SUSAN.

Change of scene is one of the most potent panaceas for mental ills; and

change of scene had in a few week effected Susan's complete recovery.

She had been under Markworth's care at The Poplars in those early days

of August, an entirely reasoning being, but she had lacked animation and

life; she had been like Gibson's Venus, before the flesh tints were put

on the statue; but she was now a bright, living, thinking girl, with

hopes and pleasures and aspirations which she had hitherto undreamt of.

In her cheerful little apartments in the Rue Montmartre she unfolded

herself like a chrysalis from the grub, and bustled about and took an

interest in everything around her which Doctor Jolly would have wondered

at.

While Markworth was away, the Mere Cliquelle used to look after her and

keep her company, and go out with her, and the dignified _bon homme_ of

that good lady would also frequently came up to see Madame and air his

few English phrases. But Markworth used never to be long away. Havre

was so very convenient that he could run over to Southampton and thence

to London whenever he wished to see how matters were going on for the

approaching law suit; so he seldom stopped away beyond a couple of days.

When he was at Havre, however, he continued to devote himself to Susan

with all his former care, and tried to gratify every wish she had; and

she was as happy as a bird.

One thing only was wanting to complete her happiness, and that was to

see her brother Tom: that desire, however, was soon gratified. She had

been disappointed sadly when Markworth returned the first time without

him; but he said that Tom would soon come, and in a few more days he

arrived at Havre. But, he was actuated with no desire to see Markworth:

it was only his sister that brought him over, and he wished to persuade

her to return home, which he thought she might do at once as he, with

the others, had made certain of Markworth retaining her against her

will. Indeed the lawyer Mr Trump, or Doctor Jolly would have gone over

to Havre at once to fetch her back on learning where she was--for

Markworth had freely said that they might come to fetch her if they

pleased,--for it was only at Tom's express wish that a few days were

allowed to elapse to enable him to fetch her himself, for he was hardly

able to move about as yet, notwithstanding that he had every desire to

start off at once on first hearing the news. Miss Kingscott had offered

to go, but the Dowager bluntly declined her services, saying that, as

she had shown so little care in watching over her charge in the first

instance, she certainly would not be now entrusted with the charge of

bringing her back, and beyond that Mrs Hartshorne said she did not

require her services any longer.

So Miss Kingscott left The Poplars altogether, much against her

inclinations at this juncture, although she would have more time at her

disposal for watching Markworth, for it cut her off from all association

with the doctor before matters were brought to a satisfactory point

between them. Tom went over to Havre to fetch Susan home in a day or

two afterwards, confident of bringing her back. We thus see several

important alterations in the _carte du pays_, of the several actors in

our little drama.

Markworth was out one day shortly after his own return to Havre when he

had set his plans rolling on the other side, when Tom Hartshorne rang

the bell at the house _Numero sept, Rue Montmartre_.

The Mere Cliquelle answered the summons and on Tom (in extremely bad

French) asking if Madame Markworth was in, the fat landlady herself

ushered him up-stairs. She was very much taken with the appearance of

Master Tom, who really, with his fine built frame, slightly emaciated

with the confinement he had undergone from his illness, and his pale

face, looked altogether rather a handsome, presentable fellow. The Mere

Cliquelle gazed upon him with admiration: she had a Frenchwoman's eye

for _un brave Monsieur_, and she showed it.

She tapped at the door of Susan's little _salle a manger. "Un Monsieur

Anglais_," she said, with which explanatory information Tom was ushered

in before Susan could exactly comprehend what the Mere Cliquelle meant.

Susan gave one look up of surprise and joy as the door opened and she

recognised the visitor: she had been working and had not expected

Markworth in for some time. Rushing forwards she flung her arms round

Tom's neck.

"Oh, Tom! Tom! You've come at last!" she said, and patted his cheek in

delight, as if she were caressing a cat--a peculiarly sympathetic way

the fair sex have of showing their affection.

Tom himself was touched. He loved his sister greatly, the more too for

her infirmity, and he though he comprehended it all at once in his

reasoning mind. Poor Susan was no doubt kept here against her will: she

was doubtless glad to see him for his own sake, but probably ten times

more so, thinking he was about to take her back home again to England

and her own people.

He thought thus for a moment; but he was soon undeceived. After a

moment or two he held his sister off from him, his two hands resting on

her shoulders, and he looked in her face with surprise.

"By Jove, Susan!" he exclaimed. "How altered you are; I should not have

known you again!" He had not seen her for some weeks, and the gradual

change which had been taking place in her came upon him all at once like

a shock.

