Chapter VII: Part 7

Of course, she was far too strategic a campaigner to neglect the other affair altogether. She had written Tom an elegant little _billet-doux_ after the sad contretemps of the pic-nic, telling how sorry she was for his accident, and how she had punished Mortimer, "that naughty, naughty boy," and would remember the painful scene "to her grave:" she also caused Carry to scribble a postscript expressing her condolence, besides sending every day, like the Pringles, to enquire how he did. But she could do nothing further there at present, not at all events until Tom was able to come out again, when she had no doubt she would secure him, and oust that "odious little minx," in spite of what she had seen at the pic-nic. She would, indeed, have said more about the matter, only that she would not for the world offend that "dear Mr Pringle," who was "such a love of a preacher," and "a perfect gentleman," which she would persist in telling everyone, as if they disputed the point in the first place, and in the second, as if it was the most extraordinary thing in the world to meet with a member of the cloth who was a gentleman! The surprise on the campaigner's part as to his being a good preacher was, however, perfectly natural: it is not every gentleman that wears a cassock who is either a fair orator, has a passable delivery, or preaches a good sermon.

Men who go into the church appear sadly ignorant of the old Latin proverb, _Poeta nascitur non fit_! They ascribe unto themselves two gifts which they believe that they possess, the gift of literary composition, and the gift of oratory; neither of which one man in a hundred, perhaps, possesses separately, and not one in ten thousand, together! And yet the generality of clergymen seem to think that they can not only write a good sarmon, but preach it also; hence these dismal, dreary platitudes, and over-and-over-again schoolboy-themes or truisms which set most of us to sleep every Sunday in the family pew. The short homily of the early clericals was far better than the prosy sermon, of unconscionable length, delivered by the moderns; all of whom seem to think that they were born and brought up, and mercifully ordained to be popular preachers, and nothing else!

The war waged by the campaigner against the young incumbent of Hartwood church was not one of guns of precision and bloodshed. It was a very rosy sort of campaign, all rose-coloured, fought with honied words and sugar plums, and meant to end in orange blossoms and marriage settlements; only a lawsuit in which the conflicting parties and ends were the languid Laura, and an establishment, _versus_ the celibacy of Herbert Pringle, B.A., Oxon.

Everything favoured the campaigner's manoeuvres. You see, she had the field clear to herself. The bait she offered was very tempting, and summer in the country is a most dangerous time for young, unmarried men. A week in rural retreats will sometimes do more in the Hymeneal line than weeks of London fashionable life: Coelebs who laughs the hook to scorn, however so delicately baited in town, may be hooked at once with a gaudy May-fly down in the country. Besides, the Reverend Herbert was by no means averse to be caught. He, with all his Oxford experiences, must have to some extent perceived the motives Lady Inskip had for so pressingly cultivating his society; but he did not seek cover as the poor, hunted fox so artfully does. He really found the languid Laura too bewitching to be resisted; so, with hardly a coy make-believe of alarm at what he was doing, he eagerly swallowed the bait, hook and all.

Ever since the pic-nic, Herbert Pringle had become the devoted cavalier of Lady Inskip's eldest daughter.

Morning, noon, and night, the little dapple-grey animal which the young incumbent bestrode was to be seen tied up to the gateposts of Laburnum Cottage: substantial proof that Pringle was within. Of course this was during the intervals of parochial duties which were by no means heavy, as Hartwood, and Bigton too, for that matter, had no poor to speak of, the population being agricultural, living well on their weekly wage, and inhabiting comfortable looking stone houses with pleasant flower gardens in front, and vegetable compounds in the rear.

Croquet--that pleasantly flirtative game, which demands so little skill or exertion, and affords such rare opportunities for effective _poses_, and desultory chit-chat--was all the rage on the little lawn in front of the Inskip's cottage, during the warm September days: croquet settled the young incumbent's business.

Laura was afforded such nice little openings here for developing her conquest in an easy manner so suited to her nature, that she entered with some spirit in completing what the campaigner's manoeuvres had begun. She had only to look graceful, and move about imperially, as tall women can well do, and show her exquisite profile--it looked better than her full face: by such means the mischief was done.

Pringle, like most little men, had a fancy for graceful Junos, and here he had one ready-made to his hand. Out of the pulpit he was not much of an orator; but as the languid Laura hardly ever uttered anything but an occasional interjection, they suited each other admirably. Nothing was wanting but the final declaration, and that came quite as soon as the old campaigner had planned. Two or three weeks completed the conquest, thanks to country air and scene, statuesque charms and croquet, and the praiseworthy efforts of the skilful old veteran who had charge of the campaign.

