"Even the worst laws are so necessary for our guidance, that without
them, men would devour one another," remarks Epicurus--in order to
exemplify the frailty of human nature, according to Plutarch, the
moralist. Putting the point of cannibalism aside, and thus obviating a
trip to the Feejee Islands, or New Zealand, for example, it cannot be
disputed that the dictum of the Epicurean philosopher is based on a
fundamental truth, which is fairly exhibited in every-day life.
Granting, however, that laws are necessary for human progress, the
philosophical enquirer is still as much at fault as ever, for he
becomes, as it were, like Hamlet, plunged into a sea of troubles, which
no opposition will limit, the moment he begins his search into the
mysteries of jurisprudence. The progress of the blind goddess with the
sinister and dexter scale has been by no means commensurate with the
advancement of civilisation, for the name of laws is legion; and between
good laws and bad laws, and what may be termed legal laws and moral
laws, there are as wide differences and as great discrepancies as exist
among the several offenders and offences against the same.
A law may be a good law, and a necessary law, and yet be a bad law,
speaking according to law; while a bad and unjust law, merely regarded
as a piece of law-making, becomes good when weighed in the same forensic
balance. This seems paradoxical, but can be verified readily in
overlooking the legal code. Law, itself, is wise, and good, and
necessary; but, "too many cooks spoil the broth," so our original Magna
Charta of Liberty has become a hotch-potch pie of precedents, thanks to
the many law-makers we have had, who lead the blind goddess into the
gutter, and so transform Themis that no one would know her again in her
original guise. There are so many cities of refuge provided for
criminals within the statutes of the justice book, so many loopholes for
chicanery and fraud to sneak through, that no criminal need trouble
himself for fear of consequences at committing any offence in the
decalogue or calendar, short of murder--even that often becomes
justified under the appellative "homicide" in the minds, and under the
verdict of "a free and enlightened jury!"--save the mark.
The various turnings and windings of our great national bulwark--the
Law--are many and wonderful.
A man who commits a greater offence can only be, perhaps, indicted under
a lesser plea, and the small criminal again is treated proportionately
more severely than the man who deals in crime wholesale. Some reforms
have, indeed, been made already, but more are still needed. Perhaps one
of the greatest agitated of late has been the abolishment of
imprisonment for debt, one of the most iniquitous statutes we have been
cursed with. The debtor had been held on a par with the thief and the
murderer, and has often been condemned to a greater term of imprisonment
than the criminal who commits a burglary or takes human life. However,
this will soon be numbered amongst the other mistakes of the past, like
the old Fleet prison.
Following out the analogy, it seems strange that Markworth, who had been
deemed guilty of graver offences under the eye of the law should only be
caught at last through a _ca ca_, _ex parte_ Solomonson, the Jew money
lender.
He had puzzled Mrs Hartshorne's lawyers in proving the abduction; he
would have gained a large fortune by his scheming, but through the
little mistake of a date; he had evaded the French police, and escaped
the arrest of a murderer; and here he was imprisoned at last, in a
sponging-house, only on a question of debt--a matter of pounds,
shillings, and pence. Oh, the anachronisms of the law! But enough has
been already said in these pages of its Penelopean web of trickery and
evasion.
To return to our hero, perhaps the best example of terror which could be
mentioned, is that of seeing a drove of wild animals on the prairies of
the far west, flying from a bush fire. The herds of buffalo, deer, and
even bears and panthers, are then seized with a maddening influence of
fright and flight combined, and rush pell mell in front of the blazing
torrent of fire which spreads behind them. They do not care where they
go, and will encroach even upon the haunts of men, of whom they are
generally afraid, the panther running by the side of the bison, which
does not now mind the proximity of its enemy, all flying in their wild
scare for safety, with heaving flanks and panting breath.
It was under the influence of such a fright that Markworth fled from the
heights of Ingouville, when he escaped from Clara Kingscott's clutches:
he could fancy that he still heard Susan's wild shriek ringing in his
ears.
