Chapter IV: Part 4

It had low, diamond-paned French windows, opening down to the ground; so that one could walk out into the trim-inclined but wild planted flower garden--Lizzie's especial pride--and on to the smooth velvetty lawn beyond, that sloped down to the water's edge, bordered with hanging branches of weeping willows, and sappy, luscious, green osiers, that sprang like ostrich plumes from the quiet pools and crinks into which the stream widened here and there.

The parsonage had a "fine walled-in kitchen garden," as house agents advertise, devoted to spruce rows of cabbages and arrogant cauliflowers, each of which weighed more than a good-sized Christmas turkey; and fruit-clustered pear and apple and peach trees, all nailed up and trained along the walls, like a giant's palms spread out with the fingers extended. Beyond the kitchen garden the walls were overhung with rich green ivy, which took off the stuck-up appearance it might have had like most enclosures, and gave the place a much, more picturesque aspect. But it was in the flowery plaisance, marked out on each side by a thick laurel shrubbery, that Lizzie's handiwork shone out.

This commenced just under the windows of the house, round which it extended, and spread out to where it joined the lawn, from which it was separated by a sort of strawberry island, and a hedge-row of box, tall, up-grown, and cut in queer, fantastic shapes.

In Lizzie's flower garden, which she had specially looked after since she came to keep house for her brother, there was the most lavish display. Tiger lilies and jonquills, sunflowers and pale-faced narcissi, vied with each other for effect; and the great charm of the whole lay in the utter absence of any set form or arrangement--roses and lilies all grew together in the most charming confusion, with sundry creepers twining around them; it was only on account of there being no weeds visible, that you did not set down this wilderness of flowers to be totally neglected.

Other effects were not wanting to complete the picture. Here on a summer afternoon you would hear a pet robin punctually begin his sweet song, at "four of the clock precisely," from his favourite perch on a spreading fir tree that overhung the eaves of the house--a little robin that used to hop down every morning to the adjacent window of the parlour, to receive his matutinal crumbs from Lizzie's hand. The "chuck! chuck! chuck!" of the black bird too, would be also heard from the laurel shrubbery; and the rival strains of the yellow-hammer from the neighbouring medlar tree. The latter gentleman would commence his lay with a "whirr," like an alarm clock running down, and end with a sort of chorus like the concluding bars of "Green grow the Rushes O!" The Beccaficoes, too, or English ortolan, very like the thrush, would assemble here in the hot months of the year, and did not fail to leave evidences of their partiality for the fruit tree which received the Saviour's curse.

Tom Hartshorne had explored all this paradise long before, in the company of Miss Lizzie; and he was now, as I said, under her tuition, looking at her tying on some artificial May-fly or other ichneumon to his line.

It was a beautiful morning--not yet twelve--and the air was balmy, and scented with new-mown hay and flowers; while bees were buzzing around, and birds singing in the air, the lark, chief songster, above them all; altogether, Master Tom was situated under very romantic circumstances, and his handsome Saxon face and honest blue eyes looked and shone out happy in the extreme.

Lizzie was dressed in a dainty little muslin dress, picked out with some lilac tinge, and her little hat was thrown on coquettishly, half off and half on; while her bright pretty little face was unclouded, and there was a depth of tenderness in the deep violet eyes that glanced up every now and then to Tom.

She had just succeeded in tying on the fly, and looked up suddenly in a triumphant, saucy little way, in Tom's face. He was very close to her, for he had to watch very narrowly to see how the work was done, and he stooped at the time she looked up; and she said, "There, sir!"

They were very close together, and their eyes met, and Tom was stooping, and, naturally, as those sweet little tempting rosebud lips were so near, he--

Well, what would you do if a very pretty girl was very close to you, male reader, under the same circumstances? What reply would you make?

Very well, Tom did it!

Just at that moment, Lady Inskip was driving round the road which skirted by the parsonage garden, to pay a visit, and leave an invitation, at the house of our friend, the young incumbent. It was not long after her encounter with the dowager, and Lady Inskip was still wrath: her observation being keen, and the pony carriage high, she could therefore see the little meeting between Tom and Lizzie over the wall.

