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

then returned home, leaving Mr. Burt to work. She had been home about half an hour, when the servant brought her up a message saying that a man wanted to speak to her. “Admit him,” said Helen.

“He is dressed very poor, miss.”

“Never mind; send him to me.”

She was afraid to reject anybody now, lest she might turn her back on information.

A man presented himself in well-worn clothes, with a wash-leather face and close-shaven chin; a little of his forehead was also shaven.

“Madam, my name is Hand.” Helen started. “I have already had the honor of writing to you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Helen, eying him with fear and aversion.

“Madam, I am come”—(he hesitated)—“I am an unfortunate man. Weighed down by remorse for a thoughtless act that has ruined an innocent man, and nearly cost my worthy employer his life, I come to expiate as far as in me lies. But let me be brief and hurry over the tale of shame. I was a clerk at Wardlaw’s office. A bill-broker called Adams was talking to me and my fellow-clerks, and boasting that nobody could take him in with a feigned signature. Bets were laid; our vanity was irritated by his pretension. It was my fortune to overhear my young master and his friend Robert Penfold speak about a loan of two thousand pounds. In an evil hour I listened to the tempter and wrote a forged note for that amount. I took it to Mr. Penfold; he presented it to Adams, and it was cashed. I intended, of course, to call next day, and tell Mr. Penfold, and take him to Adams, and restore the money and get back the note. It was not due for three months. Alas! that very day it fell under suspicion. Mr. Penfold was arrested. My young master was struck down with illness at his friend’s guilt, though he never could be quite got to believe it; and I—miserable coward!—dared not tell the truth. Ever since that day I have been a miserable man. The other day I came into money, and left Wardlaw’s service. But I carry my remorse with me. Madam, I am come to tell the truth. I dare not tell it to Mr. Wardlaw; I think he would kill me. But I will tell it to you, and you can tell it to him; ay, tell it to all the world. Let my shame be as public as his whom I have injured so deeply, but, Heaven knows, unintentionally. I—I—I—”

Mr. Hand sank all in a heap where he sat, and could say no more.

Helen’s flesh crawled at this confession, and at the sight of this reptile who owned that he had destroyed Robert Penfold in fear and cowardice. For a long time her wrath so overpowered all sense of pity that she sat trembling; and, if eyes could kill, Mr. Hand would not have outlived his confession.

At last she contrived to speak. She turned her head away not to see the wretch and said, sternly:

“Are you prepared to make this statement on paper, if called on?”

Mr. Hand hesitated, but said, “Yes.”

“Then write down that Robert Penfold was innocent, and you are ready to prove it whenever you may be called upon.”

“Write that down?” said Hand.

“Unless your penitence is feigned, you will.”

“Sooner than that should be added to my crime I will avow all.” He wrote the few lines she required.

“Now your address, that I may know where to find you at a moment’s notice.” He wrote, “J. Hand, 11 Warwick Street, Pimlico.”

Helen then dismissed him, and wept bitterly. In that condition she was found by Arthur Wardlaw, who comforted her, and, on hearing her report of Hand’s confession, burst out into triumph, and reminded her he had always said Robert Penfold was innocent. “My father,” said he, “must yield to this evidence, and we will lay it before the Secretary of State and get his pardon.”

“His pardon! when he is innocent!”

“Oh, that is the form—the only form. The rest must be done by the warm reception of his friends. I, for one, who all these years have maintained his innocence, will be the first to welcome him to my house an honored guest. What am I saying? Can I? dare I? ought I? when my wife— Ah! I am more to be pitied than my poor friend is; my friend, my rival. Well, I leave it to you whether he can come into your husband’s house.”

“Never.”

“But, at least, I can send the Springbok out, and bring him home; and that I will do without one day’s delay.”

“Oh, Arthur!” cried Helen, “you set me an example of unselfishness.”

“I do what I can,” said Arthur. “I am no saint. I hope for a reward.”

Helen sighed. “What shall I do?”

“Have pity on me! your faithful lover, and to whom your faith was plighted before ever you saw or knew my unhappy friend. What can I do or suffer more than I have done and suffered for you? My sweet Helen, have pity on me, and be my wife.”

“I will, some day.”

“Bless you. Bless you. One effort more. What day?”

“I can’t. I can’t. My heart is dead.”

“This day fortnight. Let me speak to your father. Let him name the day.”

As she made no reply, he kissed her hand devotedly, and did speak to her father. Sir Edward, meaning all for the best, said, “This day fortnight.”

 

CHAPTER LXIX.

 

THE next morning came the first wedding presents from the jubilant bridegroom, who was determined to advance step by step, and give no breathing time. When Helen saw them laid out by her maid, she trembled at the consequences of not giving a plump negative to so brisk a wooer.

