John C. Hutcheson (continued 3)

“Well, she told me that she saw you and Tom Hartshorne in the garden the other day as she drove by; and, though I see no harm in it, and fortunately no one but herself saw it, she said she was very much shocked, and that you acted as if you were engaged. Now, Lizzie, you know I’m very fond of you, and all that sort of thing, but people might talk, you know, and I want you to put a stop to it.”

Lizzie’s defences were entirely overthrown. Her look of indignation faded off her face, to be replaced by a quick crimson blush, which as rapidly disappeared and left her features as pale as marble. She made a hurried step towards her brother, and fell sobbing on his neck.

“Oh! Bertie, Bertie!” she sobbed out, between a series of little gasps.

“There, there, don’t cry! my darling little Lizzie. You know I did not mean to hurt you, my own little sister!” said Herbert, sympathisingly, patting her head as if he were saying “Poor dog! poor dog!” to a Newfoundland pup. And the subject was dropped, Lizzie thus gaining the victory in the end by having recourse to a woman’s strongest safeguard—tears. For, as he told Lady Inskip afterwards, “when the waterworks were turned on he had to give in.” The old campaigner for her part, was very well satisfied that the topic had been mentioned: that was all she wanted.

Lizzie went to bed very early that night, pleading a headache, and really her face was so pale and the deep violet eyes were so sunk in her head with broad veins of black underneath them, that her assertion was freely borne out by her appearance.

The poor little heart was deeply troubled: the stricken deer was grievously wounded. She was very young, you must remember, and had fallen into that horrible abyss of love without knowing what she was doing. The temptation had been so sweet, the steps she had taken into that rose-coloured paradise so gradual, that she had not perceived the drift of their march, so that Tom’s sudden act and manner had startled and frightened her; it was letting in the sunlight on one who has been blindfolded, and the little secret which she had hugged to her heart alarmed, while it gave her such sweet ecstasy.

Ever since that morning in the garden, only two days ago—two days! it seemed more like two years, she had been so much altered—Lizzie had not been the same. She had awakened from a long sleep as it were, and everything round her, every little inconsiderable item in her daily life bore a new charm to her or had a fresh meaning. A deeper and more beautiful light beamed now in her thoughtful eyes; there was a charming hesitancy in her manner in lieu of the former piquante pert way she had. In a word, Lizzie was our Lizzie still, but a hundred times more loveable and prettier from the new love light that encircled her.

She had been watching—eagerly watching, for her next meeting with Tom, and yet when she thought of him, blushed at her thoughts and trembled with a sly rapture. He was so noble—so manly—so handsome! Just in fact what most young girls think Corydon when in love.

It was no wonder, then, that the brother’s lecture and the idea of the old campaigner’s criticism on her conduct frightened our poor little maid.

She went up to her little bed tearfully and heavy-hearted, and thought of chains and dungeons, and all the malicious contrivances of the wicked for parting true lovers, and she sobbed herself to sleep. When she woke up in the morning she was still in the most restless and perturbed state that her little mind could be in. “How dared that odious old thing speak about her, or look at her, or come round at all!” She would never see Tom again—and she was longing to see him all the time!

She would not go to the pic-nic—that she wouldn’t!

Then she would go, because the aforesaid old odious thing would imagine that she took it to heart if she stopped away.

But she would not go because that impudent Master Tom would be there, she thought, with a rising blush and a conscious swelling of the tender little bosom underneath her muslin dress.

Of course she determined to go!

Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.

That Young Imp.

The old campaigner’s pic-nic had been decided upon by her, not only as a merrymaking festival, but as a regular strategical coup.

She wanted to roll many issues into one, and like a prudent general, she conned her forces, surveyed their position, and considered her war materiel; all being in train, she determined that as she wanted to create an impression in the neighbourhood, and bring sundry persons together without being compelled to go to any great expense, the best and most efficacious mode she could adopt for carrying out her plans would be to give a pic-nic.

In the first place she could ask all those people of the vicinity whom she did not care to specially invite to her own house; in the second, as everyone would to some extent purvey their own refreshments, no great outlay would be required on her part; and in the third place this sort of rustic excursion offers greater advantages and inducements for judicious love-making, and brings many bashful wooers, such as young Clericus, to the scratch.

It was under these circumstances and acting with these motives, that Lady Inskip had made preparations and issued invitations for a grand pic-nic to come off at Dingle Dell, which was a nice drive from Bigton, a few weeks after she came down to reside at that festive haunt.

She had by this time thoroughly explored all the capabilities of the place, and knew just whom to ask and whom to avoid. The old Indian officer, Captain Curry Cucumber, had of course an invitation, and so had Doctor Jolly and his sister, but Deborah said that she never went out to any such “gallivantings,” and declined; the doctor, however, promised to pick them up in the course of the day after he had made some necessary calls on his patients.

The people were all to meet together at Laburnum Cottage, and drive from thence en cortège to the Dingle, so an early hour was fixed for the rendezvous in order to have a good long day of it.

Soon after eleven, the time appointed, there was quite a goodly muster of vehicles in front of Lady Inskip’s residence. Tom Hartshorne drove down in a bright new dog-cart, and being immediately pounced upon by the campaigner, was made or inveigled into taking Carry with him. Not that Tom objected personally to that young lady, who was very agreeable and naturally glib of tongue, but he sorely wished and had indeed planned that our little friend Lizzie should be his companion.

In order to prevent this the campaigner had specially called at the parsonage and taken Miss Lizzie in her own pony chaise with her: the Reverend Herbert and the languid Laura completed the quartette. Tom sadly deplored the absence of Markworth, for he was so well used to the campaigner, and had such nerve and sang froid that he was capable of even turning her out of her own carriage. Lieutenant Harrowby and Captain Miles, too, of Tom’s regiment, who had come over from Brighton that morning for the fête, and who hoped to have complete possession of the Inskip “girls,” as military men usually dub the young ladies of families, did not seem satisfied with the arrangements for the procession; and as for Captain Curry Cucumber—who had arrived on the scene of action dressed in a new pair of nankeen trowsers and a solar hat, not to mention a blue coat with brass buttons and other portions of a perfectly gorgeous toilet—he was simply enraged at the want of deference paid him by Lady Inskip, and had serious thoughts of turning back at first, although he afterwards suffered himself to be soothed over by Miss Blandish (spinster, aetat 45-60), and promised to remain with the company until at least “tiffin” should be over.

At last, however, all things were settled, and “barring” a few contretemps and heartburnings the whole party started off in great spirit to drive towards Dingle Dell.

The road was a very pretty one, all through the romantic scenery to be found in the valley of the swift-running and widening river Biggle, at the mouth of which, as has been described in its proper place, the watering place of Bigton, formerly called Biggleton (vide County Archaeology), was situated.

The day was fine—as fine as a bright August day can be in the country. Ergo all went merry as the proverbial marriage bell. The only trouble Lady Inskip had was with her darling pride—that horrible boy, the young Sir Mortimer. He would insist on carrying a wretched old single-barrel gun with him for the purpose of shooting small birds when they got to the wood, and of course, as he always managed, he had his own way. “Such a darling boy,” as he was, “but so rash!” Mortimer persisted in practising along the road as they drove on, frightening the horses every now and then, and making everybody feel in terror for their lives.

It was no use that Lady Inskip called out in a half-entreating, half-commanding voice at intervals, “Oh! Morti-mer! Mortimer!” the young imp would continue his detonating sport, and everyone was heartily glad when after passing the steep incline which led down from the old castle of archaeological renown, they crossed the pretty rustic bridge over the Biggle, and arrived at length at Dingle Dell.

Considering that it was a good two hours’ drive or more from Bigton, and that it was “getting on” in the afternoon, no one was averse to preparations being at once made for the substantial and real part of the pic-nic. All helped with good will to lay the cloth on the smooth green turf, and unpack the hampers. Even a smile irradiated the choleric and saffronised face of the Indian warrior, who was much disgusted when they sat down to the al fresco banquet that no one had remembered to bring mango, chutney, or Cayenne pepper, without which he assured Lady Inskip that even “the best victuals” were not worth the salt that accompanied them.

The old campaigner very judiciously arranged the various members of her company around the tablecloth—one cannot exactly say table. She placed Tom by the side of Carry, at the extreme opposite end of the “board,” away from Lizzie, whom she quartered with the gallant lieutenant, Harrowby, by herself. Pringle, of course, was placed next Laura; and although Lady Inskip had been obliged to invite the Rev. Jabez Heavieman, of Bigton, for appearance’s sake, she took very good care that he should not run foul of our Ritualistic young incumbent, whom he regarded in much the same light as the devil is supposed to look upon holy water.

Everything passed off well, and Lady Inskip was in ecstasies; Carry was apparently having it all her own way with Tom Hartshorne, and Pringle was most devoted to Laura. As for Lizzie, she was hopelessly put on one side, and the campaigner considered “that artful little minx” as done for and out of her way: nothing could be better.

The banquet was at length finished.

Young Sir Mortimer, having gorged himself sufficiently with cold chicken and greengage tart, so that his face shone again, went off with his gun to shoot in the woods, much against the entreaties of his mother, who fervently implored him “take care, Mortimer, my darling boy, take great care!”

