DREADFUL TREACHERY.
Mr. Mark Cray stood on the little bit of low stony ground that
bordered the coast at Honfleur, just outside the entrance of the
harbour. Mr. Mark was kicking pebbles into the water. Being in a
remarkably miserable and indecisive state of mind, having nothing on
earth to do, he had strolled out of his lodgings anywhere that his
legs chose to carry him; and there he was, looking into the water on
that gloomy winter's evening.
But pray don't fear that he had any ulterior designs of making himself
better acquainted with its chilly depths. Men in the extremity of
despair have been known to entertain such; Mark Cray never would have
dreamt of it. There was an elasticity in Mark's spirit, a shallowness
of feeling quite incompatible with that sad state of mind hinted at,
and the most prominent question pervading Mark, even now was, how long
it would be before something "turned up."
Not but that Mark Cray was miserable enough; in a bodily sense,
however, rather than a mental. It was not an agreeable state of things
by any means to have no money to go on with; to be wanting it in a
hundred odd ways; to be told that if he did not pay up at his lodgings
that week he must turn out of them--and the French have an
inconvenient way of not allowing you to evade such mandates. It was
not pleasant to be reduced to a meal or so a day, and that not a
sumptuous one; it was not convenient to be restricted to the pair of
boots he had on, and to know that the soles were letting in the wet;
it was not cheery to be out of charcoal for the cooking _réchauds_, or
to have but a shovelful of coals left for the parlour; moreover and
above all, it was most especially annoying and unbearable not to have
had the money to pay for a letter that morning, and which, in
consequence of that failure, the inexorable postman had carried away
with him.
Mrs. Cray's assertion--that her husband never would be got over to
London so long as the formidable Wheal Bang threatened danger--proved
to be a correct one. Mark had declined the invitation to go. News had
been conveyed to him in an unmistakably impressive manner of the state
his wife was in, and an urgent mandate sent that he should join her.
Oswald only waited his consent to forward him funds for the journey;
and poor Caroline hinted in a few private lines that he could choose a
steamer which would not make the port of London until after dark, and
could wear his spectacles in landing. All in vain. Mark Cray had
somehow contrived to acquire a wholesome terror of the British shores,
and to them he would not be enticed.
But--has it ever struck you in your passage through life how
wonderfully things work round? Caroline Cray was dying; was wanting
her husband to be by her side and see the last of her, as it was only
right and natural she should; but he--looking at things as _he_ looked
at them--was debarred from going to her; it was--judging as he
judged--a simple impossibility that he should go. And this great
barrier was turning her mind to frenzy, was making a havoc of her
dying hours, and increasing her bodily sufferings in an alarming
degree.
It did seem an impossibility. If Mark Cray refused to venture to his
own land so long as the Wheal Bang held its rod over him, it was next
door to certain that he could not come at all. The Wheal Bang's
shareholders would not relax their threats except on the payment of
certain claims, and who would be sufficiently philanthropic to pay
them? Nobody in the wide world. So there appeared to be no hope of
Mark's return; and the knowledge that there was not was entirely
taking from Caroline Cray that tranquillity of mind and body which
ought if possible to attend the last passage to the tomb: nay, it was
keeping her in a state of excitement that was pitiable for herself and
for all who beheld her. "If Mark could but come!" was the incessant
cry night and day. "I can't die unless Mark comes."
You have heard that beautiful phrase, "Man's extremity is God's
opportunity," and though it may strike you as almost irreverent to
introduce any matter connected with Mark Cray as an exemplification of
it, what came to pass was surely very like a proof of the truth of
that phrase. Poor, erring, shallow-pated Mark! even he was remembered,
neglectful as he had been of the Great Remembrancer.
While Caroline was lifting her hands to heaven with a vain cry in
which there was no trust; while it seemed to all that there was no
human feasibility of bringing Mark to England, that feat was
accomplished in the easiest and most unexpected manner. Is it too much
to say that a Higher Power was at work in answer to that poor woman's
despairing cry?--though the human agencies employed were of the least
exalted.