She saw it all, my dear sir; and her sense of propriety was so shocked, that, instead of calling, as she intended, on the Pringles, she only left the invitation and drove on homewards.

Here she had been twice defeated this morning! The dowager had routed her at The Poplars, and "that artful little minx" had presumed to poach upon her manor--was actually making love to Master Tom, whom she had designed for her own Carry. It was absolutely startling! She did not know what to do. Fortunately, she thought, no one had observed the pleasant little episode in the garden--so indelicate!--but herself, as her daughters, riding on the front seat, had had their backs turned at the time, so she would keep it to herself, and determine what was to be done.

One thing, at all events, she resolved to do, and that was to speak to the Reverend Herbert Pringle privately, and in confidence, about his sister. He was a most gentlemanly young man, and could not be offended at her mentioning the subject, especially as she would put it to him, since she was old enough to be his mother--at least, his mother-in-law!

Fortune favoured the old campaigner in her object. Our friend, the incumbent, having visited and cheered his poor people, by asking affably as to their healths, returned homewards by way of Laburnum Cottage, to see the Inskips, determining to himself that that was the shortest way round, although it was at least five miles out of his way.

Lady Inskip only arrived a few moments before him, and so he caught her when she was red hot on the subject just then rampant in her heart.

When she had flattered him sufficiently, and after he had basked in the sunshine of Laura's smiles, he rose to leave, and Lady Inskip accompanied him herself to the door, and on to the grass plot beyond, and the gate, where stood his dapple-grey pony with his reins flung over the post to keep him from straying. When the girls saw their mother follow Clericus without, they made up their minds that she was going to "ask his intentions," and much did the lively Carry chaff her sister therenent. The campaigner's motive was, however, a very different one.

"You will excuse me, Mr Pringle, I'm sure, but I am an old woman, you know, and I take such a motherly interest in you--(very motherly!)--that you will forgive me for asking you a question?"

Poor Clericus, himself, trembled at this introduction, as I believe his idea of what was coming was very similar to those of the girls inside.

"Oh, certainly, Lady Inskip, certainly!" he said, with a sort of dead-alive alacrity.

"Is your sister engaged to Mr Tom Hartshorne?" said the old campaigner; and Pringle was immensely relieved.

"Oh dear, no!" he responded, this time cheerfully enough. "Oh dear, no, Lady Inskip, what made you suppose so?"

And, thereupon, my lady spoke, and told what she had seen; and, although Pringle was not very angry at first, nor did he look upon the affair as anything serious, the campaigner presently persuaded him that it was his duty to speak to his sister. He, of course,--so she explained--could not be aware how a young girl would be talked about if she were allowed _carte blanche_ to flirt with every young man she came across. Poor Lizzie! as if she would have done so--and that it was very unfortunate the poor girl had no mother to warn her, and so on. But it was his duty as her brother, and not only on that account, but as a clergyman also-- so the campaigner put it--to speak earnestly at once, and have the thing broken off.

Herbert Pringle promised to do so, and rode home very sadly, for he loved his little sister very much in his way, and hated the business of talking so seriously to her, besides not knowing how to set about it.

Let us return to our lovers; our poor tender sheep, into whose fold such a great gaunt wolf had now penetrated.

They did not hear the wheels of the old campaigner's chaise as it passed round by the garden wall, nor did they see her grim eyes surveying them above it, and taking notes of their propinquity--not they!

When Master Tom committed himself in the way I have hinted at, little Lizzie blushed crimson, and hung down her head so that he could not see her face.

"Oh, how could you? How could you?" she stammered out, nearly crying.

"Forgive me! I beg your pardon: I could not help it"--and Tom was going to tell his love, and disclose all the feelings that filled his heart, when, at that moment, my Lady Inskip rang the bell to leave her note, as already detailed.

Before Tom could catch her so as to hold her, Lizzie darted off, like a startled fawn, towards the house, and the opportunity was lost.

The next day she was not in when he called round, and Pringle visited him the day after that, instead of his visiting him; and so, although he was not spoken to, no opportunities were put in the way of their meeting alone.