The others disposed themselves around; some lolling on the grass, others making a pretence of fishing in the adjacent river: Tom had wandered off somewhere—Lizzie had disappeared; and our cheery Doctor Jolly, who had just arrived in time for the feast—“Bless my soul! madam,” as he said, in explanation, “never miss the grub, my lady—never miss my grub,”—was enjoying a cigar along with the “military swells,” as he called them.

When suddenly Lady Inskip’s pride and hope, the boy Mortimer, dashed in amongst them with a scared face, yelling out at the top of his voice—

“Oh! ma, ma! I’ve shot and killed somebody!”

The consternation his advent created can be imagined.

“Oh! dear, Morti-mer,—Morti-mer! I told you so: I told you so!” said Lady Inskip, bursting into tears.

Carry went into hysterics, entreating everybody to “hold me down! hold me down!” Laura fell fainting in the arms of the Reverend Pringle, who looked hopelessly bewildered. Miss Blandish, making an ineffectual and similar attempt to repose on the white waistcoat and nankeen trowsers of Captain Curry Cucumber, was precipitated by a dexterous and skilful manoeuvre on the part of that gallant officer, into the salad-bowl, the Captain muttering horrible imprecations in Hindostanee, such as heaping curses on the beard of her departed father, and devoutly hoping that jackasses might sit on her grandmother’s grave.

Doctor Jolly alone retained his composure, and darted off, as quickly as his size and gout would permit him, in the direction from which the young imp, Mortimer, had come.

What had happened?

Lizzie, after enduring the platitudes of Lieutenant Harrowby until she was sick of them—the burden of that officer’s conversation being limited apparently to the observations of “Haw! be-y Je-ove!” and “Doo-ced fine!” to anything and everything around him, including scenery and lobster salad, managed at last to get away from the company.

She wandered along listlessly amongst the thickly crowded elms and firs of the forest that crowned the slopes of the dell, musing on her own sad thoughts, for her heart felt very weary. Everything had gone wrong with her that day; Tom had not spoken two words to her, and she did not know whether he wanted to speak to her at all. He was very unkind; he might, at least, have said something after what had passed between them the other day! Then, too, the whole thing had bored her, and she wished she had never come! Lady Inskip also had been very snappish with her—even rude, she thought, and though Lizzie, with all her gentleness, was not “one to be put upon with impunity,” and could have held her own against the campaigner at any other time: still to-day she had quite lost her natural spirit, and did not try to turn aside a single shaft of the many hurled by her implacable foe.

Lizzie was sadly out of heart. Rambling along, she at length came to a little open glade at some distance from where the picnickers were making merry.

Here, as she turned round the trunk of a gnarled old elm, all covered with ivy, which had previously obscured this open glade from her view, whom should she see, standing there in gloomy solitude, and looking up at the fleecy white clouds sailing over head, but the very person who filled her thoughts—Tom Hartshorne himself, and no other.

Now was the time, one would think, for an explanation between the pair; but the Fates willed it otherwise.

“That young imp,” when he left the picnickers, sallied off like a gallant young sportsman, as he fancied himself, with his “gun upon his shoulder,” and a brandy flask, which he used for a shot pouch, instead of a “bayonet by his side,” in the words of the affecting ballad of “Jeanette and Jeanot.”

He penetrated into the depths of the wood, firing at everything that happened to be a trifle larger than a butterfly or humble bee; but although Mortimer thought he took steady aim at the several little feathered songsters against whom he had murder in his heart, the gun, which was something like the Irishman’s that could “shoot round a corner,” never brought down anything.

At length he came to a dense thicket, just on the borders of the little open glade where Tom and Lizzie were about to meet.

A particularly fine fat thrush hopped on a twig in the midst of the thicket; and, as it was only about a yard from the muzzle of his gun, the young imp was more successful this time. He fired and brought down his bird; but he also brought down something else which he had not bargained for.

Tom was just advancing with outstretched hand towards Lizzie, glad of the opportunity for which he had been longing all day.

Whiz! bang! more than half the charge of the young imp’s shot struck him in the side, and Tom fell nearly senseless at Lizzie’s feet.

She, forgetting all her reserve, bent over him in an agony of terror.

“Oh! Tom, Tom!” she cried, as she knelt down by his side, their faces nearly touching, and her hair sweeping across his cheek. “They have killed you! They have killed you!”

And the sun still shone down, and the fleecy clouds still sailed overhead, and the summer breeze rippled through the trees.

“Lizzie, my darling! I’m so happy: I wish I could die now,” murmured Tom, in disconnected fragments, and he fainted away outright.

“Oh! he’s dead! He’s dead!” cried Lizzie, out aloud, wringing her hands, bursting into an agony of tears—tears, idle tears!

“Bless my soul!” said the doctor, bursting through the bushes, as he arrived very opportunely on the scene of action, out of breath with the haste he had made. “Bless my soul! Who’s dead, what’s dead? It’s all confounded nonsense,” he continued, excitedly, bending down over Tom, and tearing open his coat and shirt, and feeling his heart. “Bless my soul! He’s no more dead than you are, my dear! The man’s only fainted.”

Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.

End of “First Act.”

The most powerful logic fails to supply one with any rules or data whereby to analyse the workings and application of motives. If we try within ourselves even to trace back a passing thought to its original cause and inception, we see how involved and erratic are its wanderings; and we are obliged to give up the hopeless quest from sheer inability to follow its course. No wonder, therefore, that human motives are difficult to fathom; and although writers of fiction have the presumptive right to lay bare the inward mechanism which directs and guides their various characters, and are permitted to exemplify—hanging their theories and arguments on certain lay-figures more or less natural—how such and such a train of thought, and such and such a motive leads on and up to such and such an end; still, it is a very deceptive argument at the best, and these deductions, however plausible, are often grievously in fault. Motives are inscrutable. The slightest bias or hitch one way or the other will produce an altogether different result. Let us just imagine “what might have been” in the lives of our heroes and heroines if some new little incident had cropped up, or some detail or phase been ever-so-little altered; and we cannot but agree, in the felicitous observation of one of our greatest authors and students of human nature, that the history of “great events that might have been” would far outweigh and be more deeply interesting than any history ever published of what has happened!

These remarks have been made with reference to the character of Clara Kingscott. She had been grossly deceived in the first instance by Markworth, brought about a good deal by herself, no doubt; but still she had been deceived and her reputation ruined. She then naturally hated the author of her misfortunes—for hate is closely akin to love—and yet with all her hate, the love that had first originated had not quite died out. She hated Markworth: she longed for revenge, she determined to be even with him; and yet at the same time, the greatest pang she could have suffered would have been to see him ruined, as she intended him to be by herself.

Thus it was partly from love—what a misapplication of the term!—partly from revenge that she had foiled his wealthy marriage in Paris; it was partly from love, partly from hate that she was now bent on assisting his marriage with Susan Hartshorne, if such a conflict of motives with actions can be imagined. She had entered into the compact with him to suit her own purpose of attaining her revenge: still when it came to the last it went to her heart, if she had one, to help him on to his end. She was his bond servant and his Nemesis as well; and the man’s strong nature controlled the woman’s equally strong nature merely by the force of former circumstances than by anything else. She was assisting in a plot she knew; but no feeling of self-consideration would have induced her to hold back now, or from exposing her participation in the conspiracy when she determined to stretch out her hand. She was bent on ruining him body and soul; and at the last moment when she had succeeded in achieving her purpose, she would be the first, the only one, perhaps, to weep over her own success, and allow the demon of Remorse to prey upon her vitals. But she must go on now: she had already received the “blood money!” He, schemer as he was, and skilled as he dreamed himself to be in the secrets of men and women, did not understand one tithe of Clara Kingscott’s nature. She had tried to entrap him once, and had found out too late that she herself was entrapped. Her first proceeding against him resulted most probably, he thought, from a woman’s spite and a woman’s jealousy, but he had no doubt she had grown more sensible now, as she had grown older. She knew him of old, and was no match for him; so, like a sensible woman, she accepted the part laid down for her, and acted Faust to his Mephistopheles. She was quite satisfied of course, for it suited her interests, and he thought besides that she had some lingering liking—like most women—for the man that had deceived her. She was a fine girl still, too, and if circumstances had been otherwise, and Susan Hartshorne and a fortune been in the way, he might have married her. Of course there would have been no such nonsense as “love” between them now. Yet she was a clever woman, and he and she would have got on together very well, and have managed to pick up a very comfortable living out of the world. This was, probably, what Markworth did think occasionally, but events were hurrying him on, and he was fully prepared to take advantage of every circumstance to perfect his plot. It would be time enough to think of the future when he had hold of that nice little sum of money which was just within his grasp.

From what he had heard of the pic-nic he had determined that that day would be best suited for carrying out his purpose, and later events decided him upon the justice of his surmise. He found out that the old lady was going a long distance to collect some rents: she had laughed the idea to scorn of her attending the merrymaking. Tom would, of course, be there, and it would be a strange thing if he and Miss Kingscott could not manage to get Susan—who would not be expected of course, to go to the pic-nic, even if she were asked—out of the house, and away without risking discovery.

