would rather have it so for that poor girl's sake."

"And she won't do it, Richard?"

"The devil a scrap she says.  Bless my soul, Deb! she won't hear of a
compromise; she says she will see that rascal hanged first before he
gets a penny of her money--and she's right, too, by Gad?"

"Oh!  Richard, Richard!" said Pythias, warningly.

"Well, she did not use exactly that language, but she meant it.  I tell
you what I've a mind to do, Deb."

"What, Richard?  Nothing rash I hope!" observed Deborah, with anxiety:
she always looked upon her brother as a gay young fellow, who might
suddenly rush off and commit some escapade, so she consequently was
constantly on the tenter hooks of suspense.  You see the doctor had a
partiality for the fair sex.  He was always fancying himself in love
with every pretty young lady he came across, and innumerable were the
frights Deborah had had in consequence.  The doctor in fact was always
committing himself, and only his universal _bonhomie_ saved him from
breaches of promises without number.  He would be sensible enough and
hold his own with men, but with women he was a very child in their
hands.  Deborah looked upon everybody in petticoats as special tempters
and snares set in the path of her brother.  She thought he was
irresistible: and it was therefore a wonder with all the chances he had
had and the many very serious flirtations he had engaged in that he had
not yet been caught.  He had got over his partiality for Miss Kingscott,
now that the charmer had gone away, not that I wish to accuse the doctor
of heartless conduct, or of being a "gay deceiver."  But to be in love
was a chronic epidemic with him, and as Miss Kingscott was gone, he was
in duty and of necessity bound to take up with someone else, Deborah
knew that the doctor had of late been very attentive to a certain pretty
little widow who had come down to stop at Bigton, and had called in the
services of Aesculapius for some trifling nervous ailment--who knows
what might come of it?  The doctor had escaped often but he might be
caught at last!  The pitcher that often is carried scatheless to the
well is broken in the end; so she was now in terror that the doctor was
going to declare in his well-known manner that this pretty little widow
was "a dooced fine girl!" and state that he was going to marry her.
"Women are so designing; the artful wretches!"  Pythias thought,
"especially widows!" and she waited in nervous expectation to hear what
Damon had "a mind to do!"

The doctor was in a thinking fit.  He twirled his hat in his hands; and
then that not being sufficient to conduce to reflection, he pulled out
his bandana pocket-handkerchief and began to twist it round his fingers
in all sorts of fanciful shapes.

"I tell you what I've a mind to do, Deb.  I'm hanged if I don't go over
to that foreign Frenchy place, and try and fetch Susan back myself!  Tom
has gone away, and I daresay he made a mull of it before, and the old
woman won't do anything.  I promised poor Roger Hartshorne to look after
his children, and I'm hanged if I don't go over there and bring her
back!"

Pythias was at once relieved in her mind.  It was not that artful
designing creature then that Damon had in her thoughts.  "Indeed,
Richard!" she said, "but it is a long journey, and do you think at your
time of life you can stand it?" she, like most country people who have
never stirred out of their native wilds, looked upon a journey to France
as if it comprised the circumnavigation of the globe.

"Bosh, Deb!  Why it's only a hundred and fifty miles or so from here to
Havre, and I'll be back in a couple of days at most!  It is right for me
to go, and I can just manage now to get away for two or three days, for
there's nobody ill and nothing doing; and that coal merchant fellow
Dobbins, who came down here to set up for surgeon, can mind my practice
for me.  I'll go round and ask him this morning; he'll jump at the
offer."

"Well, if you think you ought to go, you must I suppose; and it is
better now than any other time."

"Of course I ought, and I will to, by Gad!"  The doctor being a man of
resolution, although he often did make hasty resolves, quickly settled
his departure; and to the intense astonishment of everybody went away
from Bigton for a week as he said, although he only intended to be away
two days at the most, the whilom coal merchant Dobbins driving about in
the doctor's chaise, which he seldom used himself unless the gout was
very bad indeed, and making the most of his short resign until
Aesculapius proper should come back to his own again.

Doctor Jolly had never stirred out of his native town, save of course on
short excursions into the surrounding neighbourhood, for nearly a
quarter of a century; not for twenty-five years, ever since the time
when he went to London to walk the boards of Guy's Hospital, in order to
acquire his medical education; and naturally such an expedition as the
present was quite an era in his life.

But the doctor did not make "any bones" about it, as the popular
expression runs.  He packed up his traps in a small portmanteau; and
after a very affecting farewell with Deborah, who fell upon his neck and
embraced him, as if she were never going to see him again, telling him,
"Take care of yourself, Richard!  _Do_ take care of yourself!" to which
he responded in his cheery voice, "God bless my soul!  Deb, of course I
will.  God bless you!" he rubbed his eyes, which were glistening, with
his horny fist, and blowing his nose vigorously with his bandana, the
doctor went off on his travels.

He made his way safely to Havre, and got over all right with the
exception of being fearfully sea-sick on the passage.  Oh! the blessing
of being thin!  Fat men suffer the tortures of the direst days of the
Inquisition when attacked by the fell _mal du mer_! while the Misters
Slenders escaped scatheless.

He had some little difficulty with the gendarmes of the custom house and
the hotel touts, the latter of whom struggled for the possession of his
manly form; but he finally escaped after being taken summarily to a
caravanserai, where he left his luggage, and shortly afterwards set
about finding the abode of Susan and Markworth.

By some mistake or other he got carried off to the railway station, and
was taken some miles on the road to Paris.  A fellow countryman,
however, convinced him of his mistake, and showed him how to get back
again to Havre.  By the time he got back, however, evening had set in,
and he experienced the greatest difficulty in finding the direction of
the Rue Montmartre, for, even after finding the direction in which it
lay, he was still at fault.  How he blessed the "frog eating race" as he
called them.

As the doctor's knowledge of French was somewhat limited,--indeed, he
only knew the word _oui_ which he pronounced "Ooo"--he found some
difficulty in finding his way.  However, by dint of continually bawling
out in an extra stentorian voice "Roo Mount Martha," as he called it, to
every passer-by whom he met, he at length reached the street of which he
was in search.

It was some time before he got to the right number, as he would persist
in asking, of course in English, for "Number-o'-seven," instead of
_numero sept_.  But in due course he arrived at the _logement_ of La
Mere Cliquelle.

The door was opened by the husband of that good lady--it is curious how
some men lose their individuality on getting married; they become mere
nonentities--how often you hear a man described as Mrs So-and-So's
husband.  The doctor, thinking that by speaking his words very
distinctly, and in a loud tone of voice, he could make any Frenchman
understand English, acted on that plan.

"Is--Susan?  Bless my soul!  What the dooce am I thinking of?"
interrupted the doctor to himself.  He commenced anew.  "Is--Missis--
Mark--worth--in?"

"Hein?" grunted the Frenchman, interrogatively.

The doctor repeated his question, only this time asking for "madam"
instead of "mistress."

The Gaul's face brightened, and he looked more intelligent.  "Ah-h!
Yase! yase, yase, yase!" he said, nodding his head violently, "de
madame? de Inglismans, hay?"

"Yes, yes! quite right," ejaculated the doctor.  "I say you are quite
right," bawling out the words at the top of his voice.  "Confound these
stupid French frogs," he muttered to himself; "why, they can't
understand plain English!  Is--she--you--know--who in?"  And seeing that
the Gaul liked to nod, he nodded his head until he grew quite apoplectic
in the face.

"Non," said the Mere Cliquelle's husband.  "Ze Inglisman's is go--vat
you call it, eh?  Ah, yase, is go oot."

"Oh! she's gone out, is she?"

"Ah-h!  Yase! yase, yase!" nodded the M.C.'s husband.

"Do--you--know--when--she--will--come--back?"

The Frenchman looked puzzled for a moment, but with a foreigner's
intuitive cleverness be guessed at the gist of the question.  "Ah, yase!
you vant to know _son retour_?  Cee go walk mit monsieur.  Cee go joost
now _a huit heures_, and cee will retour byanby, _a neuf heures_, noine
clock.  _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf_"--he
said, counting on his fingers--"o'cloke!"

"Ooo!" said the doctor, giving a satisfied nod, "I understand, she will
be back again at nine o'clock," holding up nine of his fingers in proof.
"I--am--much--obliged--to--you,--I--will--come back again--at nine!"

"Ah-h, yase!  Dat is raite.  You will retour?"

"Yes, I'll come back again!" said the doctor, as he walked away, after
both had bowed politely to each other, and the Gaul had entreated him to
accept a hundred thousand assurances of his extreme subserviency.

"Confound those stoopid foreigners!" muttered the doctor, as he walked
up the street in the direction of Ingouville, to pass the time.
"Confound those stoopid foreigners!  Why, that fellow could have said
all that in half the time in English."

Volume 2, Chapter XV.

"END OF SECOND ACT."

The engulfment of the last straw on which he, the drowning man, had
leant his weight, left Markworth without a single loophole of escape: he
did not know where to turn.

The Jew, Solomonson, had not only advanced him the money required for
carrying on the unsuccessful lawsuit, but he was largely indebted to him
besides; and Solomonson, he knew, was a very Shylock, and although he
might bow and smile, and be the best of friends, and most cordial of
bankers, while things were going on right and he saw some prospect of
getting his money back with a large "pershentage" in addition, still
Markworth was equally well aware that the Jew would rigorously exact his
pound of flesh as soon as he saw the game was up, and the cards exposed,
and he would be the first one to come upon him for the three thousand
pounds, for which he held his bill.

Markworth judged the child of Israel very rightly; and if he had not
been a trifle earlier in the day in receiving that damming proof of the
date of Susan's coming of age, its disagreement with the date of the
marriage, and the consequent working of the clause in the will, and its
effect on his claims, he would have found Mr Solomonson so anxious
about his welfare, and considerate about his movements, that he might
have discovered some slight check, in the shape of a _capias_, was
placed in the way of any desire he might evince to leave the kingdom,
and rejoin his wife.  Messrs. Trump and Sequence had communicated with
Markworth's lawyers at the same time as they had done with him, so the
news would soon reach other ears which would be attentive enough to the
information, and note its effects.  He did not have a very long start in
his advance news; still it was sufficient.  That was something at all
events, and he just managed to catch the tidal boat that night, and was
soon on his way to that Alsatia on the other side, where debtors, unless
their shortcomings are of a criminal nature, may laugh in safety at
their creditors in England.

When Markworth was safely on board, and the steamer had ploughed through
the muddy Southampton Water, and was dancing through the blue sea
beyond, somewhat rough and leadeny at this season of the year, and the
Southampton lights were far behind, his mind grew more composed, and he
began to think over all that had happened.

"Dolt that I was," he said to himself, "not to have looked at that
cursed register myself.  In planning the whole scheme I neglected one of
its most trifling, and yet most important points; and that has damned
all!  I see now how it all happened; the dates of Tom's and the girl's
births came so close together, one on the 27th of August, and the other
the 29th, that Clara jumbled the two together.  The idiot!  Curse her
carelessness!  But it was easy enough to mistake that 9 for a 7, and
more fool I for trusting her!  Curse my own folly!  Treble fool, dolt,
ass that I was! not to see to the thing myself!"  He spoke out bitterly,
looking out over the sea.  "But I wonder how the devil it was those
cursed lawyers and pettifoggers did not find out that mistake of the
date before!" he added, afterwards, as if reflecting.

There was some cause for Markworth's wonderment at the lawyers'
oversight, as the discovery was as much a surprise to them as it was to
him.  But such things do happen sometimes; and many an important case
having large interests at stake, has been decided ere now on just such a
similar point, which has never been discovered or brought to light until
just before, or indeed after, the case has gone into court.  In many
instances the lawyers have been grubbing and searching far and wide for
remote proofs and impossible witnesses, when some little,
straightforward clue has been lying under their eyes all the time,
without being seized upon and made use of, or even dreamt of.

In the case of Susan Hartshorne, the date of her marriage and her
majority had been taken for granted to be coeval; and, indeed, there was
so little difference in the date and in the figures, that some little
allowance must be made for the palpable error of Trump, Sequence, and
Co., which was only discovered just in time, as their case could never
have been sustained in court for Susan could have proved her own sanity
on Markworth's side.

That date only saved the dowager from having to pay over her daughter's
inheritance; but Markworth would never have allowed that mistake in the
date to have occurred if he had known at first, as he knew latterly,
what a great effect it would have in the working of Roger Hartshorne's
will.

When he went down that first time to Doctors' Commons he had read
through the will carefully, but not carefully enough to understand the
absolute forfeiture of Susan's inheritance if she married before the age
of twenty-one without her mother's consent.  Even when he had
subsequently digested this fact, he had been so certain about the date
that he had not given it an afterthought; and had, like Mrs
Hartshorne's lawyers, thought that the only thing he had to prove was
her sanity at the time she married him.

The three months that had passed since her marriage, the change of scene
from the place of her childhood which was associated with her calamity,
and the novel influences which had been brought to bear upon her, had so
thoroughly altered her, as has been observed before, although too much
stress cannot be placed on that point, that Susan was completely cured,
to all intents and purposes.  She was no more silly, foolish, or insane
than Markworth himself, and few people would have taken him for an
idiot.

He had so thoroughly worked out her cure which he had planned when he
had seen how malleable and easily influenced she was, for this especial
purpose of putting her in the witness-box, having represented to her
that she would have to come forward at some time and prove their
marriage, or that her mother would tear her away from him--that she was
quite prepared to be very strong evidence on his side.  The very idea of
her being taken back to The Poplars, and her mother, at whose name she
still trembled, and grew frightened still, was sufficient to nerve her
up to face a thousand juries, for the sake of her liberty and for
Markworth, whom she now loved with more than the child's trusting love
with which she had first regarded him.