People speak a great deal, in the press and elsewhere, of the insufficiency of public rewards and honours for distinguished services with a good deal of truth; but in all these discussions a large and praiseworthy portion of the community is entirely neglected, and its claims to honour and reward absolutely ignored. I allude to the mothers of families; how do they get their services recognised? We bind the hero's brows with laurels; we raise the brilliant party orator to the peerage; we give the eminent professor of the law a seat on the woolsack; the soldier a medal and a bit of ribbon for his wounds in the country's service; and we dub the worshipful alderman a knight, should he happen to be at the royal kitchen steps when a prince is born, or have invited the Grand Elector of Sauer Kraut to partake of a ham sandwich on his landing at Dover _en route_ to visit the Palace; but the talented and skilful diplomatist--the mother of a family, who marries off her marriageable daughters all to the most eligible of _partis_, passes by unnoticed. She, who fights courageously a losing game, against fearful odds, who braves reproach, continually--nay, even disgrace, sometimes in furthering a praiseworthy object, and who deserves our esteem and recognition, gets no reward. Peerages in plenty for parliamentarians, titles for sycophants, knighthoods for toad eaters--but the campaigners go by without ne'er so much as a ribbon of decoration.

This should not be. In the time honoured cause of woman's rights, this neglect must be protested against. Let us reward our royal plate cleaners and caustic partisans as much as the nation pleases, but think also of the noble women of England, and their fortune and husband-hunting claims!

Lady Inskip was one of the most skilled and to be honoured of her class. Not only did she lead Pringle up to the point--but, knowing his nervousness, she also saved him the trouble of coming to a declaration. She did it for him herself, and this is how it happened.

She could be very confidential, you know, and was well fitted to assume the maternal _role_, and "talk as a mother myself," whenever it was required of her. She had once before done so to Pringle on Lizzie's account, as was mentioned in a former chapter; so nothing was more easy and graceful than to assume the same _role_ now in his own interests while talking to himself. She determined to make the proposal for him, as he was too shy to make it himself; although in so doing, she spoilt considerable hopes of fun at the "fast" Carry's part, who had declared over and over again in the family circle that she "would give worlds to see the mild parson pop," provoking a mild "how can you be so absurd, Carry!" from Laura, who yet could not prevent a feeble smile at the possibility of such a _tableau_, and "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, miss!" from her mother; while the young imp, Sir Mortimer, gave vent to a triumphant war whoop, and declared that it would be "awful larks! to see Pringle on his knees!" The darling, naughty boy, to be sure! When the campaigner perceived from sundry unmistakable symptoms that things had been brought to a crisis, she prepared to act.

One day, after Pringle had been more bashful and nervous than ever, although still very attentive to Laura, when there had been some weeks of intercourse between the pair since the first descent on Bigton, Lady Inskip "button-holed" him as he was on his way out, and instead of letting him mount his pony at the gate, entreated him to walk a bit down the road with her, as she had something important to say. Pringle, more bashfully still, assented, and passing the bridle of the dapple-grey through his arm, he and the campaigner sauntered off in close confab, watched from the windows of Laburnum Cottage by the young ladies and Mortimer, who seriously wondered what was "up"--one must use slang sometimes; it is so expressive in these very slangy days.

"My dear Mr Pringle," began the wily campaigner, "I take a great interest in you, in quite a motherly way, indeed; and you will excuse me speaking on a very delicate matter to you?"

"Oh! certainly, Lady Inskip, certainly--anything you know," he stammered, in reply, blushing a rosy red, even beneath his budding whiskers of auburn hue.

"Well, then, my dear Mr Pringle, I have to speak to you about Laura. I am her mother, and it seems strange in me to speak to you; but I look upon you as a son, and I wish I could see things arranged between you. The darling girl is getting quite thin and pale, and this prolonged suspense is more than she can bear. And I must ask you in the most-- that is--my dear Mr Pringle, I think your feelings are interested, and--"

"Precisely so, Lady Inskip; just what I wanted to say, only I could not say it. Would Laura, eh?--your daughter, do you think, eh?" and he looked nervously into the campaigner's face.

"I think she will consent. I am so glad, my dear young friend; I will speak to her for you, and it will be all arranged, if you will come in again this evening. I have long wished to see my angel Laura married to a Christian gentleman, and since I have known you, you have fulfilled everything which I could have hoped for her to find in a husband"--that he had, with regard to position and competency, besides being easily managed--"and, my dear Mr Pringle, I will tell Laura at once; and this is the happiest moment in my life!"

"Certainly, Lady Inskip, certainly!" stammered the young incumbent, as he shook hands joyfully with his future mother-in-law; and in the evening he came round again to Laburnum Cottage. Laura received him with a faint blush and a timid pressure of his hand, so it was an understood thing that they were regularly engaged.

After it was all settled, Pringle lost a good deal of his prior bashfulness; and both Carry and young Sir Mortimer regarded him as a very jolly sort of brother-in-law to have. The wedding was fixed for an early date in the following year, after a probationary engagement of some three months.

_Eureka_! The campaigner had carried the fortress after a series of admirable military tactics.

Volume 2, Chapter VIII.

SUSAN.

Change of scene is one of the most potent panaceas for mental ills; and change of scene had in a few week effected Susan's complete recovery. She had been under Markworth's care at The Poplars in those early days of August, an entirely reasoning being, but she had lacked animation and life; she had been like Gibson's Venus, before the flesh tints were put on the statue; but she was now a bright, living, thinking girl, with hopes and pleasures and aspirations which she had hitherto undreamt of.

In her cheerful little apartments in the Rue Montmartre she unfolded herself like a chrysalis from the grub, and bustled about and took an interest in everything around her which Doctor Jolly would have wondered at.