Accordingly, finding everything suitable, Markworth wrote up to town on the Monday (when he was certain that the dowager would be away, and the coast clear for his purpose) to Joseph Begg, telling him he wanted him to meet a lady and himself at the Waterloo Terminus the next afternoon at two o’clock—at all events to be there from two to four; and as the lady was very timid Begg was to be respectably dressed as an honest old-fashioned old gentleman, for he would have to take charge of her. His letter was sent up in good time, made up as a parcel, and given in charge of the guard of the train, so it was delivered early that evening; and Markworth got an answer the next morning, saying that his instructions would be carried out.

Just as Tom was ready to start to join the party at Lady Inskip’s, Markworth held out an envelope to him, and said he was so sorry, but he would have to go up to town at once, and consequently could not join him to go for the pic-nic.

“Couldn’t you put off the business,” said Tom excitedly. “It’s an awful shame! I wanted you to be there so much.”

“Well, you see, Tom,” said Markworth, speaking with a tone of deep regret pervading his words, “I’m sure I want to go with you, and have been thinking of it all the week. But lawyers, you know, won’t be put off, and if I do not go to-day, why it will cost me a pretty penny I can tell you! I am more sorry than you are, old fellow; you will be in the society of a nice pretty girl all day, while I shall be muddled up in law and parchment. By the way there’s a train at eleven, isn’t there?”

“Yes, but I’m infernally cut up about this; yet if you must go, of course you must. I’ll drive you over to the station because you have not much time to lose to catch the train. Will you be back soon?”

“Well, I can’t say; and as my time will be uncertain—you never know when legal business will be arranged—I think I had better take my traps with me. If I can, I’ll be down again as soon as possible; but I may as well be prepared.”

“Just as you please, old fellow!” answered Tom; and the friends presently drove off to the station in the nice looking dog-cart Tom had hired for going to the pic-nic, when he hoped to have the opportunity of driving some one else after he got there.

They just caught the train, and Markworth jumped in, not having a moment to spare; while Tom drove on to Bigton and the bright eyes that were expecting him.

At the next station, on the “up line,” Markworth got out. He was not more than a couple of miles from Hartwood and The Poplars; so, by twelve o’clock, the time he had previously agreed on with Miss Kingscott before leaving the house, he met her and Susan at a certain part of the road across the fields.

We must retrace our steps for a short time to explain matters. How strange it is, by the way, the manner in which events and incidents work out to suit one’s plot? They do very often, too, in real life, as the perusal of any of our causes célèbres will show. That unfortunate victim of the Mannings came punctually to eat of his roast goose, mindful that he was going to his doom, as we read in that famous murder case which startled everybody twenty years ago. I wonder if the circumstances of the crime originated the current idiom known as “cooking one’s goose?”

The old lady, you see, went off very quietly, to be out of the way, and Miss Kingscott and Markworth had a splendid opportunity.

Susan was quite tractable, and would have done anything that Markworth told her. He said before leaving the house that she was to go for a walk with him; he did not tell her more at the time, and that she was to meet him with Miss Kingscott at the stile, across the fields. He also told her that she must dress nicely in something dark to please him, and wear a veil; and of course she was delighted to obey him.

Miss Kingscott lent her a dark dress, shawl and bonnet, and having assisted her toilet, she was soon equipped. Altogether from her leaving off her old and favourite colours, the change in her appearance was so great that she looked totally unlike her former self, and even her own mother would hardly have recognised her with her piercing eyes, if she had met her out of doors.

The governess did not omit any little thing that would baulk the success of the enterprise. She studied every little detail, too, for she had her purpose to serve as well as Markworth. She was not going to jeopardise her prospects of gaining over the young squire, or in fascinating the doctor, by being mixed up in the elopement in any way, so that her assistance should be brought home to her; and consequently for her own sake she had to avoid detection and recognition as well as her accomplice.

She sent off George to the neighbouring public-house “The Jolly Spades,” with a shilling, to make himself glad, and render his nature even more comatose than usual on “home-brewed.” George went off exultant, declaring that she “was a raal leddy, that she were,” and that he would drink her health—so he was disposed of. The old lady was miles away, and so was Tom, too, at the pic-nic; the old woman servant was deep in the kitchen or somewhere else downstairs; and thus nobody saw Miss Kingscott leave the house with Susan. There was only herself to prove it.

They met Markworth at the stile; and Miss Kingscott, telling him briefly “I have kept my part of the compact,” to which he as briefly replied “I will keep mine; you shall hear from me in a month,” returned to the house. They had arranged matters previously, as we have seen.

Her entrance was as unobserved as her exit.

Susan was overjoyed at being out, and, above all, being out with Markworth—without even “that governess,” whom she partially disliked—and away from the house and her mother.

It was quite a fairy holiday for her; and although she was now as reasoning a being as any of us, and had quite recovered her senses, she asked no questions: she left everything in Markworth’s hands, as she looked up to him as a superior to whom every obedience was due, and who would do everything for the best. He led the way over the fields, Susan walking by his side like a child engrossed by her own happy thoughts, and the novelty of everything around her—it was a new world to her—towards the Bigglethorpe station, on the “up line;” this was where he had got out: it was above Hartwood, so nobody could recognise him.

“How would you like to be with me always, Susan? To go away and never come back to the old house again, and all its horrors.”

“Oh! that would be so happy if I were with you,” she said, in joy; “but my mother would never let me,” she continued, her tone changing to one of sadness.

“Suppose she knew nothing about it, Susan? We won’t tell her, and will go away now, and never come back.”

“Can we? can we?” she exclaimed, with startling earnestness; “you are not laughing at me?”

“I mean it, Susan. You shall come with me now if you like. I will take you up to London and marry you, and then nobody can take you away. Will you come?”

“Will I?” she repeated with emotion; “I will go anywhere with you.” And she clung to his arm with a child’s touching trust.

They took the train at Bigglethorpe and in due time arrived at the Waterloo Station, where Mr Begg, looking like a very respectable old gentleman, but small and spare, met them. Markworth introduced him as “his uncle,” and they drove together to the lodgings in Bloomsbury Street. On the way he led out Susan and made her converse with the ex-marker, who was much struck with her appearance, and her timid, hesitating way.

“Well, what do you think of her?” asked Markworth, when Susan had gone up-stairs to take her things off, under the charge of the old landlady.

“What do I think, Mister Markworth? Well, I think you are put in luck’s way. She’s as pretty a young lady, and as ladylike a one as I ever seed.”

“You don’t see anything about her, do you?” he asked anxiously.

“Queer? not I; she’s a bit nervous, in course, but I’d bet she’s as sensible a lady as you or I.”

“Thank you, Joe, good day; I want you to be here at ten o’clock to-morrow morning. You must not be late; it will be my marriage day.”

“Never fear, sir; I’ll be here sharp ten,” and the confederates separated—the marker to go back to his billiard-room, where he had left a friend watching over the interest of his pool table, and Markworth to think over the day and study his plans.

On the next morning, Wednesday, August 28th, 1867, Susan Hartshorne was married to Allynne Markworth, at the church of St. Catherine’s Cross the Less, Johnson’s Lane, E.C., in the presence of Joseph Begg and the parish clerk, witnesses.

End of Volume One.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

“A Pretty Kettle of Fish!”

Imagine the unexpected arrival of the murdered Duncan’s wraith at Macbeth’s correct little dinner party, just after the soup had been removed—a break-down of the Prima Donna at the Opera, while executing some grand scena—or, in these High Church days of fashionable banns-publishing, the sudden uprising of some stern parent or Nemisitical Mawworm, to interrupt the glib utterance of the hair-parted-down-the-middle and lavender-kid-gloved curate of the period with the solemn veto, in basso profundo voice, “I forbid the banns!”—and you will have some idea of the alteration and effect which the young imp’s mischief created in the programme of Lady Inskip’s pic-nic.

The whole company soon hurried after the doctor in real alarm; even Captain Curry Cucumber, forgetting his liver, and the not-fit-for-much-exertion officers, their lisp and laziness, were in a few moments on the scene of the accident: whither too, Laura presently appeared, leaning on Pringle’s arm; for she honestly was nervous, and had been really frightened.

It was a very dramatic pose.

Tom was lying on the ground, half-supported in Lizzie’s arms, a red stream of blood trickling down from his right side, while Doctor Jolly was bending over him, dashing water in his face.

It is wonderful how much more composed in scenes of suffering and danger women are than men, that is when their services are required. Tell a girl that a man is shot or someone drowned, and she will immediately, perhaps, burst into tears, and wail and ring her hands; but tell her to hold his head up, or fetch water—only to do something, and she will be as composed as you please, and will set about doing the work far more steadily and usefully—in a workmanlike manner, so to speak—than you could get any man to do it.

Women are all nurses and sick-attendants at heart: there are more Florence Nightingale’s among us than we know of, until time and occasion draws them out of seclusion, and displays them in their true colours.

Here was Lizzie, who a moment before had been crying, wringing her hands and inclined to faint, now as composed as possible, although very pale and tearful, just because the doctor had employed her services, and showed her how to be useful.

“Bless my soul! little girl; don’t stop crying there. Hold his head up, while I get some water.” And Lizzie had raised Tom’s head as tenderly as if it had been a piece of Sèvres china, and moved it on to her lap, while her arm passed round him. She did not mind his weight a bit, and could have thus supported him all day without feeling tired, although Tom was pretty heavy. Love lightens loads wonderfully!