Both Tom and Lizzie were looking forward to the pic-nic with heartfelt longing, for the former, at least, determined to speak then.

Oh, Love! Love! When will thy course run smooth?

Volume 1, Chapter XII.

"THE BEGINNING OF THE END."

Markworth's plot was now nearly ripe for execution.

When he had been down at The Poplars some weeks now, he said one morning at the breakfast table that he must run up to town for a day or two, as he had some important business to transact; so excusing himself to the Hartshornes, mother and son, the former of whom did not look as if she would break her heart if he never returned, he said he supposed he had better start at once and come down on the next day, Saturday, so as to be in time for the contemplated pic-nic on the following Tuesday, which Tom would not hear of his missing.

"You'll be sure to be back in time, old fellow," said the latter, as he wished Markworth good-bye; and the train glided off from the little station to which they had walked in company across the fields. "There'll be heaps of fun, for Harrowby and a lot of the fellows will be down, and I want you to draw out the campaigner, or she'll be making a dead set at me, and--"

"You'll have other fish to fry, and will want to attend to someone else, eh? I quite understand it all, my boy; I'm not so blind as some people think, Master Tom. However, I'll spare your blushes and your explanations: don't be alarmed, my boy, I'll be back in plenty of time for the pic-nic, and will take care to occupy my lady's attention so as to leave you to your own devices. Good-bye, old chap."

"Good-bye, old fellow," said Tom; and Markworth was soon whizzing on his way to London.

Arrived in town, he first directed his steps to the private billiard-room where he and his friend first made the acquaintance of the reader.

His object was to enlist the services of the little old-fashioned marker, who we had previously seen watching the game.

This man, Joe Begg by name, although only known to the sporting world who frequented the room by his Christian name alone, was an accomplice and ally of Markworth. When our friend would manage to get hold of a nice pigeon for plucking, Joe Begg used to be of the greatest service. He had a peculiarly dexterous way of running up the score, and also a pleasant and most unaccountable manner of sneezing just when Markworth's opponent would be making some important stroke. It was most unfortunate of course, and the victim would meet with so much sympathy, and the marker would apologise so earnestly with tears in his eyes for the unfortunate cold in the head, "which takes me most unexpected, sir," as he would explain, that poor pigeon could not but allow that it was an accident, and accept the _amende honorable_ by continuing his play. When neophyte went away, after his vanity had been flattered by his being allowed _nearly_ to win and his losing "rather hot, you know, by Jove?" he did not know that Markworth and the marker generally came to an understanding, which always resulted in the former offering and the latter accepting sundry substantial tokens of esteem and regard.

It was not to make use of his aid in the matter of billiards and by-play that Markworth now sought the company of Joe Begg. It was for something much more important and vastly different, although of a similar nature.

He wanted a witness for the contemplated marriage, and he could not think of anyone better qualified to assist him than Joe. He was just the man, for he had been always faithful to Markworth's interests, and could be as "close as wax," although he would naturally require a "consideration."

"Well, Joe, how's business," he said, as he walked into the billiard-room, when, as was usual at such an early hour of the day, the marker was all alone.

"Very dull, Mister Markworth, very dull! Why, sir, I haven't made a bob at pool for the last three weeks. Everybody's out of town, and those City fellows as comes in are afeared to bet a tizzy on a dead certainty. Can I do anything for you to-day, Mister Markworth?"

"Not to-day, Joe; but I will want you shortly."

"All right, sir, whenever you want me you've only got to speak, and I'm there."

"I thought I could rely on you, Joe. The fact is, I shall want you to be a witness to a marriage between a lady and myself."

"How much will you stand?"

"I'll do the thing handsomely. I tell you what, I will give you a fiver after it's all over, because I shall want you to swear to it perhaps in evidence afterwards."

"I'm your man, sir," replied the marker, with alacrity; "swear to anything for that sum. When is the little affair coming off?"

"I can't say yet, Joe. Maybe in a week, maybe not for a month; but when I want you I shall write here and let you know. Mind! You must be ready at once to accompany me when I write for you."

