectral hands clutching towards the sky, and sighing with every breath of the dull wintry wind that swept across their moaning branches for the approach of spring.What a change the past three weeks had made in Lizzie Pringle’s life! It is one of the anomalies of our nature, ever changeful and varying, that the world—our world—is made up of change, even in the most monotonous of lives. The machinery of existence is wonderfully intricate, and of such delicate construction, that the slightest hitch or strain can throw it entirely out of gear. We move on calmly, perhaps, in a smooth groove, from life to death, from the cradle towards the grave, when of a sudden a pebble gets into the works, a new element is introduced into, or an old one subtracted from, the course of our existence, and all is changed. No more do the wheels move steadily round and the cranks slide up and down as of yore; a hitch has occurred; and although the machine goes on still, apparently with the same rumble and clang, the motion is not what it was; it is parallel, perhaps, or elliptical, but is not the same as it was before. Nothing can ever restore it again. Our lives are altered against our wills, and though the cradle stands in the background and the grave looms in front, the change of the enchanter’s hand—it may be of pleasure and joy, or more likely one of grief and pain—has passed over our lives, and we ourselves are altered too, for better or worse—God grant the former!In a woman’s life this change is more common, although not so apparent as with men; because love and marriage, which cause more proportionately this change, are looked upon by them more as their natural destiny than as exceptional incidents in an otherwise even life. Marriage is the ultimate end of a woman’s life, as the subsequent nursing of babies and darning of socks; with the sterner, though by no means nobler sex, it is but a new phase of existence.When the little winged god makes his appearance, therefore, and hurls one of his death-dealing darts, it is a much more serious matter for a girl than it is with us. Daphne feels it far more acutely than Apollo. With him it has been merely a pleasant little change in his life—pour s’amuser; but to her it is a new existence—her life, her all. She has only been in a state of pupilage before; but now she is a woman, with all a woman’s hopes and fears. She has entered on the portals of the future state, when once Love’s fetters have entwined themselves around her, the state for which she was born—herultima Thule.For eighteen calm and happy years Lizzie’s life had flowed on smoothly in the one quiet groove. She had passed from babyhood to girldom and school-age in the usual course of nature, and, until now, she had never had a deeper happiness than what a passing fancy would give, or a greater trouble than a few hours could efface. Her one great loss—the death of her mother—had occurred at so early an age that it left no lasting impression on her; and she had consequently grown up a merry little lassie, winning all hearts with her sweetlypiquanteface and those wondrous violet eyes, whose unknown depths now laughed defiance at you, and now displayed a strange wistful languor, which irresistibly attracted you.That was until last summer; but Lizzie was very much changed now. The little laughing girl was transformed into the winning, wistful maiden, who knew now that there was more in life than eighteen summers usually dreams of. The apples of the Tree of Knowledge had been tasted, and Lizzie became aware that existence was not all lotus-eating, although it did contain, perhaps, some secret joys unknown to childhood.Everyone meets their “Fate” at some time or other; and Tom was her fate, young as they both were; perhaps, it was better that that mysterious affinity which unites us all, for a temporary or a permanent period with those especially appointed for us, should come across her early in life. It is a cup which one only sips once in a lifetime—better early perhaps than late. Do you know there is something in the Mormon doctrine after all—putting polygamy aside—in that principle of theirs that the brides of the elders or prophets are “sealed” to them. It shows a belief in the mystical and apparently predestined affinity of certain souls to one another.From that first meeting in church, when the stolen glances of Tom had set the loom of love in motion, a regular and intricate warp and woof of affection had been woven between the pair. The time of their acquaintance was perhaps short; but love laughs at time even as well as he does at the proverbial locksmiths: between kindred souls an hour affects more than years in others—as may have been already observed.Lizzie was visited with an attack of thatmalaria mortiswhich comes to some of us in our lives at some certain time or other, either for good or ill. It was a very serious attack. Not a trumpery little ailment which could be patched up for the nonce, and the patient recover without having a scar to remind