Mr. Barker, who was doing something grand and good (good in _his_
sense) in Paris, found it necessary for his own plans to pay a visit
to London. And when there, he, to use his own phrase got "dropped
upon;" in other words he fell into the still outstretched hands of the
Great Wheal Bang. That it was unexpected to himself there's no doubt;
for he was one of those men who believe implicitly in their own luck.
Once in the mesh, Barker resolved to make the best of it. He had done
nothing wrong, nothing that he could be punished for, and he
carelessly told them that his only motive in not surrendering
beforehand was the bother of having the accounts to go over. Perhaps
it really was so.
Mr. Barker's usual luck attended him now. After he was arrested and
had been kept in durance for four days, the shareholders released him.
The very shareholders themselves released him; the wronged, imitated,
angry shareholders! Surely there was some charm in Barker's tongue! He
talked them over to the most miraculous degree; and they took him out
of prison, somebody going bail for the single debt on which he had
been taken. Now that the thing had come to a crisis Barker was as
eager as they were to get it to a settlement, and he went to work with
a will. A settlement, however, could not be come to without the
presence of Mark Cray; Mark and Barker were both made bankrupts, and
it was necessary that Mark should come over--or else never come over
any shore. So Barker wrote for him.
We left Mark standing on the water's edge. He was all unconscious of
these doings at home which so nearly affected him; and he stood there
speculating as to what news the letter, refused to him in the morning,
contained. By some mischance Barker had neglected fully to prepay it;
he had put on a fourpenny stamp, but the letter turned out to be over
weight by a hair's breadth, and of course the Honfleur postal
authorities declined to give it up.
"What he's doing in London puzzles me," cogitated Mark,--for he had
recognised the writing on the letter as Barker's. "He told me he
should not show himself there until the bother was over. What took him
there now, I wonder?"
He stopped to single out a particularly shiny stone imbedded in the
mud, lifted it up with his toe, and kicked it into the water. A little
shrimping-boat was making towards him, for it was low tide, laden with
its spoils of the day. But it was not very near yet.
"It's well that she should have gone over as she did," he resumed, his
thoughts reverting to his wife. "Heaven knows I should like to be with
her; but she has all she wants there, and here she'd have nothing. I
wish I could be with her! As to their saying--that Welch, or whatever
his name is: _I_ don't remember any great light of that name--that
she's incurable, I don't believe it. That old Blue said the same, or
wanted to say it--such jargon as the fellow talked to be sure!--but
Blue's nothing better than an old woman. By the way, I wonder how long
Blue intends to stop away! It's fine for these French fellows, taking
a holiday when they choose, and leaving their patients to a
_confrère_! I wish he had left _me_ the _confrère_ on the occasion,
t'would have been a few francs, at any rate, in my pocket. The French
wouldn't have had that, I suppose! their envious laws won't permit an
Englishman to practice on them. Oh, if some rich countryman of one's
own would but get ill!"
Mark Cray strolled a few steps either way, and halted again in the
same place as before; he kicked six stones into the water, one after
the other, the seventh was an obstinate one, and would not come out.
Dull and dreary did the waves look that evening, under the grey and
leaden sky. That's speaking rather metaphorically, you know, for in
point of fact there are no _waves_ off Honfleur, except in the
stormiest of weather.
That Mark Cray's condition was a forlorn one nobody can dispute. He
had no friends or acquaintance in the town; a latent, ever-present
consciousness of their straits, their position and its secrets, had
caused him and his wife to abstain from making any, And one or two
English residents who had shown themselves disposed to be friendly
were repulsed at the onset. Not a single person within reach could
Mark Cray apply to with the slightest justifiable plea of
acquaintanceship and say, Lend me sixteen sous; that I may pay for a
letter! Even Monsieur Le Bleu, as you have gathered from his
soliloquy, was away. But Mark wished much to get that letter, and he
was thinking how he could get it at this very moment as he looked out
across the water to the opposite coast, to the dark cloud that hung
over Harfleur.
