The most powerful logic fails to supply one with any rules or data
whereby to analyse the workings and application of motives. If we try
within ourselves even to trace back a passing thought to its original
cause and inception, we see how involved and erratic are its wanderings;
and we are obliged to give up the hopeless quest from sheer inability to
follow its course. No wonder, therefore, that human motives are
difficult to fathom; and although writers of fiction have the
presumptive right to lay bare the inward mechanism which directs and
guides their various characters, and are permitted to exemplify--hanging
their theories and arguments on certain lay-figures more or less
natural--how such and such a train of thought, and such and such a
motive leads on and up to such and such an end; still, it is a very
deceptive argument at the best, and these deductions, however plausible,
are often grievously in fault. Motives are inscrutable. The slightest
bias or hitch one way or the other will produce an altogether different
result. Let us just imagine "what might have been" in the lives of our
heroes and heroines if some new little incident had cropped up, or some
detail or phase been ever-so-little altered; and we cannot but agree, in
the felicitous observation of one of our greatest authors and students
of human nature, that the history of "great events that might have been"
would far outweigh and be more deeply interesting than any history ever
published of what _has_ happened!
These remarks have been made with reference to the character of Clara
Kingscott. She had been grossly deceived in the first instance by
Markworth, brought about a good deal by herself, no doubt; but still she
had been deceived and her reputation ruined. She then naturally hated
the author of her misfortunes--for hate is closely akin to love--and yet
with all her hate, the love that had first originated had not quite died
out. She hated Markworth: she longed for revenge, she determined to be
even with him; and yet at the same time, the greatest pang she could
have suffered would have been to see him ruined, as she intended him to
be by herself.
Thus it was partly from love--what a misapplication of the term!--partly
from revenge that she had foiled his wealthy marriage in Paris; it was
partly from love, partly from hate that she was now bent on assisting
his marriage with Susan Hartshorne, if such a conflict of motives with
actions can be imagined. She had entered into the compact with him to
suit her own purpose of attaining her revenge: still when it came to the
last it went to her heart, if she had one, to help him on to his end.
She was his bond servant and his Nemesis as well; and the man's strong
nature controlled the woman's equally strong nature merely by the force
of former circumstances than by anything else. She was assisting in a
plot she knew; but no feeling of self-consideration would have induced
her to hold back now, or from exposing her participation in the
conspiracy when she determined to stretch out her hand. She was bent on
ruining him body and soul; and at the last moment when she had succeeded
in achieving her purpose, she would be the first, the only one, perhaps,
to weep over her own success, and allow the demon of Remorse to prey
upon her vitals. But she must go on now: she had already received the
"blood money!" He, schemer as he was, and skilled as he dreamed himself
to be in the secrets of men and women, did not understand one tithe of
Clara Kingscott's nature. She had tried to entrap him once, and had
found out too late that she herself was entrapped. Her first proceeding
against him resulted most probably, he thought, from a woman's spite and
a woman's jealousy, but he had no doubt she had grown more sensible now,
as she had grown older. She knew him of old, and was no match for him;
so, like a sensible woman, she accepted the part laid down for her, and
acted Faust to his Mephistopheles. She was quite satisfied of course,
for it suited her interests, and he thought besides that she had some
lingering liking--like most women--for the man that had deceived her.
She was a fine girl still, too, and if circumstances had been otherwise,
and Susan Hartshorne and a fortune been in the way, he might have
married her. Of course there would have been no such nonsense as "love"
between them now. Yet she was a clever woman, and he and she would have
got on together very well, and have managed to pick up a very
comfortable living out of the world. This was, probably, what Markworth
did think occasionally, but events were hurrying him on, and he was
fully prepared to take advantage of every circumstance to perfect his
plot. It would be time enough to think of the future when he had hold
of that nice little sum of money which was just within his grasp.