The doctor bustled off down to the river’s brink, and quickly fetched back some water in his smart new white hat; he did not mind that, however, for he would at any time sacrifice anything he had to give ease or pleasure to another.

By the time the others came up, Tom opened his eyes, and looked dreamily around.

“Hullo! what’s the row? where am I?”

“Bless my soul! you’re a nice fellow you are, alarming us all like this. Do you feel better now? Where’s the pain? Does that hurt you, eh! or that?” said the doctor, who had removed Tom’s waistcoat, and was poking him about in the side with his fat fore-finger.

“Ugh!” ejaculated Tom, as Aesculapius bore rather heavily on a tender spot in his ribs, but he took no further notice of his enquiries, for he was gazing up into Lizzie’s anxious face; unless you take a murmured “Lizzie, my darling,” spoken so softly that only one person heard it, as an answer to the doctor’s questions.

“Speak, you young rascal! You can speak well enough; I heard you, you rogue. Bless my soul! I heard you.”

Tom laughed faintly, and a little pink colour came into Lizzie’s face. “I’m all right, doctor, thanks. I’ll be well in a minute.” He made an effort to rise, as the others gathered around, and a perfect gabble of questions without answers ensued. “I’m all right;” but his head fell back again in Lizzie’s lap, and a dead-like pallor once more overspread his face.

Tom’s actions belied his words. He was not by any means all right. Two of his ribs were broken by the heavy shot, nearly the size of slugs, that the young imp, Sir Mortimer had loaded his gun with; and if Tom had been hit on the left side, it would have been a case of requiescat in pace for him and all his troubles. As it was, he would be laid up for some time, perhaps for months.

The doctor saw this, and interrupted the old campaigner, as she was saying for Lizzie’s especial benefit, in her honeyed accents, which had a concealed sting beneath them—“How very sad! What a very charming picture; but if I were a young girl—”

“We would try and make ourselves useful? Bless my soul! my lady, we must try and get him home. Here, one of you,” he said, turning to the males, who stood aloof looking at one another, and doing nothing, in the manner customary to them on such occasions—“run up to the cottage where the carriages are left—”

Three or four immediately started off, without an idea of what they were about.

“Stop!” shouted the doctor, “what are you going for? Ask for a door, mind you; take one off the hinges, by Gad! if you can’t get it any other way; and steal a mattress and some pillows! Lay them inside the largest of the pony carriages, and bring it down here as quick as you can. Bless my soul! and don’t walk as if your legs did not belong to you!” whereupon all, with the exception of the Reverend Jabez Heavieman and the Indian warrior, hied them off on the errand, although one or two could have easily performed the service. The ladies, however, still grouped themselves in picturesque attitudes round the wounded man, and gazed on him as if he were a rare geological specimen, to be inspected scientifically. “Ah! he moves,” said one; “I think he raised his arm,” put in Aliquis; “He breathes! he breathes!” exclaimed Lady Inskip, with tragic joy, such as the “heavy old lady” of the piece admirably puts on when she throws her arms round the villain’s neck, and putting her chin on his left shoulder, gives vent to the agonised words—“My chee-ild! my chee-ild!”

The doctor, however, was too full of common sense to make any allowance for heroics.

“Move aside, can’t ye?” he shouted out stentorially, “move aside, can’t ye? and let the poor fellow have some air. It’s enough to stifle him, all of you sticking around like this, doing nothing, and preventing a breath of wind from coming past your krinlins! The poor chap wants air; and he must have it!” And the doctor, rising up, and stretching out his hands, like street acrobats when they wish to clear a space for their performance amidst the encircling crowd, the ladies retreated, headed by the campaigner, who held her nose in the air, as if the whole thing was “much beneath her,” leaving the doctor and his patient, and Miss Lizzie, for awhile to themselves. Only the young imp remained behind to gaze with eyes of curiosity on his handiwork, until the doctor sent him to the right-about, by asking him the pertinent question, “What the doose are you stopping for? By Gad! don’t you think you’ve done enough for one day?” when he, too, drew on one side, and left the trio alone.

After a few moments’ pause, by dint of having repeated handfuls of water dashed into his face, Tom again revived and opened his eyes.

Shortly he looked much better, and was able to answer the doctor’s enquiries. He raised himself half up, turning over on his left side—“Oh, yes, doctor, I’m nearly all right. By Jove! though, don’t that hurt,” he said, as our friend still continued to examine him—“I’ll soon be right, won’t I, doctor? Thank you, but don’t press so hard! And thank you,” he said, turning his eyes round and upon her—“my darling”—he murmured, softly, “what a trouble I am to you.” But, strange to say, Lizzie did not look as if she thought it a trouble at all!

The doctor was plunged in deep thought, “Humph! very serious, very serious,” he exclaimed, shaking his head solemnly, at the same time with a sly twinkle in his eyes—“Very serious, very serious, Master Tom. You’ve got two ribs smashed, sir, and I think you want to have another. Ha! Ha! Sly dog, sly dog. Never mind, it’s a beautiful contusion! Luckily it wasn’t the other side, or we would have had your heart gone.”

“I’m afraid it’s gone already, doctor,” observed the wounded hero, gazing artfully round at Lizzie, who looked very conscious, “but shall I be able to get round soon?” and he tried to get up, but fell back again into his former position, and looked as if he were going to faint.

“Oh, don’t move, pray don’t move,” Lizzie said, laying her hand on his shoulder entreatingly: Tom seized that opportunity to make the little hand a prisoner. Very interesting, was it not, for the old campaigner, who was looking on grimly from a distance?

“Don’t budge, you young rascal; don’t you stir, or we’ll have you fainting again, and looking interesting, like my lady, yonder,” and the doctor sniggered, for his eyes were sharp, and, I believe, he had fathomed the campaigner’s little game—“Don’t stir, my boy. You must keep quiet now, but we’ll have you on your legs again in a few days.”

The biggest of the pony carriages, accompanied by a band of gentlemen followers, now drew up in the glen, close to the gnarled old oak, by the stump of which the unlucky object of young Sir Mortimer’s gun practice was reclining.

Doctor Jolly inspected the vehicle to see whether all his directions had been obeyed; and, finding an old door laid across the seats, on which was a mattress and a bundle of pillows, he said, “That’s right, boys. Now bear a hand, and we’ll get him in.”

Supported by the brawny Aesculapius, and the offered arms of a score of others, Tom was lifted carefully into the chaise, and arranged comfortably amidst the pillows.

“Now,” said the doctor aloud, for the benefit of the company, apparently, but in reality, I think, for little Lizzie’s sake, “I want some lady to go along with us, to hold his head up, and carry the salts—I want smelling salts, too—or a vinaigrette, or something of that sort.”

All the ladies eagerly proffered help, but they were headed by Lady Inskip, who exclaimed—

“Here’s my darling child Carry, who is so anxious, and will be so glad to go:” a dozen fair hands also held up gorgeous little silver-topped vinaigrettes.

The doctor looked upon them all reflectively.

“Humph!” he said, sententiously, “I don’t think any of you will do. I shall take Miss Pringle here; she’s undertaken the case, and she may as well complete the cure.”

The campaigner looked fearfully disgusted. She turned to Pringle, B.A., and said, as if speaking confidentially to them, but for the express benefit of the doctor and Lizzie, as she spoke so that all might hear her—

“Of course I would not like to interfere with a medical man, Mr Pringle; but do you think it is quite correct for a young girl like your sister to go off in that way with a young man without any chaperone?”

“No indeed, Lady Inskip—no, indeed, Lady Inskip. Of course you know best; ah! and ah! Lizzie—”

“Bless my soul!” said the doctor, excitedly, “I don’t see why Miss Lizzie cannot go just as properly as your daughter, my lady! It’s all nonsense, and she shall go!” And the doctor, without asking anybody’s leave or license, at once handed Lizzie into the pony carriage by the side of Tom. Getting in himself, and telling the campaigner cordially “Good-day, my lady! good-day,” he drove off triumphantly, although slowly, out from the glade, in and out of the trees, on to the road, and so slowly homeward to The Poplars, with our wounded hero lying back in Lizzie’s arm—a very different plight to the gallant turn-out in which Tom had set out so hopefully in the morning for Lady Inskip’s fête champêtre.

The campaigner was certainly defeated to some extent, but she was not discomfited. Oh! dear, no. She had secured one of her birds—Pringle—at all events, for he was as devoted as she could wish to Laura; and as for the other, although he had been brought down, winged is the word—so unfortunately by the young imp, still, all was not lost there yet—she had only to act, and it would run hard, so she thought, if she did not succeed in throwing on one side “that artful little minx.”

She now bethought herself of her company. The day was far spent, and she was not going to let the whole thing break up in such an unsatisfactory manner. She was too knowing for that; consequently she threw cold water on the manifest sympathy for Tom.

“Pooh!” she said, “it’s not much. The doctor said he would be well in a day or two, it’s only a mere scratch!”

Of course several joined in with her, and followed suit. When Lieutenant Harrowby ventured to suggest that it “must be very painful, you know, ba-iey Jo-ve!” he was caught up at once by the choleric Captain Curry Cucumber, “Nice soldier you are, my fine fellow! to think so much of a mere flea-bite—a mere flea-bite. By Jingo! when I was at Rhamdaghur—” And he was going to retail some of his East-Indian reminiscences, when he was adroitly stopped by the campaigner’s suggesting that they should return to the festal board, which all thereupon did, sitting down again with much gusto to the remnants of the feast.