The accusation of Clara Kingscott had paralysed him with a morbid
terror. His first impulse was, when Susan disappeared over the
precipice, to rush down and save her. Then he had been stopped so
unexpectedly, and on the governess accusing him of murdering the girl,
his mind had rapidly grasped the circumstances attending, and he saw how
strong the proof of circumstantial evidence would be against him.
The cries of Clara Kingscott would now have alarmed the neighbourhood.
Morbid terror possessed him. How to escape! Was there time to fly?
And he fled with all the fear of a hunted animal.
He did not know in which direction he went, but he suddenly arrested his
fleeing footsteps: he saw somebody in the distance, and turned back.
It would never do to continue the path down which the body of Susan
might be lying; if he were to be found near at hand he might be lost.
He bent aside and rapidly made his way down the steep incline, and after
wheeling around in various directions so as to discern any possible
pursuit, he made up his mind to go first to the lodgings in the Rue
Montmartre. He must get off out of the way, and as nobody would search
for him yet awhile--it was so late, and quiet, and dark--he could find
time to collect his things, and get on board some steamer in the harbour
before anyone would dream of searching for him. Besides, there might be
no pursuit at all, he thought to himself, his native courage rapidly
returning as he got further and further from the scene of action. He
would proceed cautiously; but he must go away: yes, it was best to go
away. What was the use in remaining now? Susan was the only link that
bound him to Havre, and now she was providentially put out of his way.
Poor girl! He pitied her; but it was, perhaps, best as it was, and
somebody else would see after her now. It would have been an unpleasant
business if he had stopped by her at any rate. She even might not be
dead after all: somebody else would see to her; that devil Clara was
there at all events.
These thoughts flitted through his brain, as he walked leisurely along
the now deserted streets of the town. It would never do to appear in a
hurry, for Havre was respectable, and went to bed at an early hour, with
the exception of the fisher folk, who were still carousing in the low
cabarets down by the quays.
By this time he had reached his door, and opening it with his pass key,
he let himself in.
In the passage he met the little husband of the Mere Cliquelle, whom he
told that _Madame sa femme_, was unwell and stopping at a friends, and
he was going out again for her. He then went into his rooms and began
to pack a portmanteau leisurely, for he thought "if they are hunting for
me this is the last place they would seek for me." And so he arranged
matters quite at his ease.
He had nearly a hundred pounds left in money, and that he thought would
see him through a good deal. He could not stop in England, he
considered, and on the other hand Clara Kingscott would make the
Continent too hot to hold him. Where should he go?
America, he decided, in a moment. That blessed land for aliens and
criminals would receive him and offer him a convenient shelter; besides,
if all he heard was true, he was in no doubt that he could pick up a
living by his wits amongst his transatlantic cousins. The moment he
came to this determination he proceeded to act upon it.
At all events, there was no use in stopping in the Rue Montmartre any
longer, so he opened the door, after putting the things in order, and
taking up the valise in his hand, he walked towards the passage.
"_Bon soir_!" he shouted to the Mere Cliquelle and her husband above,
who thought the evening's proceedings rather strange on the whole but
consoled themselves with the reflection that "_Ces Anglais sont
droles_!"
"_Bon soir, Monsieur! Au revoir_!" they responded; and Markworth walked
out of the Mere Cliquelle's house for the last time. It was now nearly
ten o'clock, and all was quiet about the street, which was quite dark.
He was unnoticed, and free to go where he pleased, and so he turned his
steps this time down towards the steamboat quay. There, although it was
so late, he managed to come across a fisherman, who was just starting
off in his little boat.
For a small consideration, as it lay in his way, the man consented to
land him over at Honfleur, on the opposite banks of the Seine, Markworth
telling him that he had a sick wife, whom he must visit that night.
"_Pauvre fille_!" said the _Ignobile Pescatore_, with a sympathetic
shrug, "we must take you to madame;" and setting his brawny arms to
work, in addition to the lugsail, for there was little wind, Markworth
was, after the lapse of a short interval, set ashore at length at
Honfleur, leaving the broad and muddy Seine between himself and his
Nemesis. He could now breathe freely. His plans were made up, and he
had only to wait until the early morning for carrying them into
execution.
