Foul Play by Dion Boucicault (english reading book TXT) 📕

“It will be so in your way of life,” said this homely comforter; “your sort comes home empty-handed one day, and money in both pockets the next. I’m glad to see you home at all, for I’ve been in care about you. You’re very welcome, Joe. If you are come home honest and sober, why, that is the next best thing to coming home rich.”

Wylie hung his head and pondered these words; and well he might, for he had not come home either so sober or so honest as he went out, but quite as poor.

However, his elastic spirits soon revived in Nancy’s sunshine, and he became more in love with her than ever.

But when, presuming upon her affection, he urged her to marry him and trust to Providence, she laughed in his face.

“Trust to himprovidence, you mean,” said she; “no, no, Joseph. If you are unlucky, I must be lucky, before you and me can come together.”

Then Wylie resolved to have his 2,000 pounds at all risks. He had one great advantage over a landsman who has committed a crime. He could always go to sea and find employment, first in one ship, and then in another. Terra firma was not one of the necessaries of life to him.

He came to Wardlaw’s office to feel his way, and talked guardedly to Michael Penfold about the loss of the Proserpine. His apparent object was to give information; his real object was to gather it. He learned that old Wardlaw was very much occupied with fitting out a steamer; that the forty chests of copper had actually come up from the Shannon and were under their feet at that moment, and that young Wardlaw was desperately ill and never came to the office. Michael had not at that time learned the true cause of young Wardlaw’s illness. Yet Wylie detected that young Wardlaw’s continued absence from the office gave Michael singular uneasiness. The old man fidgeted, and washed the air with his hands, and with simple cunning urged Wylie to go and see him about the Proserpine, and get him to the office, if it was only for an hour or two. “Tell him we are all at sixes and sevens, Mr. Wylie; all at sixes and sevens.”

“Well,” said Wylie, affecting a desire to oblige, “give me a line to him; for I’ve been twice, and could never get in.”

Michael wrote an earnest line to say that Wardlaw senior had been hitherto much occupied in fitting out the Springbok, but that he was going into the books next week. What was to be done?

The note was received; but Arthur declined to see the bearer. Then Wylie told the servant it was Joseph Wylie, on a matter of life and death. “Tell him I must stand on the staircase and hallo it out, if he won’t hear it any other way.”

This threat obtained his admission to Arthur Wardlaw. The sailor found him on a sofa, in a darkened room, pale and worn to a shadow.

“Mr. Wardlaw,” said Wylie, firmly, you mustn’t think I don’t feel for you; but, sir, we are gone too far to stop, you and me. There is two sides to this business; it is 150,000 pounds for you, and 2,000 pounds for me, or it is—”

“What do I care for money now?” groaned Wardlaw. “Let it all go to the Devil, who tempted me to destroy her I loved better than money, better than all the world.”

“Well, but hear me out,” said Wylie. “I say it is 150,000 pounds to you and 2,000 pounds to me, or else it is twenty years’ penal servitude to both on us.”

“Penal servitude!” And the words roused the merchant from his lethargy like a shower-bath.

“You know that well enough,” said Wylie. “Why, ‘twas a hanging matter a few years ago. Come, come, there are no two ways; you must be a man, or we are undone.”

Fear prevailed in that timorous breast, which even love of money had failed to rouse. Wardlaw sat up, staring wildly, and asked Wylie what he was to do.

“First, let me ring for a bottle of that old brandy of yours.”

The brandy was got. Wylie induced him to drink a wineglassful neat, and then to sit at the table and examine the sailors’ declaration and the logs. “I’m no great scholard,” said he. “I warn’t a going to lay these before the underwriters till you had overhauled them. There, take another drop now—‘twill do you good—while I draw up this thundering blind.”

Thus encouraged and urged, the broken-hearted schemer languidly compared the seamen’s declaration with the logs; and, even in his feeble state of mind and body, made an awkward discovery at once.

“Why, they don’t correspond!” said he.

“What don’t correspond?”

“Your men’s statement and the ship’s log. The men speak of one heavy gale after another, in January, and the pumps going; but the log says, ‘A puff of wind from the N.E.’ And, here again, the entry exposes your exaggeration. One branch of our evidence contradicts the other; this comes of trying to prove too much. You must say the log was lost, went down with the ship.”

“How can I?” cried Wylie. “I have told too many I had got it safe at home.”

“Why did you say that? What madness!”

“Why were you away from your office at such a time? How can I know everything and do everything? I counted on you for the head-work ashore. Can’t ye think of any way to square the log to that part of our tale? might paste in a leaf or two, eh?”

“That would be discovered at once. You have committed an irremediable error. What broad strokes this Hudson makes. He must have written with the stump of a quill.”

Wylie received this last observation with a look of contempt for the mind that could put so trivial a question in so great an emergency.