From what he had heard of the pic-nic he had determined that that day
would be best suited for carrying out his purpose, and later events
decided him upon the justice of his surmise. He found out that the old
lady was going a long distance to collect some rents: she had laughed
the idea to scorn of her attending the merrymaking. Tom would, of
course, be there, and it would be a strange thing if he and Miss
Kingscott could not manage to get Susan--who would not be expected of
course, to go to the pic-nic, even if she were asked--out of the house,
and away without risking discovery.
Accordingly, finding everything suitable, Markworth wrote up to town on
the Monday (when he was certain that the dowager would be away, and the
coast clear for his purpose) to Joseph Begg, telling him he wanted him
to meet a lady and himself at the Waterloo Terminus the next afternoon
at two o'clock--at all events to be there from two to four; and as the
lady was very timid Begg was to be respectably dressed as an honest
old-fashioned old gentleman, for he would have to take charge of her.
His letter was sent up in good time, made up as a parcel, and given in
charge of the guard of the train, so it was delivered early that
evening; and Markworth got an answer the next morning, saying that his
instructions would be carried out.
Just as Tom was ready to start to join the party at Lady Inskip's,
Markworth held out an envelope to him, and said he was so sorry, but he
would have to go up to town at once, and consequently could not join him
to go for the pic-nic.
"Couldn't you put off the business," said Tom excitedly. "It's an awful
shame! I wanted you to be there so much."
"Well, you see, Tom," said Markworth, speaking with a tone of deep
regret pervading his words, "I'm sure I want to go with you, and have
been thinking of it all the week. But lawyers, you know, won't be put
off, and if I do not go to-day, why it will cost me a pretty penny I can
tell you! I am more sorry than you are, old fellow; you will be in the
society of a nice pretty girl all day, while I shall be muddled up in
law and parchment. By the way there's a train at eleven, isn't there?"
"Yes, but I'm infernally cut up about this; yet if you must go, of
course you must. I'll drive you over to the station because you have
not much time to lose to catch the train. Will you be back soon?"
"Well, I can't say; and as my time will be uncertain--you never know
when legal business will be arranged--I think I had better take my traps
with me. If I can, I'll be down again as soon as possible; but I may as
well be prepared."
"Just as you please, old fellow!" answered Tom; and the friends
presently drove off to the station in the nice looking dog-cart Tom had
hired for going to the pic-nic, when he hoped to have the opportunity of
driving some one else after he got there.
They just caught the train, and Markworth jumped in, not having a moment
to spare; while Tom drove on to Bigton and the bright eyes that were
expecting him.
At the next station, on the "up line," Markworth got out. He was not
more than a couple of miles from Hartwood and The Poplars; so, by twelve
o'clock, the time he had previously agreed on with Miss Kingscott before
leaving the house, he met her and Susan at a certain part of the road
across the fields.
We must retrace our steps for a short time to explain matters. How
strange it is, by the way, the manner in which events and incidents work
out to suit one's plot? They do very often, too, in real life, as the
perusal of any of our _causes celebres_ will show. That unfortunate
victim of the Mannings came punctually to eat of his roast goose,
mindful that he was going to his doom, as we read in that famous murder
case which startled everybody twenty years ago. I wonder if the
circumstances of the crime originated the current idiom known as
"cooking one's goose?"
The old lady, you see, went off very quietly, to be out of the way, and
Miss Kingscott and Markworth had a splendid opportunity.
Susan was quite tractable, and would have done anything that Markworth
told her. He said before leaving the house that she was to go for a
walk with him; he did not tell her more at the time, and that she was to
meet him with Miss Kingscott at the stile, across the fields. He also
told her that she must dress nicely in something dark to please him, and
wear a veil; and of course she was delighted to obey him.
Miss Kingscott lent her a dark dress, shawl and bonnet, and having
assisted her toilet, she was soon equipped. Altogether from her leaving
off her old and favourite colours, the change in her appearance was so
great that she looked totally unlike her former self, and even her own
mother would hardly have recognised her with her piercing eyes, if she
had met her out of doors.
