"Miss Kingscott, I presume?" said Tom, bowing politely, as the lady gave
a Parthian glance, sharp, quick, and incisive, of mingled recognition
and command-to-keep-his-own-counsel-until-further-orders at her
_soi-disant_ lover Markworth, who stood in the rear of his companion,
and who, although he was startled at her appearance, was too much the
cool man of the world to give expression aloud to his astonishment.
"Humph!" he thought unto himself, as he pulled his wits together. "I'm
to keep dark, I suppose," and he adopted an air of well-bred
indifference.
Miss Kingscott smiled bewitchingly on the young squire.
"I am Tom Hartshorne," continued that gentleman, in a warm, friendly
manner. "You have been very kind to my sister, and I hope we shall be
friends."
This was a pleasant little fiction, by the way, on Tom's part, as he had
no previous knowledge whatever of Miss Kingscott's kindness, or the
reverse, but the young officer was of a gallant disposition.
"Oh, indeed!" said the lady, with an air of agreeable surprise. "And so
you are Mr Tom. I am sure dear Susan has spoken often enough to me
about you. I am only Miss Hartshorne's governess, you know, but I've no
doubt we will be good friends as far as our respective positions will
allow."
Humility was one of her cards, you see, but it was thrown away on Tom:
he was more shocked than pleased, as others more purse-proud might have
been, at the contrast drawn.
"This is my friend Allynne Markworth," he went on, hurriedly; "we ran
down together for a week to dissipate the London dust. He and I are
great friends, so I hope that we'll all be jolly together."
Both inclined as if they had never seen each other before. Mr
Markworth was remarkably deferential, with a concealed sneer on his
lips, and the governess sweeping in her condescension.
Some little commonplace expressions and conversation then passed between
the party, and you would have thought it the most delightful trio in the
world.
All the while Susan Hartshorne was aloof from the party, seated in a
corner of the half-furnished and half-lighted room, for the outside
shutters were partially closed, and it looked as if it had not been
inhabited for years--most probably a fire had not been lighted in its
old grate since the squire's death. She was playing on an
antique-looking organ, with its zigzag rows of metal pipes which nearly
filled up one end of the apartment, a fitful sort of air which rose and
fell every now and then with a shriek like the last despairing moan of
one of the lost spirits in Dante's Inferno. Presently she ceased
playing, and coming up to the others touched Tom on the arm.
"Come, brother," she said, in a low, soft voice, without any inflexion
in it; and, taking no notice of either the governess or Markworth, she
led him gently towards the door. "You must see my garden," she
continued, speaking to him as if they were alone, just in the same quiet
tones.
"I'll be back presently; pray excuse me," said Tom, as he went out; and
Markworth and Miss Kingscott were left alone.
The former was the first to speak.
"So we've changed names, have we? Clara Joyce is dead, and Miss
Kingscott reigns in her stead?"
"Mr Allynne Markworth, however, is still flourishing, I see," she
replied, in accents whose sarcasm was bitter enough and apparent enough
without glancing at her scornful flashing eyes.
"Yes, small blame to you; but I don't think you'll play any more tricks
with me again. Well, that's long ago, and I can `forgive and forget;' I
shan't rake up the past if you won't. You are here under an assumed
name, and--but what's it to be, Clara, peace or war between us?"
"Or you'll unmask me, eh? You will tell all about the silly English
teacher-girl who was _eprise_ of a swindling vagabond, and the mistress
of whose school was so very correct as to discharge her without a
character, will you? You'd like to get me turned out from here, the
house of your rich country friends, would you?" she spoke rapidly and
with intense bitterness. "Bah! I do not fear you, Allynne Markworth,
any more than I do that baby-faced, idiot girl who has just left the
room!"
"What's the use of going on like that, Clara? Who said that I was going
to injure you, or that you were afraid of me? By Jove! I know to my
cost you're not. Why can't you be calm and look at things reasonably?
You and I may be able to assist each other, and it's better for us to be
friends than enemies."
"I care as little for your enmity as I do for the valuable friendship
you gave me formerly. There can be little in common between us.
Besides, even if I had the inclination, I don't see how either you can
help me, or I you."
"But you can help me very much."
"Ha! I thought you wanted something! No, there can be no accord
between us. You are a man of the world, and I am, myself!" (here she
laughed bitterly) "so let us each go our own way in peace or in war,
just as you please--it's indifferent to me."
