Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.
The Biter Bit.
The lawyer’s letter surprised him somewhat, but Markworth had no fears or presentiment of what was the motive or would be the upshot of the missive.
“Ha!” he thought, “they want to compromise, do they? It’s rather late in the day for that, and they won’t catch me with any chaff. But I may as well go round and see what they are after.”
At eleven o’clock precisely, the hour they had fixed for the interview, Markworth tapped at the half-open green baize door which led into the outer office of Messrs Trump, Sequence and Co.’s chambers in Bedford Row.
“Mr Trump in?” he asked of the old clerk, whose desk, surmounted by the mahogany face and head, with the grizzled hair standing upon end as if it had been electrified, faced the door.
“Yes, sir,” answered that worthy, speaking through his shut lips, “Mr Trump and Mr Sequence both in. Yer name Markworth, b’lieve?”—and Markworth nodded—“Waiting to see you. Both in there!” pointing to the door of the inner office, where, on entering, our friend found the lawyers arranged in state, one on each side of a table, covered with papers and a wrinkled parchment folio, endorsed on the outside, “Last will and testament of Roger Hartshorne, deceased.” Markworth took in all the preparations at a glance, the lawyers with their pleasant about-to-perform-an-operation expression of face, the paper-covered table, the will, the dentist-like looking easy chair, placed handily for him between the solicitors, exposing him to their fire on either flank, and all.
“Aha! Good morning, Mr Markworth. Fine day,” said Mr Trump; and “Aha! Good morning, Mr Markworth. Fine day,” echoed Mr Sequence after him, as customary, in his feeble treble.
“Good morning,” he answered, “You sent for me, eh?”
“We sent for you, Mr Markworth, because,” said Mr Trump, smiling and rubbing his hands gleefully, as he always did before plunging into his subject. “We sent for you, Mr Markworth, because,” said the echo, without any smile, however, or rubbing of hands.
“Because what, sir?” exclaimed Markworth, turning round abruptly on poor little Sequence, who of course had not a word to say for himself until his principal gave him the cue.
Mr Trump came gallantly to the rescue.
“We sent for you, Mr Markworth, because we wished to have some conversation on the subject of the case put down for the present term of Markworth versus Hartshorne. We represent the defendant, as you know.”
“Certainly, Mr Trump; but don’t you think you had better consult my solicitor, as the matter is entirely out of my hands?”
“Hum! I think you’ll agree with us after hearing what we have to say, that the communication which we have to make had better be addressed to you in the first instance.”
“You wish to compromise the thing, I suppose?”
“Pray don’t be so hasty, my dear sir,” responded Trump, still smiling affably.
And “My dear sir!” chimed in Sequence, as usual.
“We don’t suppose anything, and we don’t pledge or commit ourselves to anything. Don’t be so hasty, my dear sir; it’s very unprofessional, very unprofessional.”
And “Very unprofessional,” squeaked Sequence.
“I wish you would come to the point at once!” said Markworth, angrily.
Mr Trump at once dropped his professional smile. Glancing his eyes carelessly over a paper before him, and taking up the will, he spoke out in a straight, business-like manner, while Mr Sequence sat himself bolt upright in his chair, and tried to look very stern and pre-occupied indeed.
“You are aware,” said Mr Trump, looking Markworth full in the face, “that the late Roger Hartshorne, deceased”—he smacked out his adjectives with an oily gusto, did Mr Trump—“Deceased;” he repeated the word as if loth to abandon it, “left his daughter Susan the sum of twenty thousand pounds sterling, free of legacy duty, to be inherited by her on her arriving at the age of twenty-one years; or, should she marry before arriving at the said age of twenty-one years, and after she had attained the age of eighteen years, providing that the said marriage should be sanctioned, and by the express will and consent of her mother, if alive, or in case of her death by an appointed guardian, a certain Doctor Richard Jolly, as mentioned in the will of the Testator, then and in such case she was to receive the annual interest at the rate of five per cent, per annum, chargeable on the property of the Testator, until she should arrive at the said age of twenty-one years, when she would be put in possession of all right, title, and interest whatever in the said sum of twenty thousand pounds, free of legacy duty. I believe that’s the wording of the will?”
“My dear sir,” interrupted Markworth, blandly, “what on earth are you repeating all that legal gibberish to me for? I knew all that long ago.”
“I’ve no doubt, sir, no doubt of that. You are a man of the world, Mr Markworth, like myself, and you’ll pardon my hinting that you probably took a glance at this self-same will before committing yourself in the matrimonial noose with our rustic young friend. Ha! ha!”
