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

who lodged next door, might be an agent of Wylie’s and a spy on her. Wylie must have told him to push the 2,000 pounds into her room; but what a strange thing to do! To be sure, he was a sailor, and sailors had been known to make sandwiches of banknotes and eat them. Still, her good sense revolted against this theory, and she was sore puzzled; for, after all, there was the money, and she had seen it come through the wall. One thing appeared certain, Joe had not forgotten her; he was thinking of her as much as ever, or more than ever; so her spirits rose, she began singing and whistling again, and waited cunningly till Joe should reappear and explain his conduct. Hostage for his reappearance she held the 2,000 pounds. She felt so strong and saucy she was half sorry she had allowed Mr. Penfold to advertise; but, after all, it did not much matter; she could always declare to Joe she had never missed him, for her part, and the advertising was a folly of poor Mr. Penfold’s.

Matters were in this condition when the little servant came up one evening to Mr. Penfold and said there was a young lady to see him.

“A young lady for me?” said he.

“Which she won’t eat you, while I am by,” said the sharp little girl. “It is a lady, and the same what come before.”

“Perhaps she will oblige me with her name,” said Michael, timidly.

“I won’t show her up till she do,” said this mite of a servant, who had been scolded by Nancy for not extracting that information on Helen’s last visit.

“Of course, I must receive her,” said Michael, half consulting the mite; it belonged to a sex which promptly assumes the control of such gentle creatures as he was.

“Is Miss Rouse in the way?” said he.

The mite laughed, and said:

“She is only gone down the street. I’ll send her in to take care on you.”

With this she went off, and in due course led Helen up the stairs. She ran in, and whispered in Michael’s ear—

“It is Miss Helen Rolleston.”

Thus they announced a lady at No. 3.

Michael stared with wonder at so great a personage visiting him; and the next moment Helen glided into the room, blushing a little, and even panting inaudibly, but all on her guard. She saw before her a rather stately figure, and a face truly venerable, benignant and beautiful, though deficient in strength. She cast a devouring glance on him as she courtesied to him; and it instantly flashed across her, “But for you there would be no Robert Penfold.” There was an unconscious tenderness in her voice as she spoke to him, for she had to open the interview.

“Mr. Penfold, I fear my visit may surprise you, as you did not write to me. But, when you hear what I am come about, I think you will not be displeased with me for coming.”

“Displeased, madam! I am highly honored by your visit—a lady who, I understand, is to be married to my worthy employer, Mr. Arthur. Pray be seated, madam.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Helen began in a low, thrilling voice, to which, however, she gave firmness by a resolute effort of her will.

“I am come to speak to you of one who is very dear to you, and to all who really know him.”

“Dear to me? It is my son. The rest are gone. It is Robert.”

And he began to tremble.

“Yes, it is Robert,” said she, very softly; then turning her eyes away from him, lest his emotion should overcome her, she said— “He has laid me and my father under deep obligations.”

She dragged her father in; for it was essential not to show Mr. Penfold she was in love with Robert.

“Obligations to my Robert? Ah, madam, it is very kind of you to say that, and cheer a desolate father’s heart with praise of his lost son! But how could a poor unfortunate man in his position serve a lady like you?”

“He defended me against robbers, single-handed.”

“Ah,” said the old man, glowing with pride, and looking more beautiful than ever, “he was always as brave as a lion.”

“That is nothing; he saved my life again, and again, and again.”

“God bless him for it! and God bless you for coming and telling me of it! Oh, madam, he was always brave, and gentle, and just, and good; so noble, so unfortunate.”

And the old man began to cry.

Helen’s bosom heaved, and it cost her a bitter struggle not to throw her arms around the dear old man’s neck and cry with him. But she came prepared for a sore trial of her feelings, and she clinched her hands and teeth, and would not give way an inch.

“Tell me how he saved your life, madam.”

“He was in the ship, and in the boat, with me.”

“Ah, madam,” said Michael, “that must have been some other Robert Penfold; not my son. He could not come home. His time was not up, you know.”

“It was Robert Penfold, son of Michael Penfold.”

“Excuse me a moment,” said Michael; and he went to a drawer, and brought her a photograph of Robert. “Was it this Robert Penfold?”

The girl took the photograph, and eyed it, and lowered her head over it.

“Yes,” she murmured.

“And he was coming home in the ship with you. Is he mad? More trouble! more trouble!”

“Do not alarm yourself,” said Helen; “he will not land in England for years”—here she stifled a sob—“and long ere that we shall have restored him to society.”

Michael stared at that, and shook his head.

“Never,” said he; “that is impossible.”

“Why impossible?”

“They all say he is a felon.”

“They all shall say that he is a martyr.”

“And so he is; but how can that ever be proved?”

“I don’t know. But I am sure the truth can always be proved, if people have patience and perseverance.”

