FAREWELL.
It need not be said that the Coldstreams awaited with more than
interest the important reply to Oscar’s letter, though they never
spoke about it. There were but two mails in the course of each week.
Carefully had the days been calculated the lapse of which would render
an acknowledgment of Coldstream’s confession possible. Communication
between different stations in the East was comparatively slow in the
time of King William.
The first day on which a reply from Calcutta could be expected was the
day after Christmas. It was not without emotion that the letter-bag was
opened by Coldstream. Was it a disappointment or a relief to find in it
nothing but a newspaper and a note from a tradesman? Io, in a fever of
anxiety, had stolen into the room to learn if the dreaded despatch had
come. The question was asked only in a look, and a slight shake of the
head was the silent reply.
Coldstream had made every arrangement for quitting Moulmein after
the second Calcutta mail should arrive. He had taken a passage for his
wife and himself in a schooner which was to start on the noon of the
day when the mail would be due: better, he thought, to run the risk of
forfeiting the passage money than that of having to remain in Moulmein
four days after his crime should be publicly known there. Io had
everything prepared for a start.
The next mail came on a Tuesday, the last Tuesday of the year. Io
watched the opening of the bag, and gasped with agitation as a large
official despatch with a Government seal was drawn forth. Oscar lifted
up his heart in silent prayer before he broke that seal.
The document was couched in stiff official language. Mr. Coldstream’s
communication was acknowledged. As the affair had occurred in England,
the case would be referred to the authorities at home, where doubtless
a record of the inquest held on the body of Mr. Walter Manly had
been preserved. Until directions should be received from England,
Mr. Coldstream was required to surrender his person to the police
authorities in Calcutta.
“Mine own! mine own! I will share your imprisonment,” cried Io,
pressing her husband’s hand to her lips.
“No, my love; you will live near, and obtain permission to visit me
often,” said Oscar. “We will await the final decision from England with
faith, patience, and submission. And now, is all ready for our start?”
“We have not bidden good-bye to poor Thud,” said Io; “I have not seen
him to-day.”
“No; I sent him off to the office as soon as he had had his early
breakfast. As Thud is close to the wharf, he will come to see us off
ere the vessel starts. We wish no prolonged good-byes.”
It is not a matter of wonder that when final arrangements had to
be made, the keys of the house placed in the agent’s hands, and
the inventory looked over, the Calcutta newspaper which had arrived
that morning should lie unopened on the table, beside the packets of
groceries and such like things that had been prepared for the voyage.
But other copies of that newspaper had reached Moulmein, and had not
been equally neglected. One was in the hands of Mrs. Cottle as she was
sitting at breakfast with her husband. Being busily occupied with his
fried fish and anchovy sauce, Cottle had deferred the perusal of the
paper, and left his wife to look out first for the paragraphs of gossip
and scandal which were to her the sauce to a dry dish of politics and
statistics.
“Bless my heart! bless my heart! _bless my heart!_” exclaimed
Mrs. Cottle, each repetition of the blessing made in a louder and more
emphatic tone, which roused the attention of her spouse.
“What is it, my dear?” quoth Cottle.
“I always knew it; I always said it. He was no fit company for us, the
hypocritical, sneaking, bloodthirsty villain.”
“Who is it, my dear?” asked Cottle, laying down his knife and fork to
listen with more undivided attention.
“Here is a paragraph――look; it is easy enough to make out its meaning,”
cried Mrs. Cottle, and with terrible emphasis she read aloud from the
paper:――
“MURDER BY A GENTLEMAN.――It is reported that a Mr. C―――― of
M――――n has confessed to having killed, by throwing down a cliff,
a person against whom he had a grudge. As Mr. C―――― is said
to be of very good family, with high connections, the case is
likely to excite great interest in England amongst the upper ten
thousand.”
“But we are not of the upper ten thousand, so what is it to us?” said
honest John Cottle.
“We know Mr. Coldstream, and it must be he!” cried his partner; “M――――n
must stand for Moulmein.”
“It might stand for Moultan or Macedon,” quoth Cottle. “And C is a
common letter enough; it might stand for my name.”
“What nonsense you talk!” cried his irreverent spouse. “C―――― is
Coldstream, and M――――n Moulmein; it does not need two grains of sense
to understand that.”
Cottle put on his glasses, and stretched out his hand for the paper.
Mrs. Cottle, as she poured out the coffee, again exclaimed, “Bless my
heart!”
After breakfast was concluded the dame sallied forth to communicate the
exciting news to others. The first person whom she chanced to meet was
the chaplain.
“O Mr. Lawrence, have you seen the horrible news about Mr. Coldstream?”
she cried, hoping that she might be the first person to impart it to
the clergyman.
“I have seen the papers,” said Mark very gravely. He wished to pass on,
but Mrs. Cottle was determined to have out her say.
“To think of such a wretch kneeling in the same church as ourselves!
A felon having the audacity to dine with respectable people!”
Mrs. Cottle would have rattled on, but she was stopped by the sternest
rebuke which she had ever heard from the lips of the chaplain: “Judge
not, that ye be not judged; condemn not, lest ye be condemned.” And
with these words Mark Lawrence went on his way, his brow knitted as if
from pain, and a heavy weight on his heart.
