Caught in a Trap Part 32

"Circ.u.mstances must plead my excuse, Mademoiselle," continued the Chef, making an elaborately polite bow; "the law must be a.s.sured before it can act. I find that you came to Havre yesterday, that about mid-day you went to the Hotel du Cote d'Or, secured a room, and left your luggage.

The _proprietaire_ mentions that you have stopped there before, and gives you a good character."

"A thousand thanks," said Miss Kingscott, with a sneer.

"Mademoiselle will understand that it is my duty to make these enquiries. _Allons_! That, after remaining a short time at the Hotel du Cote d'Or," continued the Chef, calmly, as if reading out from an affidavit, "you went out, leaving word that you would return again to dinner, but you did not go back, and _Monsieur le proprietaire_ was plunged into the deepest uneasiness at your non-appearance: I believe I am so far correct."

The Chef paused here a moment, as if to to have his observation to be confirmed.

"_Apres_?" inquired the lady, and nodded her head for him to go on.

"I have also learnt," continued the Chef, "that this man Markworth, whom you accuse, was a gentleman, English, and has lived with a lady whom he called his wife, and who was of delicate health for more than three months past at the house of Madame Cliquelle, commonly called _la Mere Cliquelle_, at the house _Numero_ 7, _Rue Montmartre_; that this man Markworth has been in the habit of quitting his apartments for short intervals, leaving _madame sa femme_ behind him, and crossing over to England, from whence he has generally returned after an absence of two or three days. That, after one of these short absences, he came back yesterday--Mademoiselle probably crossed the channel in the same boat with Monsieur?"

"I did."

"This man Markworth, after coming back remained in his apartments all day until the evening. The Mere Cliquelle says that she heard no high words (_grosses paroles_) between Monsieur Markworth and his wife. She has observed that Madame was very delicate and very fond of Monsieur, and that he was always very gentle and kind to her--in fact that they were an attached couple. Well, this Monsieur Markworth remained in all day until the evening, he gave orders to the Mere Cliquelle to admit n.o.body to see him. One person called and enquired particularly to see him in the afternoon--perhaps that was Mademoiselle?"

"It was," answered Miss Kingscott.

"You were not admitted to see Monsieur?"

"I was not admitted," she answered, sententiously.

The Chef went on. "So says the Mere Cliquelle. In the evening about seven o'clock she and her husband also both declare that Monsieur et Madame Markworth went out apparently for a walk. Shortly after they went out a big stout English gentleman called and enquired for them; he was told they were out, and said he would return again at nine o'clock.

About that time, as near as the Mere Cliquelle and her husband could judge, Markworth came back alone without his wife. Monsieur Cliquelle, who saw him, says he looked pale, and was out of breath, as if from running; and he told him that Madame Markworth was unwell, that he had taken her to see some friends at Lugonville, that he only came back to fetch some things for her, and would bring her home in the morning.

Monsieur Markworth after remaining in his apartments perhaps half an hour or more went out, as the husband of the Mere Cliquelle supposed to Lugonville and his wife, taking a small travelling portmanteau with him; nothing further has been seen of Markworth or his wife, or of the fat Englishman who said he would return to the house in question at nine o'clock last night. Does Mademoiselle follow me? She will see that her story is partly confirmed by other circ.u.mstances."

"I told you nearly all that myself, before!" she observed, angrily.

"Certainly, Mademoiselle! But your statement had to be confirmed."

"And now, what are you going to do?"

"The machinery of justice shall be at once set in motion!" said the Frenchman, grandiloquently, in the fas.h.i.+on of his countrymen.

"And I?"

"Mademoiselle will do me the honour of accompanying me to the Bureau of _Monsieur le Juge de Paix_, to make her deposition. But we must attend to other things first," saying which the Chef again touched the hand-bell that lay within easy reach on his table. The same officer appeared again as before.

"Send Auguste and Dechemal to me at once."

Enter two _mouchards_ in plain clothes.

The Chef addressed the one he called Dechemal first--did anyone ever know the real name of a French spy?--"You went to that house in the Rue Montmartre just now, did you not?"

"_Oui, Mon Chef_," he answered monosyllabically.

"Well, go there again. Arrest the Mere Cliquelle and her husband, take them to the office of the Juge de Paix, and await me there."

"Oui, Mon Chef,"--Exit first _mouchard_.

"Auguste!"

"Oui; Mon Chef."

"Go down to the office of the English steam-boats. See what pa.s.sengers leave this morning. Ask also along the quays if any boatman took any person or persons across to Honfleur, or any place adjoining, last night or this morning. Make enquiries, too, at the hotels and cabarets, if they have received any fresh lodgers since nine o'clock yesterday evening, and whom. Report to me at the Juge de Paix's in half an hour, or as soon as you can."

"_Oui, Mon Chef_." Exit second _mouchard_, as stealthily as the other-- serpentine in movements both.

"_Allons_, Mademoiselle," said the Chef, rising from his chair of office and bowing to Nemesis, "if you will follow me, we will now act our parts. The machinery of justice is already in motion."