"I'm fly, sir," responded Joe, with a cunning movement of his left eyelid, more expressive than an ordinary wink. "I'll be ready any time; and perhaps, sir, as the business is partickler, it'll be worth more than a fiver, who knows?"

"I shan't forget you, Joe; we won't quarrel about terms," answered Markworth, meaningly, and he then went away, for he had even more important arrangements to make.

He paid a second visit to the dingy purlieus of Doctors Commons.

This time not to the deed depository of the dead, but to the legal portals of Hymen, where Cupid sits enthroned on the bench, in all the majesty of the law, with a horsehair wig and a pair of clerical bands, to issue licenses to marry and for giving in marriage.

It was now Friday, and the pic-nic was to come off at Bigton on the ensuing Tuesday, so Markworth determined that he would manage to get Susan Hartshorne away from The Poplars on that day, as he would be less liable to observation and detection; and taking her up to London, could have the marriage solemnised on the succeeding day. Tuesday, strange to say, was the very day, the 27th of August, according to the information of Miss Kingscott, retailed from the Family Bible, when the girl would be of legal age, one and twenty, and entitled to the free disposal of her money.

He accordingly got a license made out without much trouble, by means of a little stretch of the imagination--called perjury in courts of law-- and the initiatory step for his design was taken. If everything went well, he would before that day week be the husband of Susan Hartshorne, and master of her twenty thousand pounds. He had well weighed every step in his programme; he had studied every possible consequence to himself; and he saw no reason to anticipate failure when everything pointed to success.

After leaving Doctors Commons he went to some old lodgings of his in a retired street in Bloomsbury, where he was well-known, and a set of rooms always kept vacant for him, for his comings and goings were so irregular that no one knew when to expect him. None of his West End friends knew of his ever living here, for he always gave an hotel as an address; and to tell the truth, he had often been comfortably installed in these same Bloomsbury lodgings when the world thought him travelling on the Continent, or shooting grouse on the moors.

His appearance was therefore looked upon as a usual thing, and no surprise was manifested; for his ways had always been inscrutable, and as he checked curiosity and was a good and regular paying lodger, he could do as he liked. He had always done so from the first, and his landlady never bothered herself about him or his business, "it was no concern of hers, he always paid his rent, and that was all she cared about," she said.

He stopped here that night, and went away the next morning, telling Mrs Martin, the landlady, that he was going to bring "his sister" to town on the following Tuesday, and would require the rooms to be ready for her reception. This was the first time she had ever heard of his having a sister; but he might have brought twenty so long as he paid his rent. I believe a regular London lodging-house keeper is more of a cosmopolitan than any other person in the world. She will take in anybody with a decent supply of luggage, and who is tolerably regular in the payment of his or her weekly bills--the wandering Jew, Calcraft, or Eugene Aram. It is all the same to the proprietors of the "apartments" whether her tenant be Jew or Gentile, gentleman or "snob," criminal or honest man; she has but one standard for social position, morality or nationality, and that is a pecuniary one. A lodger may be forgiven everything, even seventy times seven, if he only pays his rent regularly; that is the _ultima ratio_ to which appeal is made--it is practical and works well!

These preliminary arrangements being seen to, Markworth walked down through Lincoln's Inn Fields, across into Chancery Lane, and paid a visit to some dingy, tumble-down looking chambers close to the projected site for the new Law Courts, which are to be built at some era dim in futurity. A brass plate was on the door, with the names "Solomonson and Isaacs, solicitors," engraved thereon.

His business was with the senior partner, who greeted him as an old client or customer, which indeed he was. Solomonson was not at all averse to transact business, even on the Jewish Sabbath.

"Vell, Mishter M," said the Jew, who was part money lender, part lawyer, and all rogue. "Doesh de leetel affairsh go on? Have you got de mad girlsh yet. I vants to see her Mishtressh M'sh--"

"Not yet, Shylock; but everything's in train, and I shall do it before the week is out. But you told me right, I hope, about the law; I would not like to commit a felony?"