At an auberge in the centre of the town he got a lodging for the night,
and in the early morning was travelling north.
From Paris to Brussels--train again--miles of railroad--on, on to
Bremen, or rather Bremenhaven as the port is properly called. Time to
catch one of the German American steamships of the _Nord Deutsche_ line,
that ply between that port and New York, touching at Southampton on the
way. Caught it! Be certain tho' that Markworth landed not at the
stopping-place on the route! He had too wholesome a dread of his
creditor, Solomonson, and the possibilities of a "capias" or "ca ca"
administered by one of the greasy hands of mine host of Curseover
Street, Chancery Lane. No more treading on British soil for him!
Bremen to Southampton--a two days' trip. One day more lying there
alongside the railroad dock, and afterwards far out in the harbour,
where the hull of the steamer looked like a gigantic lizard, or the
far-famed sea-serpent. Then, on a Wednesday morning, he finally sailed
for the land of the setting sun--"the home of the brave and free;"
where, according to the poetical license of transatlantic eulogists,
"the Bird o' Freedom claps her wings in exultation over the
star-spangled banner in the ethereal expanse of perennial blue."
On landing in New York, Markworth found it very similar to any other
city of the old world in which he had been. There was no Eldorado here:
the streets were not profusely strewn with gold for the needy to pick
up. New York was only another temple of Mammon, where he who had money
was a brave gentleman, and he who had none might starve and be hanged to
him!
For labouring men and mechanics, there is a wide field for industry in
the Empire City and the adjacent country round about; but for clerks,
"gentlemen," and Chevaliers d'Industrie, New York possesses few
facilities, and it is harder work to pick up a living there than even in
our own over-crowded London.
Markworth's available funds melted down into greenbacks, and the
wretched paper currency that forms the circulating medium of our
transatlantic brethren, did not stretch very far. The essays he made to
increase his store by his wits shrunk his purse still less.
Although "enterprise" is one of the proverbial characteristics of
Jonathan, still there is no country in the world, in spite of all the
fabulous anecdotes we hear of swindling and "bogus" schemes, where
adventurers without capital have such small chances of success.
Jonathan may take in other people with his wooden nutmegs, pewter
dollars, and Connecticut clocks, warranted to go for eight days, but a
person is required to "get up extremely early in the morning" to get
over him. The land of humbug, which possesses its native Barnums in
shoals, is one of the "cutest countries in creation, I guess," and can
"whip" any "coon" that comes from "tother side of Jordan."
Markworth thought himself shrewd; but here, in the race of wits, he
found himself a sluggard.
He had at last to take to gambling, but even there he was no match for
the smart Yankees with whom he played. Talk of Homburg and Baden-Baden!
They cannot hold a candle to the Faro banks and other gambling hells of
New York and Saratoga. Gambling is supposed to be contrary to the laws
of the United States, but when their senators and law-makers practise
it, it cannot be wondered that the people hold it up _en masse_, while
justice winks at their doings.
Finding chance no ally, all his endeavours to get employment vain, and
the country with its people and belongings hateful to him, Markworth
became possessed with that intense home longing, which none but those
who have experienced it can appreciate. It is strange, the effects of
that same _maladie du pays_, as the French call it. Numbers of
conscripts die from it every year in Algiers, pining for their _belle
France_ to the last; only the Ethiopian, or modern negro, seems
unaffected by its influence. Even he, too, may long to be back again in
his beloved Congo, when sweltering in the shambles of Cuba, where, thank
goodness, slavery only now exists; there, however, it is also doomed to
be mercifully blotted out.
While suffering from this home sickness, homeless, friendless, nearly
penniless, Markworth had a sudden and lucky _coup_ at Faro, which just
gained him sufficient money wherewith to pay his passage back to
England. Sick he was of the Yankees, but he blessed them now!
He eagerly jumped at the chance, and without a thought of the
consequences of debt and imprisonment, or of the harpies looking out for
him, he paid his passage money--"third class" this time--and was on his
way home in one of those steamships that land at London, some six months
or so after he had gone out so valiantly, a man of money, to the New
World. He did not care, however: his one dream was to get back home
again--"home," though it be ever so homely, and he--but in rags.