The second post brought two letters; one of them from Mrs. Undercliff. The other contained no words, but only a pearl of uncommon size, and pear-shaped. Helen received this at first as another wedding present, and an attempt on Arthur’s part to give her a pearl as large as those she had gathered on her dear island. But, looking narrowly at the address, she saw it was not written by Arthur; and, presently, she was struck by the likeness of this pearl in shape to some of her own. She got out her pearls, laid them side by side, and began to be moved exceedingly. She had one of her instincts, and it set every fiber quivering with excitement. It was some time before she could take her eyes off the pearls, and it was with a trembling hand she opened Mrs. Undercliff’s letter. That missive was not calculated to calm her. It ran thus:

 

“MY DEAR YOUNG LADY— A person called here last night and supplied the clew. If you have the courage to know the truth, you have only to come here, and to bring your diary, and all the letters you have received from any person or persons since you landed in England. I am yours obediently,

JANE UNDERCLIFF.”

 

The courage to know the truth!

This mysterious sentence affected Helen considerably. But her faith in Robert was too great to be shaken. She would not wait for the canonical hour at which young ladies go out, but put on her bonnet directly after breakfast. Early as she was, a visitor came before she could start—Mr. Burt, the detective. She received him in the library.

Mr. Burt looked at her dress and her little bag, and said, “I’m very glad I made bold to call so early.”

“You have got information of importance to communicate to me?”

“I think so, miss;” and he took out his notebook. “The person you are watched by is Mr. Arthur Wardlaw.” The girl stared at him. “Both spies report to him twice a day at his house in Russell Square.”

“Be careful, Mr. Burt; this is a serious thing to say, and may have serious consequences.”

“Well, miss, you told me you wanted to know the truth.”

“Of course I want to know the truth.”

“Then the truth is that you are watched by order of Mr. Wardlaw.”

Burt continued his report.

“A shabby-like man called on you yesterday.”

“Yes; it was Mr. Hand, Mr. Wardlaw’s clerk. And, oh, Mr. Burt, that wretched creature came and confessed the truth. It was he who forged the note, out of sport, and for a bet, and then was too cowardly to own it.” She then detailed Hand’s confession.

“His penitence comes too late,” said she, with a deep sigh.

“It hasn’t come yet,” said Burt, dryly. “Of course my lambs followed the man. He went first to his employer, and then he went home. His name is not Hand. He is not a clerk at all, but a little actor at the Corinthian Saloon. Hand is in America; went three months ago. I ascertained that from another quarter.”

“Oh, goodness!” cried Helen, “what a wretched world! I can’t see my way a yard for stories.”

“How should you, miss? It is clear enough, for all that. Mr. Wardlaw hired this actor to pass for Hand, and tell you a lie that he thought would please you.”

Helen put her hand to her brow, and thought; but her candid soul got sadly in the way of her brain. “Mr. Burt,” said she, “will you go with me to Mr. Undercliff, the expert?”

“With pleasure, ma’am; but let me finish my report. Last night there was something new. Your house was watched by six persons. Two were Wardlaw’s, three were Burt’s; but the odd man was there on his own hook; and my men could not make him out at all; but they think one of Wardlaw’s men knew him; for he went off to Russell Square like the wind and brought Mr. Wardlaw here in disguise. Now, miss, that is all; and shall I call a cab, and we’ll hear Undercliff’s tale?”

The cab was called, and they went to Undercliff. On the way Helen brooded; but the detective eyed every man and everything on the road with the utmost keenness.

Edward Undercliff was at work at lithographing. He received Helen cordially, nodded to Burt, and said she could not have a better assistant.

He then laid his fac-simile of the forged note on the table, with John Wardlaw’s genuine writing and Penfold’s indorsement. “Look at that, Mr. Burt.”

Burt inspected the papers keenly.

“You know, Burt, I swore at Robert Penfold’s trial that he never wrote that forged note.”

“I remember,” said Burt.

“The other day this lady instructed me to discover, if I could, who did write the forged note. But, unfortunately, the materials she gave me were not sufficient. But, last night, a young man dropped from the clouds, that I made sure was an agent of yours, Miss Rolleston. Under that impression I was rather unguarded, and I let him know how far we had got, and could get no further. ‘I think I can help you,’ says this young man, and puts a letter on the table. Well, Mr. Burt, a glance at that letter was enough for me. It was written by the man who forged the note.”

“A letter!” said Helen.

“Yes. I’ll put the letter by the side of the forged note; and, if you have any eye for writing at all, you’ll see at once that one hand wrote the forged note and this letter. I am also prepared to swear that the letters signed Hand are forgeries by the same person.” He then coolly put upon the table the letter from Arthur Wardlaw that Helen had received on board the Proserpine, and was proceeding to point out the many points of resemblance between the letter and the document, when he was interrupted by a scream from