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

She pondered, and determined to try a little experiment. Robert Penfold, it may be remembered, had mentioned an expert as one of the persons she was to see. She had looked for his name in the Directory; but experts were not down in the book. Another fatality! But at last she had found Undercliff, a lithographer, and she fancied that must be the same person. She did not hope to learn much from him; the newspapers said his evidence had caused a smile. She had a distinct object in visiting him, the nature of which will appear. She ordered a cab, and dressed herself. She came down, and entered the cab; but, instead of telling the man to drive, she gave him a slip of paper, containing the address of the lithographer. “Drive there,” said she, a little mysteriously. The cabman winked, suspecting an intrigue, and went off to the place. There she learned Mr. Undercliff had moved to Frith Street, Soho, number not known. She told the cabman to drive slowly up and down the street, but could not find the name. At last she observed some lithographs in a window. She let the cabman go all down the street, then stopped him, and paid him off. She had no sooner done this than she walked very briskly back, and entered the little shop, and inquired for Mr. Undercliff. He was out, and not expected back for an hour. “I will wait,” said Helen; and she sat down with her head upon her white hand. A seedy man passed the window rapidly with a busy air. And, if his eye shot a glance into the shop, it was so slight and careless nobody could suspect he was a spy and had done his work effectually as he flashed by. In that moment the young lady, through the chink of her fingers, which she had opened for that purpose, not only recognized the man, but noticed his face, his hat, his waistcoat, his dirty linen, and the pin in his necktie.

“Ah!” said she, and flushed to the brow.

She lifted up her head and became conscious of a formidable old woman, who was standing behind the counter at a side door, eying her with the severest scrutiny. This old woman was tall and thin, and had a fine face, the lower part of which was feminine enough; but the forehead and brows were alarming. Though her hair was silvery, the brows were black and shaggy, and the forehead was divided by a vertical furrow into two temples. Under those shaggy eyebrows shone dark gray eyes that passed for black with most people; and those eyes were fixed on Helen, reading her. Helen’s light hazel eyes returned their gaze. She blushed, and, still looking, said, “Pray, madam, can I see Mr. Undercliff?”

“My son is out for the day, miss,” said the old lady civilly.

“Oh, dear! how unfortunate I am!” said Helen, with a sigh.

“He comes back to-night. You can see him tomorrow at ten o’clock. A question of handwriting?”

“Not exactly,” said Helen; “but he was witness in favor of a person I know was innocent.”

“But he was found guilty,” said the other, with cool frankness.

“Yes, madam. And he has no friend to clear him but me, a poor weak girl, baffled and defeated whichever way I turn.” She began to cry.

The old woman looked at her crying, with that steady composure which marks her sex on these occasions; and, when she was better, said quietly, “You are not so weak as you think.” She added, after a while, “If you wish to retain my son, you had better leave a fee.”

“With pleasure, madam. What is the fee?”

“One guinea. Of course, there is a separate charge for any work he may do for you.”

“That is but reasonable, madam.” And with this she paid the fee, and rose to go.

“Shall I send any one home with you?”

“No, thank you,” said Helen. “Why?”

“Because you are followed, and because you are not used to be followed.”

“Why, how did you find that out?”

“By your face, when a man passed the window—a shabby-genteel fellow; he was employed by some gentleman, no doubt. Such faces as yours will be followed in London. If you feel uneasy, miss, I will put on my bonnet and see you home.”

Helen was surprised at this act of substantial civility from the Gorgon. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Undercliff,” said she. “No, I am not the least afraid. Let them follow me, I am doing nothing that I am ashamed of. Indeed, I am glad I am thought worth the trouble of following. It shows me I am not so thoroughly contemptible. Good-by, and many thanks. Ten o’clock tomorrow.”

And she walked home without looking once behind her till the hotel was in sight; then she stopped at a shop window, and in a moment her swift eye embraced the whole landscape. But the shabby-genteel man was nowhere in sight.

 

CHAPTER LVII.

WHEN Joseph Wylie disappeared from the scene, Nancy Rouse made a discovery which very often follows the dismissal of a suitor—that she was considerably more attached to him than she had thought. The house became dull, the subordinate washerwomen languid; their taciturnity irritated and depressed Nancy by turns.

In the midst of this, Michael Penfold discovered that Helen had come back safe. He came into her parlor, beaming with satisfaction, and told her of the good news. It gave her immense delight at first. But, when she had got used to her joy on that score, she began to think she had used Joe Wylie very ill. Now that Helen was saved, she could no longer realize that Wylie was so very much to blame.