And Mr Trump laughed a taking, “good joke” sort of laugh. So genial was he, in fact, that Markworth could not help joining in the laugh, and thought himself a very smart and clever fellow indeed.
“You’re a sharp fellow, Mr Trump,” he said roguishly, giving Mr Trump a metaphorical poke in the ribs.
“A sharp fellow! a sharp fellow!” chorused Mr Sequence; and the three were all at once laughing cordially together, as friendly as you please.
What charming agreeable fellows dentists are: what capital jokes they make, and what highly seasoned anecdotes they retail just before drawing out a tooth.
Mr Trump was now going to produce his pliers; he had had them concealed in the professional way up his sleeve all this time.
“Pardon me, Mr Markworth,” he said, all at once, when the chuckle had died out, turning grave and business-like once more. “Pardon me, but what I was reading from that will has a good deal to do with what I am now going to say. Supposing that I admitted for argument’s sake, only as a mere figure of speech so to say, that Susan Hartshorne when she married you was perfectly sane, and was not coerced into the measure against her will?”
“Ha! you admit that.”
“I don’t admit it at all, my dear sir; I only used it just for mere argument’s sake.”
“That, Mr Trump, is just the question we are going to try, and I flatter myself our case is very good; you have got to prove that she was insane, and it seems incomprehensible to me how you are going to do it against the evidence we have—that of her governess and people who had seen her before the marriage—indeed we will have her own evidence in the witness-box. I don’t see how, Mr Trump, you will be able to prove a conspiracy after that. Besides, we will produce her medical attendant and guardian, as you term him, Doctor Jolly.”
“Ah! that was sharp practice subpoenaing him! I give you great credit for that stroke, Mr Markworth; but allow me to say we are not arguing the case now.”
“And I don’t see how I can come into any compromise so late in the day, Mr Trump! We have the whole thing as clear as a pikestaff, and you won’t have a leg to stand upon when it is brought into court.”
“Humph! we’ll see,” ejaculated the senior partner, and “we will see,” followed Mr Sequence, parrot-like, after him. “But I did not make any allusion to such a thing as a compromise, Mr Markworth,” continued Mr Trump.
“Then what have you brought me here for? I will wish you good morning,” he said, rising, and taking up his hat to go, angrily.
“Stay! Don’t be so hasty; pray don’t be so hasty, Mr Markworth; you may be certain that I would not have asked you to call unless I had something important to communicate,” said Mr Trump, soothingly.
“Then, why don’t you get to it at once, instead of beating about the bush,” he answered, still only half appeased, and resuming his seat in the dentist-like chair.
“I am just coming to the point, my dear sir, just coming to that; but, you see, we must speak of things in a professional way.”
“Certainly, in a professional way,” said Mr Sequence, nodding his head sagaciously, as if in confirmation of Mr Trump’s remark; while Markworth twirled his hat impatiently between his fingers, and wondered what “those two rogues were after now!”
“By the terms of the will of the late Roger Hartshorne, deceased,” resumed Mr Trump, unctiously, “without exactly phrasing it in legal language, Mr Markworth, you will see that, putting the question of Susan Hartshorne’s sanity or insanity, as I said before, entirely out of the argument—and that remains to be proved”—he said, significantly, “if she married you without her mother’s consent before she was twenty-one years of age, she forfeited all right and claim to the bequest mentioned in her father’s will.”
“Quite right, and I thought we settled all that before,” responded Markworth, knowingly. He continued, as if in response to a question from the lawyer. “Quite right, Mr Trump. But you see, I took very good care that the happy day on which I called her mine should not be until after the date on which she came of age;” and Markworth laughed very heartily. Strange to say, neither Mr Trump nor his partner joined in the laugh this time; both of them looked more stolid and parchmenty than ever. The senior of the firm went on straight to the point.
“That is just the question we have to decide, Mr Markworth.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say,” answered Mr Trump, calmly. “That’s the point,” said Mr Sequence; and both looked at their subject composedly—just like dentists!
“What the devil do you mean? staring at me like that,” said Markworth, angrily, and turning pale with apprehension. “What pettifoggery are you raking up now? I’m not to be frightened easily.”
“We are not pettifoggers, Mr Markworth, and have no wish to intimidate you or any other person; but the date of your marriage, or quasi-marriage”—Mr Trump corrected himself—“with the girl has got a good deal to do with us, and you too.”
“Go on, man, go on, and say all you’ve got to say without any more unnecessary words. By Heavens! I can’t bear all this talking.”