He arrived at last; he landed, and he was cast upon the sea of London
life without a penny in his pockets, and no luggage to overburden him.
Markworth, however, did not mind this. He had been hard pushed before;
and having always managed to wriggle himself out of pecuniary
difficulties, he saw no reason why he should not raise himself again,
even though his fortunes were at such a very low ebb. Indeed, he did
not doubt his ability so to do for a moment.
His first care was to get a little money to go on with, and he had no
fear but that Joseph Begg, his former _confidant_, would readily assist
him, as he could soon pay him back in his own time; for a habitation, of
which he had also to be careful, he determined to go back to his old
lodgings at Mrs Martin's in Bloomsbury.
Begg's billiard rooms in Oxford Street accordingly formed his first
destination. As it was getting late, and "pool" the natural thing at
the time, he was certain of finding Joseph Begg in; but he was doomed to
be disappointed.
On inquiring for his old friend of an Irish marker, who alone was in the
room, he heard to his astonishment that Joseph Begg was dead!
"Yis, yer 'anner," said this man, with a strong Dublin brogue; "he's did
an' bur'd mor'n foor month. He wint to dhrink a pint of rhum agin some
City swell or other for a bet of a fife-pun-nut, and be Jabers! it kilt
poor Begg enthirely! Shure, yer 'anner, he jist dhropped down did on
the flure, he did, yer 'anner. Good luck till him! Faith he wor one of
the raal sort, too, and he desarved to win, but the rhum was too much
for him--bad cess to it!"
It seemed another link in the chain of ill-luck which had enwrapped him
ever since his marriage with Susan Hartshorne; and Markworth turned away
with a heavy heart to seek his quarters at Mrs Martin's, while the
Irish lad was crooning out some ditty about a "gintlemun" who--
"Turned up his nose,
And the tips of his toes,
To the roots of the daisies, oh!"
But he readily found an asylum in Bloomsbury, as he had thought; still
even there his fate still pursued him, and he was arrested next day, as
already told.
The first visitor who came to see him in the sponging-house was she who
had last held him on the heights of Ingouville, and called him murderer.
He was proportionately glad to see her: a mutual pleasure, without
doubt!
But his troubles had much shaken him, and Markworth was not the
Markworth of before--the cool collected man of the world with a strong
spice of the devil-may-care element; he was cowed and beaten.
"What do you want here with me, Clara Kingscott?" he growled out, as he
cowered from her fixed gaze of hate. "What do you want now, for God's
sake! I paid you, at all events!"
"What do I want, Allynne Markworth? I wanted to see you caged at last,
villain! and now I'm satisfied!"
"Well, you've seen me now, so you may go away and be happy! But I don't
know why you hate me so, I'm sure; I don't owe you any money at all
events!"
"Money, money, money! that has always been the burden of your song--and
now you see its worth!"
"I know it would take me out of here; that's what I know!" he replied,
with a faint attempt at a jocular laugh--it was a very faint one.
"Would it? Do you know who put you here?"
"Solomonson, I suppose; my worthy friend to whom I am slightly indebted.
I don't think he'll get his money, though; for I am hanged if I don't
go through `the Court.'" He laughed, still keeping up appearances.
The governess went on, however, in her cold grating voice, without
apparently noticing his interruption.
"I placed you here!" she said, with bitter emphasis. "I got you
arrested. I knew that you came to those lodgings last night! I have
been watching for you for weeks; and I went down this morning to those
attorneys, and told them where you were. I would have gone last night
if it had not been so late! You have got to thank me for your arrest!"
"You! you she devil! Why, what on earth have I done to you?" he
exclaimed, in astonishment.
"Done to me! If you have forgotten ten years ago, and the way you
deceived me, Allynne Markworth, I have not!"
"Good God, Clara! I thought that was all past and gone. No one could
have regretted it more than I! and you, yourself, said we had better let
bygones be bygones! Why, you accepted money from me, you--"
"Yes, I did! It was only to work your own ruin!"