"What nonsense!" said Markworth. "It is not indifferent to you. You
can assist me here in this very house, and, if you do, it will be to
your advantage."
"Of course, you don't gain anything by it?"
"If my scheme succeeds, you shall share the profits."
"You will take the lion's share, I have no doubt! and if you fail?"
"I alone will bear the loss."
"How generous you are!"
"Well, do you consent to join forces? is it settled? Am I to tell Mrs
Hartshorne--how pleased she'll be to hear it!--the character of the
governess she has got for her daughter, or are we to form an operative
alliance!"
"Markworth, you are a villain!"
"Granted," he said, calmly. "Do you agree?"
"I suppose I must," she replied. "You are not to interfere with me? and
I--"
"Will assist me to the best of your ability. That's a bargain; I
thought you would be reasonable, Clara."
"But what do you want me to do?" she asked, after a slight pause, fixing
her eyes searchingly on his face.
"It is nothing criminal. You will not have to commit yourself in any
way. I don't want you to do anything, in fact; I only want you to keep
in the background, and not spoil sport. Will you do it?"
"Agreed," she answered. "And your grand scheme is--"
"Marriage," he said, curtly. "Well, it won't be your first attempt in
that way at all events! Of course, there's a fortune in view, or you
would not try that speculation. But who's the lady--not me, I presume?"
she enquired, with another of those short bitter laughs which sounded so
strangely from her lips.
"Not exactly!" he sneered; "I don't think you and I would just suit one
another. Listen," he resumed, quietly, looking towards the door, and
drawing closer to her, and sinking his voice as he spoke, "The girl is
here--you understand?"
"I confess I do not see your drift," she said, wishing to draw him on to
a full disclosure.
"Pshaw! Clara, you are not a fool; you understand me well enough."
"Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don't."
"Your eyes are not so blind that you cannot see when it is to your own
interests. But there's no use in beating about the bush or mincing
matters; you know this girl here."
"What! Susan Hartshorne--that poor idiot?" she exclaimed with
well-acted amazement and horror.
"That same and no other," replied Markworth, positively blushing at
being obliged actually to confess his own villainy. "But she's not an
idiot, she's only foolish--half-silly; and there's no harm in it," he
continued, half apologetically.
"And you want to marry her?" said the other.
"I do not _want_ to marry her; I _mean_ to marry her!" answered
Markworth, quite himself again, and with his usual coolness and _sang
froid_, "and you must help me. Listen! That girl has a fortune of
twenty thousand pounds. I am so hard run for money that unless I get
some before the present month is up, I shall be ruined--that girl has
money which she does not want, and can never feel the need of--do you
follow me?--consequently I mean to marry that girl. Nobody cares for
her here; her mother, I daresay, will be glad to get rid of her, and the
girl will suffer no loss."
"You will take care of her, I suppose!" said the governess, in her
pleasant biting way.
"Yes, I will take care of her--as good care, I daresay, as she gets
now."
"Well, and supposing I lent myself to your purposes, what am I to get--
what is to be my share in the transaction? You don't suppose I am going
to assist you and risk my situation for nothing?"
"I tell you what, Clara, if you help me in the affair I'll give you two
hundred pounds; I can't give you more now, and I'll have hard work to
get that, for I daresay I will have to go through a long law suit before
I can get her fortune, and spend most of it, perhaps, in doing so, even
if I do succeed in marrying the girl and getting her off."
"It's little enough! but how shall I know that you will pay me?--you
have cheated me before, Markworth, and I would not trust your word for
sixpence."
"You need not if you don't like, but I'll act fairly in the matter. I
will give you a hundred before I get the girl away, and another hundred
after I am married to her. There, will that do? If I don't pay you,
you can expose the whole affair; and if you go back on me you will
implicate yourself afterwards; so it serves both our purposes to act
squarely. Do you know what the girl's age is?"
"Yes, twenty-one; I saw her age in the old family Bible, which Mrs
Hartshorne keeps up-stairs in her own room."
"Well I wish you would get me a look at it, or find out the exact date
of her birthday for me--it's important."
"I will let you know either this evening or to-morrow, better say
to-morrow."