While Markworth was away, the Mere Cliquelle used to look after her and keep her company, and go out with her, and the dignified _bon homme_ of that good lady would also frequently came up to see Madame and air his few English phrases. But Markworth used never to be long away. Havre was so very convenient that he could run over to Southampton and thence to London whenever he wished to see how matters were going on for the approaching law suit; so he seldom stopped away beyond a couple of days. When he was at Havre, however, he continued to devote himself to Susan with all his former care, and tried to gratify every wish she had; and she was as happy as a bird.

One thing only was wanting to complete her happiness, and that was to see her brother Tom: that desire, however, was soon gratified. She had been disappointed sadly when Markworth returned the first time without him; but he said that Tom would soon come, and in a few more days he arrived at Havre. But, he was actuated with no desire to see Markworth: it was only his sister that brought him over, and he wished to persuade her to return home, which he thought she might do at once as he, with the others, had made certain of Markworth retaining her against her will. Indeed the lawyer Mr Trump, or Doctor Jolly would have gone over to Havre at once to fetch her back on learning where she was--for Markworth had freely said that they might come to fetch her if they pleased,--for it was only at Tom's express wish that a few days were allowed to elapse to enable him to fetch her himself, for he was hardly able to move about as yet, notwithstanding that he had every desire to start off at once on first hearing the news. Miss Kingscott had offered to go, but the Dowager bluntly declined her services, saying that, as she had shown so little care in watching over her charge in the first instance, she certainly would not be now entrusted with the charge of bringing her back, and beyond that Mrs Hartshorne said she did not require her services any longer.

So Miss Kingscott left The Poplars altogether, much against her inclinations at this juncture, although she would have more time at her disposal for watching Markworth, for it cut her off from all association with the doctor before matters were brought to a satisfactory point between them. Tom went over to Havre to fetch Susan home in a day or two afterwards, confident of bringing her back. We thus see several important alterations in the _carte du pays_, of the several actors in our little drama.

Markworth was out one day shortly after his own return to Havre when he had set his plans rolling on the other side, when Tom Hartshorne rang the bell at the house _Numero sept, Rue Montmartre_.

The Mere Cliquelle answered the summons and on Tom (in extremely bad French) asking if Madame Markworth was in, the fat landlady herself ushered him up-stairs. She was very much taken with the appearance of Master Tom, who really, with his fine built frame, slightly emaciated with the confinement he had undergone from his illness, and his pale face, looked altogether rather a handsome, presentable fellow. The Mere Cliquelle gazed upon him with admiration: she had a Frenchwoman's eye for _un brave Monsieur_, and she showed it.

She tapped at the door of Susan's little _salle a manger. "Un Monsieur Anglais_," she said, with which explanatory information Tom was ushered in before Susan could exactly comprehend what the Mere Cliquelle meant.

Susan gave one look up of surprise and joy as the door opened and she recognised the visitor: she had been working and had not expected Markworth in for some time. Rushing forwards she flung her arms round Tom's neck.

"Oh, Tom! Tom! You've come at last!" she said, and patted his cheek in delight, as if she were caressing a cat--a peculiarly sympathetic way the fair sex have of showing their affection.

Tom himself was touched. He loved his sister greatly, the more too for her infirmity, and he though he comprehended it all at once in his reasoning mind. Poor Susan was no doubt kept here against her will: she was doubtless glad to see him for his own sake, but probably ten times more so, thinking he was about to take her back home again to England and her own people.

He thought thus for a moment; but he was soon undeceived. After a moment or two he held his sister off from him, his two hands resting on her shoulders, and he looked in her face with surprise.

"By Jove, Susan!" he exclaimed. "How altered you are; I should not have known you again!" He had not seen her for some weeks, and the gradual change which had been taking place in her came upon him all at once like a shock.

"Would you not?" laughed Susan, "but I should have known you anywhere, although you look pale and thin. What has been the matter, Tom?"

"Oh nothing!" he answered. "I have not been quite well. But you, Susan, by Jove! why you are all right again!" he was amazed at her having got rid of that melancholy reticence which had hung over her for so many years as he well knew. Instead of hanging back and not saying a word as she used to do, she now spoke to him freely, and looked just the same as any other girl. He could not believe it: it was wonderful!

"Of course I am all right!" answered Susan, merrily, and then her voice changed to a tone of sadness and anxiety, "but you are not angry with me, Tom, are you?"

"Certainly not! Why should I be angry?"

"For going away and leaving you all like that, and--"

She hesitated.

"We don't blame you, Susan, my dear," said Tom, kindly. "We know that it was all that rascal Markworth's doing."

Susan interrupted him at once, and spoke earnestly, with great emotion.

"Do not say a word against him, Tom; he is my husband, and I won't have a word said against him. If I am changed it is all his doing, and I love him. He has rescued me from ignorance and worse, and made me what I now am. Tom, Tom, you must not say a word against him. I won't bear it even from you."

"There, there," said Tom, soothingly, as if he were speaking to a child, "I did not mean it, and I won't say another word. But are you happy?"

"Happy!" echoed Susan--the answer to his question could be read in her face--"I never knew what happiness was before. I do not mean to blame you, Tom," seeing the look of surprise in Tom's face, "but I could never understand before. I have to thank him for reason and all. I can never repay all that he has done for me."