That was all past now, however!

There was no more necessity for her coming forward, Markworth thought
savagely; no chance now for him to produce her triumphantly at the last
moment before his adversaries, and say--

"There! you say I have cajoled a lunatic into entering into an illegal
contract of marriage with me, for the sake of appropriating her fortune.
There is your alleged insane girl; examine her for yourselves, and
prove your case if you can."

The opportunity was lost, and he had to withdraw from the battle before
the very forces even were marshalled for the fight.

He had played his game well, but one false move had lost him all, and
what to do now he neither knew nor cared.  All his aims and ends had
become so bound up in the successful termination of that law suit, that
now that he was vanquished he seemed to be completely shipwrecked.

His last straw had sunk, and he was lost.  He knew it and felt it!

With a strong effort of his native indomitable will, he dismissed the
past from his mind, and tried to concentrate his thoughts on some plan
for the future.

All hopes of getting any money from the Hartshornes were idle to indulge
in; the old lady certainly would see him in Tartarus first before she
gave him a penny; and Tom, although he had offered to take his sister
back, and would provide for her, would as certainly not assist him, for
he had seen from their last interview that Tom was not nearly of so
plastic a nature as he had thought him at first.  Besides, he was far
away now.  There was only the doctor to ask, and he would do nothing, he
thought; and, above all, he could not go back to England himself.

His best plan, therefore, would be to pack up his things when he arrived
at Havre, and scrape together all the money he could by selling any
unnecessary superfluities.  He was not going to be "troubled with that
girl any longer."

He would send Susan back to her home, and tell her people to do what
they liked with her, as he had no further need of her.

"Curse her!" he thought, for clogging himself to her, "the idiot! and
curse myself, too, for my folly in not looking before I leaped."

He stopped on deck the whole night during the passage across, for he
could not sleep, his mind was so at war with every thing.  If he had
gone below he might, perhaps, have discovered who two of his fellow
passengers were, but he did not.

Nemesis was with him, but he knew it not; and besides Nemesis there was
another person, whom neither would have dreamt of seeing there.

It was broad day now--a beautiful morning; but the morning had no charms
for him; and he was glad when it waxed towards noon, and Havre came in
sight with its quaint lighthouse, and its twin rows of houses on the
heights above, and the muddy Seine with its Babel of a landing place.

The _machine a vapeur_ quickly plied her way along, and in another half
hour broadly opened her destination on her port bow.

They were soon alongside the pier, and Markworth having no luggage, was
not delayed in passing through the _Douane_.

Saying to the officer--"_Rien a declarer_!" he passed rapidly along the
gangway on to the pier, and up through the busy little streets, until he
reached his lodgings in the Rue Montmartre.

"Oh!  Allynne! you're come at last.  I've been longing so to see you; it
has been so lonely here all this time by myself," said Susan, rising and
going forward eagerly to meet him, as he opened the door of their little
sitting room.

"Stop!  Damn it!  I don't want any humbug and foolishness.  None of that
snivelling for me," he said, savagely, repulsing her as she came towards
him.

"Oh!  Allynne! what have I done?  Why are you angry with me?" said
Susan, entreatingly.

The slightest change in his voice affected her at once, and all her joy
and gladness at his return was frozen up in a moment.

When he perceived the effects of his words he relented and spoke kindly
to her, and Susan was soothed in a moment.

But he was ill at ease, for he was busily debating with himself all day
how he should break the news of his going away to her.  The day passed
drearily enough for him, and he was longing for evening to come; the
sickly gleams of the November sun angered him: he wanted the day and all
its belongings to be shut out.

Dreading that Solomonson might have sent a sheriff's officer after him,
he gave strict injunctions to the Mere Cliquelle to say he was not at
home, and not to admit any one on any pretence at all to see him; at all
events, during the day.  In the evening it would not matter.

Someone came in the afternoon he heard, and beyond a muttered oath at
the intruder, whom he did not make any inquiries respecting, he was left
to himself all day.

He wanted to settle matters with Susan, and break the news to her, and
he did not know how to set about it.  He knew or fancied what might be
the effects of a sudden shock on her.  Evening came at last, and he felt
he could not stop in any longer.  So he told Susan he wanted her to come
out with him for a walk.

"Here, put on your bonnet at once, and come out for a walk.  I want to
speak to you seriously, and I can't breathe in this stuffy little hole,"
he said, suddenly, after a pause, looking round morosely at the quaint
little room, with its gaudy belongings, and its half-starved little
fire, composed of about a dozen small pieces of slimly cut fire-wood,
arranged with mathematical precision, in the porcelain fire-place.  The
evenings were chilly now, and even the French pretence of a fire was
necessary to warm the room.

Susan was equipped in a moment; and they went out of the house,
Markworth slamming the door behind him.

"_Mon Dieu_!" said the little fat landlady, who was superintending the
cooking of her supper, to her husband, looking out of the window of her
kitchen above, as she heard the door bang, and saw the pair go down the
steps.  "_Mon Dieu, Auguste!  V'la Msieu et Madame qui'ls s'en vont
sortir, et Monsieur, il ne fait que d'entrer_!  _C'est bien tard
promener_!"

"_Hein_!" observed her _bon homme_, reflectively, from his seat in the
corner, where he was salivating a stick of chocolate to pass the time
while waiting anxiously for the _potage_ to be ready.  "_C' n'est pas
mon affaire_!" and he proceeded to suck his _chocolat_ calmly, which he
had withdrawn for a moment from his mouth for the exigencies of
conversation.

Markworth walked on rapidly, Susan keeping up with difficulty by his
side, through the town, which was now partly overhung by the sea-fog, up
to the heights of Ingouville, where the air was clearer, and the lights
shone out from the trim little rows of villa residences.

The promenade was quite deserted; but Markworth proceeded without
speaking a word until he had passed all the houses, and had reached a
lonely part of the road, with the cliff above the footpath, and a
precipitous descent on the other side nearest the town, below which was
the zigzag street, up which they had come.

Markworth now stopped suddenly, seeing that Susan was quite out of
breath from the exertions she had made to keep up with him.

"At last," he said, "I can speak to you quietly;" and he paused a
second, as if to think over his words.

He did not know that Nemesis was close behind him, for it was nearly
dark: the thud of the sea in the distance, splashing against the pier,
and the sound of the waters of the Seine at their embouchure, mingling
with the tide, drowned even the sound of a passing footstep.

It was a crisis in Markworth's fate.

"Susan," he said, abruptly, "I have to leave you.  I have to go away for
a long time, and I shall send you back to-morrow to your people in
England."

He spoke rapidly.  To do him justice, he knew what a pang it would be to
the poor girl; but he could not possibly take her with him, so he was
anxious to get the "scene," as he called it, over as quickly as he
could.

"Oh, Allynne!  Allynne!" she cried out, piteously; "you are not going to
leave me!  I shall die if I go back there!"

And she flung her arms round his neck, as if to hold him for ever.  He
was her life, her all!

The avenger was close behind.

"Don't be so foolish, Susan!"  Markworth said, in a half-angry,
half-coaxing manner.  "I'm not going to leave you now, child.  I'm
talking about to-morrow.  I've been away before, and I can't be with you
always."

And he tried to unclasp her hands from his neck.

"Oh, Allynne!  I can't go back there!  I shall die!  Take my money,
everything I've got; but do let me stay with you--don't send me back
there!" she sobbed out in broken accents.

The allusion to the money, and her entreaties seemed to madden him.

"Have done, girl!  Idiot!" he said, roughly, tearing away her hands with
violence, and throwing her from him.

The poor girl started back as pale as death, as if she had been shot.

"Idiot! idiot!" she cried out, in tones that seemed to come from the
depths of a broken heart.  "Oh, Allynne!  That word from you! from you!"
she moaned, and wrung her hands in bitterness of spirit.

As she started back--the pathway was very narrow--she stood on the very
verge of the rocky precipice which bordered the road.

And as she uttered the last words, her foot slipped.  With a scream of
genuine terror, re-echoed by Markworth, she fell back, and he could hear
the heavy fall of a body below.

"Good God!" he exclaimed aloud, rushing forward and peering into the
gulf down which she had disappeared, "she must be killed!"

He turned round hurriedly, for he could not get down to the bottom of
the cliff without retracing his steps by the winding road up which they
had just come.

And, as he turned, he found himself face to face with--

Clara Kingscott.

END OF VOLUME TWO.

Volume 3, Chapter I.

AT BAY!

"Gracious Heavens, Clara!  What brings you here?" uttered Markworth,
half in astonishment, half in terror, as he suddenly turned round, and
was confronted by Miss Kingscott, immediately after Susan had fallen
back over the precipice.

"Murderer!" she exclaimed, standing right before him in the narrow
pathway.  "Thank God!  I came in time to witness your crime!"

"Woman!" cried Markworth, trying to brush past her.  "You're mad!  What
do you mean?  Let me pass!"

"Murderer!" she repeated, with withering bitterness, still blocking the
way.  "Murderer!"

"Good God!  Clara, what do you mean?"

"Mean, Allynne Markworth?  What do I mean!  That you are caught at last
in your own toils!  I knew you were a swindler, a cheat, a villain!  I
can now prove that you are a murderer as well!"

"For God's sake, Clara, do not say that!  You don't think I've murdered
the girl?"

She still looked him full in the face, but made no reply; so he went on
hurriedly--

"Why, she fell over the cliff herself!  I never touched her!  I was
just--"

"Ha! ha!" she laughed, a cold, bitter laugh.  "Tell that to the officers
of justice who will be soon in pursuit of you!  To the jury who will try
you!  To the judge who will sentence you to your final end!  I don't
want to hear your lying story!"

Markworth turned pale and shook with fear.  "What do you mean, woman?
Who will accuse me?  God knows I never meant the poor girl any harm!
She slipped, and fell back by accident; and I was just hastening down to
her assistance when you--you--"

"Murderer!"

"Let me go, woman!" he cried, excitedly, shoving past the governess, who
threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back.

"She's dying, perhaps!  I'll be too late!  Curse you, let me go!"

"Help!  Help!  Murder!" she screamed.  "You're mad!  Let me go at once
or it will be the worse for you."  And he struggled with her to get
away, while the air rung with her loud screams for help.  At length he
got one arm free, although she still clung with desperation to him.
"Curse you!" he muttered, between his clenched teeth, raising his fist
and dealing her a savage blow in the face.  "You've brought it on
yourself!"

Another half-uttered scream was checked on her lips, and she sank back
in a heap on the ground, while Markworth rushed past her, and flew
rather than ran down the heights.

In spite of lung logic, Clara Kingscott's cries for help remained
unheard.  No one came to her assistance; and when she recovered her
consciousness after the insensibility produced by Markworth's blow, she
found herself cold and alone, lying stretched out along the side of the
narrow path where she had fallen.  And he?  Where was he?

Gone!

After one half-stupefied thought as to where she was, she recollected
all, and nerved herself up to the determination of following Markworth
to the death!  The blood was still trickling down her face from the
dastardly blow she had received: it animated her with additional
strength and fresh courage; and she seemed like a tigress, and snarled,
as it were, at the sight of her own blood!

Rising to her feet, she nearly stumbled at first from stiffness and
faintness, but by force of will she quickly recovered her strength, and
in a few moments felt better, and able to walk.

She had marked the spot where Susan had disappeared; thither she bent
her steps, and gazed down into the deep descent, hidden now, and black
with the dark veil of night.

Turning round, and retracing her steps down the winding path, she
proceeded to search below.  As she projected round an abrupt turn of the
road she jostled against a _sergent de ville_--mutual astonishment--
explanations.

Speaking rapidly to him in his native tongue, with which she was even
better conversant than Markworth, and knew almost as well as a genuine
Parisienne, she represented matters to the guardian of the peace.  "A
murder and an assault has been committed," she said, eagerly
gesticulating in her emotion.

"I saw the villain throw a girl over that precipice above, and she or
her body must be here!  Let us search for her; help me to arrest the
murderer!  Have you heard no cries, seen no one?"

No, the _sergent de ville_ had seen no one: he had only just come up the
road: the officer whom he had relieved had reported no disturbance.

"Had madame cried out?  _Mon Dieu_! really?  He had heard no cries, in
faith!  It was very late for madame to be out--did she know what time it
was?"

"I suppose it is nearly ten o'clock," replied Miss Kingscott.

"_Ma foi_!  Why it is close on morning.  Madame cannot be well"--he
meant that the lady, who certainly looked very bedraggled and
disorderly, was something infinitely worse.

"I tell you, officer," exclaimed the governess, stamping her foot, and
speaking angrily, "I am not mad or drunk; and, no matter what time it
is--night or morning--I am telling you the truth!  I know the man that
has done this; his name is Markworth, and an Englishman; and I saw him
shove the girl over the precipice, for I was close behind him at the
time!  I tried to stop him.  He struck me; here is the cut on my
forehead; you can see for yourself that I don't lie.  The blow made me
faint, and I must have been insensible much longer than I supposed, but
it is not too late!  We may catch the villain yet.  It is your duty to
aid me!  But let us first search for the girl; her body must be here!"

Although strongly inclined to believe that the lady who addressed him
was under the influence of absinthe or eau de vie, and that she had lost
her way amongst the heights, and tumbling down had hurt herself, thus
accounting for her blood-stained face and wild appearance, the _sergent
de ville_ was somewhat thrown off his first-formed opinion by her
enthusiasm and the coherency of her story.  He accordingly adjusted his
lantern, and they looked about together in silence for some time.
However, when no body of any murdered person was to be found, no traces
of a sanguinary struggle to be seen, and everything looked as usual
about the place, the _sergent de ville_ returned to his original
opinion.

