Foul Play, Dion Boucicault [english novels for students .txt] 📗

upon yourself; but, dear me, what a manager you must be to dress so beautifully as you do, and send your old father presents as you do, and yet put by fourteen hundred pounds to buy this living.”

“You are mistaken, sir, I have only saved four hundred; the odd thousand— But that is a secret for the present.”

“Oh, I am not inquisitive. I never was.”

They then chatted about things of no importance whatever, and the old gentleman was just lighting his candle to go to bed, when a visitor was ushered into the room.

The Penfolds looked a little surprised, but not much. They had no street door all to themselves; no liveried dragons to interpose between them and unseasonable or unwelcome visitors.

The man was well dressed, with one exception; he wore a gold chain. He had a hooked nose, and a black, piercing eye. He stood at the door and observed every person and thing in the room minutely before he spoke a word.

Then he said, quietly, “Mr. Michael Penfold, I believe.”

“At your service, sir.

“And Mr. Robert Penfold.”

“I am Robert Penfold. What is your business?”

“Pray is the ‘Robert Penfold’ at the back of this note your writing?”

“Certainly it is; they would not cash it without that.”

“Oh, you got the money, then?”

“Of course I did.”

“You have not parted with it, have you?”

“No.”

“All the better.” He then turned to Michael and looked at him earnestly a moment. “The fact is, sir,” said he, “there is a little irregularity about this bill which must be explained, or your son might be called on to refund the cash.”

“‘Irregularity about—a bill?” cried Michael Penfold, in dismay “Who is the drawer? Let me see it. Oh, dear me, something wrong about a bill indorsed by you, Robert?” and the old man began to shake piteously.

“Why, father,” said Robert, “what are you afraid of? If the bill is irregular I can but return the money. It is in the house.”

“The best way will be for Mr. Robert Penfold to go at once with me to the bill-broker; he lives but a few doors off. And you, sir, must stay here and be responsible for the funds, till we return.”

Robert Penfold took his hat directly, and went off with this mysterious visitor.

They had not gone many steps, when Robert’s companion stopped, and, getting in front of him, said, “We can settle this matter here.” At the same time a policeman crossed the way and joined them; and another man, who was, in fact, a policeman in plain clothes, emerged from a doorway and stood at Robert Penfold’s back.

The detective, having thus surrounded him, threw off his disguise. “My man,” said he, “I ought to have done this job in your house. But I looked at the worthy old gentleman and his gray hairs. I thought I’d spare him all I could. I have a warrant to arrest you for forgery!”

“Forgery! arrest me for forgery!” said Robert Penfold, with some amazement, but little emotion; for he hardly seemed to take it in, in all its horrible significance.

The next moment, however, he turned pale, and almost staggered under the blow.

“We had better go to Mr. Wardlaw,” said he. “I entreat you to go to him with me.”

“Can’t be done,” said the detective. “Wardlaw has nothing to do with it. The bill is stopped. You are arrested by the gent that cashed it. Here is the warrant; will you go quietly with us, or must I put the darbies on?”

Robert was violently agitated. “There is no need to arrest me,” he cried; “I shall not run from my accuser. Hands off, I say. I’m a clergyman of the Church of England, and you shall not lay hands on me.”

But one of the policemen did lay hands on him. Then the Reverend Robert Penfold shook him furiously off, and, with one active bound, sprang into the middle of the road.

The officers went at him incautiously, and the head detective, as he rushed forward, received a heavy blow on the neck and jaw that sounded along the street, and sent him rolling in the mud; this was followed by a quick succession of staggering facers, administered right and left on the eyes and noses of the subordinates. These, however, though bruised and bleeding, succeeded at last in grappling their man, and all came to the ground together, and there struggled furiously; every window in the street was open by this time, and at one the white hair and reverend face of Michael Penfold looked out on this desperate and unseemly struggle with hands that beat the air in helpless agony and inarticulate cries of terror.

The detective got up and sat upon Robert Penfold’s chest; and at last the three forced the handcuffs upon him and took him in a cab to the station-house.

Next day, before the magistrate, Wardlaw senior proved the note was a forgery, and Mr. Adams’s partner swore to the prisoner as the person who had presented and indorsed the note. The officers attended, two with black eyes apiece, and one with his jaw bound up, and two sound teeth in his pocket, which had been driven from their sockets by the prisoner in his desperate attempt to escape. Their evidence hurt the prisoner, and the magistrate refused bail.

The Reverend Robert Penfold was committed to prison, to be tried at the Central Criminal Court on a charge of felony.

Wardlaw senior returned home, and told Wardlaw junior, who said not a word. He soon received a letter from Robert Penfold, which agitated him greatly, and he promised to go to the prison and see him.