“Are you quite sure poor Hudson is dead?” asked Wardlaw, in a low voice.

“Dead! Don’t I tell you I saw him die!” said Wylie, trembling all of a sudden.

He took a glass of brandy, and sent it flying down his throat.

“Leave the paper with me,” said Arthur, languidly, “and tell Penfold I’ll crawl to the office tomorrow. You can meet me there; I shall see nobody else.”

Wylie called next day at the office, and was received by Penfold, who had now learned the cause of Arthur’s grief, and ushered the visitor in to him with looks of benevolent concern. Arthur was seated like a lunatic, pale and motionless; on the table before him was a roast fowl and a salad, which he had forgotten to eat. His mind appeared to alternate between love and fraud; for, as soon as he saw Wylie, he gave himself a sort of shake and handed Wylie the log and the papers.

“Examine them; they agree better with each other now.

Wylie examined the log, and started with surprise and superstitious terror. “Why, Hiram’s ghost has been here at work!” said he. “It is his very handwriting.”

“Hush!” said Wardlaw; “not so loud. Will it do?”

“The writing will do first-rate; but any one can see this log has never been to sea.”

Inspired by the other’s ingenuity, he then, after a moment’s reflection, emptied the salt-cellar into a plate, and poured a little water over it. He wetted the leaves of the log with this salt water, and dog’s-eared the whole book.

Wardlaw sighed. “See what expedients we are driven to,” said he. He then took a little soot from the chimney, and mixed it with salad oil. He applied some of this mixture to the parchment cover, rubbed it off, and by such manipulation gave it a certain mellow look, as if it had been used by working hands.

Wylie was armed with these materials, and furnished with money to keep his sailors to their tale, in case of their being examined.

Arthur begged, in his present affliction, to be excused from going personally into the matter of the Proserpine; and said that Penfold had the ship’s log, and the declaration of the survivors, which the insurers could inspect, previously to their being deposited at Lloyd’s.

The whole thing wore an excellent face, and nobody found a peg to hang suspicion on so far.

After this preliminary, and the deposit of the papers, nothing was hurried; the merchant, absorbed in his grief, seemed to be forgetting to ask for his money. Wylie remonstrated; but Arthur convinced him they were still on too ticklish ground to show any hurry without exciting suspicion.

And so passed two weary months, during which Wylie fell out of Nancy Rouse’s good graces, for idling about doing nothing.

“Be you a waiting for the plum to fall into your mouth, young man?” said she.

The demand was made on the underwriters, and Arthur contrived that it should come from his father. The firm was of excellent repute and had paid hundreds of insurances, without a loss to the underwriters. The Proserpine had foundered at sea; several lives had been lost, and of the survivors one had since died, owing to the hardships he had endured. All this betokened a genuine calamity. Nevertheless, one ray of suspicion rested on the case at first. The captain of the Proserpine had lost a great many ships; and, on the first announcement, one or two were resolved to sift the matter on that ground alone. But when five eye-witnesses, suppressing all mention of the word “drink,” declared that Captain Hudson had refused to leave the vessel, and described his going down with the ship, from an obstinate and too exalted sense of duty, every chink was closed; and, to cut the matter short, the insurance money was paid to the last shilling, and Benson, one of the small underwriters, ruined. Nancy Rouse, who worked for Mrs. Benson, lost eighteen shillings and sixpence, and was dreadfully put out about it.

Wylie heard her lamentations, and grinned; for now his 2,000 pounds was as good as in his pocket, he thought. Great was his consternation when Arthur told him that every shilling of the money was forestalled, and that the entire profit of the transaction was yet to come; viz., by the sale of the gold dust.

“Then sell it,” said Wylie.

“I dare not. The affair must cool down before I can appear as a seller of gold; and even then I must dribble it out with great caution. Thank Heaven, it is no longer in those cellars.”

“Where is it, then?”

“That is my secret. You will get your two thousand all in good time; and, if it makes you one-tenth part as wretched as it has made me, you will thank me for all these delays.”

At last Wylie lost all patience, and began to show his teeth; and then Arthur Wardlaw paid him his two thousand pounds in forty crisp notes.

He crammed. them into a side pocket, and went down triumphant to Nancy Rouse. Through her parlor window he saw the benign countenance of Michael Penfold. He then remembered that Penfold had told him some time before that he was going to lodge with her as soon as the present lodger should go.

This, however, rather interrupted Wylie’s design of walking in and chucking the two thousand pounds into Nancy’s lap. On the contrary, he shoved them deeper down in his pocket, and resolved to see the old gentleman to bed, and then produce his pelf, and fix the wedding-day with Nancy.

He came in and found her crying, and Penfold making weak efforts to console her. The tea-things were on the table, and Nancy ‘s cup half emptied.

Wylie came in, and