Tom saw that it was useless to say anything further, and he changed the tenor of the conversation.

"And how did you get over here, Susan?" he said, cheerfully. "Tell me how you got away, and all about it."

"I never intended to go away until the last moment," said Susan, "and I was so frightened of mother that if I had thought of her I should have turned back; but he was with me, and I felt courage, and the next morning we were married in London, I believe, and then we came over here; and, oh! Tom, I am so happy!"

She proceeded to tell him all about her daily life, and her little joys and pleasures.

Tom was greatly interested. He saw that Susan was immensely improved, and he could not but be glad at the change, however much he may have been angry at the way in which it was brought about. Besides, no blame could be attached to her. Tom himself was in love, you see, and he could make greater allowances now on that score than he might previously have done. He saw that Markworth must be kind to her, and at all events, he had certainly done more good to Susan in these few weeks than all the doctors had done. For his part, he would cheerfully have let Markworth now have the money that he had plotted for, and be done with him altogether, but it did not rest in his hands, so the least he could do would be to try and get Susan to go back with him.

"And will you come home with me now, Susan?" he asked, after a pause. "We are all so anxious about you; and you will find things all right at home now, and mother will be very kind."

"And Allynne!--will he come too?"

"No, Susan; I can't ask him. You ought to know that."

"You want me to leave him? Tom, I will never leave him unless he sends me away himself."

Just at this moment the door opened, and Markworth walked in as coolly as possible. Susan darted past Tom and threw her arms round his neck.

"Oh! Allynne, Allynne!" she cried--she had learnt to call him by his Christian name, which no one else had done before--"they want to take me from you. You won't let me go, will you?"

"Of course not, Susan. There, Mr Hartshorne," he said, turning to Tom. "I told you that I did not detain the girl against her will, and you can hear her answer for yourself. I wish to act fairly in the matter, no matter how my motives are misunderstood. Susan," he said, again addressing her, "what will you do--go with your brother or stay here with me?"

The only answer she made was to cling closer round his neck.

Markworth looked at Tom triumphantly, and the latter felt humbled.

"I'm sure it is not my fault," he said. "I daresay you mean very well, Markworth, but I don't retract what I said to you the other day. It was dishonourable for you to take my sister away like that. As for the money, however, now that I see her well and happy, you might cheerfully have it for all I care."

"Thank you," said Markworth, really touched, "you are a generous fellow, and I promise you to take care of your sister carefully for your sake as well as her own. She is well and happy now, and quite recovered, as you can see for yourself, but if she went back she might relapse again, although I won't prevent her from going."

Tom saw there was no use in trying to urge Susan, for she would not come with him and leave Markworth. He therefore only stopped that day with her, and returned on the morrow to Southampton, to report his want of success. He gave a very truthful account of his mission, and told both his mother and the doctor that Susan was quite restored. The old dowager appeared not to care very much about the matter, and reiterated her intention of preventing Markworth from "getting a penny of her money." The doctor was pleased to hear such good accounts of his former patient, but he was apprehensive as to the duration of Markworth's kind treatment to Susan.

"Bless my soul, sir!" said he to Tom, "it may be all very true now, but you can't expect to make a nigger change his skin, or make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, as they say somewhere or other, in something I've read. That man's bad at the bottom, Tom, as certain as God made little apples!"--the doctor, in his customary manner, mixing up a hypothesis with two biblical proverbs.

Thus ended Tom's mission after Susan. He shortly afterwards arranged another enterprise with a different object, and how he fared here will be detailed in the next chapter.

Volume 2, Chapter IX.

"FIDDLE-DE-DEE!"

"Fiddle-de-dee! Thomas," said the old dowager, with considerable asperity, "why you'll be wanting a glass coach and four, and a cocked hat next. Stuff and nonsense, sir, it's all fiddle-de-dee!"

"But, mother--"

"But me no buts sir! I tell you I won't have it, and that's enough."

"Really, mother."

"Really, indeed! I suppose you think I'm as great a fool as you are, Thomas."

"Pray don't excite yourself, mother," said Tom, trying to keep down the thermometer until he could obtain a fair hearing, but the old lady was not to be pacified, for his soothing words only added fuel to the fire.

"Excite myself, indeed! I should think there was a little cause for excitement to hear a baby like you talking of getting married! And bearding me in my own house to be sure! I tell you, Thomas, I won't have it!" And the dowager paced rapidly backwards and forwards on one side of the dining-room with short, jerky steps, swinging her hands, with the fingers clasping and unclasping in unison with her nervous walk.

Tom walked up and down the room on the other side, the table being entrenched between them. He took long military strides, and twirled the end of his moustache impatiently every now and then, for his temper too was rising. He did not reply at once, so his mother went on with a recapitulated volley of wrath. She had only been winding up as it were, before, and now burst out in a flowing stream of words, like an alarm clock running down, as if she had never paused from her last utterance.

