Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.
Counter Traps.
Clara Kingscott, when Mrs Hartshorne sent her away from The Poplars in that ignominious manner, telling her she did not require her services any further, was more than half inclined not to prosecute her design against Markworth in revealing her share in inducing Susan to go away with him, out of pure spite against the old dowager.
“I’ll make the old cat pay for it,” she said to herself. “If I don’t prove anything against Markworth she’ll have to pay him all that money, and she shall too!”
But after some deliberation in the matter Miss Kingscott saw that she would, according to the proverb, “be biting off her nose to spite her face,” and surrendering her long cherished revenge from a mere passing pique. It would never do; she thought she had been cold and calculating enough to achieve her purpose, and here she was going off at a tangent and sacrificing all she looked and hoped for these many years but for a petty loss of temper. No, she might be sent away from The Poplars, but she would still achieve that grand purpose of her life, and no regret at benefitting the harsh old woman she called her mistress should prevent her from ruining Markworth. That she had sworn, and would stick to.
She took some temporary satisfaction out of the old dowager by abusing her to her heart’s content to her face, so astonishing that worthy lady, who had not had a person exchange retorts with her for years, that Miss Kingscott made her exit with flying colours just shortly before Tom started off for Abyssinia.
No one was very much grieved at her departure, except the old doctor, who said it was “A dooced shame sending away a poor girl like that, marm!” to the mistress of The Poplars, who told him in reply to mind his own business, and not to “be dancing to her house” any more, as he “had nothing and nobody to dance there for now, thank goodness!”
The doctor had held his peace, and went his way a wiser if a sadder man, saying unto himself, “Bless my soul! It’s an infernal shame, and she’s a dooced fine girl, and it’s a great pity,” after taking an affecting adieu of his late love, whom he commanded to have no scruples about writing to him in case she wanted any assistance. You see the old lady was present all the while, and the doctor could not repeat his declaration in her presence, however much he may have been tempted so to do.
In this manner Clara Kingscott went away, shaking the Sussex dust from her feet and came to London, The Poplars being left to its own solitude after Tom’s departure, with the old dowager twice as cross and rancorous and grinding to her tenants as before. I believe she even missed the governess after a time, for now the old doctor hardly ever came, and she had no one to quarrel with; no one who would answer her back again that is, for “Garge” took all she gave him, as did the old women servant, and there is no fun in having the quarrelling all to oneself. It takes two to make a fair quarrel, but the poor old dowager had no one now but herself. She paid off, however, her deprivation on Mr Trump, writing long letters every day to him about the progress of the suit, and making the lawyer swear at old ladies in general and Mrs Hartshorne in particular, and curse the inventors of pen, ink, and paper, and Sir Rowland Hill for the penny post.
The governess, when she arrived in London, took some comfortable apartments for herself; she could afford to wait awhile, for she had plenty of money besides her salary, which latter she had rigorously exacted from the dowager to the last penny, including a month’s notice, for which she gave a receipt in full, and she could afford to look about and suit her own convenience as to her future plans.
By a strange coincidence, she, after hunting about for a day or two, took lodgings in the very house where Markworth had formerly lived in Bloomsbury, and had the very same landlady, Mrs Martin, as hostess. That good lady being very fond of chat, like most landladies, and as “the parlours,” as Miss Kingscott became called from taking these rooms, had no friends coming to see her, she would frequently drop in “of an evenink” to pass the time of day: also, like most landladies, Mrs Martin would recount all the deeds and doings of her former lodgers, in which narrative she did not fail to mention Mr Markworth, “The best gentleman as any lady ever had; so quiet and giving no trouble, and always paying his rent that regular as you might depend upon it like the Bank of England as ever was!”
It was not surprising under these circumstances, therefore, that Miss Kingscott soon got a little further information about the gentleman around whom she was busily weaving her coils, and learnt in a very short time—just through passing curiosity, that’s all, she was so much interested in what that good Mrs Martin had to tell of her lodgers—all about the habits of Markworth, and that “sister” of his he had brought up from the country, and how he had removed all his things, and gone off at last without a word of warning; although “I’ll do him the justice to say he behaved as a perfect gentleman, that he did, and paid a month’s rent in advance,” said Mrs Martin, which capped what the governess had got out of the old dowager, and placed the lodging-house keeper and herself on a par.
“Markworth versus Hartshorne” was rapidly coming on for trial, when late one evening, just as he was thinking of shutting up his office, and going home for the night—the clerks, but one, had all departed an hour since—Mr Trump had a visitor.
“Ah, ha! Miss Kingscott, glad to see you,” said the lawyer, rising from his chair as she entered. He was by himself, Sequence and the “Co.” having retired for the evening, and he was then writing busily by the aid of a couple of greasy candles, which flared, now to the right, now to the left, from the draught through the half-open door. “Glad to see you; can I do anything for you? it’s rather late, but never too late for business, you know!” And he rubbed his hands with a sort of congratulatory and metallic rub.
“Yes,” answered the governess, speaking deliberately, in her cold, calm voice; “I wanted to speak to you, and that’s the reason you see me here. You know, I suppose, that I have left Mrs Hartshorne’s employment?”
“Yes—sorry for it too—hasty business; but you must remember the old lady is a leetel hasty sometimes, and I ought to know it as well as anybody.”
“You are right, sir; she is too hasty sometimes, and was a little too much so for her own good very nearly: only that it serves my purpose to help her, I would not now be here. That case is very nearly coming on, is it not?”
