What had happened?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He penetrated into the depths of the wood, firing at everything that happened to be a trifle larger than a b.u.t.terfly or humble bee; but although Mortimer thought he took steady aim at the several little feathered songsters against whom he had murder in his heart, the gun, which was something like the Irishman's that could "shoot round a corner," never brought down anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! he's dead! He's dead!" cried Lizzie, out aloud, wringing her hands, bursting into an agony of tears--tears, idle tears!

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

Volume 1, Chapter XV.

END OF "FIRST ACT."

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

would far outweigh and be more deeply interesting than any history ever published of what _has_ happened!

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

Thus it was partly from love--what a misapplication of the term!--partly from revenge that she had foiled his wealthy marriage in Paris; it was partly from love, partly from hate that she was now bent on a.s.sisting his marriage with Susan Hartshorne, if such a conflict of motives with actions can be imagined. She had entered into the compact with him to suit her own purpose of attaining her revenge: still when it came to the last it went to her heart, if she had one, to help him on to his end.

She was his bond servant and his Nemesis as well; and the man's strong nature controlled the woman's equally strong nature merely by the force of former circ.u.mstances than by anything else. She was a.s.sisting in a plot she knew; but no feeling of self-consideration would have induced her to hold back now, or from exposing her partic.i.p.ation in the conspiracy when she determined to stretch out her hand. She was bent on ruining him body and soul; and at the last moment when she had succeeded in achieving her purpose, she would be the first, the only one, perhaps, to weep over her own success, and allow the demon of Remorse to prey upon her vitals. But she must go on now: she had already received the "blood money!" He, schemer as he was, and skilled as he dreamed himself to be in the secrets of men and women, did not understand one t.i.the of Clara Kingscott's nature. She had tried to entrap him once, and had found out too late that she herself was entrapped. Her first proceeding against him resulted most probably, he thought, from a woman's spite and a woman's jealousy, but he had no doubt she had grown more sensible now, as she had grown older. She knew him of old, and was no match for him; so, like a sensible woman, she accepted the part laid down for her, and acted Faust to his Mephistopheles. She was quite satisfied of course, for it suited her interests, and he thought besides that she had some lingering liking--like most women--for the man that had deceived her.

She was a fine girl still, too, and if circ.u.mstances had been otherwise, and Susan Hartshorne and a fortune been in the way, he might have married her. Of course there would have been no such nonsense as "love"

between them now. Yet she was a clever woman, and he and she would have got on together very well, and have managed to pick up a very comfortable living out of the world. This was, probably, what Markworth did think occasionally, but events were hurrying him on, and he was fully prepared to take advantage of every circ.u.mstance to perfect his plot. It would be time enough to think of the future when he had hold of that nice little sum of money which was just within his grasp.

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

Accordingly, finding everything suitable, Markworth wrote up to town on the Monday (when he was certain that the dowager would be away, and the coast clear for his purpose) to Joseph Begg, telling him he wanted him to meet a lady and himself at the Waterloo Terminus the next afternoon at two o'clock--at all events to be there from two to four; and as the lady was very timid Begg was to be respectably dressed as an honest old-fashioned old gentleman, for he would have to take charge of her.

His letter was sent up in good time, made up as a parcel, and given in charge of the guard of the train, so it was delivered early that evening; and Markworth got an answer the next morning, saying that his instructions would be carried out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sent off George to the neighbouring public-house "The Jolly Spades,"

with a shilling, to make himself glad, and render his nature even more comatose than usual on "home-brewed." George went off exultant, declaring that she "was a raal leddy, that she were," and that he would drink her health--so _he_ was disposed of. The old lady was miles away, and so was Tom, too, at the pic-nic; the old woman servant was deep in the kitchen or somewhere else downstairs; and thus n.o.body saw Miss Kingscott leave the house with Susan. There was only herself to prove it.

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

Her entrance was as un.o.bserved as her exit.

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

It was quite a fairy holiday for her; and although she was now as reasoning a being as any of us, and had quite recovered her senses, she asked no questions: she left everything in Markworth's hands, as she looked up to him as a superior to whom every obedience was due, and who would do everything for the best. He led the way over the fields, Susan walking by his side like a child engrossed by her own happy thoughts, and the novelty of everything around her--it was a new world to her-- towards the Bigglethorpe station, on the "up line;" this was where he had got out: it was above Hartwood, so n.o.body could recognise him.

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

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

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

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