"You are all rightsh, Mishter M'sh. Leave de cashe in dese hands and ve vill see you trough!"

"I rely upon you then, and will let you conduct the whole affair,--but I must have some money to carry the thing through, Solomonson. How much can you let me have on my own security?"

"I vill letsh you ave two hundredsh pound. S'help me Gadsh, Mishter M'sh! itsh all I've got!"

"Nonsense, Shylock! you can't fool me like that," replied Markworth, and he tried unsuccessfully to get more out of the Jew. He had to be contented for the present with a couple of hundreds. Solomonson knew, however, the stake for which he was playing, and told him that as soon as he was really married to Susan Hartshorne he would advance him more. Until then he would not let him have another penny. So Markworth was forced to content himself with what he had got, and he was not pleased when he recollected that he would have to give the governess half.

He was, however, provided with the sinews of war, so he wished Solomonson good day, cheerfully as he went out, and told him he would soon see him back again.

"Good daysh!" replied the Jew. "Don't forget to send me the weddingsh cakesh, my dearsh! I likesh weddingsh cakesh!"

The last visit Markworth paid before leaving London was to the curate of a small church in the city, with whom he was acquainted--how he had made his acquaintance I cannot say; and to this gentleman he made some explanation about a forthcoming marriage which appeared to be highly satisfactory to both parties.

Everything was now settled but the great event itself, and so Markworth returned to Hartwood by the afternoon train. To shew that he did not forget even trifles in considering everything for his plot, he bought an odd volume of the recently revived "Essays and Reviews," at the railway book stall, for the personal edification of the Dowager Mrs Hartshorne, who had been speaking of the book in connection with her now favourite topic of ritualism. This he presented to her the same evening, much to her surprise, and peculiarly snappishly-expressed pleasure and thanks. The old lady had recently been over head and ears in pre-adamite geology, and nothing interested her so much as a secular essay on theological truths.

Tom was delighted to see him back in such good time, and planned out all sorts of pleasant things for the pic-nic, which was in everybody's thoughts--little knowing how Markworth intended to dispose of his day. All the Sussex world was going to be there. A pair of violet eyes comprised "all the world" to Tom now.

Some time that evening Markworth had a long conversation with Miss Kingscott, preparing for "the end." Both--strange anomaly!--had worked together for once, and not for good. He gave her a hundred pounds, the first instalment of the "hush money," and their compact was nearly completed.

To one who had not marked out every phase in Susan Hartshorne's treatment, the change that had been worked in her since Markworth had devoted his energies to her care, was nothing less than marvellous.

From dull, irksome melancholia the patient had been transported to the fields of reason. A constantly unchanged vacuity of expression on her face had given place to mobility of feature. Instead of void animal eyes, the windows of the soul now looked out of her face. From an idiot she had been changed nearly if not quite into a reasoning being. Markworth had done all this, aided by Miss Kingscott acting under him and by his directions. It is true the girl had only got back the germ of reason, the reason of a child in nature, and measured by the experience of years. But it was a germ which, although now of delicate growth, and requiring every fostering and care, might yet expand into the fullness of moral culture.

No one had any idea how poor Susan had improved, for she saw no one to speak to as yet; and although Tom and Mrs Hartshorne noticed some change in her, yet the former was too much engaged with observing another to notice much in his sister, and as for the mother she really, I believe, did not care either way. She had so long looked upon Susan as insane, that the possibility of her ever recovering her reason now after the lapse of so many years, was put beyond the pale of consideration altogether.

And so only Markworth and Miss Kingscott knew of her dawning reason; with them both she spoke now as sensibly as themselves, and as to Markworth she was his abject slave.

The first reasoning thought that filled the poor girl's vacuous brain was one of heartfelt devotion to him who had led her out of darkness to light. She looked upon him as her saviour, ignorant as she was of a higher and more powerful God than he; and he was so uniformly kind and considerate to her, seemingly anticipating her every wish, that one cannot wonder at her slavish idolatry. He was her god--her all; she loved him as a dog would love its master, and everything he did was right: his word, law.

