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

Watson advises me strongly to leave my desk, and try country air, and rest from business and its cares.”

He paused a moment; and the young man drew a long breath, like one who was in the act of being relieved of some terrible weight.

As for the old gentleman, he was not observing his son just then, but thinking of his own career; a certain expression of pain and regret came over his features; but he shook it off with manly dignity. “Come, come,” said he, “this is the law of Nature, and must be submitted to with a good grace. Wardlaw junior, fill your glass.” At the same time he stood up and said, stoutly, “The setting sun drinks to the rising sun;” but could not maintain that artificial style, and ended with, “God bless you, my boy, and may you stick to business; avoid speculation, as I have done; and so hand the concern down healthy to your son, as my father there (pointing to a picture) handed it down to me, and I to you.”

His voice wavered slightly in uttering this benediction; but only for a moment. He then sat quietly down, and sipped his wine composedly.

Not so the other. His color came and went violently all the time his father was speaking, and, when he ceased, he sank into his chair with another sigh deeper than the last, and two half-hysterical tears came to his pale eyes.

But presently, feeling he was expected to say something, he struggled against all this mysterious emotion, and faltered out that he should not fear the responsibility, if he might have constant recourse to his father for advice.

“Why, of course,” was the reply. “My country house is but a mile from the station. You can telegraph for me in any case of importance.”

“When would you wish me to commence my new duties?”

“Let me see, it will take six weeks to prepare a balance-sheet, such as I could be content to submit to an incoming partner. Say two months.”

Young Wardlaw’s countenance fell.

“Meantime you shall travel on the Continent and enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you,” said young Wardlaw, mechanically, and fell into a brown study.

The room now returned to what seemed its natural state. And its silence continued until it was broken from without.

A sharp knocking was heard at the street door, and resounded across the marble hall.

The Wardlaws looked at one another in some little surprise.

“I have invited nobody,” said the elder. Some time elapsed, and then a footman made his appearance and brought in a card.

“Mr. Christopher Adams.”

Now that Mr. Christopher Adams should call on John Wardlaw, in his private room, at nine o’clock in the evening, seemed to that merchant irregular, presumptuous and monstrous. “Tell him he will find me at my place of business tomorrow, as usual,” said he, knitting his brows.

The footman went off with this message; and, soon after, raised voices were heard in the hall, and the episcopal butler entered the room with an injured countenance.

“He says he must see you; he is in great anxiety.”

“Yes, I am in great anxiety,” said a quavering voice at his, elbow; and Mr. Adams actually pushed by the butler, and stood, hat in hand, in those sacred precincts. “‘Pray excuse me, sir,” said he, “but it is very serious; I can’t be easy in my mind till I have put you a question.”

“This is very extraordinary conduct, sir,” said Mr. Wardlaw. “Do you think I do business here, and at all hours?”

“Oh, no, sir. It is my own business. I am come to ask you a very serious question. I couldn’t wait till morning with such a doubt on my mind.”

“Well, sir, I repeat this is irregular and extraordinary; but as you are here, pray what is the matter?” He then dismissed the lingering butler with a look. Mr. Adams cast uneasy glances on young Wardlaw.

“Oh,” said the elder, “you can speak before him. This is my partner; that is to say, he will be as soon as the balance-sheet can be prepared and the deed drawn. Wardlaw junior, this is Mr. Adams, a very respectable bill discounter.”

The two men bowed to each other, and Arthur Wardlaw sat down motionless.

“Sir, did you draw a note of hand to-day?” inquired Adams of the elder merchant.

“I dare say I did. Did you discount one signed by me?”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

“Well, sir, you have only to present it at maturity. Wardlaw & Son will provide for it, I dare say.” This with the lofty nonchalance of a rich man who had never broken an engagement in his life.

“Ah, that I know they will if it is all right; but suppose it is not?”

“What d’ye mean?” asked Wardlaw, with some astonishment.

“Oh, nothing, sir! It bears your signature, that is good for twenty times the amount; and it is indorsed by your cashier. Only what makes me a little uneasy, your bills used to be always on your own forms, and so I told my partner; he discounted it. Gentlemen, I wish you would just look at it.”

“Of course we will look at it. Show it Arthur first; his eyes are younger than mine.”

Mr. Adams took out a large bill-book, extracted the note of hand, and passed it across the table to Wardlaw junior. He took it up with a sort of shiver, and bent his head very low over it; then handed it back in silence.

Adams took it to Wardlaw senior and laid it before him by the side of Arthur’s Testamur.

The merchant inspected it with his glasses.

“The writing is mine, apparently.”

“I am very glad of it,” said the bill-broker, eagerly.

“Stop a bit,” said Mr. Wardlaw. “Why, what is this? For two thousand pounds! and, as you say, not my form. I have signed no note for two thousand pounds this week. Dated yesterday. You have not cashed it, I hope?”