"'Twould be of no use going to the post-office unless I took the
money," he soliloquised. "They'd never let me have it without. Stingy
old frogs! What's sixteen sous that they can't trust a fellow? Help
_must_ come to me soon from some quarter or other; things can't stand
in their present plight. That very, letter may have money in it."
Grumbling, however, would not bring him the letter, neither would
kicking pebbles into the manche: Mr. Mark Cray grew tired of his
pastime, and turned finally away from it. He sauntered through the
waste ground underneath the side windows of the hotel, his ears nearly
deafened by the noise of the rough boys who were quarrelling in groups
over their marbles, made a _détour_ across the bridge, glanced askance
at the slip of building grandly designated Bureau des Postes, and
turned off towards his home. It was a soft, calm evening in January,
gloomy enough overhead, but in the west the sky was clearing, and a
solitary star came peeping out, imbedded like a diamond in its grey
setting. To a mind less matter-of-fact than Mark Cray's that star
might have seemed as a ray of hope; an earnest that skies do not
remain gloomy for ever.
Mark turned in at his little garden, and was about to ring gingerly at
the house door; as one, not upon the most cordial terms with a
frowning landlady, likes to ring; when a voice in the road greeted
him.
"Bon soir!"
"Ben soir," returned Mark, supposing it was but the courteous
salutation of some chance passer-by, and not troubling himself to turn
his head.
"Et madame? quelles nouvelles avez-vous d'elle?"
Mark wheeled round. It was Monsieur Le Bleu.
Mark Cray extended his hand, and his face lighted up. In his
desolation even this French doctor was inexpressively welcome.
"I didn't know you were back, Mr. Blue: savais pas que vous retournez,
messeu," added he, taking his customary plunge into the mysteries of
French.
"I come from return this after-midday," said the surgeon. "I ask,
sare, if you have the news from madame?"
"She's worse, and can't come back," said Mark. "Plus malade. Not to be
cured at all, they say, which I don't believe; pas croyable; messeu. I
don't believe the English médecin understands the case. Non! jamais."
"Do I not say two--three--four months ago, me? I know she not curable
I feel sure what it was. You call it 'lump' and 'bouton'--bah! C'est
une tumeur fibreuse. I say to you, mon ami, you--tiens! c'est le
facteur!"
For the facteur had come up at an irregular hour, and this it was
which had caused Monsieur Le Bleu's remark of surprise. The bureau des
postes had despatched him to offer the letter a second time to Mark.
"Has monsieur got the money now?" he demanded in quick French, which
was a vast deal more intelligible to his French auditor than his
English one. "If not, our bureau won't be at the pains to offer the
letter a third time, and monsieur must get the letter from the bureau
himself if he wants it."
What with the amount of French all at once and the embarrassment of the
situation, Mark Cray devoutly wished the postman underneath the waters
of the manche. That functionary, however, stood his ground where he
was, and apparently had no intention of leaving it. He bent over the
gate, the letter in his outstretched hand. Monsieur Le Bleu looked on
him with some interest, curious to know why the letter had been refused.
He inquired why of Mark, and Mark muttered some unintelligible words in
answer, speaking in French so excessively obscure that the surgeon
could not understand a syllable.
So he turned for information to the facteur. "Did Monsieur dispute the
charge?" he asked.
"Not at all," replied the man. "It was not a dispute as to charge. The
English Monsieur had no money. It was a double letter: sixteen sous."
"Ah, no change," said Monsieur Le Bleu, with a delicacy that many
might have envied, as he turned his eyes from Mark Cray's downcast
face. "It's a general complaint. I never knew the small change so
scarce as it is: one can get nothing but gold. Hold, I'll take the
letter from you, facteur, and monsieur can repay me when he gets
change."
The surgeon handed the sixteen sous to the postman, and gave the
letter to Mark. Mark spoke some obscure words about repaying him
on the morrow, and broke the seal.