"Would you not?" laughed Susan, "but I should have known you anywhere,

although you look pale and thin. What has been the matter, Tom?"

"Oh nothing!" he answered. "I have not been quite well. But you,

Susan, by Jove! why you are all right again!" he was amazed at her

having got rid of that melancholy reticence which had hung over her for

so many years as he well knew. Instead of hanging back and not saying a

word as she used to do, she now spoke to him freely, and looked just the

same as any other girl. He could not believe it: it was wonderful!

"Of course I am all right!" answered Susan, merrily, and then her voice

changed to a tone of sadness and anxiety, "but you are not angry with

me, Tom, are you?"

"Certainly not! Why should I be angry?"

"For going away and leaving you all like that, and--"

She hesitated.

"We don't blame you, Susan, my dear," said Tom, kindly. "We know that

it was all that rascal Markworth's doing."

Susan interrupted him at once, and spoke earnestly, with great emotion.

"Do not say a word against him, Tom; he is my husband, and I won't have

a word said against him. If I am changed it is all his doing, and I

love him. He has rescued me from ignorance and worse, and made me what

I now am. Tom, Tom, you must not say a word against him. I won't bear

it even from you."

"There, there," said Tom, soothingly, as if he were speaking to a child,

"I did not mean it, and I won't say another word. But are you happy?"

"Happy!" echoed Susan--the answer to his question could be read in her

face--"I never knew what happiness was before. I do not mean to blame

you, Tom," seeing the look of surprise in Tom's face, "but I could never

understand before. I have to thank him for reason and all. I can never

repay all that he has done for me."

Tom saw that it was useless to say anything further, and he changed the

tenor of the conversation.

"And how did you get over here, Susan?" he said, cheerfully. "Tell me

how you got away, and all about it."

"I never intended to go away until the last moment," said Susan, "and I

was so frightened of mother that if I had thought of her I should have

turned back; but he was with me, and I felt courage, and the next

morning we were married in London, I believe, and then we came over

here; and, oh! Tom, I am so happy!"

She proceeded to tell him all about her daily life, and her little joys

and pleasures.

Tom was greatly interested. He saw that Susan was immensely improved,

and he could not but be glad at the change, however much he may have

been angry at the way in which it was brought about. Besides, no blame

could be attached to her. Tom himself was in love, you see, and he

could make greater allowances now on that score than he might previously

have done. He saw that Markworth must be kind to her, and at all

events, he had certainly done more good to Susan in these few weeks than

all the doctors had done. For his part, he would cheerfully have let

Markworth now have the money that he had plotted for, and be done with

him altogether, but it did not rest in his hands, so the least he could

do would be to try and get Susan to go back with him.

"And will you come home with me now, Susan?" he asked, after a pause.

"We are all so anxious about you; and you will find things all right at

home now, and mother will be very kind."

"And Allynne!--will he come too?"

"No, Susan; I can't ask him. You ought to know that."

"You want me to leave him? Tom, I will never leave him unless he sends

me away himself."

Just at this moment the door opened, and Markworth walked in as coolly

as possible. Susan darted past Tom and threw her arms round his neck.

"Oh! Allynne, Allynne!" she cried--she had learnt to call him by his

Christian name, which no one else had done before--"they want to take me

from you. You won't let me go, will you?"

"Of course not, Susan. There, Mr Hartshorne," he said, turning to Tom.

"I told you that I did not detain the girl against her will, and you

can hear her answer for yourself. I wish to act fairly in the matter,

no matter how my motives are misunderstood. Susan," he said, again

addressing her, "what will you do--go with your brother or stay here

with me?"

The only answer she made was to cling closer round his neck.

Markworth looked at Tom triumphantly, and the latter felt humbled.

"I'm sure it is not my fault," he said. "I daresay you mean very well,

Markworth, but I don't retract what I said to you the other day. It was

dishonourable for you to take my sister away like that. As for the

money, however, now that I see her well and happy, you might cheerfully

have it for all I care."

"Thank you," said Markworth, really touched, "you are a generous fellow,

and I promise you to take care of your sister carefully for your sake as

well as her own. She is well and happy now, and quite recovered, as you

can see for yourself, but if she went back she might relapse again,

although I won't prevent her from going."

Tom saw there was no use in trying to urge Susan, for she would not come

with him and leave Markworth. He therefore only stopped that day with

her, and returned on the morrow to Southampton, to report his want of

success. He gave a very truthful account of his mission, and told both

his mother and the doctor that Susan was quite restored. The old

dowager appeared not to care very much about the matter, and reiterated

her intention of preventing Markworth from "getting a penny of her

money." The doctor was pleased to hear such good accounts of his former

patient, but he was apprehensive as to the duration of Markworth's kind

treatment to Susan.