"A boy like you--not of age yet, and whom I only carried in my arms the other day! You deserve to be whipped and sent to bed, sir! I never heard of such a thing in all my born days! And as for that little chit--she--she, I don't know what oughtn't to be done with her. Little minx! But it serves me right, putting that jackanapes of a brother of hers into that snug living down there." And the dowager with a wave of her hand indicated Hartwood village. "There is he prancing about on that little beast of a pony of his every day after the heels of that fine my lady who wanted to poke her nose in here if I had only let her. I can see what's going on, although I do mind my own business! And now that artful little jade is trying to catch you with her big staring eyes! I wonder what you can see in her I'm sure. I know what she's after: they have heard that you are the heir, and they want to secure you for the family, but I'll spoil their tricks. I'm not going to be turned out of my own house yet. I'll pack that jackanapes of a brother off about his business, and as for the artful little minx--it's positively indecent a girl running after a boy like that! I saw what they were fishing for, in sending up every day that Gezaba of a servant of theirs to enquire `how Mister Tom was.' Mister Tom, indeed! It ought to be Master Tom, and he to be birched. The artful little minx! I'll--I'll--"

"Stop, mother," shouted Tom, seizing upon a favourable opportunity when the dowager paused a moment from loss of breath. "Stop, mother, I won't have you say a word against that young lady. I don't mind what you say of me, but I won't stand by and hear you abuse an innocent girl like that. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, mother, to use such language. Against your own sex, too, and a lady whom I intend to make my wife."

"Your wife!" screamed the old lady with tenfold vehemence and passion. "Your wife! I'd sooner see you in your grave first!"

"You forget yourself, mother," said Tom, hotly. Like all easy-going men who have good tempers and are seldom roused up to anger, Tom took some time to lose his temper thoroughly, and when he did, he lost it completely. He was now in a regular passion, and his mother's taunts sent him up to fever heat.

"Forget myself, indeed!"--It was a case of flint and steel between the two.--"It is you that forget yourself, talking like a Bashaw of Nine Tails of marrying whom you please, as if you were a lord and master. Fine doings, indeed! why you're as mad as your sister Susan."

"You need not bring poor Susan into the conversation, mother. I'm sure she's very happy, and I believe she did for the best, if this be a sample of a mother's affection, and what she would have met with at home"--Tom ejaculated bitterly.

"Oh! she did for the best, did she? And a fine mess she made of it, running off with that swindling vagabond. I would like to see him on the treadmill! If that was the only way in which she could get back her senses, it would have been better for her to have been dead at once. But it is the way with all silly women; they never seem to have their senses until they have tied themselves to some scoundrel who has only married them for their money. You are more mad than she is, Thomas. Marry, indeed! A pretty pass things are coming to. You're an idiot, and she's a minx, there!"

"I tell you, mother, I won't have you say a word against that lady. If there be any fault attached to the business, which I can't see myself, she's not to blame at any rate."

"She's a little minx, there," repeated the dowager, with increased venom. She saw how well the shaft was aimed, and like a woman she pushed it in.

"I won't have it, mother."

"Minx! minx! minx! there!" uttered the old lady rapidly, giving her head a jerky nod after each repetition of the obnoxious epithet.

"This is scandalous!" said Tom, literally boiling over with passion. The term "minx," applied to Lizzie, having apparently the same effect on him as a red rag has on a bull, or a fat turkey gobler, to adapt a more ignoble simile. "I won't have it, whether you're my mother or not, and I'll marry whom I please, without asking your leave or licence."

"You will, will you? I should like to know how you're going to support a wife? I'm not going to do it for you."

"I don't care whether you do or do not," said Tom, savagely.

The bull had been now tormented sufficiently, and the matador thought it time to give the _coup de grace_.

"Mark my words," said the dowager, impressively, "if you marry that chit, Thomas, or have anything more to do with her, or any of that toadying crew, not a penny piece of my money do you get, Thomas."

"Hang the money! I don't want it: I suppose I can get along somehow or other without it."

"Remember, you're not of age yet, young sir, and when you are, you won't be much better off, unless I please. You haven't a penny of your own now, except what I give you, and if you don't abandon the whole thing, not a penny more will you have."

The dowager was aware of the advantage in military tactics of cutting off the enemy's supplies.

"I'm sure I don't want it," said Tom; but he thought in a moment how ungracious this was to his mother, who had previously been so kind to him. "I mean, I don't want you to help me any more, if it's to be thrown in my teeth like this. I am very much obliged to you, mother, for what you have done for me already. That is past and gone, and I'm not going to sell myself now and break a trusting girl's heart for the sake of my future chances. Hang the money! I hate the very sound of the word."

"But it is a very useful thing, Thomas--a very useful thing; and you don't seem to have had any objection to it before. It's very hard on me, Thomas, very hard." The old lady was broken now a good deal, after all the trouble she had gone through, and was not able to prosecute the combat with her customary vigour. "After I've been slaving and saving for you all these years to meet with such a return. It's a judgment on me; and if I had served my church better than I have served my son, it-- it--" And the dowager fairly broke down for the first time in her life, after vainly attempting to paraphrase Cardinal Wolsey's memorable monologue.

Tom was fairly vanquished.

"I beg your pardon, mother. I did not mean to say anything unkind or ungrateful, but really--"

"After all I have done for you, too," whimpered Mrs Hartshorne; "it's a judgment on me for neglecting your sister and making so much of you."

"I'm very sorry, mother, but I'm a man now, and this is a matter I must decide for myself."

