Chapter V: Part 5

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 celebres_ 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 2, Chapter I.

"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 Sevres 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 _fete champetre_.

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 2, Chapter II.

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 entrepot 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 Mere 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, Mere 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 Mere 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 Mere 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 2, Chapter III.

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?"