her of the disease; but a real bona fide visitation, in which the sickness works its course from beginning to end, and is not to be repelled by namby-pamby lotions of milk and water, and worldly prudence and mammon panaceas. It was love. Lovepur et simple, which one hears derided every day by philosophising “anti-gamonists” and Pharisaical parents, who esteem riches beyond happiness, and “an eligible parti” superior to the attainment of healthy though poor affection. Love overrides worldly motives still, however, in this so-called heathenish and worldly nineteenth century, and exists in spite of the false code of morality which strives to bear it down. Love in a cottage may be humbug certainly when our souls thirst after the gargoyles of a ten-storied mansion and purple and fine linen. The dinner of roots and herbs in preference to the stalled ox, is a delusion and a snare to one who had a weakness forentrées, and would rather the high priced salmon and early peas, at some fabled sum a peck in Covent Garden; but bear me out, Chloe, when next thou listenest with attentive ear to the tuneful pipes of Amaryllon, and you, God-like Augustus, when you see the modest blush of happiness which crimsons the cheek of the gentle though rustic Lettice Lisle!After Lizzie had first seen Tom she did not know what was the matter with her, and nobody else could perhaps have enlightened her on the subject.She was restless, and did not know what to do. Things which had previously given pleasure to her she now wondered she could have ever enjoyed. Nothing pleased her; nothing delighted her; what could have come over her?Her brother perceived the change, and wondered too what was the matter. He thought Lizzie was hipped at being left alone so much, for he had to be out a good deal, and the household was only composed of himself and her, with the exception of the servants. Acting on this idea he had proposed to Lizzie that they should invite a certain Aunt Jane to visit them; but Lizzie made up a horrible littlemoue, expressive of disgust, and laughed the idea to scorn.She drew such a picture of the peculiarities of the stern Aunt Jane, and showed what straits they would be reduced to under herrégime, that Pringle quickly abandoned the project in holy horror, and wondered how he could have ever thought of such a thing. Then when he commented on Lizzie’s looks, and asked her affectionately what was the matter, she laughed it off at first, told him she was never better in her life, asked him what could induce him to question her so, and concluded by making a pretty scene, and sobbing on his neck. She was miserable! She did not know what was the matter with her! She must be ill! She would be all right probably to-morrow; she had a headache now, and was tired; she would go to bed!—which she accordingly did.This was after the first acquaintance with Master Tom.But when that young gentleman began to take such a deep interest in fly-fishing, and, in pursuing his favourite spoilt, had to pay so many and frequent visits to the parsonage in order to fish in the pool that ran at the bottom of the lawn, Lizzie got brighter and better.Instead of her movements being all languor and lack of elasticity, they were now all life and vivacity. She took a deeper interest in everything around her; every little humdrum detail in her daily routine seemed to be invested with a new charm: there was not a brighter little lassie around the country side. She was merry then, and when Tom’s avowal came, and she heard from his own lips those burning words of love, of which she had been intuitively cognisant, and which she had, unknown to herself, already returned, her cup of happiness brimmed over.The change was complete.Then came the after relapse, when Tom came down so miserably to tell of his mother’s refusal, and had afterwards parted from her in anger.In anger with her! She thought her little heart would break.The falling out of lovers, however, is the renewal of love; and so Lizzie found it.The happiness which she then enjoyed was greater than that which preceded it. Who is it that defines that word happiness to be “gleams of a brighter world, too soon eclipsed and forfeited?” Lizzie’s bliss, however, was saddened by the thought that Tom was soon to leave her. It intensified her love, and surrounded it with that holier charm which sorrow always lends.Then came the parting. And Andromeda was left alone to lament, whilst her lover was ploughing the stormy main. Tom was “off to the wars”—rather a queer place for a knight of chivalry in the nineteenth century to seek for adventure, Abyssinia!