The governess did not omit any little thing that would baulk the success
of the enterprise. She studied every little detail, too, for she had
her purpose to serve as well as Markworth. She was not going to
jeopardise her prospects of gaining over the young squire, or in
fascinating the doctor, by being mixed up in the elopement in any way,
so that her assistance should be brought home to her; and consequently
for her own sake she had to avoid detection and recognition as well as
her accomplice.
She sent off George to the neighbouring public-house "The Jolly Spades,"
with a shilling, to make himself glad, and render his nature even more
comatose than usual on "home-brewed." George went off exultant,
declaring that she "was a raal leddy, that she were," and that he would
drink her health--so _he_ was disposed of. The old lady was miles away,
and so was Tom, too, at the pic-nic; the old woman servant was deep in
the kitchen or somewhere else downstairs; and thus nobody saw Miss
Kingscott leave the house with Susan. There was only herself to prove
it.
They met Markworth at the stile; and Miss Kingscott, telling him briefly
"I have kept my part of the compact," to which he as briefly replied "I
will keep mine; you shall hear from me in a month," returned to the
house. They had arranged matters previously, as we have seen.
Her entrance was as unobserved as her exit.
Susan was overjoyed at being out, and, above all, being out with
Markworth--without even "that governess," whom she partially disliked--
and away from the house and her mother.
It was quite a fairy holiday for her; and although she was now as
reasoning a being as any of us, and had quite recovered her senses, she
asked no questions: she left everything in Markworth's hands, as she
looked up to him as a superior to whom every obedience was due, and who
would do everything for the best. He led the way over the fields, Susan
walking by his side like a child engrossed by her own happy thoughts,
and the novelty of everything around her--it was a new world to her--
towards the Bigglethorpe station, on the "up line;" this was where he
had got out: it was above Hartwood, so nobody could recognise him.
"How would you like to be with me always, Susan? To go away and never
come back to the old house again, and all its horrors."
"Oh! that would be so happy if I were with you," she said, in joy; "but
my mother would never let me," she continued, her tone changing to one
of sadness.
"Suppose she knew nothing about it, Susan? We won't tell her, and will
go away now, and never come back."
"Can we? can we?" she exclaimed, with startling earnestness; "you are
not laughing at me?"
"I mean it, Susan. You shall come with me now if you like. I will take
you up to London and marry you, and then nobody can take you away. Will
you come?"
"Will I?" she repeated with emotion; "I will go anywhere with you." And
she clung to his arm with a child's touching trust.
They took the train at Bigglethorpe and in due time arrived at the
Waterloo Station, where Mr Begg, looking like a very respectable old
gentleman, but small and spare, met them. Markworth introduced him as
"his uncle," and they drove together to the lodgings in Bloomsbury
Street. On the way he led out Susan and made her converse with the
ex-marker, who was much struck with her appearance, and her timid,
hesitating way.
"Well, what do you think of her?" asked Markworth, when Susan had gone
up-stairs to take her things off, under the charge of the old landlady.
"What do I think, Mister Markworth? Well, I think you are put in luck's
way. She's as pretty a young lady, and as ladylike a one as I ever
seed."
"You don't see anything about her, do you?" he asked anxiously.
"Queer? not I; she's a bit nervous, in course, but I'd bet she's as
sensible a lady as you or I."
"Thank you, Joe, good day; I want you to be here at ten o'clock
to-morrow morning. You must not be late; it will be my marriage day."
"Never fear, sir; I'll be here sharp ten," and the confederates
separated--the marker to go back to his billiard-room, where he had left
a friend watching over the interest of his pool table, and Markworth to
think over the day and study his plans.
On the next morning, Wednesday, August 28th, 1867, Susan Hartshorne was
married to Allynne Markworth, at the church of St. Catherine's Cross the
Less, Johnson's Lane, E.C., in the presence of Joseph Begg and the
parish clerk, witnesses.