The paragraph in the papers had also been read by Dr. Pinfold, as
he was lounging in his easy-chair before going out to make his round
amongst his patients. He had perused a column and a half of political
news before his eye was attracted by the paragraph headed in large
capitals which had at once arrested the attention of Mrs. Cottle.
Pinfold’s interest in Io was much stronger than hers, and, though
less loudly expressed, his indignation against her husband was
proportionately greater.
“The villain! and he dared to propose marriage to _her_; to offer the
sweetest girl in England a blood-stained hand!” exclaimed the doctor,
flinging down the paper and rising from his seat. “I suspected him of
being a madman; I never thought of his being a murderer. My poor Io!
innocent, unfortunate victim, if I can I will rescue you yet.”
So as Io, just about to quit her house, was buttoning on her boots, a
servant placed a letter on the table before her.
“It is from dear old Pinny; I know his handwriting. Please read it to
me, Oscar. I thought that the doctor had bidden us his final good-bye
last night.”
Oscar opened the letter, looked surprised at its contents, and, without
comment, handed it on to his wife. The doctor’s scrawl ran thus:――
“MY DEAR CHILD,――I always thought your marriage a mistake, but
I never knew till now what a great one. You must not think of
sacrificing yourself by accompanying your miserable husband. His
conduct cancels all obligations entered into through ignorance
of the truth. I offer you a home here in Moulmein. You are my
god-child, the daughter of my old friend; I will adopt you as my
own. Whilst I live you shall find a parent in your old Pinny.”
Io flushed with indignation as she read; then tore the letter into
minute fragments, and trampled them under her foot.
“It was kindly meant,” observed Oscar.
“What! to insult you to your own wife! to endeavour to divide me from
you! O Oscar, Oscar, how little he knows me! I would rather never see
daylight again than be separated from my husband!”
“Then let us now go on our way,” said Oscar, “and meet trial and
misfortune together. Your palanquin waits outside.”
Io silently entered it. She put down the curtains on either side as
she started for the place of embarkation, that no one might see her
tear-bedewed face. Oscar walked to the docks, but by a round-about
route amongst low narrow lanes, frequented only by natives. He pulled
his hat over his brow, and never raised his eyes from the path before
him, for the doctor’s letter had shown to him plainly that his secret
was a secret no longer. Coldstream’s circuitous route brought him
to the docks a little after his wife. His arrival interrupted a
distressing conversation which she was having with Thud, who was making
a last desperate attempt to persuade his sister to take him with her to
Calcutta.
“You know that mother would never have treated me so,” cried the lad;
“now she is gone, and you desert me. It is cruel, it is unnatural! it
is because you are such a slave to――” Here Thud suddenly paused, for
Coldstream was at his side.
“Farewell, Thud,” said Oscar, holding out his hand. “Do your duty to
man and to God, and may He prosper and bless you.――Io, my love, enough
of this; the sooner we are on board the better.”
The Coldstreams were soon treading the deck of the _Dolphin_, but the
plank which connected the vessel with the shore was not yet raised.
Smith came to see his friend and benefactor depart, and again express
hopes of his happy return. Smith had not seen the newspapers; he never
read them till business hours were over.
“Would that we were fairly off!” thought Oscar; but another good-bye
was before him yet ere the keel of the _Dolphin_ should plough the
green waves.
“Ah, Mr. Lawrence!” exclaimed Io.
The chaplain crossed the plank, pale with suppressed emotion. He walked
up straight to Oscar, and took his hand in both his own.
“You know all, and yet you do not turn from me,” said Oscar.
“I have come to give you my parting blessing――to unite with you,
perhaps for the last time, in prayer.” The chaplain could scarcely
command his voice as he added, “I honour you for having done all that
you could do to――” Here Mark Lawrence fairly broke down; he could not
finish the sentence.
“Clear boards. You’d better be off, sir, unless you mean to make the
voyage with us,” said the captain of the _Dolphin_ gruffly. “We’re
weighing anchor, you see.”
There was no more time for conversation, for nothing but cordial
pressure of hands. The plank was raised the minute after Mark Lawrence
had passed over. The wind swelled the sails, and the vessel moved on,
leaving a brief track on the waters behind her.
“Even as those bubbles on the waves will earth’s darkest trials pass
away,” thought the chaplain as he watched the departing ship. “There
goes a man who is as a gallant vessel that has suddenly struck on a
rock and been almost wrecked, that has all but sunk below the billows,
but which, through God’s grace, has been given power to rise above them.
Its cargo of earthly reputation and earthly joy is indeed lost; but
it is bravely struggling on, though with torn sail and shattered mast,
towards that port where the rock cannot crush nor the tempest toss,
where the pardoned penitent finds peace for ever.”
Mark Lawrence turned homewards, repeating to himself the well-known
verse:――
“Though tempest-torn, and half a wreck,
My Saviour through the floods I seek;
Let neither wind nor stormy main
Force back my shattered bark again!”