—and Lizzie had, like most women in such cases, to nurse her grief, which was her joy as well, by herself. ’Tis the way of the world, as Kingsley sings—“For men must work! and women must weep!And the sooner ’tis over, the sooner to sleep!”The weary weeks glided by slowly after Tom’s departure, and Lizzie’s little world was changed. But greater changes were coming soon, if not to her spiritual, at least to her temporal state.Lizzie had been made aware, of course, long since, of her brother’s engagement with Laura Inskip; but she had been so much taken up with her own troubles that she had not had spirit enough to enter into Herbert’s “littleroman” with all the good-natured enthusiasm of which her bursting: little heart was capable. Events had rolled on so rapidly that she became confused between them all, and the engagement with Laura was not looked upon with that surprise and interest with which any enterprise or suit of her brother’s was usually regarded.But time went on, and Lizzie could not but interest herself now in the progress of change around her. She had liked the languid Laura in her way; but she was not the sort of girl—being a very energetic and hopeful little sister—that she would have selected for her brother’s mate. She would have had a little goddess or empress for Herbert; still as Herbert had chosen for himself, she made up her mind to love her expected sister-in-law with all her heart.With these thoughts, Lizzie made many advances to the Inskips, but the old campaigner was very disagreeable to her, and treated her as a nonentity; and Laura was too lazy to share her future sister’s enthusiasm, so Lizzie’s feelings were damped. Carry, she thought very “nice,” but she was too noisy and gushing for Lizzie, just so heavily bereaved; consequently the little maiden was forced to withdraw herself within herself, and think of the future and Tom, and build very unstable castles in the air.And so the autumn passed by, and winter was nigh, and the change changed still.Herbert Pringle was to be married early in the new year. It was to be quite a grand affair, and from the hints dropped, Bigton and Hartwood village were all agog with the news and their anticipations, for you may be sure the campaigner was not one to hide her light under a bushel.But Lizzie felt alone! Poor Andromeda. Perseus had gone! not in a classic trireme! but by one of the P. and O. steamers.
While events were thus hastening on abroad, all was quiet at home, both at The Poplars and the parsonage. Fancy Andromeda’s lamentations when Perseus left her! and in her place picture Lizzie, since Tom had gone.
It was now autumn, or rather winter, for the month of November was well in hand, and Christmas was “coming,” as the adage says.—Some people’s Christmases seem always coming.
It was now autumn. The trees were leafless, with their skeleton boughs stretched out like spectral hands clutching towards the sky, and sighing with every breath of the dull wintry wind that swept across their moaning branches for the approach of spring.
What a change the past three weeks had made in Lizzie Pringle’s life! It is one of the anomalies of our nature, ever changeful and varying, that the world—our world—is made up of change, even in the most monotonous of lives. The machinery of existence is wonderfully intricate, and of such delicate construction, that the slightest hitch or strain can throw it entirely out of gear. We move on calmly, perhaps, in a smooth groove, from life to death, from the cradle towards the grave, when of a sudden a pebble gets into the works, a new element is introduced into, or an old one subtracted from, the course of our existence, and all is changed. No more do the wheels move steadily round and the cranks slide up and down as of yore; a hitch has occurred; and although the machine goes on still, apparently with the same rumble and clang, the motion is not what it was; it is parallel, perhaps, or elliptical, but is not the same as it was before. Nothing can ever restore it again. Our lives are altered against our wills, and though the cradle stands in the background and the grave looms in front, the change of the enchanter’s hand—it may be of pleasure and joy, or more likely one of grief and pain—has passed over our lives, and we ourselves are altered too, for better or worse—God grant the former!
In a woman’s life this change is more common, although not so apparent as with men; because love and marriage, which cause more proportionately this change, are looked upon by them more as their natural destiny than as exceptional incidents in an otherwise even life. Marriage is the ultimate end of a woman’s life, as the subsequent nursing of babies and darning of socks; with the sterner, though by no means nobler sex, it is but a new phase of existence.
When the little winged god makes his appearance, therefore, and hurls one of his death-dealing darts, it is a much more serious matter for a girl than it is with us. Daphne feels it far more acutely than Apollo. With him it has been merely a pleasant little change in his life—pour s’amuser; but to her it is a new existence—her life, her all. She has only been in a state of pupilage before; but now she is a woman, with all a woman’s hopes and fears. She has entered on the portals of the future state, when once Love’s fetters have entwined themselves around her, the state for which she was born—herultima Thule.