"I said Madame was not well!" he observed, in an aggrieved tone.  "She
had better go home to bed, and not be talking of any fabulous murders!
Where does Madame reside?"

"I tell you I saw the thing with my own eyes!  He must have carried the
body away and hidden it!"

"Hush! _ma petite_," said the man, soothingly.  "Go home: it will be all
right to-morrow!"

"I won't go home.  I am quite in my senses, and it will be your fault if
that man escapes.  You ought to do your duty and arrest him.  I shall
complain to the Maire!  Where does he live?  I must see him!  Take me
there at once."

"_C'est impossible_!" replied the officer, coldly; "but Madame will find
that I will do my duty," he added, meaningly.

"I must see the Maire!  The murderer will escape!" went on the
governess, hysterically.

The _sergent de ville_ placed her arm firmly within his own.

"Madame will come with me," he said, and he led her away.

He was not going to wake up the Maire or Juge de Paix at that late hour
of the night, or rather early hour of the morning, with such a cock and
a bull story from a drunken woman.  Why, he might lose his promotion
should he disturb the slumbers of his superiors!

Finding, therefore, that his entreaties for her to go home were treated
only as deaf words, and that she would neither go herself nor tell where
she lived, the astute officer conducted her carefully to the
guard-house, under the plea of showing her where the Maire lived in
order to get her along quietly, and had her comfortably locked up.

The tables were turned with a vengeance!  Markworth had got off scot
free; and here was Clara Kingscott locked up in a police-station for the
night as a disorderly character!  Some allowance must be made, however,
for the _sergent de ville_.  Her story was so improbable, and she looked
so strange and talked so excitedly, that the mistake might have been
made even by one of our very bright and intelligent guardians of the
peace, who never make such mistakes as, say, locking up a dying man
perhaps on the charge of inebriety!

Be that as it may, however, there was Clara Kingscott incarcerated in a
cell, and powerless of action.  There are strange things happen
sometimes in fiction; but stranger things often occur in real life.

Volume 3, Chapter II.

"MISHTER SHOLOMONSHON" PREPARES TO ACT: MUCH HE GAINS BY IT!

Matters seem somewhat forestalled, and a brief retrospect is needed.

How came she there--his Nemesis?  Politely bowed out, after she had
avowed her share in Markworth's conspiracy to Mr Trump, Clara Kingscott
walked away from the lawyers' offices in a perfect frenzy.  She was ever
tasting the cup of revenge, which she would have so gladly drunk to the
dregs, and yet as she raised it to her lips it was ever being dashed
away.

It was maddening to her now to think that when she had planned to ruin
Markworth at the eleventh hour, just when he was confident of success,
by her appearance against instead of for him in the suit, that
circumstances should so occur to defeat his ends without her aid being
required.  She had intended all along that her hand should deal him the
blow, and that he should know it.

True it was that all his hopes for getting Susan Hartshorne's fortune
were all passed away like last winter's snow; that was some satisfaction
for her to know, but then Markworth's ill-luck was not caused by her;
there was where the shoe pinched, and she felt foiled.

What should she do now?  She could not remain inactive.  Reflecting a
moment, she turned and walked hurriedly onward across Holborn, and down
Chancery Lane, until she came to the offices of Solomonson and Isaacs.

It was late now; so the place was closed up, and the children of Israel
were gone home: After ringing in vain for some time, she had to give up
her project until the morrow, and depart in peace.

"He'll escape me yet," she muttered, "but I will be here early, and make
assurance doubly sure."

And she turned on her heel and went away.  Before she went home to her
lodgings, however, she took the trouble to go round to the hotel where
she had learnt that Markworth was staying, to ask whether he was there
still.  She was so afraid of his getting off before her vengeance could
be felt.  The porter told her that he was out, but that he had not left
the hotel yet: he was expecting him in every minute, for a messenger had
just brought a letter for him.

"A messenger to see him?"

She pondered a moment, and then she recollected that it must be the
lawyers' clerk, sent by Mr Trump to appoint the interview for the next
day, when Markworth would hear the worst.  She gave a sigh of
satisfaction, and went to her lodgings contentedly.

Messrs. Solomonson and Isaacs came to their offices the next day at
their usual time, about half-past ten o'clock, and proceeded to set
about their introductory business.  Letters had to be opened, documents
arranged, the list of bankrupts in the papers looked to and compared
with another list of their own of the men indebted to them; in fact, all
the minutiae of their daily routine had to be seen to before setting
actually to work and "interviewing" their clients, or more properly
speaking, customers or borrowers, for they did more in usury than law,
although the appellation "solicitors" was on their door plate.  The term
indeed was better suited to the clients than the firm.

Mister Isaacs was at the moment engaged upon comparing the bankrupt
lists, when a sudden exclamation from his partner Solomonson, who was
opening the letters and glancing at their contents, startled him.

"Father Abrahamsh!" ejaculated that worthy.  "Gott in Himmell! how about
der monish?"

"Vat's der matter, my tearsh?" enquired Isaacs, in anxious suspense.
"Noting's wrongsh mit der bank?"

"No, mine Isaacs, it is not ter banksh!  Mein Gott, der monish! der
monish!  It is all oop wit Markevorts; der shoot is ruined!"

"Sholomonshon, ma tearsh, vat you mean?  The suit lost!  Vy it ain't
tried yet."

"No mein sohn, it is not trite and perhaps never vills!"

And then he explained the purport of the letter.

"It's a svindel!" said Isaacs.  "Ow butch did he get from you,
Solomonshon?" he asked, although he well knew.

"Eleving hundert!  And we vos to get tree tousand--tree tousand pounds!"

He told Isaacs a lie, and Isaacs knew it.

"And now ve can't get himsh?  Is he got no monish?"

"No monish, but vat der shoot vood have bringsh."

"And it is all gonesh?"

"Ja, tso! all gonesh if de lettersh be true!"

"And ve vood 'ave got tree tousaud, Sholomonshon?"

"Ja! tree tousand pound! der villainsh! der swindlersh!  Tree tousand
poundsh, and look'd as shafe as der bank!  Tree tousand poundsh; never
no moresh!"

The Jew repeated this over and over again, and almost wept in his
anguish.  It should have been mentioned before that Solomon was a Hebrew
of Teutonic proclivities, and had emigrated from the _Juden Strasse_ in
Berlin, where he had originally belonged before he took up with his
partner Isaacs and set up business in Chancery Lane, London.

After a hasty consultation Solomonson and Isaacs rushed off together to
the offices of Messrs. Trump, Sequence, and Co., to hear whether the
ill-fated news was true.

Any hopes they might have had were quickly dispelled.  Mr Trump, who
could not repress his dislike for the men who now confronted him, did
not mince matters with them.  He showed them all the proofs, and gave
them the additional evidence that Markworth himself had been there at
his especial notification, and was satisfied that the opposition was too
great for him to continue the suit.

Solomonson and Isaacs were not satisfied until they had read every
tittle of the evidence, including Roger Hartshorne's will, the baptismal
certificate of Susan, and the marriage registry.  It was all perfectly
true, so they then heaped reproaches on Mr Trump for letting Markworth
know before communicating with them.  Indeed, they were both so violent
that Mr Trump had to order them out of his office.  They saw it was all
up with them, and returned chagrined to their own den in Chancery Lane,
to concert about what more should they do.

They had no doubt that Markworth would be off early, but it was their
business to try and catch him if possible.  Never let it be said in
Jewry that a debtor got off clear from their clutches: it would be a
standing reproach against them from Dan even unto Beersheba, and they
would never hear the end of it.  Besides the money, the money, they
could not afford to lose that!

Once more the scene changes back to their den of usury.  Solomonson had
just taken out the bills Markworth had given from an escritoire in the
corner of the room, and both he and Isaacs are pondering them over, and
looking at the shares securities that their client had given them for
the advance.  The shares were in a financial company whose smash they
had just read of in that morning's paper!  This news added "bad" to
"worse."

"Fader Abrahamsh!" ejaculated Solomonson.  "Oh der villainsh! der
shvindlersh!  Tree tousand pounds, Isaacs, all gonesh!" and they
bewailed their fate in concert.

Behold the children of Israel weeping and wailing, and making much
lamentation over the loss of the presumptive three thousand pounds,
which they would have gained if Markworth had won his suit against the
old dowager of The Poplars.  To them enters Clara Kingscott, governess,
at present detective, Nemesis, and follower of their unlucky client.
Affecting meeting.

She went like another Ruth to glean what she could towards affecting her
purpose in the fields of the rich Boaz.  The Hebrews, although sharp
enough, were at their wits' end when Miss Kingscott entered, but she
quickly worked them up to the point of action, after explaining the
reason of her visit.

"The news is true enough," she said.  "I was there and heard it all--
when that letter was written to you; but have you not sent round yet to
those lawyers? what do you propose to do?"

"Doosh?  Vat can ve doosh! der shoot is gone! and der svindlersh is gone
too, and he has no monish!" said Solomonson, in the most lugubrious
tones.

"Why don't you act?" said the governess, excitedly.  "If I were a man I
would arrest him and clap him into jail, and let him rot there until I
got my money back.  If I could not get my money I would get his life!"

"De womansh is right, Sholomonshon, my shon," said Isaacs.

"Of course I am.  An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth--that is
your creed, is it not?  Can't you get out a warrant against that
villain, or something else, and have him stopped before he leaves the
country?  Why even I will go after him: he shall never escape my hate!"

"Ja, tso!" exclaimed Solomonson, now fired by her words and animated by
her desire for vengeance; "but a varrantsh ish no goots!"

"A Kay shay?" suggested Isaacs.

"Ja, dat is goot--der villainsh!  But he was alvays squaresh vas mishter
M., and it seems hart."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Clara Kingscott, with intense scorn.  "Do you think
he will pay you if you let him get away?"

That settled any lingering reluctance they might have had to proceed to
extremities with their client, besides the loss of the money was
rankling in their minds; so "Mishter Sholomonshon" started off down to
the courts at Westminster to invoke the aid of her gracious Majesty
"Victoria R. by the grace of God" in a documentary form.

While the Hebrews were concerting measures for Markworth's apprehension,
Clara Kingscott proceeded down to his hotel to see whether the "biter"
had yet been "bitten," and if he had returned from the interview
appointed with Mr Trump.

She found he had come, and gone.  The bird had flown!  The porter said
he had left in a cab with all his luggage for the Waterloo Station.

Making sure he was off to Havre, where she had previously found out his
address, she started off to Southampton, intending to follow him
wherever he went.  Before doing this she sent a few hasty lines to
Messrs. Solomonson and Isaacs by a _commissionaire_, telling them where
Markworth was gone and she would follow him up, and let them know
further; although certainly her information would not be of much use to
them if he were out of the kingdom.

The Jews in the meanwhile were crying "Havoc!" and trying very hard to
"let loose the dogs of war."  They had some difficulty in obtaining
their _ca ca_.  No Judge was at chambers when they first went down; and
then they lost much valuable time in swearing to an affidavit that
Markworth was going to leave the country.  Not that the fact of swearing
any number of oaths, whether true or false, troubled them much--but he
was "gone," as the auctioneer cries, before they could touch him on the
shoulder.

A bailiff and detective were sent down after the absconding debtor to
Southampton--Miss Kingscott had telegraphed up to the Jews late in the
evening to say that she had seen him there; but they arrived too late,
notwithstanding that the Jews had not spared the expense of luring a
special train for them: they never grudged money when hunting money.
But they arrived too late!  The _ca ca_ and _ne exeat regno_ were both
useless.

Just as the Havre steamer had cast loose her fastenings, and was going
out into the stream, the myrmidons of the law came down with the warrant
for Markworth's arrest: the proverb "better late than never" did not
hold true in their case, however, for the man they were after could
laugh them to scorn with every revolution of the steamboat's paddles.

Jewry was "sold" by the Gentile, and there went up a wail in Chancery
Lane.

Volume 3, Chapter III.

ON THE TRAIL.

It was not until late in the morning that Clara Kingscott was let out of
the cell in the police-station, where she had been locked up, and was
taken to be examined before _Monsieur le Chef des sergents de ville_.

Although she was full of natural indignation at the treatment that she
met with, to gain her purpose, she was forced to dissemble her anger,
and answer all the questions put to her in a cool and collected manner.

Having taken care also to arrange her toilette and efface the traces of
bedragglement, her appearance had its due effect, and Monsieur le Chef
comprehended the case in a moment.

It was a mistake arising from the want of perspicacity of an
over-zealous officer, and the Chef entreated Madame--he begged pardon,
Mademoiselle--to accept a hundred thousand apologies for the unfortunate
mistake which had subjected her to such treatment.

_Trop de zele_ was poor satisfaction for being arrested, locked up, and
losing her vengeance; but Mademoiselle smiled sweetly, told the officer
not to mention it, and now that she had gained his ear went on eagerly
to tell her tale.

The Chef listened attentively to Miss Kingscott's narration, making
short notes in a memorandum book before him, knitting his brows,
glancing at her every now and then interrogatively with his sharp
pistolling eyes, and pulling the waxed ends of his black moustache _a
l'Empereur_ meditatively as she proceeded with her strange recital.

It did not astonish the Chef, however.  The French police are never
astonished, _Le Garde meurt, mais ne se rend pas_: Monsieur le Chef was
only perplexed, but his perplexity grew greater the more he heard.

That a murder should have been committed anywhere was not such a very
surprising thing in itself; but that a murder should take place in
Havre, Havre which was under his own especial supervision, _c'etait
impossible_!  It was a thing incredible.