"Bless my soul, sir!" said he to Tom, "it may be all very true now, but

you can't expect to make a nigger change his skin, or make a silk purse

out of a sow's ear, as they say somewhere or other, in something I've

read. That man's bad at the bottom, Tom, as certain as God made little

apples!"--the doctor, in his customary manner, mixing up a hypothesis

with two biblical proverbs.

Thus ended Tom's mission after Susan. He shortly afterwards arranged

another enterprise with a different object, and how he fared here will

be detailed in the next chapter.

Volume 2, Chapter IX.

"FIDDLE-DE-DEE!"

"Fiddle-de-dee! Thomas," said the old dowager, with considerable

asperity, "why you'll be wanting a glass coach and four, and a cocked

hat next. Stuff and nonsense, sir, it's all fiddle-de-dee!"

"But, mother--"

"But me no buts sir! I tell you I won't have it, and that's enough."

"Really, mother."

"Really, indeed! I suppose you think I'm as great a fool as you are,

Thomas."

"Pray don't excite yourself, mother," said Tom, trying to keep down the

thermometer until he could obtain a fair hearing, but the old lady was

not to be pacified, for his soothing words only added fuel to the fire.

"Excite myself, indeed! I should think there was a little cause for

excitement to hear a baby like you talking of getting married! And

bearding me in my own house to be sure! I tell you, Thomas, I won't

have it!" And the dowager paced rapidly backwards and forwards on one

side of the dining-room with short, jerky steps, swinging her hands,

with the fingers clasping and unclasping in unison with her nervous

walk.

Tom walked up and down the room on the other side, the table being

entrenched between them. He took long military strides, and twirled the

end of his moustache impatiently every now and then, for his temper too

was rising. He did not reply at once, so his mother went on with a

recapitulated volley of wrath. She had only been winding up as it were,

before, and now burst out in a flowing stream of words, like an alarm

clock running down, as if she had never paused from her last utterance.

"A boy like you--not of age yet, and whom I only carried in my arms the

other day! You deserve to be whipped and sent to bed, sir! I never

heard of such a thing in all my born days! And as for that little

chit--she--she, I don't know what oughtn't to be done with her. Little

minx! But it serves me right, putting that jackanapes of a brother of

hers into that snug living down there." And the dowager with a wave of

her hand indicated Hartwood village. "There is he prancing about on

that little beast of a pony of his every day after the heels of that

fine my lady who wanted to poke her nose in here if I had only let her.

I can see what's going on, although I do mind my own business! And now

that artful little jade is trying to catch you with her big staring

eyes! I wonder what you can see in her I'm sure. I know what she's

after: they have heard that you are the heir, and they want to secure

you for the family, but I'll spoil their tricks. I'm not going to be

turned out of my own house yet. I'll pack that jackanapes of a brother

off about his business, and as for the artful little minx--it's

positively indecent a girl running after a boy like that! I saw what

they were fishing for, in sending up every day that Gezaba of a servant

of theirs to enquire `how Mister Tom was.' Mister Tom, indeed! It

ought to be Master Tom, and he to be birched. The artful little minx!

I'll--I'll--"

"Stop, mother," shouted Tom, seizing upon a favourable opportunity when

the dowager paused a moment from loss of breath. "Stop, mother, I won't

have you say a word against that young lady. I don't mind what you say

of me, but I won't stand by and hear you abuse an innocent girl like

that. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, mother, to use such

language. Against your own sex, too, and a lady whom I intend to make

my wife."

"Your wife!" screamed the old lady with tenfold vehemence and passion.

"Your wife! I'd sooner see you in your grave first!"

"You forget yourself, mother," said Tom, hotly. Like all easy-going men

who have good tempers and are seldom roused up to anger, Tom took some

time to lose his temper thoroughly, and when he did, he lost it

completely. He was now in a regular passion, and his mother's taunts

sent him up to fever heat.

"Forget myself, indeed!"--It was a case of flint and steel between the

two.--"It is you that forget yourself, talking like a Bashaw of Nine

Tails of marrying whom you please, as if you were a lord and master.

Fine doings, indeed! why you're as mad as your sister Susan."

"You need not bring poor Susan into the conversation, mother. I'm sure

she's very happy, and I believe she did for the best, if this be a

sample of a mother's affection, and what she would have met with at

home"--Tom ejaculated bitterly.

