Foul Play by Dion Boucicault (snow like ashes .TXT) 📖

told him there was a rumor the Shannon was lost in the Pacific.

At this he nearly fainted in the street; and his friend took him back to his office in a deplorable condition. All this time he had been feigning anxiety about the Proserpine, and concealing his real anxiety about the Shannon. To do him justice, he lost sight of everything in the world now but Helen. He sent old Penfold in hot haste to Lloyd’s, to inquire for news of the ship; and then he sat down sick at heart; and all he could do now was to open her portrait, and gaze at it through eyes blinded with tears. Even a vague rumor, which he hoped might be false, had driven all his commercial maneuvers out of him, and made all other calamities seem small.

And so they all are small, compared with the death of the creature we love.

While he sat thus, in a stupor of fear and grief, he heard a well-known voice in the outer office; and, next after Burtenshaw’s, it was the one that caused him the most apprehension. It was his father’s.

Wardlaw senior rarely visited the office now; and this was not his hour. So Arthur knew something extraordinary had brought him up to town. And he could not doubt that it was the panic, and that he had been to Morland’s, or would go there in course of the day; but, indeed, it was more probable that he had already heard something, and was come to investigate.

Wardlaw senior entered the room.

“Good-morning, Arthur,” said he. “I’ve got good news for you.”

Arthur was quite startled by an announcement that accorded so little with his expectations.

“Good news—for me?” said he, in a faint, incredulous tone.

“Ay, glorious news! Haven’t you been anxious about the Shannon? I have; more anxious than I would own.”

Arthur started up. “The Shannon! God bless you, father.”

“She lies at anchor in the Mersey,” roared the old man, with all a father’s pride at bringing such good news. “Why, the Rollestons will be in London at 2:15. See, here is his telegram.”

At this moment in ran Penfold, to tell them that the Shannon was up at Lloyd’s, had anchored off Liverpool last night.

There was hearty shaking of hands, and Arthur Wardlaw was the happiest man in London—for a little while.

“Got the telegram at Elmtrees, this morning, and came up by the first express,” said Wardlaw senior.

The telegram was from Sir Edward Rolleston. “Reached Liverpool last night; will be at Euston, two-fifteen.”

“Not a word from her!”

“Oh, there was no time to write; and ladies do not use the telegram.” He added slyly, “Perhaps she thought coming in person would do as well, or better, eh!”

“But why does he telegraph you instead of me?”

“I am sure I don’t know. What does it matter? Yes, I do know. It was settled months ago that he and Helen should come to me at Elmtrees, so I was the proper person to telegraph. I’ll go and meet them at the station; there is plenty of time. But, I say, Arthur, have you seen the papers? Bartley Brothers obliged to wind up. Maple & Cox, of Liverpool, gone; Atlantic trading. Terry & Brown suspended, International credit gone. Old friends, some of these. Hopley & Timms, railway contractors, failed, sir; liabilities, seven hundred thousand pounds and more.”

“Yes, sir,” said Arthur, pompously. “1866 will long be remembered for its revelations of commercial morality.”

The old gentleman, on this, asked his son, with excusable vanity, whether he had done ill in steering clear of speculation; he then congratulated him on having listened to good advice and stuck to legitimate business. “I must say, Arthur,” added be, “your books are models for any trading firm.”

Arthur winced in secret under this praise, for it occurred to him that in a few days his father would discover those books were all a sham and the accounts a fabrication.

However, the unpleasant topic was soon interrupted, and effectually, too; for Michael looked in, with an air of satisfaction on his benevolent countenance, and said, “Gentlemen, such an arrival! Here is Miss Rouse’s sweetheart, that she dreamed was drowned.”

“What is the man to me?” said Arthur peevishly. He did not recognize Wylie under that title.

“La, Mr. Arthur! why, he is the mate of the Proserpine,” said Penfold.

“What! Wylie! Joseph Wylie?” cried Arthur, in a sudden excitement that contrasted strangely with his previous indifference.

“What is that?” cried Wardlaw senior; “the Proserpine; show him in at once.”

Now this caused Arthur Wardlaw considerable anxiety; for obvious reasons he did not want his father and this sailor to exchange a word together. However, that was inevitable now. The door opened; and the bronzed face and sturdy figure of Wylie, clad in a rough pea-jacket, came slouching in.

Arthur went hastily to meet him, and gave him an expressive look of warning, even while he welcomed him in cordial accents.

“Glad to see you safe home,” said Wardlaw senior.

“Thank ye, guv’nor,” said Wylie. “Had a squeak for it, this time.”

“Where is your ship?”

Wylie shook his head sorrowfully. “Bottom of the Pacific.”

“Good heavens! What! is she lost?”

“That she is, sir. Foundered at sea, twelve hundred miles from the Horn, and more.”

“And the freight? the gold?” put in Arthur, with well-feigned anxiety.

“Not an ounce saved,” said Wylie, disconsolately. “A hundred and sixty thousand pounds gone to the bottom.”

“Good heavens!”

“Ye see, sir,” said Wylie, “the ship encountered one gale after another, and labored a good deal, first and last; and we all say her seams must have opened; for we never could find the leak that sunk her,” and he cast a meaning glance at Arthur Wardlaw.

