Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.
“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 à 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 à 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 Mère 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’là 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.