“My sweet young lady,” said Michael sadly, “you don’t know the world.”

“I am learning it fast, though. It may take me a few years, perhaps, to make powerful friends, to grope my way among forgers, and spies, and wicked, dishonest people of all sorts, but so surely as you sit there I’ll clear Robert Penfold before I die.”

The good feeble old man gazed on her with admiration and astonishment.

She subdued her flashing eye, and said with a smile: “And you shall help me. Mr. Penfold, let me ask you a question. I called here before; but you were gone to Edinburgh. Then I wrote to you at the office, begging you to let me know the moment you returned. Now, do not think I am angry; but pray tell me why you would not answer my letter.”

Michael Penfold was not burdened with amour propre, but who has not got a little of it in some corner of his heart? “Miss Rolleston,” said he, “I was born a gentleman, and was a man of fortune once, till false friends ruined me. I am in business now, but still a gentleman; and neither as a gentleman nor as a man of business could I leave a lady’s letter unanswered. I never did such a thing in all my life. I never got your letter,” he said, quite put out; and his wrath was so like a dove’s that Helen smiled and said, “But I posted it myself. And my address was in it; yet it was not returned.”

“Well, madam, it was not delivered, I assure you.

“It was intercepted, then.”

He looked at her. She blushed, and said: “Yes, I am getting suspicious, ever since I found I was followed and watched. Excuse me a moment.” She went to the window and peered through the curtains. She saw a man walking slowly by; he quickened his pace the moment she opened the curtain.

“Yes,” said she, “it was intercepted, and I am watched wherever I go.”

Before she could say any more a bustle was heard on the stairs, and in bounced Nancy Rouse, talking as she came. “Excuse me, Mr. Penfolds, but I can’t wait no longer with my heart a bursting; it is! it is! Oh, my dear, sweet young lady; the Lord be praised! You really are here alive and well. Kiss you I must and shall; come back from the dead; there—there—there!”

“Nancy! my good, kind Nancy,” cried Helen, and returned her embrace warmly.

Then followed a burst of broken explanations; and at last Helen made out that Nancy was the landlady, and had left Lambeth long ago.

“But, dear heart!” said she, “Mr. Penfolds, I’m properly jealous of you. To think of her coming here to see you, and not me!”

“But I didn’t know you were here, Nancy.” Then followed a stream of inquiries, and such warm-hearted sympathy with all her dangers and troubles, that Helen was led into revealing the cause of it all.

“Nancy,” said she, solemnly, “the ship was willfully cast away; there was a villain on board that made holes in her on purpose, and sunk her.”

Nancy lifted up her hands in astonishment. But Mr. Penfold was far more surprised and agitated.

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t say that!” he cried.

“Why not, sir?” said Helen; “it is the truth; and I have got the testimony of dying men to prove it.”

“I am sorry for it. Pray don’t let anybody know. Why, Wardlaws would lose the insurance of 160,000 pounds.”

“Arthur Wardlaw knows it. My father told him.”

“And he never told me,” said Penfold, with growing surprise.

“Goodness me! what a world it is!” cried Nancy. “Why, that was murder, and no less. It is a wonder she wasn’t drownded, and another friend into the bargain that I had in that very ship. Oh, I wish I had the villain here that done it, I’d tear his eyes out.”

Here the mite of a servant bounded in, radiant and giggling, gave Nancy a triumphant glance, and popped out again, holding the door open, through which in slouched a seafaring man, drawn by Penfold’s advertisement, and decoyed into Nancy’s presence by the imp of a girl, who thought to please her mistress.

Nancy, who for some days had secretly expected this visit, merely gave a little squeak; but Helen uttered a violent scream; and, upon that, Wylie recognized her, and literally staggered back a step or two, and these words fell out of his mouth—

“The sick girl!”

Helen caught them.

“Ay!” cried she; “but she is alive in spite of you. Alive to denounce you and to punish you.”

She darted forward, and her eyes flashed lightning.

Look at this man, all of you,” she cried. “Look at him well. THIS IS THE WRETCH THAT SCUTTLED THE Proserpine!”

 

CHAPTER LXII.

 

“OH, Miss Helen, how can you say that?” cried Nancy, in utter dismay. “I’ll lay my life poor Joe never did such wickedness.”

But Helen waved her off without looking at her, and pointed at Wylie.

“Are you blind? Why does he cringe and cower at sight of me? I tell you he scuttled the Proserpine, and the great auger he did it with I have seen and handled. Yes, sir, you destroyed a ship, and the lives of many innocent persons, whose blood now cries to Heaven against you; and if I am alive to tell the cruel tale, it is no thanks to you; for you did your best to kill me, and, what is worse, to kill Robert Penfold, this gentleman’s son; for he was on board the ship. You are no better than an assassin.”

“I am a man that’s down,” said Wylie, in