Volume Three—Chapter Two.
“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 söhn, 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 ça. 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 ça 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.