Mr Trump went on systematically inserting the forceps, without paying any attention to the excitement of the other.
“The date of your marriage was—?”
“You know well enough. Have you not got the copy of the marriage certificate?”
“The 28th of August, I believe?”
“Right,” said Markworth, curtly. “And what then?”
“The date of your marriage, you allow then, with Susan Hartshorne, was on the twenty-eighth of last August; and, my dear sir, she did not come of legal age until the 29th of August, the day after the marriage.” Mr Trump could not refrain from putting an inflection of triumph in his voice, as with a mental twist of his wrist he extracted the metaphorical tooth. Even Mr Sequence gave vent to a faint chuckle, without, however, disturbing a single line in his immobile face, as he squeaked out in a sort of victorious way, “The day after the marriage; the day after, my dear sir—” the longest sentence he had ever yet been known to utter.
“By heavens! it can’t be—it can’t be. It’s an infernal swindle,” exclaimed Markworth, violently, his face flaming with passion, as he jumped up; and, seizing the lawyer by the collar, he shook him as a terrier would a rat; “it can’t be; it’s a confounded swindle!”
Mr Trump remained as calm as ever under this unexpected assault; but as for little Sequence he hedged himself into the corner by the window, having his chair and the table as a sort of barricade before him.
Markworth recovered himself in a moment.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Trump,” he said, apologising; “I forgot myself; what was it that you said?”
“Pray don’t mention it, my dear sir—my dear sir. I shan’t bring any action for assault and battery. You see, my dear sir,”—Trump got very affectionate here, as he had just played his winning card—“we are accustomed to these little emotions now and then. But to return to what I was saying, Mr Markworth, it is a very unfortunate circumstance for you; the son Tom was born on the 27th August, 1847, and Susan, the daughter, on the 29th August, ’46, and your mistake probably thus arose; but I can’t help feeling glad on my clients behalf, that your marriage took place the day before Susan Hartshorne came of age. Consequently you must admit it, as she did not marry with her mother’s consent, the marriage being, indeed, after an elopement, and our client, being ready to prove that it was entirely without her consent or knowledge, Susan Hartshorne—as your wife—has forfeited all right to the twenty thousand pounds mentioned in her father’s will.”
Markworth seemed to be quite dazed. This sudden blow to all his expectations quite unnerved him. He spoke absently, as if in a dream.
“Have you got the proofs?” he said abruptly; for he knew all the consequences which his oversight would entail. “Where are the papers?”
“Here is the certificate of her birth,” said the lawyer, producing it as he spoke, “dated the 29th August, 1846. Here is also the written evidence of her mother, Mrs Hartshorne, and here, too, the old Family Bible, with the date and entry of her birth inscribed in it, by the hand of the late Squire Roger Hartshorne, as I myself can testify. Quite sufficient evidence, Mr Markworth, in any court of law, to establish the date of Susan Hartshorne’s birth, and the consequent failure of your little plan to get her fortune. Very unfortunate, Mr Markworth! Very unfortunate!”
And the lawyer rubbed his hands with triumph, and smiled as if he was telling his victim a piece of remarkably good news.
Markworth never took any notice of the lawyer’s words. He examined eagerly the papers before him; and when he saw the convincing entry in the family Bible, he gave up. The figure 9 in the date “29th August,” might easily have been taken for a 7, and he cursed Clara Kingscott for making the mistake, which she had very naturally made in this instance quite unintentionally, and without any thought as to the effects of the error.
He bore his defeat bravely, however, although all his schemes were thus dashed to the ground when they were trembling on the verge of success.
He knew at once that he had now no more chance of getting the fortune, for which he had risked so much, than the veriest beggar whom he might pick out of the street. He would have to leave England at once, or his next step would be into a gaol, on account of his debts: the harpies would be upon him the moment his failure was known. What on earth to do with himself, or with the girl he called his wife, whom he had tackled himself to, he did not know. The first thing, however, was to get away, and that as soon as possible.
“I suppose the suit will have to be dropped now, for I have no object in carrying it on. Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, to the lawyers; “I suppose you don’t want me any longer.”
And he walked out of the office as calmly as if he had achieved a victory, although all his hopes and plans were utterly wrecked.
“He’s a plucky fellow, and deserved to win,” said Mr Trump to his partner, when Markworth had disappeared, and his steps were heard going down the staircase.
“That he is; that he did,” responded parrot Sequence, and both dismissed him from their minds, and set about filing the necessary papers which would soon put an end to the longed talked of suit of “Markworth versus Hartshorne.”