Markworth's material was now plastic enough.

Volume 1, Chapter XIII.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

"Now, Lizzie, I want to know what all this means?" said the Reverend Herbert Pringle, B.A., putting on quite a fatherly dignity of manner to his sister, an evening or two after Lady Inskip had spoken to him. "I want to know what all this means."

Lizzie was at the time engaged lifting pots up and down, and poking about in her little conservatory, which jutted out of the drawing room, with a trowel and watering-pot, in the manner peculiar to young ladies of a horticultural tendency. Her back was turned to her brother, so that he could not see her face, but a brilliant tinge of pink carnation coloured her little white neck, and suffused her dainty-cheeks, and ascended even to the pure white forehead; still she steadfastly kept her head down, bent apparently on investigating the wonderful mysteries of some flower with a horribly long Greek name, which she was inspecting.

She must have guessed intuitively what her brother was going to speak about, but with a woman's noble gift of dissimulation, she asked, with an air of candour and conscious rectitude--little hypocrite!

"Why, Bertie, dear, what on earth do you mean?"

They are all deceivers, every one; bless you! that's the way with them. They are tricksters at heart, and conceal their feelings with a sort of savage deceit, which only a Red Indian besides possesses. See how calmly and placidly Miss Dissembler smiles with elegant ease, whilst Madame Verjuice pierces her little writhing heart through and through with a malicious sarcasm that wounds her to the core. She looks as if she never felt it whilst she is bleeding to death inwardly. Look at the poor fainting wife and mother, who with a smile on her lips and death at heart, cheerfully gives her husband and starving children the last morsel of bread in the hovel, and says with a martyr-like dissimulation that she does not want it, she is not hungry. Bless you they are all deceivers, every one, from little miss in her teens, who flirts with her boy lovers, to old Joan of threescore, who still wheedles her venerable Darby!

"Why, Bertie, what on earth do you mean?" as innocently as you please.

The Reverend Herbert Pringle, B.A., had for the last two days been puzzling his small amount of brains how to broach the subject to his sister. He did not wish to vex her, or hurt her feelings; in fact, he did not know what to do, it was "such a delicate matter, you know, such a very delicate matter," that he wished it were settled and done for, and off his hands. But still, all the same, he did not know how to begin.

"Well, humph!" clearing his throat portentously, "the fact is, Lizzie, you know all about it."

"Really, Bertie," said Lizzie, laughing--oh! such a faint little laugh, "you are very enigmatical to-day."

"I'm not joking, Lizzie; it's a serious business, a very serious business. What is all this going on between you and Tom Hartshorne?"

Poor Lizzie's little defences of affected ignorance and nonchalance at once broke down, although she bravely struggled on to preserve her equanimity.

"I'm sure I've nothing to do with Mr Hartshorne. What _do_ you mean, Herbert? Pray explain yourself."

And the young lady drew herself up with a tremendous accession of dignity to the full height of her little figure.

Herbert Pringle was so disgusted with the dissimulation of the sex as evinced in the instance of his sister that he felt himself nerved up and able to go on with the talk before him, so he plunged at once _in medias res_.

"Here's Lady Inskip been telling me--"

"Oh! I've got to thank _her_ for interesting herself about me! I am sure I am very much obliged to Lady Inskip!"

"You need not interrupt me, Lizzie, and you need not get angry about Lady Inskip. She's a most motherly woman, and she spoke very kindly to me about you. You see, Lizzie, it's a very hard thing for a fellow to speak of. Of course I think girls ought to be allowed to mind their own affairs of this kind, and it seems rough on my part to interfere; but, you see, as Lady Inskip very kindly observed, you've no mother to advise you, and consequently I must take her place."

As he said this, the Reverend Herbert Pringle looked certainly as unlike a mother as possible.

"Go on, Herbert; let me know all that Lady Inskip has been kind enough to say of me," said Violet Eyes, now facing her brother, with a full sense of her dignity, and tapping her foot on the floor with angry impatience.

"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 1, Chapter XIV.

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 cortege_ 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 _fete_, 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 1, Chapter XV.

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.