"You shan't marry with my consent," retorted the dowager; "and you can't marry without that."

"You're my mother," said Tom, sadly emphasising that undeniable fact; "and you can ruin my hopes of happiness, if you please. But I shan't stop here; I shall go abroad."

"You go where you please," said the old lady, in her usual sharp way, "so long as you give up that chit."

"I'm not going to give up anybody," said Tom, defiantly; "and I shall exchange into an Indian regiment to-morrow, and when I come of age I shall do as I please."

"Suit yourself," said the dowager, curtly; "but mark my words, not a penny of my money do you get."

At this point the engagement terminated, each party withdrawing their forces without undergoing either a defeat or a victory. It was a decided case of what the dowager had termed in the first instance, "Fiddle-de-dee!"

Tom, immediately after returning from his unsuccessful trip to Havre, had gone down one fine morning to the pretty little parsonage house at Hartwood.

This was not like the first visit he had paid after his convalescence. Then he had been prevented from speaking all he had to say, for Pringle was there; and however much a man may be in love and dying to speak out to the object of his young affections, he cannot very well do it in the presence of her brother. Much, therefore, as Tom liked Pringle, he had hated him at the time of his prior visit for his persistent presence.

"Why on earth could he not go away and set to work about his sermon or something else," Tom thought savagely at the time, and I believe his wishes were shared in this respect, mingled with a little trembling and nervousness, by Miss Lizzie herself, for she doubtless guessed what Tom wished to say. There is something inherent in the divine sex which tells them at once when a male biped is going to make a fool of himself. But then Pringle had not gone away, and the tale, that billionth-told tale, had still to be told.

Why is it that writers always allude to a love episode as that "old, old story?" It is never old, my dear sir, or madam, or mayhap, mademoiselle. It is always new. That wonderful little drama, oftentimes a tragedy, in which two actors only take the parts. It is like the fabled Phoenix which possesses the faculty of reproduction, for it is perennially fresh, and young, and new.

Tom found Lizzie alone this time, and you may be certain he took advantage of the opportunity. You see the case had nearly been concluded before, and was well understood between the pair, so it did not require all that serious preparation, and Quintus Curtian resolve before dashing into the yawning gulf. Tom plunged into it at once. Lizzie's fresh little face, with its melting violet eyes, and the pretty embarrassment which she displayed as she received him in her little conservatory, into which he walked at once to find her on hearing Pringle was out, made him fear nothing and all confident.

The impudent dog darted forward on catching sight of her; and, would you believe it, he had Lizzie folded in his arms before she knew where she was, murmuring over her "My darling, my darling!" And Miss Lizzie--I suppose from discretion, knowing how powerless she was against his strong arms, did not appear to offer any protest. "Abandoned girl!" I hear the old campaigner exclaiming in her dulcet accents.

Master Tom was not going to let the opportunity slip, you may be bound. He had been looking forwards to this, and thinking over the scene all the time he had been laid up, and he was quite prepared to act it.

"Lizzie, my darling," he whispered, after a pause, into her little pink ear, which was temptingly near him, "will you be my own darling little wife?"

And Lizzie said nothing; she only looked up in his face. And their lips met in one long thrilling kiss.

Of course it was the old or new story all over again. Rehearse it, Damon; fight the love-strife over again, Phyllis, and you have the scene complete.

They were in the conservatory all the time; and it was curious how after Pringle came in what a tremendous lot of gardening Lizzie had to do, and how she could not move the pots about, or exercise her little trowel without Tom's help. Shortly afterwards she darted off up-stairs somehow with a very flushed face. Stooping always does send the colour to one's head, you know. And then Tom told Lizzie's brother all about it.

"I'm awfully glad, old fellow," said Herbert Pringle, B.A.--"I am awfully glad, old fellow. Nothing could have pleased me better. I thought you were rather spoony on Lizzie, you know, all along, and I was expecting something like this."

And they shook hands together in mutual congratulation. Tom thought Lizzie's brother a very fine, good-natured, clever fellow indeed!

"By-the-way," said Pringle, after a pause, "have you asked your mother about this?"

Tom looked rather glum; he thought Lizzie's brother a little like the stern parent now.

"Not yet," he answered. "I am going up to tell her now; but it'll be all right, you know."

"I am very glad to hear it, for I would not let you and Lizzie enter into any engagement without her consent. It would not be right, as she's placed me here in her parish, you know."

Herbert Pringle had very serious thoughts on the subject of etiquette, and rather doubted the dowager's consent being obtained, from all he had heard of her from the campaigner, and knew of her himself.

"Oh! that'll be all right," said Tom.

And then Lizzie had come down again, looking bewitchingly beautiful, and Tom spent an hour of ecstasy, after which he took up his hat to go.

Lizzie knew the errand he was now going on--to speak to the dowager--and she wished tearful success to him, and gave him a pretty adieu as he went off exultant: for he said his mother would never refuse her consent to an angel!

How he fared in his enterprise has been already detailed, for as soon as he hinted at the thing his mother had broken out with her characteristic diatribe.

And now the pleasant little drama was brought to an abrupt conclusion. It was all over! He could not marry Lizzie without his mother's consent; the crimson sea of love was now covered with the heaving billows of adversity. He would go abroad somewhere, for he should go mad if he stopped here and could not see his darling, and Lizzie, of course, she would die of a broken heart: it was always the usual routine in tragedies like this.

