Volume Two—Chapter Two.
At Havre and London.
Late on the evening of the day after the marriage in London, Markworth and his charge—lately his “sister,” now Madame sa femme—arrived at the half-seaport town, half-fashionable watering place of Havre-de-Grace, at the mouth of the slowly running Seine, tawny as the yellow Tiber.
Susan had not been brought to the Continent without serious prior deliberation.
Markworth, in the first place, wished to avoid observation at the present time; and he was so well-known in London, that he thought it would be folly to remain there any longer than necessary; and, in the second place, he wanted to secure a quiet retreat wherein to lodge Susan.
He determined, of course, to keep his hold on her until her friends were assured of the marriage; and as she might be traced, and he, perhaps, arrested for abducting the girl, before he was able to lay a legal claim to her inheritance, the best plan for him to pursue was to “go across the water,” as he expressed it, for awhile—as, indeed, a good many other gentlemen, who have sympathising friends amongst the trading interests of the great city of Babylon-the-Less have done, and annually do still.
What place so convenient, he thought, as Havre? So to Havre he accordingly ran over the next day, and in that pleasant little town he sat down awhile, to consider what his next movement should be, as he had to study each move carefully. He had plenty of money for present expenses; he had “the goose;” the only thing now to do was to get the “golden eggs.” As he had gone so far, he certainly was not going to be baulked now, he thought. And his chances must have been good, or that cautious old Jew, Solomonson, would not have “backed him.” He had only got to play his cards properly, and look about him awhile. That was all! Yes, that was all.
He could not have chosen a more convenient and comfortable place in France, all things considered, for his purpose.
Perhaps, an exceptional reader—I say “exceptional” advisedly—may have stopped at Havre after crossing over from Southampton—stopped a sufficient time to learn and know the place, for the generality of travellers who adopt this route to Paris, usually go on straight to their destination without breaking their journey at this picturesque old town, which is a sort of “half-way house” on the direct road. If so, the “exceptional reader” will bear me out in my observations on the subject and place.
Havre is like Liverpool and Boulogne rolled into one harmonious or inharmonious whole. It has all the shipping and maritime population—although perhaps the latter are more gaily dressed—of the great entrepôt on the Mersey, with all the thorough Gallic attributes of a French watering place.
Down in the town, Havre proper, it is all trade and bustle as befits a great commercial port; up amidst the heights of Ingouville, it is fashionable and fantastic, with its trim white terraces and green, gay Venetian blinds, and its lovely view of the bay beyond. Havre is really not considered half as much as it ought to be, and forms a much more enjoyable spot for a holiday than many of these fearfully uneventful and racketty fashionable resorts, which are generally patronised by English tourists on the Continent.
Liverpool it is like, with its muddy Seine—like the other river that runs between Birkenhead and its sister city—and its bustling streets and quays. Liverpool, with a touch of Ratcliffe Highway, on account of the parrots and foreign birds, mostly South American, that you see troops of sailors marching about with, besides the strong touch of the military element which one more frequently observes by the side of Tower Hill, than in the parallel city of trade in Lancashire. A French Liverpool, very Frenchified, and jovial and gay, with that foreign dash of sprightliness and insouciance which is never seen in England.
Here Markworth hired lodgings, in the Rue Montmartre, of a stout, middle-aged Frenchwoman and her little husband: the latter being a marchand of something or the other; and by no means the “better half” of the two.
Susan was as pleased as a child with the novelty of everything around her; and if she had been changed for the better at The Poplars, the change was twice as noticeable now that she had shut out from her all the past with its associations.
Every little item in her new life tended to increase the improvement in her mental organisation; besides which Markworth was kind and attentive to her, even more so than he had been before.
Instead of the dingy old melancholy house in Sussex, she was in a bright little French cottage. The old dark rooms were exchanged for a simple apartement bien garni, with its tiled floor, and those wonderfully simple accessories which complete the mobilier of our friends on the other side; the half dozen extraordinary-looking straight backed chairs, the round table with its matting beneath, the elaborate fire-place with its porcelain belongings, and the mantel-piece with inevitable gilt clock and china shepherdesses.
The fat landlady was very kind, although she did not speak a word of English; still her husband prided himself on his knowledge of our language, a knowledge nearly limited to that of the Frenchman’s of poor Albert Smith’s acquaintance, who saying “Ah, Ya-as! I spik Englise—portair—bier—rosbif—God dam!” there wound up the catalogue of his accomplishments.
But Mère Cliquelle was kind in her way. She understood from Markworth that “Madame” was very delicate; and as she had a separate room and looked very pale, Mère Cliquelle tried to make her very comfortable by always nodding to her, and smiling whenever she came into the room, which she was constantly doing to bring Madame sundry little pet-dishes or plats of her own cuisine and bonbons ad infinitum.
Susan was soon very happy, and as gay as a bird in her new home. She had been sensible enough before; but she was now light-hearted as well.