Clara Kingscott accompanied the functionary of the law, civil in every respect, out of his office and into the street. At his notification their steps were first directed up the hill to the spot where she pointed out as having confronted Markworth. The Chef busied himself with taking notes as deftly as any "chiel." She also indicated the place on the verge where she had seen Susan disappear. They then descended the pathway where she supposed the girl would have fallen.

More keen observation and note taking on the part of the Chef. No apparent results however, for not a trace could be seen of anybody.

Suddenly the Chef paused in the act of taking notes with one hand and pulling the ends of his waxed moustache with the fingers of the other.

He perceived a piece of rag evidently torn off a dress, clinging to the rocks. It was dark crimson in colour, and was a piece of merino dyed that hue. He took it up triumphantly, and held it forth for Miss Kingscott's inspection.

"_Voila_!" he exclaimed.

The governess did "look there," and examined the fragment curiously; a glance of recognition flickered on her face, which the Chef at once perceived.

"Ha!" he said, "you see something? You recognise the dress of your compatriot?" with much guttural rolling of his R's.

"I do!" she answered, "I can swear that Susan Hartshorne wore a dress like that the last time I saw her alive."

"It is well! We have now some proof, but we must discover what has been done with the body. Mademoiselle will now accompany me to the bureau of the Juge de Paix," he added, after a reflective pause, filled up with more notation and twirling of the somewhat stiff ends of the "hirsute appendage on his upper lip."

The Chef leading this time and Miss Kingscott following behind, the two were soon walking rapidly together towards the imposing residence of the official alluded to.

Volume 3, Chapter IV.

POOR ANDROMEDA!

While events were thus hastening on abroad, all was quiet at home, both at The Poplars and the parsonage. Fancy Andromeda's lamentations when Perseus left her! and in her place picture Lizzie, since Tom had gone.

It was now autumn, or rather winter, for the month of November was well in hand, and Christmas was "coming," as the adage says.--Some people's Christmases seem always coming.

It was now autumn. The trees were leafless, with their skeleton boughs stretched out like spectral hands clutching towards the sky, and sighing with every breath of the dull wintry wind that swept across their moaning branches for the approach of spring.

What a change the past three weeks had made in Lizzie Pringle's life!

It is one of the anomalies of our nature, ever changeful and varying, that the world--our world--is made up of change, even in the most monotonous of lives. The machinery of existence is wonderfully intricate, and of such delicate construction, that the slightest hitch or strain can throw it entirely out of gear. We move on calmly, perhaps, in a smooth groove, from life to death, from the cradle towards the grave, when of a sudden a pebble gets into the works, a new element is introduced into, or an old one subtracted from, the course of our existence, and all is changed. No more do the wheels move steadily round and the cranks slide up and down as of yore; a hitch has occurred; and although the machine goes on still, apparently with the same rumble and clang, the motion is not what it was; it is parallel, perhaps, or elliptical, but is not the same as it was before. Nothing can ever restore it again. Our lives are altered against our wills, and though the cradle stands in the background and the grave looms in front, the change of the enchanter's hand--it may be of pleasure and joy, or more likely one of grief and pain--has pa.s.sed over our lives, and we ourselves are altered too, for better or worse--G.o.d grant the former!

In a woman's life this change is more common, although not so apparent as with men; because love and marriage, which cause more proportionately this change, are looked upon by them more as their natural destiny than as exceptional incidents in an otherwise even life. Marriage is the ultimate end of a woman's life, as the subsequent nursing of babies and darning of socks; with the sterner, though by no means n.o.bler s.e.x, it is but a new phase of existence.

When the little winged G.o.d makes his appearance, therefore, and hurls one of his death-dealing darts, it is a much more serious matter for a girl than it is with us. Daphne feels it far more acutely than Apollo.

With him it has been merely a pleasant little change in his life--_pour s'amuser_; but to her it is a new existence--her life, her all. She has only been in a state of pupilage before; but now she is a woman, with all a woman's hopes and fears. She has entered on the portals of the future state, when once Love's fetters have entwined themselves around her, the state for which she was born--her _ultima Thule_.

For eighteen calm and happy years Lizzie's life had flowed on smoothly in the one quiet groove. She had pa.s.sed from babyhood to girldom and school-age in the usual course of nature, and, until now, she had never had a deeper happiness than what a pa.s.sing fancy would give, or a greater trouble than a few hours could efface. Her one great loss--the death of her mother--had occurred at so early an age that it left no lasting impression on her; and she had consequently grown up a merry little la.s.sie, winning all hearts with her sweetly _piquante_ face and those wondrous violet eyes, whose unknown depths now laughed defiance at you, and now displayed a strange wistful languor, which irresistibly attracted you.

That was until last summer; but Lizzie was very much changed now. The little laughing girl was transformed into the winning, wistful maiden, who knew now that there was more in life than eighteen summers usually dreams of. The apples of the Tree of Knowledge had been tasted, and Lizzie became aware that existence was not all lotus-eating, although it did contain, perhaps, some secret joys unknown to childhood.