The evening waxed on, and then they packed up, and sallied homewards. It is wonderful what a little break the absence or injury of one makes in a large party. The proverb, “out of sight, out of mind,” is true enough, although it contradicts that other veracious proverb, which tells us that “absence makes the heart grow fonder!”

Pringle and the young officers finished the evening very agreeably with the Inskip girls at their residence, the former not agitating himself much about his sister, “of whom,” the campaigner observed, “she was sure Doctor Jolly would take every care, notwithstanding his rudeness to her!” So everything went well with Lady Inskip, and the pic-nic was voted a success, although Captain Curry Cucumber dubbed her “an infernal old harridan, by Jingo!” and wished he had had her “out at Rhamdaghur, by Gad!” and he would have taught her how to “insult an army-man, by Jingo!” in taking no notice of him, while she “could pamper a civilian, by Gad!”—alluding, we very much fear, to the Revd. Herbert Pringle, to whom the campaigner had been really very ingratiating. If only that accident had not happened, who knows what other success might not have fallen to her share! But Lady Inskip had the satisfaction that night of boxing Mortimer’s ears.

As the pony carriage drove very slowly, it was evening, nearly night, by the time Tom and his companions arrived at The Poplars: the house was wrapped in gloomy silence.

The doctor jumped down quickly, and Lizzie after him, when she took the opportunity of saying to him, quickly, “I will wait here, doctor, until you come out, and do tell me then how he is!” She wished Tom good-bye, and walked on, apparently home to the parsonage, but she waited at the corner, and peeped back to see him carried in; after which she shrunk into the shades again to the garden-gate of The Poplars, and waited patiently for the doctor to come out.

The dowager, herself, answered the gate, outstripping “Garge” in getting there first. The doctor, having rapidly explained matters, and told her not to be alarmed, she spoke up at once sharply to the point.

“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!” she said. “I’m a woman, Doctor Jolly; but I’m not a fool, and you won’t find me crying like an idiot!”

Whereupon the orders were given to George, who looked on with stolid wonder and grief, and between them they carried Tom into the house and laid him on his bed, where the doctor saw him tranquilly composed, and told him cheerily he would be all right to-morrow.

“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!” said the dowager, half to herself, in a muttering tone. “Here’s Thomas wounded, and Susan gone away, one doesn’t know where!”

“What! Susan gone?” enquired the doctor anxiously.

“Drat it all, man! It doesn’t matter. I was only bothering about her being out in the garden so late; that’s all!”

“Bless my soul!” said the doctor, quieting down—“you nearly frightened me to death! But I must see about Tom now!”—and there the conversation about the missing girl dropped.

The old lady had but just discovered the absence of the girl, and Miss Kingscott had disclaimed any knowledge as to her whereabouts. The fright of the dowager, however, about Tom, made her forget the other trouble for a time, particularly as Susan had often before stopped out late in the garden. She would not be really alarmed about her daughter till the morning.

Now, she was in a fearful state of anxiety about Tom, although she tried, with the dogged obstinacy of her nature, to affect indifference; but she was heartily glad when Doctor Jolly said he would do very well, and that he would come the first thing in the morning to see him.

It was night now, quite late; and the bright harvest moon was shining down out of a clear blue sky with all its August fulness, marking out every feature of the landscape with all that clearness of outline and vivid contrast of brilliant, blueish light and dark shadow which only moonlight gives.

Not a breath stirred the summer night. The tall, melancholy poplars around the Hartshorne’s house looked even more dismal by night than by day, with their ungainly shapes sharply defined against the sky, and their shadows more gloomy and eerie than those of the other trees; yet still Lizzie leant against the gate and waited, Heaven knows how anxiously! for Doctor Jolly’s re-appearance.

The poor little thing had now been there, outside the gate, for more than two hours; as the doctor had been long engaged hearing about Susan’s disappearance, which he also made light of, besides seeing to Tom’s comfort and arrangements when they had lifted him into his bed and undressed him—for he was nearly helpless now.

He at length came out, however; and he had no sooner got out of the gate than Lizzie, who was eagerly watching for him, clutched his arm, and outspoke her dreadful anxiety, “Oh! doctor, dear doctor, is there any hope? He looked so pale and helpless, and—and—he will die! He will die!”

Her little wistful face looked up with such distressing enquiry into his jovial, weather-beaten countenance, that Doctor Jolly felt his eyes grow very hazy, and blew his nose vigorously.

“Certainly, my dear, certainly! That is, there is plenty of hope, Miss Lizzie. Bless my soul! plenty of hope. You see, we’ve extracted all the shot (Lizzie shuddered), and he’s a strong and hearty young fellow, and he’ll be round again before we know where we are.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Lizzie said, pressing his arm: the doctor felt that her simple words expressed more then than a hundred sentences might have done from others.

The doctor saw her home, and cheered her up wonderfully, so that she actually laughed before she quitted him at the parsonage gate. They seemed to have a secret understanding about the wounded hero, although neither had expressed it in words. Indeed, Doctor Jolly had been so much taken up in soothing his companion, that he quite forgot to mention anything about Susan’s being missed. And all the time, the hours were gliding by, and the chances for her recovery were becoming more and more indefinite.

Verily! a very pretty kettle of fish.

Volume Two—Chapter Two.

At Havre and London.

Late on the evening of the day after the marriage in London, Markworth and his charge—lately his “sister,” now Madame sa femme—arrived at the half-seaport town, half-fashionable watering place of Havre-de-Grace, at the mouth of the slowly running Seine, tawny as the yellow Tiber.

Susan had not been brought to the Continent without serious prior deliberation.

Markworth, in the first place, wished to avoid observation at the present time; and he was so well-known in London, that he thought it would be folly to remain there any longer than necessary; and, in the second place, he wanted to secure a quiet retreat wherein to lodge Susan.

He determined, of course, to keep his hold on her until her friends were assured of the marriage; and as she might be traced, and he, perhaps, arrested for abducting the girl, before he was able to lay a legal claim to her inheritance, the best plan for him to pursue was to “go across the water,” as he expressed it, for awhile—as, indeed, a good many other gentlemen, who have sympathising friends amongst the trading interests of the great city of Babylon-the-Less have done, and annually do still.

What place so convenient, he thought, as Havre? So to Havre he accordingly ran over the next day, and in that pleasant little town he sat down awhile, to consider what his next movement should be, as he had to study each move carefully. He had plenty of money for present expenses; he had “the goose;” the only thing now to do was to get the “golden eggs.” As he had gone so far, he certainly was not going to be baulked now, he thought. And his chances must have been good, or that cautious old Jew, Solomonson, would not have “backed him.” He had only got to play his cards properly, and look about him awhile. That was all! Yes, that was all.

He could not have chosen a more convenient and comfortable place in France, all things considered, for his purpose.

Perhaps, an exceptional reader—I say “exceptional” advisedly—may have stopped at Havre after crossing over from Southampton—stopped a sufficient time to learn and know the place, for the generality of travellers who adopt this route to Paris, usually go on straight to their destination without breaking their journey at this picturesque old town, which is a sort of “half-way house” on the direct road. If so, the “exceptional reader” will bear me out in my observations on the subject and place.

Havre is like Liverpool and Boulogne rolled into one harmonious or inharmonious whole. It has all the shipping and maritime population—although perhaps the latter are more gaily dressed—of the great entrepôt on the Mersey, with all the thorough Gallic attributes of a French watering place.

Down in the town, Havre proper, it is all trade and bustle as befits a great commercial port; up amidst the heights of Ingouville, it is fashionable and fantastic, with its trim white terraces and green, gay Venetian blinds, and its lovely view of the bay beyond. Havre is really not considered half as much as it ought to be, and forms a much more enjoyable spot for a holiday than many of these fearfully uneventful and racketty fashionable resorts, which are generally patronised by English tourists on the Continent.

Liverpool it is like, with its muddy Seine—like the other river that runs between Birkenhead and its sister city—and its bustling streets and quays. Liverpool, with a touch of Ratcliffe Highway, on account of the parrots and foreign birds, mostly South American, that you see troops of sailors marching about with, besides the strong touch of the military element which one more frequently observes by the side of Tower Hill, than in the parallel city of trade in Lancashire. A French Liverpool, very Frenchified, and jovial and gay, with that foreign dash of sprightliness and insouciance which is never seen in England.

Here Markworth hired lodgings, in the Rue Montmartre, of a stout, middle-aged Frenchwoman and her little husband: the latter being a marchand of something or the other; and by no means the “better half” of the two.

Susan was as pleased as a child with the novelty of everything around her; and if she had been changed for the better at The Poplars, the change was twice as noticeable now that she had shut out from her all the past with its associations.

Every little item in her new life tended to increase the improvement in her mental organisation; besides which Markworth was kind and attentive to her, even more so than he had been before.

Instead of the dingy old melancholy house in Sussex, she was in a bright little French cottage. The old dark rooms were exchanged for a simple apartement bien garni, with its tiled floor, and those wonderfully simple accessories which complete the mobilier of our friends on the other side; the half dozen extraordinary-looking straight backed chairs, the round table with its matting beneath, the elaborate fire-place with its porcelain belongings, and the mantel-piece with inevitable gilt clock and china shepherdesses.