It was absurd on the face of it.  His _sergents de ville_ knew their
duty too well to allow it; but still he interrogated Mademoiselle, and
put down the answers she gave to his various questions in his note book.
All the circumstances of the case should be looked into and
investigated, although they certainly seemed incredible.  It struck the
Chef, however, that Mademoiselle's narrative was too clear and succinct
to be made up: besides, a few initiatory inquiries would readily reveal
whether her premises were true or false.

The Chef touched a hand-bell on his table, and a subordinate officer
quickly answered the summons.  To him some directions were given, in a
low earnest voice, so low that Miss Kingscott could not catch their
purport: the man then withdrew.

"_Attendez un moment, Mademoiselle, il reviendra bientot_," said the
Chef, in an apologetic tone.

Miss Kingscott had to wait nearly half-an-hour until the messenger came
back.

More whispering with the Chef, and comparing of note books; the news was
evidently important, for the latter looked grave and puzzled; but as
soon as the underling withdrew, he again addressed the governess.

"I find you have told me the truth about yourself," he commenced.

"Your politeness is great to have doubted my word: I thought all
Frenchmen were renowned for their gallantry!" interposed the lady.

"Circumstances must plead my excuse, Mademoiselle," continued the Chef,
making an elaborately polite bow; "the law must be assured before it can
act.  I find that you came to Havre yesterday, that about mid-day you
went to the Hotel du Cote d'Or, secured a room, and left your luggage.
The _proprietaire_ mentions that you have stopped there before, and
gives you a good character."

"A thousand thanks," said Miss Kingscott, with a sneer.

"Mademoiselle will understand that it is my duty to make these
enquiries.  _Allons_!  That, after remaining a short time at the Hotel
du Cote d'Or," continued the Chef, calmly, as if reading out from an
affidavit, "you went out, leaving word that you would return again to
dinner, but you did not go back, and _Monsieur le proprietaire_ was
plunged into the deepest uneasiness at your non-appearance: I believe I
am so far correct."

The Chef paused here a moment, as if to to have his observation to be
confirmed.

"_Apres_?" inquired the lady, and nodded her head for him to go on.

"I have also learnt," continued the Chef, "that this man Markworth, whom
you accuse, was a gentleman, English, and has lived with a lady whom he
called his wife, and who was of delicate health for more than three
months past at the house of Madame Cliquelle, commonly called _la Mere
Cliquelle_, at the house _Numero_ 7, _Rue Montmartre_; that this man
Markworth has been in the habit of quitting his apartments for short
intervals, leaving _madame sa femme_ behind him, and crossing over to
England, from whence he has generally returned after an absence of two
or three days.  That, after one of these short absences, he came back
yesterday--Mademoiselle probably crossed the channel in the same boat
with Monsieur?"

"I did."

"This man Markworth, after coming back remained in his apartments all
day until the evening.  The Mere Cliquelle says that she heard no high
words (_grosses paroles_) between Monsieur Markworth and his wife.  She
has observed that Madame was very delicate and very fond of Monsieur,
and that he was always very gentle and kind to her--in fact that they
were an attached couple.  Well, this Monsieur Markworth remained in all
day until the evening, he gave orders to the Mere Cliquelle to admit
nobody to see him.  One person called and enquired particularly to see
him in the afternoon--perhaps that was Mademoiselle?"

"It was," answered Miss Kingscott.

"You were not admitted to see Monsieur?"

"I was not admitted," she answered, sententiously.

The Chef went on.  "So says the Mere Cliquelle.  In the evening about
seven o'clock she and her husband also both declare that Monsieur et
Madame Markworth went out apparently for a walk.  Shortly after they
went out a big stout English gentleman called and enquired for them; he
was told they were out, and said he would return again at nine o'clock.
About that time, as near as the Mere Cliquelle and her husband could
judge, Markworth came back alone without his wife.  Monsieur Cliquelle,
who saw him, says he looked pale, and was out of breath, as if from
running; and he told him that Madame Markworth was unwell, that he had
taken her to see some friends at Lugonville, that he only came back to
fetch some things for her, and would bring her home in the morning.
Monsieur Markworth after remaining in his apartments perhaps half an
hour or more went out, as the husband of the Mere Cliquelle supposed to
Lugonville and his wife, taking a small travelling portmanteau with him;
nothing further has been seen of Markworth or his wife, or of the fat
Englishman who said he would return to the house in question at nine
o'clock last night.  Does Mademoiselle follow me?  She will see that her
story is partly confirmed by other circumstances."

"I told you nearly all that myself, before!" she observed, angrily.

"Certainly, Mademoiselle!  But your statement had to be confirmed."

"And now, what are you going to do?"

"The machinery of justice shall be at once set in motion!" said the
Frenchman, grandiloquently, in the fashion of his countrymen.

"And I?"

"Mademoiselle will do me the honour of accompanying me to the Bureau of
_Monsieur le Juge de Paix_, to make her deposition.  But we must attend
to other things first," saying which the Chef again touched the
hand-bell that lay within easy reach on his table.  The same officer
appeared again as before.

"Send Auguste and Dechemal to me at once."

Enter two _mouchards_ in plain clothes.

The Chef addressed the one he called Dechemal first--did anyone ever
know the real name of a French spy?--"You went to that house in the Rue
Montmartre just now, did you not?"

"_Oui, Mon Chef_," he answered monosyllabically.

"Well, go there again.  Arrest the Mere Cliquelle and her husband, take
them to the office of the Juge de Paix, and await me there."

"Oui, Mon Chef,"--Exit first _mouchard_.

"Auguste!"

"Oui; Mon Chef."

"Go down to the office of the English steam-boats.  See what passengers
leave this morning.  Ask also along the quays if any boatman took any
person or persons across to Honfleur, or any place adjoining, last night
or this morning.  Make enquiries, too, at the hotels and cabarets, if
they have received any fresh lodgers since nine o'clock yesterday
evening, and whom.  Report to me at the Juge de Paix's in half an hour,
or as soon as you can."

"_Oui, Mon Chef_."  Exit second _mouchard_, as stealthily as the other--
serpentine in movements both.

"_Allons_, Mademoiselle," said the Chef, rising from his chair of office
and bowing to Nemesis, "if you will follow me, we will now act our
parts.  The machinery of justice is already in motion."

Clara Kingscott accompanied the functionary of the law, civil in every
respect, out of his office and into the street.  At his notification
their steps were first directed up the hill to the spot where she
pointed out as having confronted Markworth.  The Chef busied himself
with taking notes as deftly as any "chiel."  She also indicated the
place on the verge where she had seen Susan disappear.  They then
descended the pathway where she supposed the girl would have fallen.
More keen observation and note taking on the part of the Chef.  No
apparent results however, for not a trace could be seen of anybody.

Suddenly the Chef paused in the act of taking notes with one hand and
pulling the ends of his waxed moustache with the fingers of the other.
He perceived a piece of rag evidently torn off a dress, clinging to the
rocks.  It was dark crimson in colour, and was a piece of merino dyed
that hue.  He took it up triumphantly, and held it forth for Miss
Kingscott's inspection.

"_Voila_!" he exclaimed.

The governess did "look there," and examined the fragment curiously; a
glance of recognition flickered on her face, which the Chef at once
perceived.

"Ha!" he said, "you see something?  You recognise the dress of your
compatriot?" with much guttural rolling of his R's.

"I do!" she answered, "I can swear that Susan Hartshorne wore a dress
like that the last time I saw her alive."

"It is well!  We have now some proof, but we must discover what has been
done with the body.  Mademoiselle will now accompany me to the bureau of
the Juge de Paix," he added, after a reflective pause, filled up with
more notation and twirling of the somewhat stiff ends of the "hirsute
appendage on his upper lip."

The Chef leading this time and Miss Kingscott following behind, the two
were soon walking rapidly together towards the imposing residence of the
official alluded to.

Volume 3, Chapter IV.

POOR ANDROMEDA!

While events were thus hastening on abroad, all was quiet at home, both
at The Poplars and the parsonage.  Fancy Andromeda's lamentations when
Perseus left her! and in her place picture Lizzie, since Tom had gone.

It was now autumn, or rather winter, for the month of November was well
in hand, and Christmas was "coming," as the adage says.--Some people's
Christmases seem always coming.

It was now autumn.  The trees were leafless, with their skeleton boughs
stretched out like spectral hands clutching towards the sky, and sighing
with every breath of the dull wintry wind that swept across their
moaning branches for the approach of spring.

What a change the past three weeks had made in Lizzie Pringle's life!
It is one of the anomalies of our nature, ever changeful and varying,
that the world--our world--is made up of change, even in the most
monotonous of lives.  The machinery of existence is wonderfully
intricate, and of such delicate construction, that the slightest hitch
or strain can throw it entirely out of gear.  We move on calmly,
perhaps, in a smooth groove, from life to death, from the cradle towards
the grave, when of a sudden a pebble gets into the works, a new element
is introduced into, or an old one subtracted from, the course of our
existence, and all is changed.  No more do the wheels move steadily
round and the cranks slide up and down as of yore; a hitch has occurred;
and although the machine goes on still, apparently with the same rumble
and clang, the motion is not what it was; it is parallel, perhaps, or
elliptical, but is not the same as it was before.  Nothing can ever
restore it again.  Our lives are altered against our wills, and though
the cradle stands in the background and the grave looms in front, the
change of the enchanter's hand--it may be of pleasure and joy, or more
likely one of grief and pain--has passed over our lives, and we
ourselves are altered too, for better or worse--God grant the former!

In a woman's life this change is more common, although not so apparent
as with men; because love and marriage, which cause more proportionately
this change, are looked upon by them more as their natural destiny than
as exceptional incidents in an otherwise even life.  Marriage is the
ultimate end of a woman's life, as the subsequent nursing of babies and
darning of socks; with the sterner, though by no means nobler sex, it is
but a new phase of existence.

When the little winged god makes his appearance, therefore, and hurls
one of his death-dealing darts, it is a much more serious matter for a
girl than it is with us.  Daphne feels it far more acutely than Apollo.
With him it has been merely a pleasant little change in his life--_pour
s'amuser_; but to her it is a new existence--her life, her all.  She has
only been in a state of pupilage before; but now she is a woman, with
all a woman's hopes and fears.  She has entered on the portals of the
future state, when once Love's fetters have entwined themselves around
her, the state for which she was born--her _ultima Thule_.

For eighteen calm and happy years Lizzie's life had flowed on smoothly
in the one quiet groove.  She had passed from babyhood to girldom and
school-age in the usual course of nature, and, until now, she had never
had a deeper happiness than what a passing fancy would give, or a
greater trouble than a few hours could efface.  Her one great loss--the
death of her mother--had occurred at so early an age that it left no
lasting impression on her; and she had consequently grown up a merry
little lassie, winning all hearts with her sweetly _piquante_ face and
those wondrous violet eyes, whose unknown depths now laughed defiance at
you, and now displayed a strange wistful languor, which irresistibly
attracted you.

That was until last summer; but Lizzie was very much changed now.  The
little laughing girl was transformed into the winning, wistful maiden,
who knew now that there was more in life than eighteen summers usually
dreams of.  The apples of the Tree of Knowledge had been tasted, and
Lizzie became aware that existence was not all lotus-eating, although it
did contain, perhaps, some secret joys unknown to childhood.

Everyone meets their "Fate" at some time or other; and Tom was her fate,
young as they both were; perhaps, it was better that that mysterious
affinity which unites us all, for a temporary or a permanent period with
those especially appointed for us, should come across her early in life.
It is a cup which one only sips once in a lifetime--better early
perhaps than late.  Do you know there is something in the Mormon
doctrine after all--putting polygamy aside--in that principle of theirs
that the brides of the elders or prophets are "sealed" to them.  It
shows a belief in the mystical and apparently predestined affinity of
certain souls to one another.

From that first meeting in church, when the stolen glances of Tom had
set the loom of love in motion, a regular and intricate warp and woof of
affection had been woven between the pair.  The time of their
acquaintance was perhaps short; but love laughs at time even as well as
he does at the proverbial locksmiths: between kindred souls an hour
affects more than years in others--as may have been already observed.

Lizzie was visited with an attack of that _malaria mortis_ which comes
to some of us in our lives at some certain time or other, either for
good or ill.  It was a very serious attack.  Not a trumpery little
ailment which could be patched up for the nonce, and the patient recover
without having a scar to remind her of the disease; but a real bona fide
visitation, in which the sickness works its course from beginning to
end, and is not to be repelled by namby-pamby lotions of milk and water,
and worldly prudence and mammon panaceas.  It was love.  Love _pur et
simple_, which one hears derided every day by philosophising
"anti-gamonists" and Pharisaical parents, who esteem riches beyond
happiness, and "an eligible parti" superior to the attainment of healthy
though poor affection.  Love overrides worldly motives still, however,
in this so-called heathenish and worldly nineteenth century, and exists
in spite of the false code of morality which strives to bear it down.
Love in a cottage may be humbug certainly when our souls thirst after
the gargoyles of a ten-storied mansion and purple and fine linen.  The
dinner of roots and herbs in preference to the stalled ox, is a delusion
and a snare to one who had a weakness for _entrees_, and would rather
the high priced salmon and early peas, at some fabled sum a peck in
Covent Garden; but bear me out, Chloe, when next thou listenest with
attentive ear to the tuneful pipes of Amaryllon, and you, God-like
Augustus, when you see the modest blush of happiness which crimsons the
cheek of the gentle though rustic Lettice Lisle!

After Lizzie had first seen Tom she did not know what was the matter
with her, and nobody else could perhaps have enlightened her on the
subject.