"Oh! she did for the best, did she? And a fine mess she made of it,

running off with that swindling vagabond. I would like to see him on

the treadmill! If that was the only way in which she could get back her

senses, it would have been better for her to have been dead at once.

But it is the way with all silly women; they never seem to have their

senses until they have tied themselves to some scoundrel who has only

married them for their money. You are more mad than she is, Thomas.

Marry, indeed! A pretty pass things are coming to. You're an idiot,

and she's a minx, there!"

"I tell you, mother, I won't have you say a word against that lady. If

there be any fault attached to the business, which I can't see myself,

she's not to blame at any rate."

"She's a little minx, there," repeated the dowager, with increased

venom. She saw how well the shaft was aimed, and like a woman she

pushed it in.

"I won't have it, mother."

"Minx! minx! minx! there!" uttered the old lady rapidly, giving her head

a jerky nod after each repetition of the obnoxious epithet.

"This is scandalous!" said Tom, literally boiling over with passion.

The term "minx," applied to Lizzie, having apparently the same effect on

him as a red rag has on a bull, or a fat turkey gobler, to adapt a more

ignoble simile. "I won't have it, whether you're my mother or not, and

I'll marry whom I please, without asking your leave or licence."

"You will, will you? I should like to know how you're going to support

a wife? I'm not going to do it for you."

"I don't care whether you do or do not," said Tom, savagely.

The bull had been now tormented sufficiently, and the matador thought it

time to give the _coup de grace_.

"Mark my words," said the dowager, impressively, "if you marry that

chit, Thomas, or have anything more to do with her, or any of that

toadying crew, not a penny piece of my money do you get, Thomas."

"Hang the money! I don't want it: I suppose I can get along somehow or

other without it."

"Remember, you're not of age yet, young sir, and when you are, you won't

be much better off, unless I please. You haven't a penny of your own

now, except what I give you, and if you don't abandon the whole thing,

not a penny more will you have."

The dowager was aware of the advantage in military tactics of cutting

off the enemy's supplies.

"I'm sure I don't want it," said Tom; but he thought in a moment how

ungracious this was to his mother, who had previously been so kind to

him. "I mean, I don't want you to help me any more, if it's to be

thrown in my teeth like this. I am very much obliged to you, mother,

for what you have done for me already. That is past and gone, and I'm

not going to sell myself now and break a trusting girl's heart for the

sake of my future chances. Hang the money! I hate the very sound of

the word."

"But it is a very useful thing, Thomas--a very useful thing; and you

don't seem to have had any objection to it before. It's very hard on

me, Thomas, very hard." The old lady was broken now a good deal, after

all the trouble she had gone through, and was not able to prosecute the

combat with her customary vigour. "After I've been slaving and saving

for you all these years to meet with such a return. It's a judgment on

me; and if I had served my church better than I have served my son, it--

it--" And the dowager fairly broke down for the first time in her life,

after vainly attempting to paraphrase Cardinal Wolsey's memorable

monologue.

Tom was fairly vanquished.

"I beg your pardon, mother. I did not mean to say anything unkind or

ungrateful, but really--"

"After all I have done for you, too," whimpered Mrs Hartshorne; "it's a

judgment on me for neglecting your sister and making so much of you."

"I'm very sorry, mother, but I'm a man now, and this is a matter I must

decide for myself."

"You shan't marry with my consent," retorted the dowager; "and you can't

marry without that."

"You're my mother," said Tom, sadly emphasising that undeniable fact;

"and you can ruin my hopes of happiness, if you please. But I shan't

stop here; I shall go abroad."

"You go where you please," said the old lady, in her usual sharp way,

"so long as you give up that chit."

"I'm not going to give up anybody," said Tom, defiantly; "and I shall

exchange into an Indian regiment to-morrow, and when I come of age I

shall do as I please."

"Suit yourself," said the dowager, curtly; "but mark my words, not a

penny of my money do you get."

At this point the engagement terminated, each party withdrawing their

forces without undergoing either a defeat or a victory. It was a

decided case of what the dowager had termed in the first instance,

"Fiddle-de-dee!"

Tom, immediately after returning from his unsuccessful trip to Havre,

had gone down one fine morning to the pretty little parsonage house at

Hartwood.

This was not like the first visit he had paid after his convalescence.

Then he had been prevented from speaking all he had to say, for Pringle

was there; and however much a man may be in love and dying to speak out

to the object of his young affections, he cannot very well do it in the

presence of her brother. Much, therefore, as Tom liked Pringle, he had

hated him at the time of his prior visit for his persistent presence.

