Volume One—Chapter Twelve.
“The Beginning of the End.”
Markworth’s plot was now nearly ripe for execution.
When he had been down at The Poplars some weeks now, he said one morning at the breakfast table that he must run up to town for a day or two, as he had some important business to transact; so excusing himself to the Hartshornes, mother and son, the former of whom did not look as if she would break her heart if he never returned, he said he supposed he had better start at once and come down on the next day, Saturday, so as to be in time for the contemplated pic-nic on the following Tuesday, which Tom would not hear of his missing.
“You’ll be sure to be back in time, old fellow,” said the latter, as he wished Markworth good-bye; and the train glided off from the little station to which they had walked in company across the fields. “There’ll be heaps of fun, for Harrowby and a lot of the fellows will be down, and I want you to draw out the campaigner, or she’ll be making a dead set at me, and—”
“You’ll have other fish to fry, and will want to attend to someone else, eh? I quite understand it all, my boy; I’m not so blind as some people think, Master Tom. However, I’ll spare your blushes and your explanations: don’t be alarmed, my boy, I’ll be back in plenty of time for the pic-nic, and will take care to occupy my lady’s attention so as to leave you to your own devices. Good-bye, old chap.”
“Good-bye, old fellow,” said Tom; and Markworth was soon whizzing on his way to London.
Arrived in town, he first directed his steps to the private billiard-room where he and his friend first made the acquaintance of the reader.
His object was to enlist the services of the little old-fashioned marker, who we had previously seen watching the game.
This man, Joe Begg by name, although only known to the sporting world who frequented the room by his Christian name alone, was an accomplice and ally of Markworth. When our friend would manage to get hold of a nice pigeon for plucking, Joe Begg used to be of the greatest service. He had a peculiarly dexterous way of running up the score, and also a pleasant and most unaccountable manner of sneezing just when Markworth’s opponent would be making some important stroke. It was most unfortunate of course, and the victim would meet with so much sympathy, and the marker would apologise so earnestly with tears in his eyes for the unfortunate cold in the head, “which takes me most unexpected, sir,” as he would explain, that poor pigeon could not but allow that it was an accident, and accept the amende honorable by continuing his play. When neophyte went away, after his vanity had been flattered by his being allowed nearly to win and his losing “rather hot, you know, by Jove?” he did not know that Markworth and the marker generally came to an understanding, which always resulted in the former offering and the latter accepting sundry substantial tokens of esteem and regard.
It was not to make use of his aid in the matter of billiards and by-play that Markworth now sought the company of Joe Begg. It was for something much more important and vastly different, although of a similar nature.
He wanted a witness for the contemplated marriage, and he could not think of anyone better qualified to assist him than Joe. He was just the man, for he had been always faithful to Markworth’s interests, and could be as “close as wax,” although he would naturally require a “consideration.”
“Well, Joe, how’s business,” he said, as he walked into the billiard-room, when, as was usual at such an early hour of the day, the marker was all alone.
“Very dull, Mister Markworth, very dull! Why, sir, I haven’t made a bob at pool for the last three weeks. Everybody’s out of town, and those City fellows as comes in are afeared to bet a tizzy on a dead certainty. Can I do anything for you to-day, Mister Markworth?”
“Not to-day, Joe; but I will want you shortly.”
“All right, sir, whenever you want me you’ve only got to speak, and I’m there.”
“I thought I could rely on you, Joe. The fact is, I shall want you to be a witness to a marriage between a lady and myself.”
“How much will you stand?”
“I’ll do the thing handsomely. I tell you what, I will give you a fiver after it’s all over, because I shall want you to swear to it perhaps in evidence afterwards.”
“I’m your man, sir,” replied the marker, with alacrity; “swear to anything for that sum. When is the little affair coming off?”
“I can’t say yet, Joe. Maybe in a week, maybe not for a month; but when I want you I shall write here and let you know. Mind! You must be ready at once to accompany me when I write for you.”
