Caught in a Trap Part 38

The old campaigner sold out at Laburnum Cottage in another week or two, and came with the young imp Mortimer, her Persian cats, and green parrot, and all her mult.i.tudinous belongings, settling down like a swarm of locusts on the devoted parsonage. Gone thenceforth were all its tranquil joys.

After a time the Lucca-oil-like-suavity which had formerly distinguished Lady Inskip in Pringle's mind, disappeared. She appeared now as the concentrated essence of verjuice or tartaric acid, and ruled the whole house with a rod of iron, becoming in truth the master of all. Poor Lizzie's life was made a burden to her; and she was treated as if she were a presumptuous intruder in her brother's house. The old campaigner wrung her little heart with continual allusions to the "Young Squire,"

and said how glad she "would have been to get him, miss!" making bitter comments on the way she said Lizzie had angled for Tom, and how he had gone off now and left her. "Served her right, too," she ought not to be "pining and whining and breaking her heart after a man who never cared for her!" When, you may be sure, our little friend answered and stuck up for her rights, whereupon the campaigner would go and complain to the supposed head of the family, and declare that she could not stop in the house with "that virago of a girl," and Pringle had to timidly urge that he would not keep Lady Inskip against her will for the world. Then the campaigner would commence with a stern philippic on ingrat.i.tude, and wind up by bursting into tears and wishing she had never been born to observe that particular day. Here Laura would interfere, Herbert Pringle beg the pardon of his mamma-in-law, and all would be soothed over for a time, and the campaigner would establish a fresh gap in the trenches she was engineering for universal sovereignty.

Pringle suffered in more ways than one. He had to walk now through the parish in discharging his parochial duties, for he could no more "prance about," as Mrs Hartshorne called it, on his dapple grey pony. The campaigner had impounded that valuable little animal, and no more was it bestridden by the well shaped, albeit diminutive legs of the inc.u.mbent.

The Macchiaevelli in petticoats said that "her daughter" must have a carriage to go about in, considering she could no longer afford to keep one of her own, which otherwise she would have been happy for Laura to have made free use of. The campaigner had sold her equipage when she cleared out from Laburnum Cottage along with other sundry theatrical "effects" which she had kept up for the sales of entrapping suitors for her daughters' hands, and now they were both off her hands she melted down her appurtenances into the handier form of a banker's balance. "No one knew what might come," as she said to herself, sagely reflective.

She accordingly made Pringle buy a neat basket carriage, and build an enlargement to the parsonage stable for its accommodation. To this vehicle, dapple grey was thenceforth attached, and the campaigner used to drive out in it every afternoon, occasionally but seldom, accompanied by her daughter, and the small boy with the eruption of b.u.t.tons on him, whom she had retained in her own service when she migrated to the house of her son-in-law. "It was so respectable to have a page," as she said.

Lizzie she never invited to drive with her, not that she would for a moment have consented to the penance of a _tete-a-tete_ with the campaigner, whom she disliked as much almost as the other did her, although she tried to bear with her for her brother's sake, whom she pitied. Lizzie in fact saw clearly that poor Herbert was sadly hen-pecked, not by his wife, for she was two apathetic, but by his mother-in-law.

Instead of the paradise of bliss which he had hoped to enter, by allying himself with Lady Inskip's eldest daughter, the young inc.u.mbent found himself in a very miserable position; and I am inclined to think that he somewhat regretted his hasty step. He loved Laura as much as it was in his nature to do so, and so did she him; but both were very young--he just a boy from College, one might say; and they had yet much to learn of that mutual forbearance principle, and earnest trust and love, without which too many find marriage the "lottery" they declare it.

What chance of happiness they had depended upon their being to themselves, without the odious presence of the campaigner; but she had established herself as a fixture, and was not going to stir herself in a hurry; and as Laura as yet took her part, princ.i.p.ally because Herbert Pringle had his sister on his side, the pecktive state continued, unhappily for all parties.

No more did the ritualistic young divine devote much attention to his sermons; and the Ciceronian phraseology, which purely distinguished those works of composition, disappeared. He had no heart in his work-- for the campaigner was always "nagging" at him at home, and no longer praised his eloquence as she had done at first.

No more did he chant in melodious strains the Psalms to his elaborately embroidered and besmocked congregation of farmers, but read them over hurriedly, in order to get rid of them. Even his ritualistic tendencies began to be toned down: the lectern was seldom made use of, and the white surplices were dispensed with for the boys of the choir.

Pringle was pecked with a vengeance, and its effect was shown, not only in his outward ways, but in his adornment--he became careless about his dress, and not half so particular as he had been for appearances before he became a Benedict. Bottom was very much translated, indeed. Pringle was pecked!

Lizzie saw all that was going on, and sympathised with her brother. The old campaigner she detested, and only the desire not to increase her brother's miseries by having home broils, made her keep her hostility subdued; she even tried to coax the artful Macchiaevelli for him, all to no effect, as also her endeavours to awaken the languid Laura to a sense of the responsibility owing to her husband.

The campaigner ruled the roast in spite of all; and showed not the slightest desire to conceal her dislike for Lizzie. She tormented her constantly with spiteful allusions to the past, and Lizzie would not have minded so much what she said about herself, but she would abuse Tom, and that she could not stand. Besides, she encouraged the horrid imp Mortimer to spoil all poor Lizzie's garden, and disarrange her pet conservatory, and even to break up a little artful contrivance for holding plants, which Tom had specially given her. It is true Pringle made up a row on that subject, and threatening to chastise the boy, somewhat checking his horticultural tendencies to the detriment of Lizzie in future. Still, the place was made very unhappy to her, and Lizzie would have been miserable and wished herself dead and out of the way if some consolation had not turned up suddenly for her in a most unexpected manner.

Thenceforth she bore the campaigner's taunts with stolid and aggravating silence, making that lady wish time and again that Lizzie were "her child," and she "would soon teach her manners." Notwithstanding that poor Pringle was so sadly pecked, and the parsonage lost its Eden-like character since the invasion of the serpent, there was balm yet in Gilead for Lizzie.

What had happened? Whence came Lizzie's consolation?

You would never suspect.

Volume 3, Chapter X.

CAUGHT AT LAST.

"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 G.o.ddess 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 G.o.ddess 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 a.n.a.logy, 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 circ.u.mstances attending, and he saw how strong the proof of circ.u.mstantial 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.s key, he let himself in.

In the pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sage.

"_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 _Ign.o.bile 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 ash.o.r.e 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.