“What, Markworth versus Hartshorne? Yes; but I thought you were subpoenaed on the other side?”
“So I am, but I can help your side a good deal!”
“Indeed, Miss Kingscott! I do not like as a rule to tamper with an opponent’s witness, but as they played so very sharply with us, I think we may stretch a point in the present instance.” And the lawyer again rubbed his hands expectantly, waiting for what the governess had to say.
“Now, what I am going to tell you,” continued Miss Kingscott, “I am going to disclose in confidence, and I wish you to pledge me your word—I know you to be a gentleman, and I believe you to be a man of honour—that not a particle of the information I give you is to be mentioned by you until the day the trial comes on, when, of course, you are welcome to make what use you please of it!”
“That’s very strange, Miss Kingscott, very strange. I don’t know what I might be binding myself to!”
“You will find nothing to reflect on you, sir,” resumed the governess, “I shall be the only one who will suffer; and the very fact of my telling you what I will do will be a proof of its truthfulness and veracity. You can, in the meantime, substantiate anything I say by your own personal enquiry.”
“It’s very strange! very strange, indeed, madam! But I take your word for it, and will pledge myself as you require, excepting always,” he added, with his legal acumen, “that it does not prejudice my future act on in the matter.”
“It certainly will not; I shall want you to act!” said Miss Kingscott; and thereupon she told the astonished lawyer all about her complicity with Markworth, the compact between them, and how it was carried out.
“Dear me, this is very strange!” said the lawyer, when she had concluded. “You haven’t got any document to show, have you, in proof of what you say?”
“No; only my word.”
“Quite so! Quite so! What am I thinking of? Why, the very fact of your coming forward, and implicating yourself in the conspiracy will be proof enough.”
The lawyer did not look on Miss Kingscott with the same deference that he had previously shown her. He eyed her somewhat askance, but he presently resumed his cross-examination.
“And you gave him the date of Susan’s coming of age, eh!”
“Yes; I got it out of the family Bible. It was the 27th of August, I remember it well—just the day before they had the pic-nic—when he took Susan off.”
“Humph! The 27th of August,” said Mr Trump, reflectively, as he looked over a little document he had before him, at first carelessly, but in a moment or two more eagerly. “The 27th of August, eh—that’s strange!” He continued to pore upon the mass of papers on his desk, and then he suddenly seized a large, old-fashioned volume that also lay before him. “The twenty-seventh, eh? Then, by George, Miss Kingscott, I’m a born idiot! Hurrah!” he shouted, rising, and dashing the volume to the other end of the room, as if he were taken suddenly mad, and quite alarming the governess, who hastily got up, and cried out—
“Mr Trump! Mr Trump! what is the matter, sir?”
“Matter, eh? Matter enough. I’m a born fool! Why that rascal married the girl before she came of age. She was not of age until the 29th of August; and, by George, the mistake in the figure will spoil every chance he had, and prevent the necessity of your services, or any trial at all!”
“Gracious! Mr Trump, is that really so, and it is only found out now?”
“Fact, madam. I’m a born idiot! Why, the whole thing could have been nipped in the bud at once; and none of us to have seen that thing which was glaring in our faces all the time, and going to let the case come on for trial! Dear! Dear! I’m a born idiot, madam, and so is Sequence, and we’d better now shut up shop!”
“And that will end the case at once?”
“Certainly, at once; why, he’s got no right to claim anything now, as he will know very shortly, from the very wording of the will.”
“I’m glad of it; but I should have liked mine to have been the hand to work his ruin.”
“Very sorry, I’m sure, for your sake, madam; but you see we don’t want your help now, although I should have been very glad to use it a minute or two ago! I shall write to that vagabond at once. He gave me an address at an hotel the other day, and he said he would stop there until the trial came on, in case we wanted to compromise, which, I confess, I once did. But now, hurrah! the rascal’s done for without that. I shall be happy to see you any other time, Miss Kingscott; but I shall have to be very busy now, and if you will excuse me—yes—good evening, madam—ah—” And the governess was bowed out.
Mr Trump, when he was by himself, gave vent to a long, congratulatory chuckle; after which he called out to his clerk, Smiffens, in the outer office, and told him all about it.
“By George, Smiffens! what fools we all have been to be sure. There was that plain evidence of the girl’s birth, and the date of the marriage staring us in the face all the time, and not one of us perceived it! By George! Smiffens, what a fool I am!”
“Certainly, sir,” answered the old clerk, meekly, his hair standing bolt upright as he spoke.
“Go to the devil, sir! What do you mean? Confound your impudence!”
“Certainly, sir,” said Smiffens, in the same tone of voice as before; and he went towards the door, slowly.
“Stop!” sang out Mr Trump, who had not paused a moment writing all the time. “Here, copy these two letters, and deliver them before you go home. One is for Mr Markworth fixing an appointment for to-morrow morning, so be sure to tell the waiter or porter at the Tavistock, where he is staying, to be certain and give it to him to-night. The other letter is for Solomonson and Isaacs, which you can post.”
The clerk did as he was bidden; and Mr Trump went off to his suburban home very well satisfied with his day’s work. No cause now or need for any witnesses or evidence, or for the praiseworthy exertions of Sergeants Thickhyde and Silvertong. The suit of “Markworth versus Hartshorne” was quashed ere yet it had begun.