“I’m fly, sir,” responded Joe, with a cunning movement of his left eyelid, more expressive than an ordinary wink. “I’ll be ready any time; and perhaps, sir, as the business is partickler, it’ll be worth more than a fiver, who knows?”
“I shan’t forget you, Joe; we won’t quarrel about terms,” answered Markworth, meaningly, and he then went away, for he had even more important arrangements to make.
He paid a second visit to the dingy purlieus of Doctors Commons.
This time not to the deed depository of the dead, but to the legal portals of Hymen, where Cupid sits enthroned on the bench, in all the majesty of the law, with a horsehair wig and a pair of clerical bands, to issue licenses to marry and for giving in marriage.
It was now Friday, and the pic-nic was to come off at Bigton on the ensuing Tuesday, so Markworth determined that he would manage to get Susan Hartshorne away from The Poplars on that day, as he would be less liable to observation and detection; and taking her up to London, could have the marriage solemnised on the succeeding day. Tuesday, strange to say, was the very day, the 27th of August, according to the information of Miss Kingscott, retailed from the Family Bible, when the girl would be of legal age, one and twenty, and entitled to the free disposal of her money.
He accordingly got a license made out without much trouble, by means of a little stretch of the imagination—called perjury in courts of law—and the initiatory step for his design was taken. If everything went well, he would before that day week be the husband of Susan Hartshorne, and master of her twenty thousand pounds. He had well weighed every step in his programme; he had studied every possible consequence to himself; and he saw no reason to anticipate failure when everything pointed to success.
After leaving Doctors Commons he went to some old lodgings of his in a retired street in Bloomsbury, where he was well-known, and a set of rooms always kept vacant for him, for his comings and goings were so irregular that no one knew when to expect him. None of his West End friends knew of his ever living here, for he always gave an hotel as an address; and to tell the truth, he had often been comfortably installed in these same Bloomsbury lodgings when the world thought him travelling on the Continent, or shooting grouse on the moors.
His appearance was therefore looked upon as a usual thing, and no surprise was manifested; for his ways had always been inscrutable, and as he checked curiosity and was a good and regular paying lodger, he could do as he liked. He had always done so from the first, and his landlady never bothered herself about him or his business, “it was no concern of hers, he always paid his rent, and that was all she cared about,” she said.
He stopped here that night, and went away the next morning, telling Mrs Martin, the landlady, that he was going to bring “his sister” to town on the following Tuesday, and would require the rooms to be ready for her reception. This was the first time she had ever heard of his having a sister; but he might have brought twenty so long as he paid his rent. I believe a regular London lodging-house keeper is more of a cosmopolitan than any other person in the world. She will take in anybody with a decent supply of luggage, and who is tolerably regular in the payment of his or her weekly bills—the wandering Jew, Calcraft, or Eugene Aram. It is all the same to the proprietors of the “apartments” whether her tenant be Jew or Gentile, gentleman or “snob,” criminal or honest man; she has but one standard for social position, morality or nationality, and that is a pecuniary one. A lodger may be forgiven everything, even seventy times seven, if he only pays his rent regularly; that is the ultima ratio to which appeal is made—it is practical and works well!
These preliminary arrangements being seen to, Markworth walked down through Lincoln’s Inn Fields, across into Chancery Lane, and paid a visit to some dingy, tumble-down looking chambers close to the projected site for the new Law Courts, which are to be built at some era dim in futurity. A brass plate was on the door, with the names “Solomonson and Isaacs, solicitors,” engraved thereon.
His business was with the senior partner, who greeted him as an old client or customer, which indeed he was. Solomonson was not at all averse to transact business, even on the Jewish Sabbath.
“Vell, Mishter M,” said the Jew, who was part money lender, part lawyer, and all rogue. “Doesh de leetel affairsh go on? Have you got de mad girlsh yet. I vants to see her Mishtressh M’sh—”
“Not yet, Shylock; but everything’s in train, and I shall do it before the week is out. But you told me right, I hope, about the law; I would not like to commit a felony?”
“You are all rightsh, Mishter M’sh. Leave de cashe in dese hands and ve vill see you trough!”