For eighteen calm and happy years Lizzie’s life had flowed on smoothly in the one quiet groove. She had passed from babyhood to girldom and school-age in the usual course of nature, and, until now, she had never had a deeper happiness than what a passing fancy would give, or a greater trouble than a few hours could efface. Her one great loss—the death of her mother—had occurred at so early an age that it left no lasting impression on her; and she had consequently grown up a merry little lassie, winning all hearts with her sweetlypiquanteface and those wondrous violet eyes, whose unknown depths now laughed defiance at you, and now displayed a strange wistful languor, which irresistibly attracted you.
That was until last summer; but Lizzie was very much changed now. The little laughing girl was transformed into the winning, wistful maiden, who knew now that there was more in life than eighteen summers usually dreams of. The apples of the Tree of Knowledge had been tasted, and Lizzie became aware that existence was not all lotus-eating, although it did contain, perhaps, some secret joys unknown to childhood.
Everyone meets their “Fate” at some time or other; and Tom was her fate, young as they both were; perhaps, it was better that that mysterious affinity which unites us all, for a temporary or a permanent period with those especially appointed for us, should come across her early in life. It is a cup which one only sips once in a lifetime—better early perhaps than late. Do you know there is something in the Mormon doctrine after all—putting polygamy aside—in that principle of theirs that the brides of the elders or prophets are “sealed” to them. It shows a belief in the mystical and apparently predestined affinity of certain souls to one another.
From that first meeting in church, when the stolen glances of Tom had set the loom of love in motion, a regular and intricate warp and woof of affection had been woven between the pair. The time of their acquaintance was perhaps short; but love laughs at time even as well as he does at the proverbial locksmiths: between kindred souls an hour affects more than years in others—as may have been already observed.
Lizzie was visited with an attack of thatmalaria mortiswhich comes to some of us in our lives at some certain time or other, either for good or ill. It was a very serious attack. Not a trumpery little ailment which could be patched up for the nonce, and the patient recover without having a scar to remind her of the disease; but a real bona fide visitation, in which the sickness works its course from beginning to end, and is not to be repelled by namby-pamby lotions of milk and water, and worldly prudence and mammon panaceas. It was love. Lovepur et simple, which one hears derided every day by philosophising “anti-gamonists” and Pharisaical parents, who esteem riches beyond happiness, and “an eligible parti” superior to the attainment of healthy though poor affection. Love overrides worldly motives still, however, in this so-called heathenish and worldly nineteenth century, and exists in spite of the false code of morality which strives to bear it down. Love in a cottage may be humbug certainly when our souls thirst after the gargoyles of a ten-storied mansion and purple and fine linen. The dinner of roots and herbs in preference to the stalled ox, is a delusion and a snare to one who had a weakness forentrées, and would rather the high priced salmon and early peas, at some fabled sum a peck in Covent Garden; but bear me out, Chloe, when next thou listenest with attentive ear to the tuneful pipes of Amaryllon, and you, God-like Augustus, when you see the modest blush of happiness which crimsons the cheek of the gentle though rustic Lettice Lisle!
After Lizzie had first seen Tom she did not know what was the matter with her, and nobody else could perhaps have enlightened her on the subject.
She was restless, and did not know what to do. Things which had previously given pleasure to her she now wondered she could have ever enjoyed. Nothing pleased her; nothing delighted her; what could have come over her?
Her brother perceived the change, and wondered too what was the matter. He thought Lizzie was hipped at being left alone so much, for he had to be out a good deal, and the household was only composed of himself and her, with the exception of the servants. Acting on this idea he had proposed to Lizzie that they should invite a certain Aunt Jane to visit them; but Lizzie made up a horrible littlemoue, expressive of disgust, and laughed the idea to scorn.