“I am sorry to say my partner has.”

“Well, sir, not to keep you in suspense, the thing is not worth the stamp it is written on.”

“Mr. Wardlaw!—Sir!—Good heavens! Then it is as I feared. It is a forgery.”

“I should be puzzled to find any other name for it. You need not look so pale, Arthur. We can’t help some clever scoundrel imitating our hands; and as for you, Adams, you ought to have been more cautious.”

“But, sir, your cashier’s name is Penfold,” faltered the holder, clinging to a straw. “May he not have drawn—is the indorsement forged as well?”

Mr. Wardlaw examined the back of the bill, and looked puzzled. “No,” said he. “My cashier’s name is Michael Penfold, but this is indorsed ‘Robert Penfold.’ Do you hear, Arthur? Why, what is the matter with you? You look like a ghost. I say there is your tutor’s name at the back of this forged note. That is very strange. Just look, and tell me who wrote these two words ‘Robert Penfold’?”

Young Wardlaw took the document and tried to examine it calmly, but it shook visibly in his hand, and a cold moisture gathered on his brow. His pale eyes roved to and fro in a very remarkable way; and he was so long before he said anything that both the other persons present began to eye him with wonder.

At last he faltered out, “This ‘Robert Penfold’ seems to me very like his own handwriting. But then the rest of the writing is equally like yours, sir. I am sure Robert Penfold never did anything wrong. Mr. Adams, please oblige me. Let this go no further till I have seen him, and asked him whether he indorsed it.”

“Now don’t you be in a hurry,” said the elder Wardlaw. “The first question is, who received the money?”

Mr. Adams replied that it was a respectable-looking man, a young clergyman.

“Ah!” said Wardlaw, with a world of meaning.

“Father!” said young Wardlaw, imploringly, “for my sake, say no more to-night. Robert Penfold is incapable of a dishonest act.”

“It becomes your years to think so, young man. But I have lived long enough to see what crimes respectable man are betrayed into in the hour of temptation. And, now I think of it, this Robert Penfold is in want of money. Did he not ask me for a loan of two thousand pounds? Was not that the very sum? Can’t you answer me? Why, the application came through you.”

Receiving no reply from his son, but a sort of agonized stare, he took out his pencil and wrote down Robert Penfold’s address. This he handed the bill-broker, and gave him some advice in a whisper, which Mr. Christopher Adams received with a profusion of thanks, and bustled away, leaving Wardlaw senior excited and indignant, Wardlaw junior ghastly pale and almost stupefied.

Scarcely a word was spoken for some minutes, and then the younger man broke out suddenly: “Robert Penfold is the best friend I ever had; I should have been expelled but for him, and I should never have earned that Testamur but for him.”

The old merchant interrupted him. “You exaggerate. But, to tell the truth, I am sorry now I did not lend him the money you asked for. For, mark my words, in a moment of temptation that miserable young man has forged my name, and will be convicted of the felony and punished accordingly.”

“No, no. Oh, God forbid!” shrieked young Wardlaw. “I couldn’t bear it. If he did, he must have intended to replace it. I must see him; I will see him directly.” He got up all in a hurry, and was going to Penfold to warn him, and get him out of the way till the money should be replaced. But his father started up at the same moment and forbade him, in accents that he had never yet been able to resist.

“Sit down, sir, this instant,” said the old man, with terrible sternness. “Sit down, I say, or you will never be a partner of mine. Justice must take its course. What business and what right have we to protect a felon? I would not take your part if you were one. Indeed it is too late now, for the detectives will be with him before you could reach him. I gave Adams his address.”

At this last piece of information Wardlaw junior leaned his head on the table and groaned aloud, and a cold perspiration gathered in beads upon his white forehead.

CHAPTER II.

THAT same evening sat over their tea, in Norfolk Street, Strand, another couple, who were also father and son; but, in this pair, the Wardlaws were reversed. Michael Penfold was a reverend, gentle creature, with white hair, blue eyes and great timidity; why, if a stranger put to him a question he used to look all round the room before he ventured to answer.

Robert, his son, was a young man with a large brown eye, a mellow voice, square shoulders and a prompt and vigorous manner. Cricketer. Scholar. Parson.

They were talking hopefully together over a living Robert was going to buy. It was near Oxford, he said, and would not prevent his continuing to take pupils. “But, father,” said he, “it will be a place to take my wife to if I ever have one; and, meantime, I hope you will run down now and then, Saturday to Monday.”

“That I will, Robert. Ah! how proud she would have been to hear you preach; it was always her dream, poor thing.”

“Let us think she can hear me,” said Robert. “And I have got you still; the proceeds of this living will help me to lodge you more comfortably.”

“You are very good, Robert. I would rather see you spend it