"Good God, Clara! Don't go on like that; I'm hunted down now, or I
would do anything you wanted. Don't hit a man when he's down!"
She still continued, working herself up into a frenzy of passion as she
spoke, without noticing his words, although gazing steadily in his face
with her basilisk eyes, which were widened with fury and hate.
"Do you know that if that flaw had not been discovered in the date of
the girl's age--and I only wish that I had made it and discovered it!--
and that if your case had gone to trial, I would have come forward as
evidence against you, and would have sworn to having assisted you to
abduct that poor idiot Susan Hartshorne? Do you know that I would have
sworn to this, no matter how I implicated myself, only to get you
ruined? Did you ever think of that?"
"No, for God's sake, Clara! I kept to my bargain."
"Did you keep your bargain ten years ago? If you forget, Allynne
Markworth, I do not! Now, thank God, I have got you caught at last!"
"Have you, you she devil, fiend!" he said, "You will be baulked again,
my lady! Don't make too sure! curse you, she cat! What do you come
here to torment me for?"
"What do I come for, eh? I told you before--to see you caged at last--
you deceiver! swindler! murderer!" she hissed between her teeth. "Ha!
does not that touch you up at last? You will get out, will you! Do you
forget Havre? Do you forget Susan Hartshorne, the same as you forgot me
once before? Have you forgotten the murder I saw, murderer? Ah!"
"Woman! you are mad! Get out, and leave me in peace! I am no murderer,
although you almost persuade me to be one now! Get out, or by God
I'll--"
"No! You won't murder me. You cannot get away from me like you ran
from Havre! I am not afraid of you, although I am a woman."
"You are no woman, or you would not come here to torment me like this.
You _know_ I never hurt that girl. God knows I did not do it; whatever
else I may have done, I am innocent of that crime, and if the poor girl
is dead, no one would wish to get her back to life more than I do, as
she could prove my innocence. For God's sake, Clara, stop. You must be
mad, or you would not talk like this. Think of the past between us,
think of--"
"Yes, I do think of the past, and that makes me act now. I am no more
mad than you are; but I have sworn to ruin you, and I will keep my oath.
Do you know where I am going to now?"
"I don't know, and I don't care," he said sullenly, "only for God's
sake, leave me in peace, and go away."
He was quite broken down now, and the expression of the woman's strong
hate, coupled with all he had gone through, made him nerveless and
hopeless. She still went on in the same tone of fiendish glee: her
feelings seemed to have overcome her reason.
"I am going now to have you charged with murder. Murder, do you hear?
The French police were on your track. We will see what the English
police will do now. You will get out, will you? You think you will
escape! Bah! Just wait and see."
"Hang you! Go away, will you. You are raving!" he said: he really
thought her mad.
"Hang me? Not quite; but you will be hanged though, and then I will die
happy!" she exclaimed, with the passion still in her eyes, in her
gestures, in her very form and figure.
Markworth was seated in a corner of the private room in which they were
speaking (Mr Abednego charged a guinea a day for the accommodation of
the same), and his attitude betokened intense misery and hopelessness.
It was not so much the words of his adversary, but the thought that she,
too, was against him, like all the rest of the world. He was quite
broken down, now.
"Do your worst," he replied, "only go away. I can't bear this any
longer."
"I will do my worst, never fear," she said, as she moved towards the
door. She was satisfied to see that her enemy was at length abased, and
to think that she had brought down his pride.
She was now at the door; her mission had been accomplished, and, as she
glanced back, the bright summer sun, streaming through the open window
with its iron bars, on his bent figure, discovered the streaks of silver
in his dark hair, painted by time and trouble, not forgetting the
thinness of the long, sinewy hands that hid his face from her view.
A pang of compunction smote her, and stirred her heart for a moment with
the thoughts of days gone by, and she seemed to hesitate before she left
him, although no intention of relinquishing her purpose crossed her
mind.
"Go! go!" he murmured, in a broken voice, "leave me in peace."
And she went out, and left him alone with his misery.
Volume 3, Chapter XI.