Читать книгу Caught in a Trap - John C. Hutcheson - Страница 13

“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 éprise 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.