Markworth devoted himself to her. He would take her out constantly for walks along the bustling quays, where Susan liked to watch the gaily dressed sailors, and the ships and tiny craft in the harbour. Every sailor on landing seemed to bring home half a dozen parrots or crimson birds of the tropics. You never can see such a lot of “imported” birds, as the Americans say, anywhere else, as at Havre.
Susan and Markworth were quite a study for the simple French couple with whom they abode. They thought “Madame” so beautiful and affectionate; and Monsieur, “Mon Dieu! un galant homme, and so handsome:—a rich Milor Anglais, no doubt.”
Thus a month had passed by; and Markworth thought that the time for him to act once more had arrived. His training had not been lost on Susan. Thanks to his indefatigable efforts she was now fully restored, and she would be the best witness he could have in court should he be forced to go to law in order to gain his rights to her money. He had indeed devoted himself to the girl’s cure especially for this object, but he had also been led on by a species of real zeal in the case. He had seen from the first how easily Susan, by proper influences, could be led to regain her mind, and had steadily persevered in that direction.
If anyone else had spent as much time and trouble on her long ago, Susan would never have required his aid, but she had been neglected, left alone in that old house; and Doctor Jolly, with all his cleverness as a medical practitioner, had not understood her case.
Markworth was proud of his triumph, apart from the consideration that his own well-being was interested in Susan’s recovery. He was proud that his hand had wrought the cure; and besides, he was really concerned about the girl on her own account. Her entire faith and confidence, and her blind worship, touched even him, while her love had made him have a friendly regard for her, which might or might not grow deeper.
There were one or two good points in his character, as is the case with all bad men. He was not brutal, or naturally bad hearted, but at the same time he was careful of his own interests. If he had got Susan’s money, for example, he would not then have turned her adrift. She loved him like a faithful dog, and it was not in his nature to kick a dog away. He was kind to her because it suited his purpose: it was necessary to her cure, and besides he had no reason to be otherwise.
At the end of a month, therefore, he determined to make some move.
He had seen an advertisement for the lost girl in the “Times,” which he had given directions to have sent over to him here. The advertisement had appeared a very few days after the date on which he had removed Susan from The Poplars, and had been continued repeatedly since; but that did not flurry him much. He knew he could not be traced, and as the had no feelings of compunction for the anxiety which might be occasioned by her disappearance, he determined to suit his own time when to make the news known of her safety and present condition.
He was certain that Clara Kingscott would not give any information about him, as she was a clever woman, and was obliged on her own account not to implicate herself in the abduction of the girl, and was besides anxious to get the remainder of the money he had promised her for aiding him; so he could afford to take his own time and play the game just as he chose, for the cards were in his hand.
He thus let a month run, and Susan being quite happy and settled down in their comfortable lodgings with the Mère Cliquelle in the Rue Montmartre, he thought he would go over to London for a couple of days or so, and set his plans to work. He also wanted more money, and that was a potent reason for taking him.
Susan was disturbed at first on learning that he was going away, but was as quickly consoled when he promised to be back very soon, and to bring her brother Tom with him; that was the only anxiety she had displayed on leaving her home. She had retained her love for her brother, and she feared he was angry at her leaving. She was delighted consequently to learn from Markworth, as he told her, that he was going to fetch him, for she was not yet aware of the great interests that hung at stake upon her.
Susan saw him preparing to start with many tears, and many directions for him to be back soon; after which Markworth left her to the kindly care of the Mère Cliquelle, who promised to look after her as her own child: he then crossed the channel.
He first visited his Hebrew friend Solomonson in Chancery Lane, whereby depositing sundry shares he had in a City Company, and giving a bond for about five times the amount, payable on his obtaining his wife’s inheritance, he managed to obtain an advance of some hundred pounds to carry him on until the lawsuit should be determined.
Before coming to a final settlement, Markworth bargained some time as usual with the Jew, but had at last to accede to his terms; as it would have been difficult for him to get money from anyone else without stronger security. Indeed, the Jew only trusted him now because he was in a heavy venture, and because also, Markworth had always behaved honourably to him in his dealings before—and there had been many and various between the parties. But he would require sharp payment would the Jew with all his trust, and should he lose his case, old Solomonson would be the first to be down upon him.
He was apparently, he reflected, spending Susan’s fortune before he got it; so he determined to set about securing it now as soon as possible.
Having already perused several times the advertisement for Susan, he knew well where the lawyer’s offices were, where he was to apply, and he made up his mind to go there first before—as he called it—“tackling the old dowager.”
To Bedford Row, he accordingly bent his steps; and he laughed jocosely, as he went up the staircase towards Messrs Trump and Sequence’s offices. “What a capital joke it will be,” he said to himself, “asking them for that ‘Fifty Pounds Reward.’ I’m hanged if I don’t do it;” and he walked in accordingly to startle Mr Trump.