The fat landlady was very kind, although she did not speak a word of English; still her husband prided himself on his knowledge of our language, a knowledge nearly limited to that of the Frenchman’s of poor Albert Smith’s acquaintance, who saying “Ah, Ya-as! I spik Englise—portair—bier—rosbif—God dam!” there wound up the catalogue of his accomplishments.

But Mère Cliquelle was kind in her way. She understood from Markworth that “Madame” was very delicate; and as she had a separate room and looked very pale, Mère Cliquelle tried to make her very comfortable by always nodding to her, and smiling whenever she came into the room, which she was constantly doing to bring Madame sundry little pet-dishes or plats of her own cuisine and bonbons ad infinitum.

Susan was soon very happy, and as gay as a bird in her new home. She had been sensible enough before; but she was now light-hearted as well.

Markworth devoted himself to her. He would take her out constantly for walks along the bustling quays, where Susan liked to watch the gaily dressed sailors, and the ships and tiny craft in the harbour. Every sailor on landing seemed to bring home half a dozen parrots or crimson birds of the tropics. You never can see such a lot of “imported” birds, as the Americans say, anywhere else, as at Havre.

Susan and Markworth were quite a study for the simple French couple with whom they abode. They thought “Madame” so beautiful and affectionate; and Monsieur, “Mon Dieu! un galant homme, and so handsome:—a rich Milor Anglais, no doubt.”

Thus a month had passed by; and Markworth thought that the time for him to act once more had arrived. His training had not been lost on Susan. Thanks to his indefatigable efforts she was now fully restored, and she would be the best witness he could have in court should he be forced to go to law in order to gain his rights to her money. He had indeed devoted himself to the girl’s cure especially for this object, but he had also been led on by a species of real zeal in the case. He had seen from the first how easily Susan, by proper influences, could be led to regain her mind, and had steadily persevered in that direction.

If anyone else had spent as much time and trouble on her long ago, Susan would never have required his aid, but she had been neglected, left alone in that old house; and Doctor Jolly, with all his cleverness as a medical practitioner, had not understood her case.

Markworth was proud of his triumph, apart from the consideration that his own well-being was interested in Susan’s recovery. He was proud that his hand had wrought the cure; and besides, he was really concerned about the girl on her own account. Her entire faith and confidence, and her blind worship, touched even him, while her love had made him have a friendly regard for her, which might or might not grow deeper.

There were one or two good points in his character, as is the case with all bad men. He was not brutal, or naturally bad hearted, but at the same time he was careful of his own interests. If he had got Susan’s money, for example, he would not then have turned her adrift. She loved him like a faithful dog, and it was not in his nature to kick a dog away. He was kind to her because it suited his purpose: it was necessary to her cure, and besides he had no reason to be otherwise.

At the end of a month, therefore, he determined to make some move.

He had seen an advertisement for the lost girl in the “Times,” which he had given directions to have sent over to him here. The advertisement had appeared a very few days after the date on which he had removed Susan from The Poplars, and had been continued repeatedly since; but that did not flurry him much. He knew he could not be traced, and as the had no feelings of compunction for the anxiety which might be occasioned by her disappearance, he determined to suit his own time when to make the news known of her safety and present condition.

He was certain that Clara Kingscott would not give any information about him, as she was a clever woman, and was obliged on her own account not to implicate herself in the abduction of the girl, and was besides anxious to get the remainder of the money he had promised her for aiding him; so he could afford to take his own time and play the game just as he chose, for the cards were in his hand.

He thus let a month run, and Susan being quite happy and settled down in their comfortable lodgings with the Mère Cliquelle in the Rue Montmartre, he thought he would go over to London for a couple of days or so, and set his plans to work. He also wanted more money, and that was a potent reason for taking him.

Susan was disturbed at first on learning that he was going away, but was as quickly consoled when he promised to be back very soon, and to bring her brother Tom with him; that was the only anxiety she had displayed on leaving her home. She had retained her love for her brother, and she feared he was angry at her leaving. She was delighted consequently to learn from Markworth, as he told her, that he was going to fetch him, for she was not yet aware of the great interests that hung at stake upon her.

Susan saw him preparing to start with many tears, and many directions for him to be back soon; after which Markworth left her to the kindly care of the Mère Cliquelle, who promised to look after her as her own child: he then crossed the channel.

He first visited his Hebrew friend Solomonson in Chancery Lane, whereby depositing sundry shares he had in a City Company, and giving a bond for about five times the amount, payable on his obtaining his wife’s inheritance, he managed to obtain an advance of some hundred pounds to carry him on until the lawsuit should be determined.

Before coming to a final settlement, Markworth bargained some time as usual with the Jew, but had at last to accede to his terms; as it would have been difficult for him to get money from anyone else without stronger security. Indeed, the Jew only trusted him now because he was in a heavy venture, and because also, Markworth had always behaved honourably to him in his dealings before—and there had been many and various between the parties. But he would require sharp payment would the Jew with all his trust, and should he lose his case, old Solomonson would be the first to be down upon him.

He was apparently, he reflected, spending Susan’s fortune before he got it; so he determined to set about securing it now as soon as possible.

Having already perused several times the advertisement for Susan, he knew well where the lawyer’s offices were, where he was to apply, and he made up his mind to go there first before—as he called it—“tackling the old dowager.”

To Bedford Row, he accordingly bent his steps; and he laughed jocosely, as he went up the staircase towards Messrs Trump and Sequence’s offices. “What a capital joke it will be,” he said to himself, “asking them for that ‘Fifty Pounds Reward.’ I’m hanged if I don’t do it;” and he walked in accordingly to startle Mr Trump.

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

The Next Morning.

Just about the time when the curate of St. Catherine Cross’ Church, in London, was asking Markworth whether he would take this woman, M. or N., to be his wedded wife, the dowager and the inhabitants of The Poplars awoke to the certainty that Susan had really gone off somewhere without leaving a trace behind.

She had not come to breakfast; she had not been seen about the premises or in the garden; she had not come into the house or slept in her bed all night; where on earth could she be? It was time, indeed, that some search or enquiry should be instituted.

No time was to be lost!

The old dowager was fearfully excited on being made certain of Susan’s disappearance.

She would not believe it at first; and, saying “It’s all stuff and nonsense, the girl’s hidden somewhere, I know,” was not convinced until she had herself in person searched, every nook and cranny in the old house from top to bottom.

It was the first time that she had really showed any anxiety about the girl, for the old woman was very much troubled indeed. She was shrewd and business-like as usual, however, in her enquiries, and first examined everybody in the house before carrying the search further.

Miss Kingscott, the governess, said she had not seen her since the middle of the previous day, and she had supposed at first that she had gone out to walk with Mr Markworth. She had found out afterwards, however, that that gentleman had driven off early along with “poor Mr Thomas,” she believed, towards the station, and so her pupil could not have gone to walk with him.

Miss Kingscott afterwards informed Mrs Hartshorne that she missed out of her wardrobe a black silk dress, and a shawl and bonnet. She supposed Susan had taken those with her, as her own walking things had been left behind in her, Miss Kingscott’s, room. The old lady said snappishly that “she did not know what right she, the governess, had to suppose anything of the sort;” but she kept the information in her mind nevertheless.

The old servant, Martha, said she had not seen Miss Susan at all, as “she had too much work of her own in the kitchen for her to do, as was a disgrace for only one servant in sich a large ’ouse as she never see, and it were a burnin’ shame it were a workin’ one pore old woman worse nor any black nigger slave as ever was, that it were:” so no information was obtained from her.

George, on being summoned in to speak to the “old un,” as he called the dowager, said that he had been “at work all t’day a diggin on t’petatus,” and he had seen “no leetel miss” about the garden, but he “thort he seed un when he wor a goin’ to his dinner, jist arter twelve, awalkin’ in the far lot across t’fields with that gentelmun froom Lunnon, but he warn’t shoor.”

The old lady called him “an ass and a grinning baboon” for his pains, and told him “get out and go to your work, man!” But George was right, for he had seen them as he said, when on his way back to the house after his visit to the “Jolly Spades,” although his vision was then somewhat hazy, and his intellects more obtuse than usual from the large potations of home-brewed he had taken at such an early hour of the day—thanks to Miss Kingscott’s liberality to him. The dowager was perplexed, but her cool, calculating temperament was soon at work.

She determined to send at once to her lawyers in London, and calling in the aid of the police to track the fugitive.

Doctor Jolly, too, who came in at this moment to see after Tom—rather earlier than usual for his professional call, but he was anxious about his patient—warmly applauded the dowager’s resolve.

He, of course, was also startled at the news that Susan had not been heard of. “Bless my soul!” he said, when all the facts and enquiries that had been made were explained to him. “Bless my soul! It’s very strange, very strange, indeed. She could not have stopped anywhere in the neighbourhood, or you would have heard of her before. She must have gone off to some distance. Did she have any money with her?”

“Oh, no!” said Miss Kingscott, to whom he had addressed himself.

“Fool!” spoke out sharply the dowager.

“Why, is it likely that I would give any of my hard-earned money to an idiot to throw away?”