"That will do. Then the bargain is concluded between us. All I want
you to do now is to help me gain the girl over, she looks tractable
enough--and help me to get her away quietly. I'll give you the hundred
before I get her off; then as soon as I marry her you shall get the
other century. I can't help keeping my word to you, for you see it
suits my own interest. It's little enough I want you to do. If all
goes well it will run hard if I don't succeed and get the fortune, and
I'll remember you afterwards. Do you agree--is it a settled thing
between us?"
"Yes," said she, apparently reflecting a moment. "I suppose that will
do, for if you don't pay me I shall then be able to disclose the whole
transaction."
"Precisely," he answered, complacently, "You can have me indicted for
conspiracy and what not! but there'll be no fear of that. We will not
quarrel, Clara; what suits my book will suit yours."
Besides consulting Roger Hartshorne's will he had obtained legal advice
on his contemplated marriage before coming down to The Poplars.
"Very well, if you are sensible you will play fair in the undertaking,
and I shall be satisfied. If you keep your word I shall assist you; at
all events _I_ am not going to marry the girl, so I shan't have anything
to complain of if I get my money."
"I will pay you, never fear! and you must keep to your bargain, and
allow me to work my own way with the girl, and assist me in the end to
get her off. Don't forget to let me know to-morrow her right age, and
write down the date of her birth--it might be useful to me. But about
the girl herself, she is not really mad, is she?"
"I thought you yourself told me just now she was not."
"Bother! don't be so aggravating, Clara; you ought to know the girl, and
be able to tell me about her."
"You need not alarm yourself, Mr Allynne Markworth," replied Miss
Kingscott, with a sneer; "on the contrary, allow me to congratulate you.
You have tumbled into luck's way, and appear to have fallen upon your
legs as usual. The girl is only, as you said, half-silly, and without
being exactly an idiot can be made to do anything you and I please--that
is, by judicious management."
She was going to say something further, but at this moment Tom
re-entered the room, and, of course, the conversation was dropped.
"I was just asking Miss Kingscott if she liked croquet, and, Tom, do you
know--can you believe it, she has never heard of that flirtative and
fascinating game?" said Markworth, in his usual free and elegant manner.
"Really!" said Tom. "Then we must enlighten her. Markworth is the
prince of croquetters, you know, Miss Kingscott"--turning to her, and
that lady seemed pleased for the information, and transfixed poor Tom
with her beautifully expressive eyes.
"Fine girl," he said presently to Markworth, as they went out of the
room to smoke their cigars in the garden.
"Ya-a-s," he replied, spinning out his answer as if he had not quite
made up his mind on the subject; "but she's no chicken."
He was right, and he ought to know, at all events. Miss Kingscott was
"no chicken," either in years or in strength of mind.
The evening passed quietly with Tom and his visitor, neither the
governess nor Susan being seen again, and the old dowager was especially
gracious as bed-time drew nigh. This was fixed at an early hour--ten
o'clock.
Markworth was presently in his room, and as he undressed he moralised on
the events of the day, and the progress of his plot.
"Rum, wasn't it?" he soliloquised, "meeting Clara here; but it is a
decided pull in my favour. The thing is regularly _en train_ now, and
must come off soon. The girl is passable enough, and at all events I
don't care. I must risk Tom's anger; but I don't suppose he will mind
it much--he's soft, and I can manage him as I like. There's only the
old lady, and I hardly know how to wheedle her yet, she's so downright
and plain spoken. By Jove! of all the characters I ever met she's one!"
In the midst of his meditations a loud authoritative rap came to the
door.
"Your light?" said a thin, sharp voice, which he instantly recognised as
Mrs Hartshorne's.
He opened the door, and nearly burst out laughing at the odd figure
which presented itself. It was the dowager, clothed in a long white
garment, and with an immense frilled night-cap on her head, and two or
three candlesticks in one hand, and a huge bunch of keys in the other.
"What are you staring like a stuck pig at? Give me your candlestick!
All the lights in my house go out at half-past ten o'clock every night.
That's my rule, and I won't break it for anyone, I don't care who! Give
me your light."
Markworth handed the candlestick to the old lady, who presently
retreated down the passage with her arms outstretched, looking like the
Witch of Endor.
"No chance of a cigar here," he said to himself, as he closed the door
once more, and jumped into bed. "She would smell it at once; I'd back
her nose against a pointer's any day. She's a rum un; of all the
characters, by Jove! I ever met, she is one!"
And he turned in his bed and slept the sleep of the just, in which the
wicked equally share.
Volume 1, Chapter VI.