“I rely upon you then, and will let you conduct the whole affair,—but I must have some money to carry the thing through, Solomonson. How much can you let me have on my own security?”
“I vill letsh you ave two hundredsh pound. S’help me Gadsh, Mishter M’sh! itsh all I’ve got!”
“Nonsense, Shylock! you can’t fool me like that,” replied Markworth, and he tried unsuccessfully to get more out of the Jew. He had to be contented for the present with a couple of hundreds. Solomonson knew, however, the stake for which he was playing, and told him that as soon as he was really married to Susan Hartshorne he would advance him more. Until then he would not let him have another penny. So Markworth was forced to content himself with what he had got, and he was not pleased when he recollected that he would have to give the governess half.
He was, however, provided with the sinews of war, so he wished Solomonson good day, cheerfully as he went out, and told him he would soon see him back again.
“Good daysh!” replied the Jew. “Don’t forget to send me the weddingsh cakesh, my dearsh! I likesh weddingsh cakesh!”
The last visit Markworth paid before leaving London was to the curate of a small church in the city, with whom he was acquainted—how he had made his acquaintance I cannot say; and to this gentleman he made some explanation about a forthcoming marriage which appeared to be highly satisfactory to both parties.
Everything was now settled but the great event itself, and so Markworth returned to Hartwood by the afternoon train. To shew that he did not forget even trifles in considering everything for his plot, he bought an odd volume of the recently revived “Essays and Reviews,” at the railway book stall, for the personal edification of the Dowager Mrs Hartshorne, who had been speaking of the book in connection with her now favourite topic of ritualism. This he presented to her the same evening, much to her surprise, and peculiarly snappishly-expressed pleasure and thanks. The old lady had recently been over head and ears in pre-adamite geology, and nothing interested her so much as a secular essay on theological truths.
Tom was delighted to see him back in such good time, and planned out all sorts of pleasant things for the pic-nic, which was in everybody’s thoughts—little knowing how Markworth intended to dispose of his day. All the Sussex world was going to be there. A pair of violet eyes comprised “all the world” to Tom now.
Some time that evening Markworth had a long conversation with Miss Kingscott, preparing for “the end.” Both—strange anomaly!—had worked together for once, and not for good. He gave her a hundred pounds, the first instalment of the “hush money,” and their compact was nearly completed.
To one who had not marked out every phase in Susan Hartshorne’s treatment, the change that had been worked in her since Markworth had devoted his energies to her care, was nothing less than marvellous.
From dull, irksome melancholia the patient had been transported to the fields of reason. A constantly unchanged vacuity of expression on her face had given place to mobility of feature. Instead of void animal eyes, the windows of the soul now looked out of her face. From an idiot she had been changed nearly if not quite into a reasoning being. Markworth had done all this, aided by Miss Kingscott acting under him and by his directions. It is true the girl had only got back the germ of reason, the reason of a child in nature, and measured by the experience of years. But it was a germ which, although now of delicate growth, and requiring every fostering and care, might yet expand into the fullness of moral culture.
No one had any idea how poor Susan had improved, for she saw no one to speak to as yet; and although Tom and Mrs Hartshorne noticed some change in her, yet the former was too much engaged with observing another to notice much in his sister, and as for the mother she really, I believe, did not care either way. She had so long looked upon Susan as insane, that the possibility of her ever recovering her reason now after the lapse of so many years, was put beyond the pale of consideration altogether.
And so only Markworth and Miss Kingscott knew of her dawning reason; with them both she spoke now as sensibly as themselves, and as to Markworth she was his abject slave.
The first reasoning thought that filled the poor girl’s vacuous brain was one of heartfelt devotion to him who had led her out of darkness to light. She looked upon him as her saviour, ignorant as she was of a higher and more powerful God than he; and he was so uniformly kind and considerate to her, seemingly anticipating her every wish, that one cannot wonder at her slavish idolatry. He was her god—her all; she loved him as a dog would love its master, and everything he did was right: his word, law.
Markworth’s material was now plastic enough.