There was still light enough to see, though very obscurely, and Mark
Cray's dazed eyes fell on a bank-note for £5. The surgeon had bade him
goodnight, and was walking away with the postman: Mark Cray was only
half-conscious of their departure. Debt did not affect Mark as it does
those ultra-sensitive spirits who can but sink under its ills:
nevertheless, he did feel as if an overwhelming weight had been taken
from him.
He rang at the bell, loudly now, feeling not so afraid of madame,
should she answer it. And he lighted his little lamp and read the
letter. Read it almost in disbelief, half doubting whether its good
news could indeed be true. For Mr. Barker had written all couleur de
rose: and a very deep rose, too.
The Wheal Bang had come to its senses, and the worry was over. He,
Barker, was upon confidential terms with all the shareholders, shook
hands with them individually thrice a-day. There would be no fuss, no
bother; the affairs were being wound up in the most amicable manner,
and Mark had better come over without an hour's delay, and help. The
sooner they got it done, the sooner they should be free to turn their
attention to other matters, and he, Barker, had a glorious thing on
hand just now, safe to realise three thousand a-year.
Such were the chief contents of the letter. Whether Barker believed in
them fully himself, or whether he had dashed on a little extra
colouring as to the simplification of affairs relative to the Great
Wheal Bang, cannot be told. It may be that he feared hesitation still
on the part of Mark Cray, and wished to get him at once over. In point
of fact, Mark's presence was absolutely necessary to the winding-up.
Mark yielded without the slightest hesitation. If Mark Cray had
confidence in any one living being, it was Barker. He forthwith set
about the arrangements for his departure. It would take more than the
five-pound note to clear all that he owed in Honfleur; so he paid
madame, and one or two trifles that might have proved productive of a
little inconvenience at the time of starting, and got away quietly by
the boat to Havre, and thence to London.
But, oh! the treachery of man! When the steamer reached the
metropolis, Mark Cray walked boldly ashore in the full glare of day,
never so much as shading his eyes from the sun with those charming
blue spectacles you have heard of, never shrinking from the gaze of
any mortal Londoner. Mark's confidence in the good-fellowship of the
Wheal Bang's shareholders was restored, his trust in Barker implicit:
if he felt a little timid on any score, it was connected with his
clothes, which certainly did not give out quite so elegant a gloss as
when they were spick and span new. Mark stood on the quay, after
landing, and looked round for Barker, whom he had expected would be
there to meet him.
"Cab, sir?"
"No," said Mark.
"I'll wait here a minute or two," decided Mark to himself. "Barker's
sure to come. I wrote him word what time we might expect to be
in--though we are shamefully late. He can't have been and gone again!"
Somebody came up and touched him on the shoulder. "Mr. Marcus Cray, I
believe?"
Mark turned quickly. "Well?" said he to the intruder, a shabby-looking
man.
"You are my prisoner, sir."
"What?" cried Mark.
"You are my prisoner, sir," repeated the stranger, making a sign to
another man to come closer.
Mark howled and kicked, and for a moment actually fought with his
assailants. It was of course a senseless thing to do; but the shock
was so sudden. He had felt himself as secure, stepping on those
shores, as any grand foreign ambassador could have felt; and now to
find himself treacherously pounced upon in this way was beyond
everything bitter. No wonder that for the minute Mark was mad.
"It can't be!" he shrieked; "you have no warrant for this. I am free
as air; they wrote me word I was."
"Would you like a cab, sir?" inquired the official civilly, but not
deigning to answer. "You can have one if you like. Call one, Jim."
A cab was called; the prisoner was helped into it and driven away--he
was too bewildered to know where.
And that's how Mr. Mark Cray was welcomed to London. His rage was
great, his sense of injury dreadful.
"Only let me come across Barker!" he foamed. "He shall suffer for
this. A man ought to be hung for such treachery."
Mark Cray was, so far, mistaken. Barker was as innocent in the arrest
as he was. An accident had prevented his going down to meet the Havre
steamer.