“No matter how it happened,” said the old merchant. “Are we insured to the full; that is the first question?”

“To the last shilling.”

“Well done, Arthur.”

“But still it is most unlucky. Some weeks must elapse before the insurances can be realized, and a portion of the gold was paid for in bills at short date.”

“The rest in cash?”

“Cash and merchandise.”

“Then there is the proper margin. Draw on my private account, at the Bank of England.”

These few simple words showed the struggling young merchant a way out of all his difficulties.

His heart leaped so, he dared not reply, lest he should excite the old gentleman’s suspicions.

But ere he could well draw his breath for joy, came a freezer.

“Mr. Burtenshaw, sir.”

“Bid him wait,” said Arthur, aloud, and cast a look of great anxiety on Penfold, which the poor old man, with all his simplicity, comprehended well enough.

“Burtenshaw, from Morland’s. What does he want of us?” said Wardlaw senior, knitting his brows.

Arthur turned cold all over. “Perhaps to ask me not to draw out my balance. It is less than usual; but they are run upon; and, as you are good enough to let me draw on you— By the by, perhaps you will sign a check before you go to the station.”

“How much do you want?”

“I really don’t know, till I have consulted Penfold. The gold was a large and advantageous purchase, sir.”

“No doubt; no doubt. I’ll give you my signature, and you can fill in the amount.”

He drew a check in favor of Arthur Wardlaw, signed it, and left him to fill in the figures.

He then looked at his watch, and remarked they would barely have time to get to the station.

“Good heavens!” cried Arthur; “and I can’t go. I must learn the particulars of the loss of the Proserpine, and prepare the statement at once for the underwriters”

“Well, never mind. I can go.”

“But what will she think of me? I ought to be the first to welcome her.”

“I’ll make your excuses.”

“No, no; say nothing. After all, it was you who received the telegram, so you naturally meet her; but you will bring her here, father. You won’t whisk my darling down to Elmtrees till you have blessed me with the sight of her.”

“I will not be so cruel, fond lover,” said old Wardlaw, laughing, and took up his hat and gloves to go.

Arthur went to the door with him in great anxiety, lest he should question Burtenshaw. But, peering into the outer office, he observed Burtenshaw was not there. Michael had caught his employer’s anxious look and conveyed the banker into the small room where the shorthand writer was at work. But Burtenshaw was one of a struggling firm; to him every minute was an hour. He had sat, fuming with impatience, so long as he heard talking in the inner office; and, the moment it ceased, he took the liberty of coming in; so that he opened the side door just as Wardlaw senior was passing through the center door.

Instantly Wardlaw junior whipped before him, to hide his figure from his retreating father.

Wylie—who all this time had been sitting silent, looking from one to the other, and quietly puzzling out the game as well as he could—observed this movement and grinned.

As for Arthur Wardlaw, he saw his father safe out, then gave a sigh of relief, and walked to his office table and sat down and began to fill in the check.

Burtenshaw drew near and said, “I am instructed to say that fifty thousand pounds on account will be accepted.”

Perhaps if this proposal had been made a few seconds sooner, the ingenious Arthur would have availed himself of it; but as it was, he preferred to take the high and mighty tone. “I decline any concession,” said he. “Mr. Penfold, take this check to the Bank of England. 81,647 pounds 10s., that is the amount, capital and interest, up to noon this day. Hand the sum to Mr. Burtenshaw, taking his receipt, or, if he prefers it, pay it across his counter, to my credit. That will perhaps arrest the run.”

Burtenshaw stammered out his thanks.

Wardlaw cut him short. “Good-morning, sir,” said he. “I have business of importance. Good-day,” and bowed him out.

“This is a highflier,” thought Burtenshaw.

Wardlaw then opened the side door and called his shorthand writer.

“Mr. Atkins, please step into the outer office, and don’t let a soul come in to me. Mind, I am out for the day. Except to Miss Rolleston and her father.”

He then closed all the doors, and sunk exhausted into a chair, muttering, “Thank Heaven! I have got rid of them all for an hour or two. Now, Wylie.”

Wylie seemed in no hurry to enter upon the required subject.

Said he, evasively, “Why, guv’nor, it seems to me you are among the breakers here yourself.”

“Nothing of the sort, if you have managed your work cleverly. Come, tell me all, before we are interrupted again.”

“Tell ye all about it!. Why, there’s part on’t I am afraid to think on; let alone talk about it.”

“Spare me your scruples, and give me your facts,” said Wardlaw coldly. “First of all, did you succeed in shifting the bullion as agreed?”

The sailor appeared relieved by this question.

“Oh, that is all right,” said he. “I got the bullion safe aboard the Shannon, marked for lead.”

“And the lead on board the Proserpine?”

“Ay, shipped as bullion.”

“Without suspicion?”

“Not quite.”

“Great Heaven! Who?”

“One clerk at the shipping agent’s scented something queer, I think. James Seaton. That was the name he went by.”

“Could he prove anything?”

“Nothing. He knew nothing for certain; and what he guessed won’t never be known in England now.” And Wylie fidgeted in his chair.

Notwithstanding this assurance Wardlaw looked grave, and took a note of that clerk’s name. Then