The doctor confessed the improbability of Mrs Hartshorne’s disposing of her surplus funds in the manner suggested, although he was somewhat indignant at the strong epithet applied to himself: he was, however, too much interested on Susan’s behalf to cavil now about words with the old lady.

“Have you asked about her in the village and at the station?” he said, after reflecting a minute or two.

“What is the use of that?” replied the dowager; “all the people know about her at Hartwood, and would have stopped her. But you can ask yourself presently, if you don’t mind going down there.”

The doctor said he would; and the plan of the dowager, he thought, would, in the meantime, be the best one to pursue.

“Yes,” said Mrs Hartshorne; “I shall send up to Mr Trump, in London, at once, and put the matter in his hands. He is a lawyer, and he will know what is best for us to do. I can’t say I’m very fond of the girl,” observed the dowager, drily, to which Doctor Jolly gave a decidedly affirmative nod; “but I would not like her to come to any harm. But who shall I send? Can you go?”

“Bless my soul!” replied Doctor Jolly. “I would go at once, but there’s poor Tom; I can’t leave him, for he’s in a very ticklish state.”

“True—true; poor Thomas! It’s a pretty kettle of fish, all this happening just now.”

“Let me go, ma’am,” said Miss Kingscott, quietly.

“You!” snapped out the old lady. “What’s the good of a girl like you going? What can you do?”

“I’m sure a girl can be as good a messenger as anyone else, and I can go at once,” answered the governess, calmly; “indeed I’m so interested in my poor pupil, that I should like to do something towards finding her.”

“Humph!” grunted the dowager, thinking it over.

“Certainly,” put in the doctor; “certainly, madam. Bless my soul! I should like to know why not?”

The thing was agreed to after some further conversation, and Miss Kingscott, charged with a curt epistle from the dowager, and a supply of money from the doctor’s own purse—the old lady had not hinted at producing any, and did not advance any demurrer to his so doing—for paying her expenses on the road, was directed to go to Hartwood Station. She was to ask there whether they had seen Susan, and if she heard no intelligence, she was to proceed direct to London; there she was to call on the lawyers without losing time, explain the whole matter to Mr Trump, and tell him to come down at once—indeed, she was to bring him down with her if she could.

The governess obeyed her instructions to the letter, and acted all through as if she was as ignorant about Susan’s disappearance and her movements as she had professed to be.

She asked about Susan in the village, in order that if any enquiries were made she could substantiate her statement of ignorance. Of course, nobody had heard there of the missing girl, as she very well knew would be the case. She then went on up to London by the next train, and proceeding at once to the offices to which she was directed, she handed the old lady’s letter to the senior partner.

In the meantime, Doctor Jolly was attending to poor Tom’s wounds; the wounded hero had passed a very bad night, and was feverish and excitable.

The doctor, who had his suspicions about Markworth, asked one or two guarded questions of Tom as to the whereabouts of his friend. He had been surprised at not seeing the exquisite at Lady Inskip’s pic-nic: with his downright common sense, aided by his dislike and suspicions of Markworth, he thought that there must be some connection at first between Susan’s disappearance and the absence of the other.

Tom’s answers to his questions, however, fairly puzzled him, and the doctor was thrown off the scent entirely.

Tom said, in reply to one of the doctor’s casual enquiries, that he had driven Markworth over to Hartwood Station himself before he had gone on to the pic-nic. That his friend had been suddenly summoned up to town the previous morning, and that he expected him back very shortly, as he said he might not be detained long; although Tom added, “he had taken his traps with him.”

“Oh, he has? has he!” answered the doctor. “Well, I daresay we’ll have him down soon again though, and then you will be able to get about again with him.”

He cheered up Tom, who was very crestfallen and hippish with the pain he had undergone, and the thoughts of being kept a prisoner in bed whilst he so much wished, particularly now on account of Lizzie, to be able to move about.

“Bless my soul!” said the old fellow, cheerfully, as he went out, “why, you will be right again in a jiffey. We have got all that beastly shot out of you, and the place is healing beautifully. I tell you what I will do, too, Master Tom,” he added, nodding his head knowingly, with a twinkling of his kind grey eyes—“I’ll tell a certain little girl how we are getting on; I know she will feel interested!”

“Thank you, doctor; you’re a trump, by Jove!” said Tom, gladly, “and give her my compliments.”

“Hang your compliments, you young rascal; I’ll give you her love when I come back!” and the doctor laughed himself with a cheery ho! ho! ho! out of the room, down the staircase, to the dining-room below, where Mrs Hartshorne—the old lady looking quite broken already from the anxiety she had gone through—was waiting to hear his report about Tom.

They had decided not to tell him yet about Susan in his present state—not, at all events, until the lawyer came down.

The doctor said Tom was doing very well, although excitement would be bad for him; and then went out to pay some calls around, promising to call back in a few hours’ time.

You may be sure he did not forget, with his kind heart, to call round at the Pringles, where he found little Lizzie listening anxiously for his approach, for he had promised her last night to come and give the news about Tom.

She eagerly thanked him for coming and for his good news, and coyly gave the doctor permission to take back her love to Tom: of course, she was as much surprised as the doctor was to hear of Susan’s disappearance, and her sympathies were quite aroused when he told her how broken the old lady seemed under the double trouble she was suffering under.

Lizzie immediately offered to go up and see her, not knowing her general disposition so well as our friend Aesculapius; but he told her that it would be useless, and that nothing could be done until the lawyer and the detective arrived from London. Lizzie was doubly anxious about Susan for Tom’s sake: it is wonderful the interest that young ladies take in the sisters and other relatives of young gentlemen for whom they may entertain regard! But Lizzie could do nothing, and was even more useless in the juncture than the dowager had at first supposed the governess to be when she offered to make herself useful.

After paying his round of calls, the doctor returned to The Poplars, some three hours or more from the time of his setting out: and he and the dowager then sat down in sympathy and mutual anxiety together in the parlour, for the first time in their respective lives, to wait for the return of Miss Kingscott from her mission to London.

Thus the hours passed by, the day after Susan Hartshorne’s elopement.

Volume Two—Chapter Four.

Messrs Trump, Sequence, and Co.

Mrs Hartshorne’s lawyers had their offices in one of the most palatial and dingy of that, whilom palatial, and now most dingy, collection of houses, which it would be sheer lunacy to christen a street,—yclept Bedford Row—that favourite abiding place and Mecca of the gentlemen of the “sheepskin” persuasion. The proprietress of The Poplars was one of the richest clients of the firm, who had for years done business for the family before the dowager’s incorporation in it; but still it does not follow that Messrs Trump, Sequence, and Co. got over many fees and costs from that long-headed lady. She employed them as a matter of course, for they had all the Hartshorne papers, but they got very little money out of her, or from the estate, since Roger Hartshorne, the old squire, died.

It was to these gentlemen that Miss Kingscott was introduced on coming up to London to fulfil the mission with which she had been entrusted. It was good to see how the eyes of both partners glistened on hearing that, at last, some business was to be done for the Sussex dowager. Miss Kingscott related the particulars.

Mr Trump at first was surprised, but being of a keen, energetic turn of mind, he quickly determined how to act.

Having examined and cross-examined Miss Kingscott with regard to the dress and appearance of the girl, and so on—although he himself had frequently seen Susan too—he at once drew up the form of an advertisement for the lost girl, offering a reward of fifty pounds for her recovery.

He then rang his bell for one of the clerks in the outer office; and a grizzled old man, old but alert, with his hair standing on end, like a porcupine’s quills, at once obeyed the summons.

“Here, Smiffens,” said Mr Trump, giving him the paper he had just written, “copy that advertisement; take down copies to the morning papers, and have it inserted at once. By the way,” he added, as Smiffens bustled out of the room, “take a copy, too, to the printers, and have five hundred handbills struck off for the police. Wait for them till they’re done, and take them down to the central office. I’m just going down to Scotland Yard myself, and will tell them to expect the bills. Be sharp, mind! there’s no time to lose.”

As soon as the clerk had gone, Mr Trump turned to the governess who had been waiting all this time.

“Now, I’m at your service, Miss Kingscott,” he said. “I shall be happy to accompany you down to Hartwood if you are going back at once.” Miss Kingscott signified that that was her intention. “You won’t mind my stopping at the police-station, will you? I want to pick a sharp detective there, whom I know, and get him to go down with us.”

“Oh, dear no!” said Miss Kingscott; and after a very trifling delay, Miss Kingscott, the lawyer, and John Bounce, special detective, of Scotland Yard, were in the coupé of a first-class carriage, and rattling down at express speed to Hartwood.

Arrived there, they managed to secure one of those extraordinary cabs or flys that are to be met with at country places, and which, I believe, are derelict London carriages that are thrown away by their former owners as worn out and useless: and after a short time they got to The Poplars, just as the doctor and the dowager, worn out with waiting, began to feel tired of the unusual pleasure of each other’s company.

Matters having been explained over again, the detective, John Bounce, was set to work; and he, with that look of mystic preparation which the craft glory in, asked at once to be shown over the house. He examined every hole and corner as if he thought Susan had been purposely stowed away by the members of the family. When he was satisfied with an inspection of the house and garden, giving especial care to examining the various locks and appurtenances of the gates, he appeared to think profoundly for a short time, when he asked to be shown the clothes which Susan had left behind her. These gave him immense gratification, for he turned them over and over again, giving vent to sundry Lord Burleigh’s shakings of the head, and portentous “humphs,” as if he had the whole thing in his mind’s eye.