She even persuaded herself that his disappearance was the act of a justly offended man; and, as he belonged to a class of whose good sense she had a poor opinion, she was tormented with fears that he would do some desperate act—drown himself, or go to sea; or, worst of all, marry some trollop. She became very anxious and unhappy. Before this misfortune she used to go about singing the first verse of a song, and whistling the next, like any plowboy; an eccentric performance, but it made the house gay. Now both song and whistle were suspended! and, instead, it was all hard work and hard crying; turn about.

She attached herself to Michael Penfold because he had known trouble, and was sympathetic. And these two opened their hearts to one another, and formed a friendship that was very honest and touching.

The scene of their conversation and mutual consolation was Nancy’s parlor; a little mite of a room she had partitioned off from her business. “For,” said she, “a lady I’ll be—after my work is done—if it is only in a cupboard.” The room had a remarkably large fireplace, which had originally warmed the whole floor, but now was used as a ventilator only. The gas would have been stifling without it. As for lighting a fire in it, that was out of the question.

On a certain evening, soon after Mr. Penfold’s return from Scotland, the pair sat over their tea, and the conversation fell on the missing sweetheart. Michael had been thinking it over, and was full of encouragement. He said:

“Miss Rouse, something tells me that, if poor Mr. Wylie could only know your heart, he would turn up again directly. What we ought to do is to send somebody to look for him in all the sailors’ haunts—some sharp fellow— Dear me, what a knocking they keep up next door!”

“Oh, that is always the way when one wants a quiet chat. Drat the woman! I’ll have her indicted.”

“No, you won’t, Miss Rouse. She is a poor soul, and has got no business except letting lodgings; she is not like you. But I do hope she will be so kind as not to come quite through the wall.”

“Dear heart!” said Nancy, “go on, and never mind her noise, which it is worse than a horgan-grinder.”

“Well, then, if you can’t find him that way, I say—Advertise.”

“Me!” cried Nancy, turning very red. “Do I look like a woman as would advertise for a man?”

“No, ma’am. Quite the reverse. But what I mean is, you might put in something not too plain. For instance: If J. W. will return to N. R., all will be forgotten and forgiven.”

“He’d have the upper hand of me for life,” said Nancy. “No, no; I won’t advertise for the fool. What right had he to run off at the first word? He ought to know my bark is worse than my bite by this time. You can, though.”

“Me bite, ma’am?” said the old gentleman.

“Bite? no. Advertise, since you’re so fond of it. Come, you sit down and write one; and I’ll pay for it, for that matter.”

Michael sat down, and drew up the following: “If Mr. Joseph Wylie will call on Michael Penfold, at No. 3 E. C., he will hear of something to his advantage.”

“To his advantage?” said Nancy, doubtfully. “Why not tell him the truth?”

“Why, that is the truth, ma’am. Isn’t it to his advantage to be reconciled to an honest, virtuous, painstaking lady, that honors him with her affection—and me with her friendship? Besides, it is the common form; and there is nothing like sticking to form.”

“Mr. Penfold,” said Nancy, “any one can see you was born a gentleman; and I am a deal prouder to have you and your washing than I should him as pays you your wages. Pale eyes—pale hair—pale eyebrows—I wouldn’t trust him to mangle a duster.”

“Oh, Miss Rouse! Pray don’t disparage my good master to me.”

“I can’t help it, sir. Thought is free, especially in this here compartment. Better speak one’s mind than die o’ the sulks. So shut your ear when my music jars. But one every other day is enough. If he won’t come back for that, why, he must go, and I must look out for another; there’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. Still, I’ll not deny I have a great respect for poor Joe. Oh, Mr. Penfold, what shall I do! Oh, oh, oh!”

“There, there,” said Michael, “I’ll put this into the Times every day.”

“You are a good soul, Mr. Penfold. Oh—oh, oh!”

When he had finished the advertisement in a clerkly hand, and she had finished her cry, she felt comparatively comfortable, and favored Mr. Penfold with some reflections.

“Dear heart, Mr. Penfold, how you and I do take to one another, to be sure. But so we ought; for we are honest folk, the pair, and has had a hard time. Don’t it never strike you rather curious that two thousand pounds was at the bottom of both our troubles, yourn and mine? I might have married Joe, and been a happy woman with him; but the Devil puts in my head— There you go again hammering! Life ain’t worth having next door to that lodging-house. Drat the woman, if she must peck, why don’t she go in the churchyard and peck her own grave; which we shall never be quiet till she is there. And these here gimcrack houses, they won’t stand no more pecking at than a soap-sud. Ay, that’s what hurts me, Mr. Penfold. The Lord had given him and me health and strength and honesty; our betters had wed for love and wrought for money, as the saying is; but I must go again Nature, that cried ‘Come couple’; and must bargain for two thousand pounds. So now I’ve lost the man, and not got the money, nor never shall. And, if I had, I’d burn— Ah—ah—ah—ah—ah!”

This tirade ended in stifled screams of terror, caused by