She was restless, and did not know what to do.  Things which had
previously given pleasure to her she now wondered she could have ever
enjoyed.  Nothing pleased her; nothing delighted her; what could have
come over her?

Her brother perceived the change, and wondered too what was the matter.
He thought Lizzie was hipped at being left alone so much, for he had to
be out a good deal, and the household was only composed of himself and
her, with the exception of the servants.  Acting on this idea he had
proposed to Lizzie that they should invite a certain Aunt Jane to visit
them; but Lizzie made up a horrible little _moue_, expressive of
disgust, and laughed the idea to scorn.

She drew such a picture of the peculiarities of the stern Aunt Jane, and
showed what straits they would be reduced to under her _regime_, that
Pringle quickly abandoned the project in holy horror, and wondered how
he could have ever thought of such a thing.  Then when he commented on
Lizzie's looks, and asked her affectionately what was the matter, she
laughed it off at first, told him she was never better in her life,
asked him what could induce him to question her so, and concluded by
making a pretty scene, and sobbing on his neck.  She was miserable!  She
did not know what was the matter with her!  She must be ill!  She would
be all right probably to-morrow; she had a headache now, and was tired;
she would go to bed!--which she accordingly did.

This was after the first acquaintance with Master Tom.

But when that young gentleman began to take such a deep interest in
fly-fishing, and, in pursuing his favourite spoilt, had to pay so many
and frequent visits to the parsonage in order to fish in the pool that
ran at the bottom of the lawn, Lizzie got brighter and better.

Instead of her movements being all languor and lack of elasticity, they
were now all life and vivacity.  She took a deeper interest in
everything around her; every little humdrum detail in her daily routine
seemed to be invested with a new charm: there was not a brighter little
lassie around the country side.  She was merry then, and when Tom's
avowal came, and she heard from his own lips those burning words of
love, of which she had been intuitively cognisant, and which she had,
unknown to herself, already returned, her cup of happiness brimmed over.

The change was complete.

Then came the after relapse, when Tom came down so miserably to tell of
his mother's refusal, and had afterwards parted from her in anger.

In anger with her!  She thought her little heart would break.

The falling out of lovers, however, is the renewal of love; and so
Lizzie found it.

The happiness which she then enjoyed was greater than that which
preceded it.  Who is it that defines that word happiness to be "gleams
of a brighter world, too soon eclipsed and forfeited?"  Lizzie's bliss,
however, was saddened by the thought that Tom was soon to leave her.  It
intensified her love, and surrounded it with that holier charm which
sorrow always lends.

Then came the parting.  And Andromeda was left alone to lament, whilst
her lover was ploughing the stormy main.  Tom was "off to the wars"--
rather a queer place for a knight of chivalry in the nineteenth century
to seek for adventure, Abyssinia!--and Lizzie had, like most women in
such cases, to nurse her grief, which was her joy as well, by herself.
'Tis the way of the world, as Kingsley sings--

  "For men must work! and women must weep!
  And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep!"

The weary weeks glided by slowly after Tom's departure, and Lizzie's
little world was changed.  But greater changes were coming soon, if not
to her spiritual, at least to her temporal state.

Lizzie had been made aware, of course, long since, of her brother's
engagement with Laura Inskip; but she had been so much taken up with her
own troubles that she had not had spirit enough to enter into Herbert's
"little _roman_" with all the good-natured enthusiasm of which her
bursting: little heart was capable.  Events had rolled on so rapidly
that she became confused between them all, and the engagement with Laura
was not looked upon with that surprise and interest with which any
enterprise or suit of her brother's was usually regarded.

But time went on, and Lizzie could not but interest herself now in the
progress of change around her.  She had liked the languid Laura in her
way; but she was not the sort of girl--being a very energetic and
hopeful little sister--that she would have selected for her brother's
mate.  She would have had a little goddess or empress for Herbert; still
as Herbert had chosen for himself, she made up her mind to love her
expected sister-in-law with all her heart.

With these thoughts, Lizzie made many advances to the Inskips, but the
old campaigner was very disagreeable to her, and treated her as a
nonentity; and Laura was too lazy to share her future sister's
enthusiasm, so Lizzie's feelings were damped.  Carry, she thought very
"nice," but she was too noisy and gushing for Lizzie, just so heavily
bereaved; consequently the little maiden was forced to withdraw herself
within herself, and think of the future and Tom, and build very unstable
castles in the air.

And so the autumn passed by, and winter was nigh, and the change changed
still.

Herbert Pringle was to be married early in the new year.  It was to be
quite a grand affair, and from the hints dropped, Bigton and Hartwood
village were all agog with the news and their anticipations, for you may
be sure the campaigner was not one to hide her light under a bushel.

But Lizzie felt alone!  Poor Andromeda.  Perseus had gone! not in a
classic trireme! but by one of the P. and O. steamers.

Volume 3, Chapter V.

BEFORE THE JUGE DE PAIX.

Following the Chef, on her arrival at the office, Miss Kingscott found
Monsieur le Juge de Paix to be an oldish man, with sharp striking
features, his nose having an unfair advantage over the others; and his
skin, tightly drawn over the face, was of that saffron hue which adapts
itself to the complexion of most Frenchmen, and Messieurs les Espagnols
as well, after they have entered their eighth lustrum.  He was seated in
his official chamber, surrounded with all the majesty of the law, as
suited his elevated position.  A clerk occupied a lower desk in the same
room, and the majestic demeanour of his superior seemed reflected,
although in an inferior degree, on him.

Dechemal and Auguste, the Chefs aides, were both there.  So also was the
Mere Cliquelle and her husband, appearing terribly frightened, and
imagining that they were going to be guillotined at the least.  A bust
of Napoleon the Third looked down from a niche in the wall, facing the
judge, sternly on all, giving an air of dignity to the whole
proceedings.  The judge was taking notes, his clerk following suit; the
_mouchards_ contemplating the impassable physiognomy of the "Man of
Destiny;" the Mere Cliquelle and her small better-half awaiting their
turn for examination in the background.  There was no crowd, no troops
of friends and spectators and idlers, such as you would see in a
disorderly English court-room; no, they manage these things very
differently in France.  There were only those persons present who were
absolutely necessary for conducting the enquiry; all was silent and
quiet, although the machinery of the law Gallic was in rapid motion.

The wheels of justice run in greased grooves on the other side of the
Channel.

The arrival of the Chef and his important witness, Miss Kingscott,
accelerated movements.

The governess deposed, on oath, as follows:--That on the previous day
she had crossed over from Southampton, Angleterre, to Havre, _par la
vapeur_; her object was to see a certain Monsieur Anglais, by name
Allynne Markworth (the judge had some difficulty in arriving at the
exact etymology of the name, being inclined more than persistently to
call it "Makervorts;" so Miss Kingscott had to spell it succinctly, and
afterwards write it down for the correct information of the clerk).
This gentleman lived, when at Havre, at the house Numero 7, Rue
Montmartre; he had lived there for the last three months, she believed,
with his wife--that is a lady whom he had married in England, after
abducting her from her home; it was not yet settled whether she was
legally his wife or not--there was a law-suit, or _proces civil_, at
present pending in England on the subject.  She (Miss Kingscott) knew
this lady--Markworth's wife--very well; she had, indeed, been her
_gouvernante_ at her mother's house for some months; she had reason to
know her, she should think, and would not have any difficulty in
recognising her.  Her name was Susan Hartshorne.  This Susan Hartshorne
came from the _departement de Sussex, au sud de l'Angleterre_; her
mother was _une veuve_, and a large _proprietaire_; her address was The
Poplars, Sussex, England (direction given by the judge, and note taken
by clerk to forward information to said address); she (Miss Kingscott)
had crossed in the boat, as she had said, yesterday, and arrived at
Havre about mid-day.  Perhaps it was before that time, she could not be
certain, and, at all events, it did not matter.  (Witness was here
cautioned by the judge not to make any irrelevant observations.  Nothing
was too insignificant to be taken note of; the eye of justice was wide,
and comprehended everything in its vision.)  Markworth probably came
over in the same boat with her.

"Did Mademoiselle see _ce Monsieur la_ on board?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle did see him on board; it was at night, and dark; but
she saw him come on the boat at Southampton, and she saw him leave it
yesterday when they arrived at Havre; she had been watching him."

"Did Mademoiselle accompany Monsieur?"

"No, certainly not; she had not spoken to him all the time they were on
board; she did not think that he knew she was there."

"It is very strange.  I thought Mademoiselle came over especially to see
this Monsieur Markworth?  _Mon Dieu_!  Here she was on board with him
all the time on the boat, and she had not spoken to him!  She did not
think even that this monsieur knew she was there!  It was very strange!"

"Yes, it might be strange; but she had her own reasons for acting as she
did.  She did not wish this Markworth to know that she was there, or to
meet him until after he had landed and gone home; she had her reasons."

"Mademoiselle then had _Monsieur_ under surveillance?"

"Well, they might call it spying if they liked.  She had watched this
Markworth enter the house already pointed out in the Rue Montmartre.
She had then herself gone to the Hotel du Cote d'Or, and secured an
_appartement_.  After this she had returned to the Rue Montmartre, and
asked at the house of the Mere Cliquelle to see M. Markworth.  She had
been refused admittance, although she knew he was _chez lui_.  In
carrying out her purpose of watching his movements, she had gone over to
a cafe on the opposite side of the street, from the upper room of which
she was able to observe the house at _Numero Sept_.  She watched there
until late in the afternoon--evening it was, for it was after seven--
nearly eight o'clock she thought.  At that time she then saw Markworth
come out of the house along with his wife--the girl Susan Hartshorne, to
whom she had before referred."

"Can you swear it was her?"

"_Je le jure_" responded Miss Kingscott, and then went on with her
deposition.  She went out from her place of observation quickly after
them.  They went in the direction of Ingouville, up the heights;
Markworth walking by the side of his wife, or reputed wife, and she,
Miss Kingscott some little distance behind them.  She did not speak to
them, and did not think that they knew of her propinquity.  She let them
get on some distance ahead of her, although she still followed and kept
them in sight.  When they got on the heights they stopped walking, and
she hid herself behind a projecting wall.  She feared some mischief, and
watched to see what Markworth was going to do.  Presently she heard his
voice raised as if in anger, and then the voice of the girl Susan as if
in supplication.  She then heard a scream from the unfortunate girl.
She, Miss Kingscott, rushed forward to help her.  She was too late.
_Helas_!  She saw this Markworth, this villain, throw the girl over the
precipice.

"You saw him throw her over?"

"Yes, I swear it.  I then tried to stop the murderer, but he escaped
from my hands, knocked me senseless with a blow--here is the cut on my
forehead now--and he got off, heaven only knows where.  I had cried, `_a
voleur_' and `_assassinat_' as loud as I could before I became
insensible, but no one came to my help.  When I recovered my
consciousness I walked feebly down the path, and meeting a _sergent de
ville_, told him all about the murder, but he arrested me, thinking, he
says, I was drunk, and I was locked up in a cell till this evening, when
the Chef released me, apologising for the mistake of his subordinate.  I
have only to add," observed Miss Kingscott, after she had finished
answering the questions put to her, "that had it not been for this
mistake on the part of your boasted _sergents de ville_, which could
only have arisen from sheer stupidity, the murderer might never have got
off."

"_C'est possible_!" said the judge, making a note against the name of
the unfortunate guardian of the peace who had arrested the governess.
"But Mademoiselle will recollect that according to her statement it was
several hours after the escape of her assailant that she was thus
_arretee_.  Call the next witnesses!"

And the interrogatory went on.

The Mere Cliquelle and her husband, "_son petit bon homme_," as she
called him, were then examined to the same purport as already detailed
by the Chef to Miss Kingscott, Dechemal corroborating what had been
previously told him, and certifying to their arrest by him, and
importation before the Juge de Paix.

Auguste, the other of the Chefs inquisitors, had little to tell.  He had
searched the _cabarets_ and hotels, and enquired at the office of the
Steamboat Company, and along the quays.  No Englishman, or any one else
resembling Markworth's description had been seen or heard of since
yesterday evening, or had taken passage for England.

This was all the evidence that could be obtained, and on it Monsieur le
Juge de Paix framed the _acte d'accusation_, by which the charge of
wilful murder was established against Markworth, and a warrant issued
for his arrest.

The police, therefore, acting under the orders of the Chef, were on the
alert.

Directions were also given to the fishermen and sailors about the quays
to look out for a body in the river: the Seine was then dragged with
better effect, for the very next day the surmises of the Judge and the
Chef were set at rest.

The body of a fair woman, with light brown hair and about twenty-one or
twenty-two years of age, was discovered floating beneath the battlements
of the centre quay.  The features were nearly indistinguishable from the
action of the water or the attacks of crustacea, but the remains of a
crimson merino dress still clung around the body, which Miss Kingscott
immediately recognised and identified as that of Susan Hartshorne.  The
Mere Cliquelle and her husband were also certain that the remains were
those of the poor English lady, although neither were positive about the
dress.  Madame Cliquelle said that she had never observed any particular
colour in the dress of Madame (Miss Kingscott had testified in her
deposition that Susan Hartshorne always wore robes of bright hue,
different, as a rule, from anyone else), but she might have worn this
particular dress and gone out in it that evening without her having
noticed it.  _Helas_! however, what need had they to be particular about
a worthless dress when they had the body of the poor Madame before them!
The Mere Cliquelle wept over the lifeless shell of humanity; and even
her little husband shed tears as he recounted how he and _la pauvre
belle ange Anglaise_ used to "spik Inglese togeders."