She drew such a picture of the peculiarities of the stern Aunt Jane, and showed what straits they would be reduced to under herrégime, that Pringle quickly abandoned the project in holy horror, and wondered how he could have ever thought of such a thing. Then when he commented on Lizzie’s looks, and asked her affectionately what was the matter, she laughed it off at first, told him she was never better in her life, asked him what could induce him to question her so, and concluded by making a pretty scene, and sobbing on his neck. She was miserable! She did not know what was the matter with her! She must be ill! She would be all right probably to-morrow; she had a headache now, and was tired; she would go to bed!—which she accordingly did.
This was after the first acquaintance with Master Tom.
But when that young gentleman began to take such a deep interest in fly-fishing, and, in pursuing his favourite spoilt, had to pay so many and frequent visits to the parsonage in order to fish in the pool that ran at the bottom of the lawn, Lizzie got brighter and better.
Instead of her movements being all languor and lack of elasticity, they were now all life and vivacity. She took a deeper interest in everything around her; every little humdrum detail in her daily routine seemed to be invested with a new charm: there was not a brighter little lassie around the country side. She was merry then, and when Tom’s avowal came, and she heard from his own lips those burning words of love, of which she had been intuitively cognisant, and which she had, unknown to herself, already returned, her cup of happiness brimmed over.
The change was complete.
Then came the after relapse, when Tom came down so miserably to tell of his mother’s refusal, and had afterwards parted from her in anger.
In anger with her! She thought her little heart would break.
The falling out of lovers, however, is the renewal of love; and so Lizzie found it.
The happiness which she then enjoyed was greater than that which preceded it. Who is it that defines that word happiness to be “gleams of a brighter world, too soon eclipsed and forfeited?” Lizzie’s bliss, however, was saddened by the thought that Tom was soon to leave her. It intensified her love, and surrounded it with that holier charm which sorrow always lends.
Then came the parting. And Andromeda was left alone to lament, whilst her lover was ploughing the stormy main. Tom was “off to the wars”—rather a queer place for a knight of chivalry in the nineteenth century to seek for adventure, Abyssinia!—and Lizzie had, like most women in such cases, to nurse her grief, which was her joy as well, by herself. ’Tis the way of the world, as Kingsley sings—
“For men must work! and women must weep!And the sooner ’tis over, the sooner to sleep!”
“For men must work! and women must weep!And the sooner ’tis over, the sooner to sleep!”
The weary weeks glided by slowly after Tom’s departure, and Lizzie’s little world was changed. But greater changes were coming soon, if not to her spiritual, at least to her temporal state.
Lizzie had been made aware, of course, long since, of her brother’s engagement with Laura Inskip; but she had been so much taken up with her own troubles that she had not had spirit enough to enter into Herbert’s “littleroman” with all the good-natured enthusiasm of which her bursting: little heart was capable. Events had rolled on so rapidly that she became confused between them all, and the engagement with Laura was not looked upon with that surprise and interest with which any enterprise or suit of her brother’s was usually regarded.
But time went on, and Lizzie could not but interest herself now in the progress of change around her. She had liked the languid Laura in her way; but she was not the sort of girl—being a very energetic and hopeful little sister—that she would have selected for her brother’s mate. She would have had a little goddess or empress for Herbert; still as Herbert had chosen for himself, she made up her mind to love her expected sister-in-law with all her heart.
With these thoughts, Lizzie made many advances to the Inskips, but the old campaigner was very disagreeable to her, and treated her as a nonentity; and Laura was too lazy to share her future sister’s enthusiasm, so Lizzie’s feelings were damped. Carry, she thought very “nice,” but she was too noisy and gushing for Lizzie, just so heavily bereaved; consequently the little maiden was forced to withdraw herself within herself, and think of the future and Tom, and build very unstable castles in the air.
And so the autumn passed by, and winter was nigh, and the change changed still.
Herbert Pringle was to be married early in the new year. It was to be quite a grand affair, and from the hints dropped, Bigton and Hartwood village were all agog with the news and their anticipations, for you may be sure the campaigner was not one to hide her light under a bushel.
But Lizzie felt alone! Poor Andromeda. Perseus had gone! not in a classic trireme! but by one of the P. and O. steamers.