But he never went.

He was very miserable, a prey to an inward struggle. He dared not offend his father on the eve of being made partner. Yet his heart bled for Robert Penfold.

He did what might perhaps have been expected from that pale eye and receding chin—he temporized. He said to himself, “Before that horrible trial comes on, I shall be the house of Wardlaw, and able to draw a check for thousands. I’ll buy off Adams at any price, and hush up the whole matter.”

So he hoped, and hoped. But the accountant was slow, the public prosecutor unusually quick; and, to young Wardlaw’s agony, the partnership deed was not ready when an imploring letter was put into his hands, urging him, by all that men hold sacred, to attend at the court as the prisoner’s witness.

This letter almost drove young Wardlaw mad. He went to Adams and entreated him not to carry the matter into court. But Adams was inexorable. He had got his money, but would be revenged for the fright.

Baffled here, young Wardlaw went down to Oxford and shut himself up in his own room, a prey to fear and remorse. He sported his oak, and never went out. All his exercise was that of a wild beast in its den, walking restlessly up and down.

But all his caution did not prevent the prisoner’s solicitor from getting to him. One morning, at seven o’clock, a clerk slipped in at the heels of his scout, and, coming to young Wardlaw’s bedside, awoke him out of an uneasy slumber by serving him with a subpoena to appear as Robert Penfold’s witness.

This last stroke finished him. His bodily health gave way under his mental distress. Gastric fever set in, and he was lying tossing and raving in delirium, while Robert Penfold was being tried at the Central Criminal Court.

The trial occupied six hours, and could easily be made rather interesting. But, for various reasons, with which it would not be good taste to trouble the reader, we decide to skim it.

The indictment contained two counts; one for forging the note of hand, the other for uttering it knowing it to be forged.

On the first count, the Crown was weak, and had to encounter the evidence of Undercliff, the distinguished expert, who swore that the hand which wrote “Robert Penfold” was not, in his opinion, the hand that had written the body of the instrument. He gave many minute reasons in support of this. And nothing of any weight was advanced contra. The judge directed the jury to acquit the prisoner on that count.

But, on the charge of uttering, the evidence was clear, and on the question of knowledge it was, perhaps, a disadvantage to the prisoner that he was tried in England, and could not be heard in person, as he could have been in a foreign court; above all, his resistance to the officers eked out the presumption that he knew the note had been forged by some person or other, who was probably his accomplice.

The absence of his witness, Wardlaw junior, was severely commented on by his counsel; indeed, he appealed to the judge to commit the said Wardlaw for contempt of court. But Wardlaw senior was recalled, and swore that he had left his son in a burning fever, not expected to live. And declared, with genuine emotion, that nothing but a high sense of public duty had brought him hither from his dying son’s bedside. He also told the court that Arthur’s inability to clear his friend had really been the first cause of his illness, from which he was not expected to recover.

The jury consulted together a long time; and, at last, brought in a verdict of “GUILTY”; but recommended him to mercy on grounds which might fairly have been alleged in favor of his innocence; but, if guilty, rather aggravated his crime.

Then an officer of the court inquired, in a sort of chant or recitative, whether the prisoner had anything to say why judgment should not be given in accordance with the verdict.

It is easy to divest words of their meaning by false intonation; and prisoners in general receive this bit of singsong in dead silence. For why? the chant conveys no idea to their ears, and they would as soon think of replying to the notes of a cuckoo.

But the Reverend Robert Penfold was in a keen agony that sharpened all his senses; he caught the sense of the words in spite of the speaker, and clung wildly to the straw that monotonous machine held out. “My lord! my lord!” he cried, “I’ll tell you the real reason why young Wardlaw is not here.”

The judge put up his hand with a gesture that enforced silence. “Prisoner,” said he, “I cannot go back to facts; the jury have dealt with them. Judgment can be arrested only on grounds of law. On these you can be heard. But, if you have none to offer, you must be silent and submit to your sentence.” He then, without a pause, proceeded to point out the heinous character of the offense, but admitted there was one mitigating circumstance; and, in conclusion, he condemned the culprit to five years’ penal servitude.

At this the poor wretch uttered a cry of anguish that was fearful, and clutched the dock convulsively.

Now a prisoner rarely speaks to a judge without revolting him by bad law, or bad logic, or hot words. But this wild cry was innocent of all these, and went straight from the heart in the dock to the heart on the judgment seat. And so his lordship’s voice trembled for a moment, and then became firm again, but solemn and humane.

“But,” said he, “my experience tells me this is your first crime, and may possibly be your last. I shall therefore use my influence that you may not be associated with more hardened criminals, but may be sent out of this country to another, where you may begin life afresh, and, in the course of years, efface this dreadful stain. Give me