The afternoon of the same day, too, a fisherman from Honfleur
communicated with the police, and gave evidence that about ten o'clock
on the night of the murder he had conveyed an Englishman, answering in
every respect to the description of Markworth, across from Havre to his
own village: he had been out to sea and along the coast since then, and
had consequently not heard of the inquiry before.

There was no doubt of this being Markworth, as the fisherman described
him to a hair with two or three telling word-strokes.  The landlord of
the Auberge, also, where he had stopped at Honfleur, produced a torn
envelope which had been carelessly dropped by his guest.  It was
addressed "Allynne Markworth, Esqr.;" that settled the question.

Two clear days, however, had passed; and although the object of their
search was traced to Paris, all further clue of his track was lost, and
where he had gone remained an unsolved problem.

The French police, with all their acuteness and _finesse_, in the
exercise of which they are far ahead of our blundering English
detectives (and those vile, social-inquisitorial dens of humbug and
area-sneakishness called "Private Inquiry Offices," too) were at fault,
and the game had to be given up.  From some papers found amongst the
things he had left behind him at the Rue Montmartre, it was surmised
that Markworth had gone to America; a photograph of himself was also
discovered, which he had had taken with one of his wife--it may be
remembered that Markworth had shown a carte de visite of Susan to Mr
Trump, when he had gone to the lawyers to tell of his marriage, and
claim the reward for the missing girl.  These photographs were carefully
preserved by the police, and copies of Markworth's likeness despatched
to various points to secure his arrest in case he put foot on French
ground.

Nothing more could be done, however, by the Juge de Paix or the Chef.
The machinery of justice had been set in motion; and although its wheels
were greased it had to stop working; its _but_ was non-apparent.

The depositions and evidence of the witnesses, who were now released
from surveillance, were preserved until the occasion should arise for
their utility.

Miss Kingscott was a potent pursuer, but the prey had escaped her again:
she had still to wait for vengeance.

In the meantime the body of the girl was kept for burial until word
should be received from England,

The chief of the police had communicated with the mother of Markworth's
victim, having written to the _veuve_ Hartshorne, according to the
address given by Miss Kingscott; the latter personage had also sent her
version of the affair to the widow lady's lawyers, and both were now
awaiting response.

Volume 3, Chapter VI.

THE DOWAGER AROUSED--THE DOWAGER STRUCK DOWN!

Dead!

"What?  Susan dead!"  She could not believe it; she wouldn't, and that
was a fact.  "Stuff and nonsense! don't tell me," she exclaimed; "I
won't believe it."

"But, my dear madam," interposed Mr Trump, who had come down especially
to The Poplars, for the purpose of breaking the news, and considering
what was to be done on receiving Miss Kingscott's letter.  "But, my dear
madam, I have received the most satisfactory intelligence about the
unfortunate event, and we must do something."

"Nonsense! don't tell me!  Susan dead, indeed!  What should make her
die?  She is a hale, strong girl, much stronger than I am, and I am not
going to die yet.  It's all some lying nonsense or other; that woman,
the governess, who wrote to you, is capable of anything, after what you
told me of her helping that villain to go away--and she as meek as a
mouse all the time as if butter would not melt in her mouth!  Stuff and
nonsense!  It's all a lie from beginning to end."  But the old dowager
did not speak with her customary absolute quality of expression.  There
was a lingering dread in her voice as if she wanted to be assured of the
truth of what she herself had declared, and as if she feared the worst
to be confirmed.

Mr Trump, from his previous knowledge of the family, did not think that
Mrs Hartshorne would grieve very much about her daughter, and so he did
not mince matters.  He took out Miss Kingscott's letter, and showed it
her.

The old lady grasped it with trembling hands, and read it from first to
last in silence, although her fingers shook, and the paper rustled in
her clutch.

"I can't read it," she said, after a long pause, in a faint voice,
without its usual querulous intonation.  "My eyes are weak; they are not
so strong as they were.  The light to-day is very bad.  That handwriting
is so small, I cannot make it out.  Here, take the worthless thing and
read it out to me yourself.  I cannot make head or tail of it."

Mr Trump resumed possession of the document; his sight was not
deficient, nor the light too bad for him, or the calligraphy beyond his
comprehension.  He read as follows, in his loud, clear voice:--

"Havre.

"Mr Trump,--

"Sir,--You will remember our conversation some days since with reference
to the abduction of Susan Hartshorne by Markworth, and the desire I
expressed to avow my share in the conspiracy?  I have something now far
more dreadful to communicate; the poor girl Susan has been murdered by
that villain, Markworth!  Finding, I suppose, all his hopes of gaining
the girl's fortune fruitless, after his explanation with you, he
returned to Havre the same evening.  For reasons of my own, I followed
him over from England.  The very same evening he returned here he took
out the girl for a walk, and this ended in his throwing her over a
precipice and murdering her--I suppose, in order to get rid of her, as
he could not secure the money.  How I came to be present will be
explained in the accompanying attested copies of my deposition, and that
of the other witnesses taken before the Juge de Paix, or principal
magistrate of this town.  The body of the poor girl was found this
afternoon, floating in the river Seine, close to the scene of the brutal
murder.  I have seen it, and there is no doubt of its being Susan
Hartshorne, but the authorities need some further identification by some
member of the unfortunate victim's family (or by some person authorised
by them) before it is buried, or any further proceedings taken.  I
entreat you, my dear sir, to come over here at once.  The murderer has
escaped, the police seem undetermined; and although I have done all I
could to stir them up, still I am only a woman, and cannot have that
influence over them which a man would possess.  They say that Markworth
has gone to America, but surely something ought to be done, so you had
better come over here, if you have got any interest in the fate of the
poor girl.  I believe the chief of the police has written to Mrs
Hartshorne, but whether she will be able to come I do not know, and I
think she had better not.  Pray come yourself at once, or else the
murderer will escape, and his crime be unavenged; and, besides, there
are many other things to be attended to, notwithstanding that I have
done my best.  Come at once, and see what is to be done; you can take
the night boat, which leaves Southampton at midnight, after seeing Mrs
Hartshorne on your way.

"Yours, in haste,

"Clara Kingscott.

"Messrs. Trump, Sequence, and Co.,

"Bedford Row, London."

The old lady never moved, or spoke once during the time which Mr Trump
was occupied in reading the governess's long letter and the legal
documents that accompanied it, although if the lawyer had looked at her,
instead of at the papers, which he was perusing, he would have observed
a strange and wonderful change in her face.

"Is that all?  Have you done?" she asked, in a deep, hollow voice, so
unlike her own, that the lawyer started and looked at her inquiringly.

"That is all," he answered.

The old dowager had received no intimation before of the startling news.
The Chef had undoubtedly forwarded a communication to the _veuve_
bereaved; but, addressed as it was _au sud de l'Angleterre_, it would
take some weeks for it to reach The Poplars, if it ever got there.

Mr Trump waited in vain for some time for what the old lady would say,
glancing over the depositions, which Clara Kingscott had had translated
for his benefit.

At last the dowager spoke.

"Go!  Go!" she screamed out in a shrill, unearthly voice.  "Pursue him!
The murderer!  The villain!  The swindling rogue!"

As Mr Trump looked at her in amazement her face became of a blue and
livid colour.

"I--I will go too!  Get my--" The blue colour had now turned to black,
and the old lady seemed to draw herself up as she exclaimed in
disjointed sentences.  "Get my--Susan!--Husband!--Where am I!"

And with a still shriller shriek she fell forward on her face on the
floor.

"Apoplexy, my dear sir," as Mr Trump said afterwards in detailing the
circumstance to a _confrere_.  "Apoplexy, my dear sir!  It often happens
to people like her from a sudden shock!"  But he was wrong, it was a
more insidious if not so fatal a disease--it was paralysis, the fell
enemy of muscularity.

The lawyer at once sent for a doctor; and "Garge," the messenger
despatched, went to Bigton for Doctor Jolly, as he was the only medical
man recognised in the country round.  But our old friend was not at
home, he had not returned yet from his unusual absence abroad; and
Dobbins, the whilom coal merchant, who was acting in his stead, shortly
came to see the dowager.  After a hasty inspection he saw what was the
case, and telling Mr Trump that further assistance would be required,
the lawyer telegraphed up to London for the great doctor, Stephanos
Jenner, who arrived in the evening.  This great authority confirmed the
opinion of the lesser medical light.  He said, after a preliminary "Ha!
Hum!" that the treatment of the patient was everything that could be
desired; and, accepting a fee of fifty guineas, which Mr Trump
presented him by cheque, went off again to London after a few minutes'
consultation, leaving the dowager in the hands of Dobbins, who, to do
him justice, knew what he was about; and of Mr Trump, who hardly knew
what to do.

The lawyer was puzzled at the first; but his logical mind, keen to
action, comprehended the situation, and prepared to act.  He could not
help moralising for a moment, however, on the vanity of human wishes,
and the truthfulness of the proverb which tells us that "_L'homme
propose mais le bon Dieu dispose_."  The dowager had not been "going to
die yet;" she had been ready to do anything and everything, and derided
the idea of death and sickness; but here she was struck down in all her
strength, and lying stretched out there a senseless lump of humanity
without either the power or even the will to do anything.  _Tali sunt
solicitae vitae_!

However, as she could not, he had to act.  So, after a hasty whisper
with Dobbins--it was now getting late in the December night--he
determined to proceed to Havre alone.  Somebody had to go, for much had
to be done; so much does not fall on all lawyer's shoulders as rested on
Mr Trump's then.  The dowager was accordingly left in the hands of
Dobbins--who said that Doctor Jolly would probably return the next day,
when he would undoubtedly take charge--and of the old woman-servant, who
had described herself as being as hard-worked as "a pore nigger slave,"
but who now cheerfully attended to her mistress, with whom she had lived
for some twenty years, having treated with indignation the suggestion of
calling in a hired nurse.  "Not if I knows it," she said, vehemently,
"these hands wot 'ave worked for her twenty year will nuss her now; I
should like ter know who else has any right to displace I?"  So Dobbins
conceded the points, at all events until Aesculapius proper should
return; and he and the old woman nursed the dowager between them, and
got her to bed, while Mr Trump went off on his travels.  There was
quite a revolution and a dark shadow in the old house, while the
leafless poplars which encircled it seemed like funeral plumes, and the
old house itself a hearse, in the hazy light of the dull December night.

The lawyer's journey was a comparatively easy one in comparison with
that which our old friend the doctor had taken some time before.

He travelled rapidly to Southampton by the express, which he caught at
Bigton--only occasional trains stopped at Hartwood--and was in plenty of
time to despatch sundry telegraphic instructions to his clerks in London
before embarking in the night boat for Havre.  At midnight, instead of
going to his warm bed in his comfortable suburban retreat, as he usually
did at that hour, Mr Trump had to pull on his nightcap between the
rolls of the waves, and ensconce himself in the narrow bunk that fell to
his share of the cabin in the channel-crossing steam-packet.  However,
Mr Trump was a man of the world besides being a man of business, and
knew how to accommodate himself to circumstances, and make matters as
comfortable as he could under unforeseen data.  So there is little doubt
that he went to sleep at last, in spite of the narrowness of his
lodging, and just as probably, he snored harmoniously to the
accompaniment of the steamboat's paddles.

The morning found him at Havre, prepared to set about his business as
methodically as if he were only going down to his chambers in Bedford
Row as usual, instead of being in a strange country.

He first went to the police office, and subsequently to the address
given by Miss Kingscott.  Mr Trump never trusted to individual
evidence.  With the governess and Monsieur le Chef, he proceeded to view
the remains of what had been Susan Hartshorne, and identify them.  The
inspection was merely a work of detail, for the face was irrecognisable,
even more so now than when it had been first taken out of the water.
The lawyer, to the best of his belief, thought it to be Susan.  And then
the corpse was buried in the cemetery with a single headstone above the
grave, on which the name "Susan," alone was inscribed, and her age.

Mr Trump had already explained his position, and stated himself to be
the representative of the deceased's family to the chief of the police,
who was most cordial and polite to him on learning that he was _un
avocat Anglais_.  The chef, to the lawyer's astonishment, spoke English
fluently, just as if he were a native, and told him he knew Bedford Row
as well as the Palais Royal in Paris.  From him also, Mr Trump learnt a
more coherent, and less one-sided story than from Miss Kingscott,
although her statements were confirmed.  From the evidence of the one
witness, the case was evidently strong against Markworth, both the chef
and the lawyer determined; but then the one witness was, on her own
testimony, and from Mr Trump's previous knowledge, strongly
antagonistic to Markworth; and his legal mind compassed the
probabilities of something to be said on the other side.  Markworth's
disappearance was the great thing against him, for the girl might have
drowned herself, and the scene which Clara Kingscott described never
have taken place at all.  It is true her story was somewhat
corroborated, and the doctors had said, on the examination of the dead
girl's body, that death might have ensued from a jagged wound in the
head which probably had been caused by a fall; but they had only said
this when they had been asked their opinion on these points, and Miss
Kingscott's revelations been told them.

Altogether, Mr Trump thought it better to let the French police pursue
their own course in the matter, and not interfere with them by any
proceedings of his own.  He also gave up to their possession all the
poor girl's things which had been left behind at the Rue Montmartre; and
he had a kindly word to say to the Mere Cliquelle and her husband for
their kindness and treatment towards the ill-fated Susan.

Miss Kingscott was in a rage of mortification at the lawyer's apparent
apathy; but her words had no weight with him; he had conceived a species
of aversion towards her ever since her disclosure to him that night in
Bedford Row; and the avowal of her purpose since, to track Markworth to
the death, had not increased his regard, although it heightened his
judgment on her as a "woman with a purpose."