Detectives, my dear sir, or madam, are not by any means such sharp personages as writers of fiction generally love to depict. There are some especially “cute” members of the force I don’t for a moment deny; but as a class their knowledge and acquirements are fearfully exaggerated. Indeed, I must be so severe as to call them at once, humbugs; but they deceive themselves quite as greatly and as often as they deceive the public, and are by no means so sharp as the malefactors they are set to catch. I think a clergyman I once knew would have made a far better detective than a good many real mouchoirs I have come across. He had the gift of at once divining at the truth, investigating the morality and ethics of his parishioners which not one detective in a hundred possesses. They put on a great deal of mystery, and appear to “know all about it,” but they are really much more shallow conjurers than Herr Frickell when, turning up the sleeves of his coat and his snow-white wristbands and calling his audience’s attention to the theory that there is “no preparation, gentlemen! no preparation,” at once proceeds to smuggle eggs up his sleeves with a “Hi, Presto! Begone!”

The detective placed great emphasis on the fact that Susan had taken Miss Kingscott’s dress and bonnet with her. “Putting two and two together,” as he said, he delivered himself of the oracular assertion, that she “must have gone off somewhere,” which, of course, no one else would have dreamt of but the dowager, who observed snappishly that she could have told him that before, and advised him to try and find out where the girl had gone to, as that was what he had been employed for. Whereupon, John Bounce appeared all at once to wake up to the notion that he would have to go somewhere else to look for the missing girl. He asked if they had enquired about her at the nearest railway station, and was told they had; and on being further told that another station, Bigglethorpe, was also not far from The Poplars, he said she might have gone there, which was also perfectly feasible to the meanest comprehension.

At Bigglethorpe they found out that the station-master remembered a tall, dark gentleman getting out on the previous day, and coming back shortly afterwards with a lady. He thought it was the same, because now he remembered the gentleman had left his bag there, and had taken it, and gone off in the next up-train. On the detective’s telling him to “Take care!” and mentioning that he was a policeman, which he generally found to have an awe-inspiring influence on the gamins of London, the station-master said he could not tell him any more, not if he were “twenty detectives, and the Lord Mayor into the bargain, all rolled into one.” He recollected a gentleman getting out there, he thought, and coming back again, and going up to London, and he believed he had a lady with him, but he would not be sure. It was “no use a pestering him with any more questions, for he had his own business to attend to about the traffic returns.” He did not know who the gentleman was, nor the lady, and he “had not seen them afore or since, and didn’t want to see ’em either, for that matter.” There the enquiry ended, for the detective was at fault; and that is all they found out about Susan, after searching for days about the neighbourhood in every direction.

Nothing could be done now but to wait and see what effect the advertisements and handbills would have in discovering her whereabouts. So Mr Trump and the detective had to go back to London as unsuccessful as when they had gone down; while Doctor Jolly and the old lady and Tom, who were all greatly grieved at the disappearance of the girl, could but wonder what had become of her. The only thing they had learnt for a certainty was that she was not in the county; and they could only hope that a good providence would watch over her, and bring her back to them safe: in the interim the police in the metropolis, with their wits sharpened by the reward offered, were doing all they could to ferret her out in London. And thus a month passed by.

During all this time, Messrs Trump, Sequence, and Co. had been fairly worried out of their wits, day and night, with false reports about the finding of Susan. More than a hundred persons had come to their offices brimful of the intelligence that they had secured the fugitive, and had seen her at all sorts of unheard of places; but the persons whom they thought to be Susan turned out to be totally unlike her in every particular. Mr Trump was for ever going with the police to inspect the bodies of drowned persons; and yet no trace was found of the missing girl, and he at last began to hope devoutly that she would be found soon, whether dead or alive he did not care which, for he was bothered to death about the matter. Indeed, he would have cheerfully given a handsome sum to have “washed his hands,” as he often said to Sequence, who had a peculiar, parrot-like habit of repeating Trump’s words after him, as if affirmatively, “of the whole affair.” To which Sequence would nod his head, and respond sagaciously, “Certainly, of the whole affair.”

When Markworth, therefore, after the search had lasted a month, walked into the office one morning just after his interview with the Jew, Solomonson, and told Mr Trump, who had accosted him graciously, thinking he was a new client, that he came about the advertisement for the lost girl, Mr Trump was wroth and slightly snappy.

“I hope to goodness you’ve really found her, and not come here with any cock and bull story like the rest of ’em.”

“I think you’ll find,” said Markworth, taking out the marriage certificate which he had brought with him, the advertisement, and a photographic likeness which he had had taken at Havre, “when you look at these, that I’ve found the girl, and am entitled to the reward you have offered.”

“This is Susan, sure enough; but,” he observed, “where’s it taken? Havre? Havre? How the devil did she get there?”

“I took her there,” answered Markworth, in the most cool and collected manner, according to his wont; “and if you’ll look at this certificate here you’ll see that I had a perfect right to do so. She is my wife!”

“Whew!” whistled Mr Trump, through his closed teeth. “Your wife! Why, the girl’s insane!”

“That’s where you make the mistake, my dear sir! She’s no more insane than you are. Her people ought to have told you that, for although she had been previously a little ‘foolish,’ perhaps, they saw her improvement of late; and she had the sense, at all events, to run away with me and get married, and that’s no proof of her insanity.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Mr Trump, “I don’t know about that. I remember now, the old doctor said that she had been more intelligent before she disappeared, but he did not tell me that Susan Hartshorne was quite right in her mind, and I won’t believe it. Do you know Mr —, I beg your pardon, I did not catch your name.”

“Markworth, Allynne Markworth,” said that gentleman.

“Thank you! Well then, Mr Allynne Markworth, do you know that that girl has a large fortune, and it is a very serious offence in the eyes of the law to abduct, and enter into a false contract of marriage with a girl of feeble intellect like that?”

“I am perfectly aware of the facts as you state them, my dear sir. Allow me to congratulate you on your legal presence of mind and abilities,” said Markworth, as calmly as ever. “I knew she had a fortune, but you will have to prove she was non compos mentis, I believe that’s your term for it, when I married her. The girl was of age, my dear sir. Look at that marriage certificate, and see for yourself. She was of legal age on the very day before we were married. There! you see the date of the certificate, 28th August, 1867.”

“Well, well, whether she was of age or not you can be prosecuted under an indictment for a conspiracy to obtain the money of a person of unsound mind, under the pretence of going through a marriage ceremony with a person who, in the eye of the law, could not make a binding contract!”

“Precisely, my dear sir!” said the other, coolly, Mr Sequence, of course, taking no part in the conversation. “Precisely, but you see you will have to prove, in the first place, that the girl was of unsound mind; and in the second, to prove conspiracy you will have to implicate two or more persons. You see, I too, know the law, Mr Trump: allow me to inform you that I alone was concerned in the affair, how will you prove your conspiracy?”

The lawyer looked fairly baffled. “The girl’s found at all events, and that’s one trouble saved,” he said to himself.

Markworth resumed after a moment’s pause, “You see, my dear sir, the girl was of age, she was unhappy at home, she ran away with me and married me: the whole thing lies in a nutshell. I wasn’t to blame; and, of course, as she has property, I shall take very good care to assert my rights as her husband. But that’s an after consideration. You are quite satisfied that the girl is found, I suppose?” said Markworth, after detailing how Susan had met him on the day of her disappearance, taken train with him at Bigglethorpe Station (corroborated as the lawyer remembered, by his and the detective’s enquiries on the day they went down to Hartwood), from whence they had come up to London, and then gone to Havre. The marriage certificate and photograph were also convincing proofs of his statement.

“Yes,” said Mr Trump, “I suppose you have the girl; but it’s a very queer case.”

“My address is Numéro Sept, Rue Montmartre, Havre, where you can see Mrs Markworth yourself: now I’ll thank you to hand over that fifty pounds you offered as a reward for any information about her.”

“By George!” said the lawyer, “you’re a cool hand, and no mistake!” He could not gainsay Markworth’s statement, however; so, unlocking his cash box, and taking out five ten pound notes, he handed them to him reluctantly. “There they are, and much good may they do you!” said Mr Trump, ruefully—He felt just as if he had been the victim of a practical joke.

Markworth, after counting them over carefully, pocketed the notes with the utmost sang froid. “I suppose you will inform Mrs Hartshorne of her daughter’s marriage?”

“Of course, sir, of course! I shall make it my business to go down there myself at once.”

“Aye, do, my dear sir! and get all those unpleasant details over. I’m myself going down to-morrow, and should not like to be bothered in having to make any explanation.”

“You’ll get as much as you want,” said Mr Trump, significantly, “when you come across the old lady.” And Mr Trump bethought him, with ill-concealed satisfaction, of the reception with which Markworth would probably meet; it would be a sort of tit-for-tat, or quid pro quo, for the “sell” he had just been made a victim of, in having to hand over that fifty pounds to the very man who had caused all the worry of Susan’s disappearance. “You won’t get any money out of her,” he thought.

“I shall instruct my solicitors,” said Markworth, as he turned to leave the room, after making the first move of his game of chess, “to substantiate my marriage, which can be easily done, and claim my wife’s fortune.”