Tom was very miserable, for he had yet to see Lizzie and her brother-- from whom he had gone off so exultant--and tell of his defeat.

The world was a blank to him now!

"Fiddle-de-dee!"

Volume 2, Chapter X.

MARKWORTH VERSUS HARTSHORNE.

Markworth was as good as his word.

As soon as he saw that there was no chance of prevailing on the old dowager to pay over Susan's inheritance without calling in the aid of the law, he quickly set the slowly-moving wheels of that ponderous and unwieldly machinery in motion.

The very day Mr Trump and himself both got back to London, Mrs Hartshorne was served, through her solicitors, with a notice to refund the sum of twenty thousand pounds cash, trust money held by her on behalf of her daughter, Susan Markworth _nee_ Hartshorne, and bequeathed by the late Roger Hartshorne, deceased, now claimed by Allynne Markworth on behalf of his wife Susan, as beforesaid.

This legal notice was sent to Messrs. Trump, Sequence, and Co., by a firm of Jewish notoriety, Solomonson and Isaacs, unknown to Mr Trump, save through the columns of the "Law List"--although their names were frequently seen in the newspapers, under the head of "Police Intelligence," as the defenders of low class criminals and receivers of stolen goods.

"Mishter Sholomonshon" had not only been willing to act as Markworth's banker, "for a shtrong conshiderashun, ma dere shir," pending the suit, but also agreed to act as his legal adviser in the matter, and instruct counsel for carrying on the case. As Markworth looked upon all attorneys as alike, they all being, in his estimation, "limbs of the devil," without any distinction between them, he consented willingly to the arrangement, particularly as he knew Solomonson was as sharp as a needle, and he was not at all averse to his being a Jew; besides, he already knew all about the matter, and Markworth was not personally acquainted with any other lawyers.

"Sharp work!" said Mr Trump, rubbing his hands gleefully in anticipation of a lengthy suit and a long bill of costs when this notice was served. "Sharp work; but I don't like to have to act with that rascally Jew firm; I wish the rogue had respectable solicitors. It can't be helped though now--"

"Quite so," murmured Mr Sequence, affirmatively, looking at his partner straight in the face, with his dull eyes and expressionless features.

"But we'll stop their little game," continued Mr Trump, as if speaking to himself, without taking any notice of Sequence at the moment. He presently turned to him, however, and the two, after some little deliberation, settled upon what course they should pursue.

Mr Trump was resolved, according to the dowager's express wish and his own personal inclination--that fifty pounds rankled sorely in his breast!--to fight the case to the death.

The notice was answered by a peremptory refusal to pay over the trust money.

Whereupon Mrs Hartshorne was invited in judicial parlance through her solicitors to show cause why she should not refund the said sum of twenty thousand pounds.

The rule, "to show cause," was retorted to by sundry pleas, the first of which averred never indebtedness, and the others that the plaintiff, Allynne Markworth, had coerced the said Susan Hartshorne, falsely termed Susan Markworth, on whose behalf the trust money was claimed, which claim was null and void, and without foundation in the eyes of the law, inasmuch as the said plaintiff "had entered into a conspiracy to obtain the money of a person of unsound mind, under the pretence of going through a marriage ceremony with a person who, in the eye of the law, could not make a binding contract."

These pleas were replicated, and the whole thing resolved itself into a formal case at law--a very important case of medical jurisprudence, wherein the evidence for the defence was to impeach the sanity of the plaintiffs principal witness.

Everything was at length arranged. The preliminaries of the combat were all settled, and counsel were engaged on either side. The foemen were eager for the fray, a day was fixed for the trial, late in the Michaelmas term, and on the day of battle appointed, the lists would be lined by the partisans of the respectives combatants, who would then enter the arena with visors closed and lances couched--visors of legal dust with which to blind their opponent's eyes, and not to save their own, and lances of parchment briefs with substantial butts of strong witnesses--to fight the be-wigged and be-gowned battle until either foe should fall. When "God defend the right," or in the more colloquial language of the prize ring, "may the best man win."

The case of "Markworth _versus_ Hartshorne" created an immense sensation in legal circles when it was known that a day had been appointed for giving it a hearing.

The issues involved were very intricate; and, as in most cases based on a point of lunacy, the sympathy of the public, who, as yet, knew nothing reliable about the matter, was in favour of Markworth and his wife, the latter of whom would be, it was said, produced in court to testify her own sanity at the time she married the plaintiff.

The whole case, in fact, rested upon this point--whether the marriage was a real marriage or not--that is to say, whether Susan Hartshorne was sane or insane at the time she ran away with Markworth. If she was in her right senses at the time, then the marriage was _bona fide_, and the old dowager would have to hand over the nice little amount of her daughter's inheritance that was due; if Susan was proved to be imbecile, then the marriage would be void, the dowager would still retain her hold of the twenty thousand pounds, and Markworth be indictable for conspiracy.

It was a civil suit, so to speak, based on criminal ends; so it would go worse with the plaintiff than the defendant should his case fall through.