After an absence of three days or more, Mr Trump returned to England.
His hands drew up the advertisement of Susan's death, which he caused to
be inserted in the _Times_.  The circumstances of the mystery had not
got abroad, and he did not wish to court public enquiry as yet, so he
worded the announcement very simply:

At Havre, on the 27th ultimo, from an accident, Susan, wife of Allynne
Markworth, and only daughter of Roger Hartshorne, Esq., of The Poplars,
Sussex.

The lawyer then went down to see how the old lady was getting on.

She was still speechless--thoughtless--lying as it were on the brink of
eternity; and Doctor Jolly, who had now returned, and was attending her,
did not yet know whether she would recover or not.  The doctor and Mr
Trump had a long conversation together, and mutual explanations.  The
lawyer was more than ever glad that he had taken no further proceedings
about Susan's death, although he wrote out to Tom Hartshorne, now among
the heights of Abyssinia, telling him all about it.

Meanwhile, the old lady--struck down in her prime--was hovering on the
edge of the grave, in her great, old solitary house at The Poplars.  Her
son had flown away, her daughter was among the departed, and she alone
was left to struggle with the Mower's scythe, alone--although she
neither seemed to think nor feel--Doctor Jolly and strangers ministering
to her.  It is sad being alone--sadder being alone at the last!  May
you, reader, never feel it!

Volume 3, Chapter VII.

BIGTON BEWITCHED.

The quiet, little unpretending, out-of-the-way and not-of-much-account
watering place of Bigton, was emphatically upside-down and out of its
mind.

Bigton was, in a word, bewitched--good reason, too, if all things were
taken into consideration.  It is not every day, according to our
Hibernian friends, that "Morris kills a pig."  Following out the
analogy, it was not every day that Bigton had a wedding--a wedding,
moreover, where the bride was the daughter of a lady, "in her own
right;" and the happy man, if not "a lord of high degree," a shining
light in the church, and closely related to a high and eminent political
personage, such as Sir Boanerges Todhunter.

Besides, the nuptial ceremony was to be celebrated by the right reverend
prelate, the Lord Bishop of Chumpchopster, who was renowned far and wide
as the most imposing of confirmists in the annual laying on of hands;
and distinguished, not only as being one of the most ornate of orators,
but for having published the well-known refutation of Judaism on the
part of the pork-consuming portion of the population.  A treatise which
proclaimed his unswerving adherence to the time-honoured thirty-nine
articles and undoubted hostility to the pre-adamite theologians.  The
fact that he would be there was quite enough to set Bigton in a
whirligig of wonder and expectation, quite apart from the contingent
circumstances attending the auspicious event.

The engagement between the present contracting parties had not been a
very long one, the campaigner being in favour of early marriages, she
said--having daughters to dispose of; but her probable reason was to get
the irrevocable knot tied so that there might be no backing-out and no
backsliding on the part of _I promessi sposi_.

Lady Inskip took all the arrangements in her own hands.  Having brought
Pringle to book, she decided upon the length of the engagement, fixed
the wedding day, and then told the languid Laura and her expectant
son-in-law all about it.  They had nothing whatever to do with the
affair at all; they were to be married, and that was sufficient for
them.  She considered the pair as children in her hands, who had only to
do as they were told.  Hers be it to act, and plan, and settle
everything; theirs to acquiesce in what she planned, and be thankful for
the considerate forethought of their mamma-of-action.

Pringle glided readily and easily into such an improved order of things;
he accepted the gifts the gods gave him with admirable complacency.  He
consented to every arrangement that was made; indeed, it was well that
the campaigner took matters in her own hands, for the young incumbent
was of such an easy-going temperament, that even if he had gone to the
length of popping the question to the languid Laura on his own behalf,
it might have been years before he summoned up resolution enough to take
the final plunge into matrimony.  All things considered, therefore, it
was better for the campaigner to act; and act she did, with promptitude
and despatch.

The Reverend Herbert Pringle, B.A., behaved, throughout, as a very
decorous, about-to-be-married man, and expectant filial.  Of course he
paid a regular visit every day to the cottage on the esplanade to see
his _fiancee_.  He enjoyed her placid society, and went through all the
formulas expected and required of him--even to the extent of going
shopping for his presumptive mother-in-law, and selecting gaudy wools of
many colours for mat manufacture, and purchasing garden seeds, besides
attending to the redecoration and preparation of the parsonage for the
reception of his bride, under the stern and uncompromising eye of the
campaigner, who would have "this" done, and "that" altered, as she
pleased: her word was already law to him.

The gloom that had fallen over the house of Hartshorne did not, in any
way, affect the approaching marriage.

A rumour had got abroad that something was wrong at The Poplars, from
the chattering of the villagers, but no real facts had leaked out; and
everybody put down the old dowager's attack of paralysis and subsequent
long illness to the news of her daughter Susan's sudden death, which
they had read of in the necropolitan portion of the _Times_ newspaper.
Doctor Jolly, with the exception of such observations as, "Bless my
soul!  Sad pity! sad pity!" and "By Gad!"  'Twas a fearful "shock to the
old woman!" kept a sealed tongue in his head; and the lawyer, who was
the only other person that now had the _entree_ at The Poplars, was
naturally and professionally reticent.  At the parsonage, the calamities
of the "big house" had, of course, created interest.  Herbert Pringle
thought, from his religious position, and Lizzie, from her sympathetic
little heart, which naturally yearned towards anyone in affliction--
particularly now, and when the object of her sympathy was the mother of
her lover--both made attempts to minister at The Poplars, and both were
unsuccessful.

The old lady was, for weeks, speechless; and so ill, as not to be able
to bear the sight of a new face.  Doctor Jolly would not hear of the
young incumbent seeing her; she could not understand anything said to
her, and, for the present--the doctor told him gravely--any religious
question which she wanted settled must rest between herself and her God!
The doctor thought that but little spiritual consolation could be
imparted by a flippant young man, who only wore a cassock for temporal
purposes: as the means of obtaining a living, to a woman old enough to
be his mother, and who was already, even now, struggling, with the
Infinite!

To Lizzie, however, the doctor spoke kindly.  He recognised the spirit
in which her sympathy was tendered; and he told her that as soon as the
old lady got round a bit he would be glad of her services.  When she
recovered her consciousness, a brighter face around her than that of the
old servant, who now attended her, would conduce to her recovery; and
Lizzie, you may be sure, was very glad to hear this, and longed for the
time when she could be of use to "Tom's mother."

Although the old dowager, therefore, lay sick unto death, the marriage
preparations were not set aside.  Pringle, indeed, had hinted to the
campaigner that perhaps it would not be in good taste to celebrate the
festival while the great proprietress of the county, his especial
patroness, was in this state, but that intrepid lady had incontinently
derided the notion, asking what was the dowager to them? following up
the question with another and more potent one, as to whether he wished
to postpone the marriage with her darling girl in a very aggrieved tone
of voice.  Upon this Pringle was hastily "shut up," and had to pour out
a hundred apologies of, "Really, Lady Inskip, not for the world!" and so
on.

The end of the old year came, and the beginning of the new ushered in
the wedding morn.

Many things had been achieved before this, however, as may have been
expected, from the great preparations which had been going on ever since
Pringle's proposal, _ex parte_ the campaigner, and the settlement of the
engagement.

The parsonage had been newly decorated and painted throughout from top
to basement; on the campaigner's express stipulation, the drawing-room
had been refurnished in a gorgeous suite of velvet and gold; and,
although Lizzie's special domain in the garden had not been interfered
with, everything else about the young incumbent's mansion had been
altered and duly prepared for the coming event.  At Laburnum Cottage,
too, the occasion was not disregarded.

To do her the justice, the campaigner was not stingy in her present
expenditure.  Whether it was the joy of marrying off one of her
marriageable daughters opened her purse-strings in the same extent as it
gladdened her heart, or that it arose from a desire to shine amidst the
thing, or that it was owing to a union of both sentiments, cannot be
exactly decided: suffice it to say that the campaigner opened her purse
with a lavish hand.

For many days large boxes had come down from various haberdashers--"dry
goods establishments," the Americans call them--and milliners in London;
and every little shop in Bigton had been ransacked to the same intent by
Lady Inskip and her daughters.  The languid Laura was provided with such
a gigantic _trousseau_ that she would probably attain the rank of
grandmother before she wore out one half the number of "dozens"
provided, while a perfect corps of needlewomen was kept in constant
employment, basting, fitting, hemming, stitching, cutting out, felling,
"goring," and trying on, for upwards of a fortnight or more.

The campaigner had an additional motive in thus providing for her eldest
darling.  You see, Lady Inskip had no _dot_, as she elegantly phrased
it, with which to endow her "poor, portionless darlings," and the fact
of giving them a handsome "rig-out," as their brother Mortimer said,
would perhaps blind the eyes of Caelebs in search of a wife.  Be that as
it may, however, the needlewomen worked apace, the _trousseau_ was fully
provided, and Monday night, the eve of the wedding day, Tuesday, the
seventh of January, anno domini 1868, found everything ready for the
auspicious event.

Lizzie was necessarily one of the bridesmaids--that highly necessary
_corps d'armee_, without which no bride of any pretensions will allow
herself to be conducted to Hymen's sacrificial font.  Carry, the bride's
sister, was another; and the places of the two additional
ladies-in-waiting (for espousal themselves) were supplied by two distant
cousins of the Inskips, who had already officiated in a similar capacity
so many times that they had most probably made up their maiden minds
that this was the only problematical manner in which they would ever
officiate at a wedding.  Some people seem doomed always to play second
fiddle through life, and bridesmaids are no exceptions to the rule.

The campaigner had spared no pains, as she had grudged no expense.  All
her influence, whether important or slight, was brought to bear on the
contingent circumstances of the affair.

By back-stairs beseeching she so worked round the maternal aunt of the
Bishop of Chumpchopster, that the right reverend prelate was persuaded--
inasmuch as he had temporal expectations from the said maternal aunt--to
accompany her to Bigton, and officiate in the tying of the matrimonial
noose between Herbert Pringle, of whom his lordship was pleased to take
some considerable notice, and Laura.  The prelate and his maternal aunt
became the honoured guests of Lady Inskip for a day and a night in
consequence; but how on earth they were stowed in Laburnum Cottage, and
what accommodation was provided for them, remains to this day a puzzle.

"The blushing orb of day at length gilded the sky," and "Phoebus"
announced the wedding morn.

Enormous dressings of bride and bridesmaids.  White and scarlet were the
colours adopted, if you've a fancy for knowing them, although the
campaigner had a strong leaning, which she subsequently quenched,
towards mauve and yellow.  Multitudinous errands and scurryings to and
fro of "slavies" and domestics, including "Buttons" and several hired
menials, now addicted to Berlin gloves, although displaying raw,
beefsteaky hands in every-day life.  Manifold preparations for the
_dejeuner_, and consequent encroachments of pastry-cook's boys with
superincumbent trays and oblong covered boxes with horizontal S handles;
Laburnum Cottage turned inside out, and outside in; Bigton church bells
clanging "fit to bust 'emselves," as the villagers said; Bigton
upside-down--in a word, bewitched.

In the early morning two cavaliers might have been seen wending their
way towards the scene of the festivities; not "clad in Lincoln green,"
as the late lamented G.P.R. James would have described, but dressed _en
regle_: these were Captain Miles and Lieutenant Harrowby, who had
received pressing invitations from Lady Inskip to come over from
Brighton in order to be present at the ceremony.  Neither was averse to
coming, and, indeed, Captain Miles had certain reasons of his own, which
will be detailed presently, for jumping at the offer; so the two
cavaliers set out early, and wended their way to Bigton, as already
chronicled in the language of the ancient "romancist."  The Americans
will add an "ist" or a "cist" to every known trade or substantive under
the sun, to describe the person or individual who practises or has any
connection with the same: thus, a "paragraphist" is a man who writes a
paragraph, and they carry it down to a "pipist," who uses a pipe--
whether for smoking or musical purposes it does not matter--and
"chawist," he who masticates tobacco--a remarkably dirty habit!

Captain Miles and Lieutenant Harrowby, however, were not the only
guests.  Besides these were others, great and important too, although it
must be observed that there was an especial lack of young men in the
campaigner's "goodlie compagnie;" whether it was because she deprecated
their presence or feared their worldly ways cannot be exactly decided.
The campaigner was acquainted with the truism that "young people will be
young people," and fenced herself in accordingly, as she had fears on
the subject of her youngest daughter Carry, who was far too frivolous to
suit her more prudent expectations, and she wanted to put temptation out
of the way of the "dear girl" that she might not be led to throw herself
away on an "ineligible _parti_."  The campaigner thought that she knew
Captain Miles very well; he had nothing but his pay, and if he were
younger she would not put him in the way of any young lady whom she
wished to marry well, but she was certain that the captain was no fool
to let his beautiful Dundreary whiskers be sold for nothing, so she had
no fears for Carry with him.  Lieutenant Harrowby was perfectly
allowable too: he was a simpleton, and had a very snug little fortune of
five "thou" per annum.

Besides the Bishop of Chumpchopster and his maternal aunt, the next most
important guest who would grace the festal board at the wedding
breakfast would be Sir Boanerges Todhunter, the great Conservative
Reformer.  He was stopping at the parsonage now with the Reverend
Herbert Pringle, his distant cousin, but he had already accepted an
invitation to the _dejeuner_, and had in fact come over for the purpose,
on the grounds of his relationship with the bridegroom, to assist in the
demolition of the Strasbourg _pate_, and propose the health of the
about-to-be-newly-spliced pair.