"Why on earth could he not go away and set to work about his sermon or

something else," Tom thought savagely at the time, and I believe his

wishes were shared in this respect, mingled with a little trembling and

nervousness, by Miss Lizzie herself, for she doubtless guessed what Tom

wished to say. There is something inherent in the divine sex which

tells them at once when a male biped is going to make a fool of himself.

But then Pringle had not gone away, and the tale, that billionth-told

tale, had still to be told.

Why is it that writers always allude to a love episode as that "old, old

story?" It is never old, my dear sir, or madam, or mayhap,

mademoiselle. It is always new. That wonderful little drama,

oftentimes a tragedy, in which two actors only take the parts. It is

like the fabled Phoenix which possesses the faculty of reproduction, for

it is perennially fresh, and young, and new.

Tom found Lizzie alone this time, and you may be certain he took

advantage of the opportunity. You see the case had nearly been

concluded before, and was well understood between the pair, so it did

not require all that serious preparation, and Quintus Curtian resolve

before dashing into the yawning gulf. Tom plunged into it at once.

Lizzie's fresh little face, with its melting violet eyes, and the pretty

embarrassment which she displayed as she received him in her little

conservatory, into which he walked at once to find her on hearing

Pringle was out, made him fear nothing and all confident.

The impudent dog darted forward on catching sight of her; and, would you

believe it, he had Lizzie folded in his arms before she knew where she

was, murmuring over her "My darling, my darling!" And Miss Lizzie--I

suppose from discretion, knowing how powerless she was against his

strong arms, did not appear to offer any protest. "Abandoned girl!" I

hear the old campaigner exclaiming in her dulcet accents.

Master Tom was not going to let the opportunity slip, you may be bound.

He had been looking forwards to this, and thinking over the scene all

the time he had been laid up, and he was quite prepared to act it.

"Lizzie, my darling," he whispered, after a pause, into her little pink

ear, which was temptingly near him, "will you be my own darling little

wife?"

And Lizzie said nothing; she only looked up in his face. And their lips

met in one long thrilling kiss.

Of course it was the old or new story all over again. Rehearse it,

Damon; fight the love-strife over again, Phyllis, and you have the scene

complete.

They were in the conservatory all the time; and it was curious how after

Pringle came in what a tremendous lot of gardening Lizzie had to do, and

how she could not move the pots about, or exercise her little trowel

without Tom's help. Shortly afterwards she darted off up-stairs somehow

with a very flushed face. Stooping always does send the colour to one's

head, you know. And then Tom told Lizzie's brother all about it.

"I'm awfully glad, old fellow," said Herbert Pringle, B.A.--"I am

awfully glad, old fellow. Nothing could have pleased me better. I

thought you were rather spoony on Lizzie, you know, all along, and I was

expecting something like this."

And they shook hands together in mutual congratulation. Tom thought

Lizzie's brother a very fine, good-natured, clever fellow indeed!

"By-the-way," said Pringle, after a pause, "have you asked your mother

about this?"

Tom looked rather glum; he thought Lizzie's brother a little like the

stern parent now.

"Not yet," he answered. "I am going up to tell her now; but it'll be

all right, you know."

"I am very glad to hear it, for I would not let you and Lizzie enter

into any engagement without her consent. It would not be right, as

she's placed me here in her parish, you know."

Herbert Pringle had very serious thoughts on the subject of etiquette,

and rather doubted the dowager's consent being obtained, from all he had

heard of her from the campaigner, and knew of her himself.

"Oh! that'll be all right," said Tom.

And then Lizzie had come down again, looking bewitchingly beautiful, and

Tom spent an hour of ecstasy, after which he took up his hat to go.

Lizzie knew the errand he was now going on--to speak to the dowager--and

she wished tearful success to him, and gave him a pretty adieu as he

went off exultant: for he said his mother would never refuse her consent

to an angel!

How he fared in his enterprise has been already detailed, for as soon as

he hinted at the thing his mother had broken out with her characteristic

diatribe.

And now the pleasant little drama was brought to an abrupt conclusion.

It was all over! He could not marry Lizzie without his mother's

consent; the crimson sea of love was now covered with the heaving

billows of adversity. He would go abroad somewhere, for he should go

mad if he stopped here and could not see his darling, and Lizzie, of

course, she would die of a broken heart: it was always the usual routine

in tragedies like this.

Tom was very miserable, for he had yet to see Lizzie and her brother--

from whom he had gone off so exultant--and tell of his defeat.

The world was a blank to him now!

"Fiddle-de-dee!"

Volume 2, Chapter X.