Solomonson and Isaacs, however, were sharp practitioners, and one of their first proceedings was to subpoena Doctor Jolly, who had attended Susan so long as her medical adviser, and who, of course, would be a very material witness: this was in order to prevent the other side from getting hold of him; and Miss Kingscott was also favoured with a little oblong slip of paper and a guinea in order to insure her attendance to the same end.

They were sharp enough, as Mr Trump found out to his cost; for before the day fixed for the trial, the dowager's lawyers were at their wits end how to support their case. They had got hold of Joseph Begg, who had witnessed the marriage, and the curate who solemnised it, to bear out the alleged charge of conspiracy against Markworth, but beyond that they felt they could do nothing. If Susan were placed in the witness-box, and stood her cross-examination so as to prove her sanity, the case would be all put out of court, or, as Mr Trump graphically expressed it, "it would be all up."

Indeed, Mr Trump had such very serious thoughts about the termination of the case, after he had thoroughly gone into the evidence _pro_ and _con_, that he took upon himself to advise Mrs Hartshorne to compromise the matter before it came on for trial. This was just after Tom came back from his visit to Susan and reported how happy and changed she was.

But the dowager would not hear a word of compromise. She was determined to "fight it out on that line," as General Grant is reported to have said when besieging Richmond in the Southern States, not only "if it took all the summer," but the winter too.

Accordingly the case of "Markworth _versus_ Hartshorne," was regularly put down for trial; and Sergeants Thickhyde, Q.C., and Silvertong retained for the defence. The Jew lawyers had got hold of the well-known Brassy, considered A1 at the criminal bar, and Serjeant Interpleader, to conduct their case on Markworth's behalf.

Volume 2, Chapter XI.

"THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME."

"_Partant pour la Syrie_" should have been the proper title for this chapter, only instead of _la Syrie_, read _l'Abysinne_; but as "The girl I left behind me" is more appropriate to the matter, if not to the motive of what follows, the latter heading has been adopted in preference. "The Girl I left behind me!" That would-be jovial and yet melancholy air, with its dreary rub-a-dub-dub which the band plays when the regiment is marching out so gaily oh! with the route for foreign service. The Light Brigade played it when they started off to the Crimea; the Royals when they sailed for India, to avenge the deaths of our murdered kinswomen at Cawnpore: how many that departed so gallantly marching to the strains of that sad hackneyed tune, saw their native land again, or met the welcome of the girls they left behind them!

The "fiddle-de-dee" conversation with the old dowager had levelled the charming little Spanish castle which Tom had erected down to the ground; so it was with a very sad heart that he called at the parsonage on the following day to acquaint Lizzie and her brother with the upshot of his interview with his mother.

He was obliged to speak out straight and tell the truth: and it resulted in his worst fears being realised. Herbert Pringle said he could not hear of an engagement between them, as Mrs Hartshorne would not give her consent; and Lizzie, with a very pale little face and a determined little air, as if she was a martyr and being led to the stake, said she would have to do as her brother told her.

Tom, on hearing this, burst into a passion, and said she had "never cared for him," and that "nobody cared for him," and he "wished he was dead," and that he "would go away," and "when some bullet put an end to his life" she "would think of him," a false, "fickle, perjured girl as she was;" and he went off in a tantrum, unmindful of Lizzie's pleading little face, and the longing violet eyes, and the pale, tearless cheek.

Tom went straight off to rejoin his regiment, the depot of which was quartered at Aldershot. He told the Colonel, who was an old bachelor, and regarded Tom as a son, that he wanted to exchange and go on foreign service.

"Pooh, pooh!" said the old Plunger, who had grown grey in the regiment, and seen much service at its head in India and the Crimea--"Pooh, pooh, Tom; why, you must be crossed in love, my boy!"

Tom was very sad over it, and very stern; he could not see anything to joke about. He told the colonel that he was very unhappy at home, and wished to go away for a time; and if he could assist him in furthering his object, he, Tom, would ever remain grateful, and so on.

The Colonel was a kind hearted old fellow, and seeing that Tom was sore wounded, he did not rally him any more on the subject, but entered into it _con amore_.

"I'll do anything for you, Tom, my boy, that I can. You know that without my saying it; and if you really do want to go abroad, I can put you in the way of it this present moment."

"Can you, Colonel?" said Tom, earnestly; "I wish you would."

"That I will, my boy! You know the Abyssinian Expedition is just starting out."

"By Jove!" said Tom, "that's just what I should like."

"Easy, my boy--easy! Don't run away with the squad like that all at once! I'm just coming to it, my boy."

"Pray excuse me, sir," said Tom, who was dying for the rather easy-going Colonel to proceed.

"All right, my boy--all right. You see, I met my friend Sir Charles, who goes out with the advanced corps, the other day in London, and he told me that if I knew any smart young officer who would like to go out, he would be happy to let him come with him as one of his aides-de-camp, to oblige me."

"Oh, sir!" ejaculated Tom, in anxiety.

"The question is, my boy, are you a smart young officer, and can I recommend you?" the Colonel asked, being a bit of a wag, as he saw the sudden joy which irradiated the suppliant's face.

"I would thank you so much, sir," ejaculated Tom; "I am sure I could be useful to him if you would only recommend me."