In the list also of the fashionable world present might have been seen
the names of Captain Curry Cucumber, of the Honorable and defunct East
India Company's Service, Miss Blandish, Lady Sparrowhawk and sister, the
Honorable Miss Bigges (pray be particular about the final e), the
Reverend Jabez Heavieman--invited in virtue of his office more than on
account of his convivial proclivities--and others.

Suppose the wedding over.  Picture the bride in her orange blossoms, the
bridegroom in his magpie dress--he could not adopt the time-honoured
blue frock, being a cleric--the bridesmaids in their scarlet and white
trains of tulle and tulips--the Bishop of Chumpchopster in his
voluminous lawn sleeves pronouncing the blessing in his well-known and
to be-much-admired Alcaic manner.  Imagine the bells of Bigton clanging
out their merry peal in the frosty air: paint to yourself the gallant
and gay assemblage.  Fancy, in a word, the marriage to be _un fait
accompli_; the guests returned to Laburnum Cottage; the toast of the day
proposed in that highly-declamatory style which makes the name of Sir
Boanerges Todhunter synonymous with that of Cicero; thanks responded in
the usual halting manner by the bridegroom; the happy pair started on
their tour with the customary shower of shoes; the banquet concluded.
Imagine all this.  Aha! and now I will a tale unfold.

The campaigner had been in ecstasies with the way in which everything
had gone off.  The Bishop and Sir Boanerges had just driven away, late
in the evening, after partaking of a hasty dinner, which had been
scrambled out of the remains of the previous feast; Captain Curry
Cucumber was detailing some highly-spiced Indian anecdotes to Miss
Blandish, who was in a holy state of maiden indignation at some of the
particulars with which the captain thought it incumbent on him to
furnish her, although she listened eagerly all the while; Lieutenant
Harrowby was indulging in platitudes with the Hon. Miss Bigges, while
poor Lizzie was being swamped by the veteran Lady Sparrowhawk, who was
imparting to our little friend--who found the whole thing fearfully
dreary--her views on the girls of the present day, contrasting them,
sadly to the disadvantage of the former, with the time when she was
young: all, in fact, was going on just as the campaigner wished.

When, suddenly, just as Lady Inskip proposed a carpet dance to break the
monotony of the evening, she discovered that her darling girl Carry and
Captain Miles were both missing!

Horror!  Where could they be?  Could her worst fears be realised?  The
skeleton which had lurked behind the banquet now stepped forth.  Her
_atra cura_ now confronted the campaigner!  Uneasy was the head that
wore the crown of manoeuvring triumph that day: Carry and the Captain
had gone off _nulla vestigia retrorsum_, leaving not a trace behind.

Mortimer was first dispatched to search for the fugitives; but when he
returned unsuccessfully, and no trace of the delinquents was to be
found, either in and about the house or in the adjacent garden, the
campaigner, whose nerves had been in a state of tension all day, fairly
broke down.  She proclaimed her calamities to her astonished company,
bursting into a passion of tears, as she threw her arms round the neck
of her boy, that young imp, and exclaimed, "Oh!  Morti-mer!  Morti-mer!
I told you so!  I told you so!" over and over again, insisting all the
time that she had _him_ still left to her!

The _fiasco_ of the pic-nic was comparatively nothing to the present
scene; and the excitement culminated when a note was brought in at this
juncture by the campaigner's abigail (who said she had just found it on
the dressing-table in Miss Carry's room, although she had known of its
existence some hours before, and Lady Inskip discharged her, "by the
same token," as Paddy says, the next day for her complicity in the
affair), telling how the young lady--somewhat "fast" on her part, it
must be confessed--had gone off with Captain Miles to get married,
spurred up to the point probably by the events of the day.

The note, which was handed round for general perusal, in consequence of
Lady Inskip's temporary abstraction, ran as follows, in Carry's neat
calligraphy, described in violet ink, on cream-laid note:--

"Dear Ma,--

"Algernon and I having determined to unite our lot--(we have been in
correspondence for a long time without your knowledge)--have gone off to
get married without any bother.  We knew you would object and `kick up a
row,' as dear Algernon says, and have therefore thought it best to go
off without letting you know anything about the state of our affections.
Any pursuit will be vain, as we are both determined.  We will be
married to-morrow morning.  Hoping you will not be vexed very much with
your `darling girl,' and that Laura will be as happy as I intend to be,
with the `prig,' as I used to call the poor little parson,

"Believe me,

"Your affectionate daughter,

"Carry.

"P.S.--Algernon says to give you his love, and he tells you to `keep
your pecker up.'  Tell Mortimer he can have my Persian kitten.  Please
excuse Abigail for helping me off.  I bullied her into doing it.
Forgive me, dear ma!  I know I shall be as happy as a butterfly, and, at
all events, I shall ever be your loving daughter, Carry."

The comments that were made on this missive may be imagined; and in the
commotion that ensued the characters of the campaigner's guests soon
developed themselves, as is usually the case in moments of excitement,
particularly when an _esclandre_ arises.

Old Lady Sparrowhawk and the antiquated virgin, Miss Bigges, thought it
highly immoral on Lady Inskip's part to invite them to a house where any
such thing could possibly have happened.  Of course they would not
mention anything about it, they said, as they retired from the scene;
but, strange to say, in a very little while after, the mutual friends of
Lady Sparrowhawk and the campaigner were acquainted with every incident
of the elopement.  Indeed, from the statements of these people, you
would be led to suppose that they knew a good deal more about it than
had as yet transpired, with much noddings and sly gestures, and
confidential "you knows."

To say that Captain Curry Cucumber was wrath, would convey but a feeble
idea of his state of mind and volubility of expression, when he, too,
got up to go.  In the first place, he had had a slight penchant for the
fair Carry, which Lady Inskip had fostered and encouraged; the remnant
of his liver was consequently wrung with jealousy and baffled love--if
love it may be called--which empurpled his saffron face; and he looked
upon it is a special affront and injury to himself that the campaigner
should have allowed her daughter thus to run away.

"By Gad! sir!" he said, to Lieutenant Harrowby, who, having been a
confidant of Captain Miles, was dreading in much fear and trembling that
the onus of the whole affair would be laid upon his weak shoulders.  "By
Gad! sir, I have never been so scandalously treated in my life; not even
by the Begum of Ferozesha!"

He said this in sufficiently angry tones, ere he left the room; but when
he got into the hall, his wrath rose to thunder, and was terrific to
behold.

The magnificent gold-mounted bamboo cane which he had left there, which
had been presented to him by Rumagee Bumagee, the Rajah of Bugpoor, and
which he valued at ever so many lakhs of rupees, was missing.  The
captain boiled over with indignation, called Laburnum Cottage a den of
thieves, and heaped such reams of violent epithets on the heads of Lady
Inskip, her daughter, and all her family, even unto the third and fourth
generation, as made Miss Blandish's scanty locks stand on end with
fright, and even restored the campaigner to her senses.

Captain Curry Cucumber then went out of Laburnum Cottage, for good and
all, and he vowed he would never set foot within another house in Bigton
for social purposes or otherwise.  For the remainder of his term of
residence in the sea-side retreat, he shut himself up in the red brick
corner house of the terrace he inhabited, where he spent his time, it is
believed, from morning until night, swearing at his Kitmaghar, a lascar
servant, and eating chutney and prawn curries.  The poor unhappy half
caste servant's life must have been a sad burden to him, for the captain
was continually calling him an "Ooloo ka bucka," or son of an owl, and
associating his name in Hindostanee with a big black monkey, who was
being perpetually consigned to the lower regions.

Carry Inskip's elopement was a "nine days' wonder" in Bigton, and then
was forgotten.  It is supposed that the young lady made a better bargain
of it than most runaway matches turn out, and she lives very happily on
a somewhat limited income, with the gallant son of Mars, whom she
espoused the day after their elopement, not at Gretna Green, but by
licence at Chumpchopster, the adjacent cathedral town to Bigton.

The campaigner's star was certainly under an eclipse.  She had done well
for her eldest, but Carry turned out "a bold, ungrateful hussie," as she
called her.  Yet she quickly recovered from the blow.  In bewitching
Bigton she had been bewitched herself; but she was not one to be
daunted, and now that her "darling Laura" was so comfortably
established, the campaigner began to agitate a most notable scheme in
her worldly-wise head.

Volume 3, Chapter VIII.

FOILED!

The winter passed by and fled.  Ships from foreign parts came and went
from Havre; and still, although the police with the able Chef at their
head kept a strict look out and surveillance on all comers and goers,
nothing was heard or seen of Markworth, and no circumstances arose to
unravel the web of mystery in which his disappearance and the murder of
the girl were enwrapped.

Clara Kingscott still remained at Havre.  She was loth to leave the
scene where her enemy had made his last _coup_, and she was hoping on
against hope that something might arise to mature her vengeance--but
nothing came.

So at last in disgust, having made the Chef promise her, as he did
willingly in the interests of the law, to forward her the first
intimation should anything be heard of Markworth, she quitted Havre and
returned to England in order to prosecute her watch here.

She went back to the lodgings she had previously occupied in Bloomsbury.
It may be remembered that these were the same where Markworth used
formerly to live; and besides their being comfortable and suited to her
in every way as a point of attack, the governess hoped that perchance he
of whom she was in search might perchance come there unexpectedly.  He
would probably have seen the news of Susan's death in the paper, and
thinking that nothing had been discovered of his crime, as she thought,
return again some time to London: where would he be more likely to come
than here?  No one connected with the after circumstances of his life
knew of his having lived here but herself, and it was on the cards that
the first place that he would go to, should he return again, as was most
probable, to the scenes of his old life, when he thought pursuit had
died out, would be Mrs Martin's old apartments.

Here, therefore, Miss Kingscott sat herself down to bide her time.
Patience was never a virtue that she possessed, and it can be no wonder
that time hung heavy on her hands, and her heart was gnawed through with
vexation and impatience at the delay in all her plans, the failure of
her vengeance.  Nemesis was at fault, and Nemesis showed the traces of
her mental struggles in her face: this last year had aged her more than
ten.

She paid repeated visits to the offices of Messrs. Trump, Sequence, and
Co., in Bedford Row, all to no purpose.

Mr Trump had first heard her placidly and promised assistance when she
should have secured her prey; he had next, after being sufficiently
bored, told her that it was no business of his, and washed his hands of
it; he also said that if she took his advice she too would wash her
hands of it, and leave it alone, to which Sequence, parrot-like, had
re-echoed "leave it alone!"  The lawyer finally, when he had been bored
too much and had lost his admiration at the woman's fixity of purpose,
gave directions in his office that he was to be "never in" when she
called.  Clara Kingscott after this waited long hours, sitting
determinedly in the outer room, amid the ill-concealed ridicule and
chaff of "sucking sheepskins," the clerks, and had finally to give up
the lawyers in the chronic disgust which was now enveloping everything
in her life.

Solomonson and Isaacs, the Jew creditors of Markworth, she also haunted;
but they, too, could not see what was to be done, and did not take that
interest in Clara Kingscott's plans which she had supposed they would
have done.  To tell the truth the name of Markworth and all that was
connected with their former client stunk in their nostrils; it was not a
pleasant subject for them to dwell upon; so while their debtor was out
of their reach,--although they were ready to pounce upon him _vi et
armis_, with warrants and detainers, should he venture within the
precincts of the lion's den, _id est_, be again within the realm--they
preferred taking a dignified, albeit Hebrews, silence on the matter, and
let it lie _perdu_ for the present.

Ousted on all sides, therefore, and disappointed of her prey, Clara
Kingscott's life during this interregnum of affairs was not a happy one,
although she tried to make the best of it that she could.  As she had
plenty of money for her wants she was not obliged to seek employment,
and she could afford to wait awhile and watch.  But watching without
occupation, and waiting with nothing to do, is poor work at the best for
an impatient mind.

In the meantime she cultivated relationship with the lodging-house
keeper Mrs Martin, in the furtherance of her projects: "the parlours"
and the basement were on the best of terms.

The spring came and passed, the days spun out their weary length, summer
was nigh, summer had come, and yet Clara Kingscott's vengeance was not
matured; the fly kept away from the web which the spider had so
cunningly woven for him.

But her gratification came at last in reward for her patience.

One night--it was far now advanced in the summer--as she was perspiring
in the dingy parlours which she would not relinquish even in the hot
weather, notwithstanding that she had nothing to keep her in town, she
heard a double knock at the street door.

The knock was nothing unusual in itself.  It was a knock which perhaps
any gentleman or lady might have given--but there was this point about
it, it was undecided.  Miss Kingscott had been previously reviewing in
her mind all the chain of events that had interwoven her life and her
purpose with that of Markworth.  She had been tracing down the panorama
of the last year from its inception to the part where the canvas had
been roughly torn across.  There was nothing unusual in this, it was her
constant practice to do this nearly every night--to evolve the various
thoughts which had been passing through her mind during the day, as they
did every day.  But by one of those sudden mental clutches which strike
across our brain sometimes, she seized upon the past and worked it into
the present.  Like as a sudden noise which we hear in our sleep--such as
the report of a gun, or the sudden exclamation of someone who intrudes
on our slumbers--is worked into our dreams and forms the subject of a
complete mental phantasmagoria, so this stray knock at the street door
of Mrs Martin's lodgings was worked by Clara Kingscott into her present
thoughts.  "He's here!" she exclaimed to herself in the tumultuous
throbbing of her excited imagination.  "He's here!  I feel it!  I have
waited long, but he is caught at last!"  But she did not go to the door,
she waited and watched still: in spite of all, however, she was right
for once.

It was Markworth.

By and bye, later in the evening, Mrs Martin came up to tell her the
important news.  Her former lodger had returned--so poor--so