OUR scene now changes from the wild ocean and its perils to a snug room
in Fenchurch Street, the inner office of Wardlaw & Son: a large
apartment, paneled with fine old mellow Spanish oak; and all the
furniture in keeping; the carpet, a thick Axminster of sober colors; the
chairs of oak and morocco, very substantial; a large office-table, with
oaken legs like very columns, substantial; two Milner safes; a globe of
unusual size with a handsome tent over it, made of roan leather, figured;
the walls hung with long oak boxes, about eight inches broad, containing
rolled maps of high quality and great dimensions; to consult which, oaken
scepters tipped with brass hooks stood ready. With these the great maps
could be drawn down and inspected; and, on being released, flew up into
their wooden boxes again. Besides these were hung up a few drawings,
representing outlines, and inner sections, of vessels; and, on a smaller
table, lay models, almanacs, etc. The great office-table was covered with
writing materials and papers, all but a square space inclosed with a
little silver rail, and inside that space lay a purple morocco case about
ten inches square; it was locked, and contained an exquisite portrait of
Helen Rolleston.
This apartment was so situated, and the frames of the plate-glass windows
so well made and substantial, that, let a storm blow a thousand ships
ashore, it could not be felt, nor heard, in Wardlaw's inner office.
But appearances are deceitful; and who can wall out a sea of troubles,
and the tempests of the mind?
The inmate of that office was battling for his commercial existence,
under accumulated difficulties and dangers. Like those who sailed the
_Proserpine's_ long-boat, upon that dirty night, which so nearly swamped
her, his eye had now to be on every wave, and the sheet forever in his
hand.
His measures had been ably taken; but, as will happen when clever men are
driven into a corner, he had backed events rather too freely against
time; had allowed too slight a margin for unforeseen delays. For
instance, he had averaged the _Shannon's_ previous performances, and had
calculated on her arrival too nicely. She was a fortnight overdue, and
that delay brought peril.
He had also counted upon getting news of the _Proserpine._ But not a word
had reached Lloyd's as yet.
At this very crisis came the panic of '66. Overend and Gurney broke; and
Wardlaw's experience led him to fear that, sooner or later, there would
be a run on every bank in London. Now he had borrowed 80,000 pounds at
one bank, and 35,000 pounds at another. And, without his ships, could not
possibly pay a quarter of the money. If the banks in question were run
upon, and obliged to call in all their resources, his credit must go; and
this, in his precarious position, was ruin.
He had concealed his whole condition from his father, by false
book-keeping. Indeed, he had only two confidants in the world; poor old
Michael Penfold, and Helen Rolleston's portrait; and even to these two he
made half confidences. He dared not tell either of them all he had done,
and all he was going to do.
His redeeming feature was as bright as ever. He still loved Helen
Rolleston with a chaste, constant and ardent affection that did him
honor. He loved money too well. But he loved Helen better. In all his
troubles and worries it was his one consolation to unlock her portrait
and gaze on it, and purify his soul for a few minutes. Sometimes he would
apologize to it for an act of doubtful morality. "How can I risk the loss
of you?" was his favorite excuse. No. He must have credit. He must have
money. She must not suffer by his past imprudences. They must be repaired
at any cost--for her sake.
It was ten o'clock in the morning. Mr. Penfold was sorting the letters
for his employer, when a buxom young woman rushed into the outer office
crying, "Oh, Mr. Penfold!" and sank into a chair breathless.
"Dear heart! what is the matter now?" said the old gentleman.
"I have had a dream, sir. I dreamed I saw Joe Wylie out on the seas, in a
boat; and the wind it was a blowing and the sea a roaring to that degree
as Joe looked at me, and says he, 'Pray for me, Nancy Rouse.' So I says,
'Oh, dear Joe, what is the matter? and what ever is become of the
_Proserpine?'_
"'Gone to Hell!' says he. Which he knows I object to foul language.
'Gone--there--' says he, 'and I am sailing in her wake. Oh, pray for me,
Nancy Rouse!' With that, I tries to pray in my dream, and screams
instead, and wakes myself. Oh, Mr. Penfold, do tell me, have you got any
news of the _Proserpine_ this morning?"
"What is that to you?" inquired Arthur Wardlaw, who had entered just in
time to hear this last query.
"What is it to me!" cried Nancy, firing up; "it is more to me, perhaps,
than it is to you, for that matter."
Penfold explained, timidly, "Sir, Mrs. Rouse is my landlady."
"Which I have never been to church with any man yet of the name of Rouse,
leastways, not in my waking hours," edged in the lady.
"Miss Rouse, I should say," said Penfold, apologizing. "I beg pardon, but
I thought Mrs. might sound better in a landlady. Please, sir, Mr. Wylie,
the mate of the _Proserpine,_ is her--her--sweetheart."
"Not he. Leastways, he is only on trial, after a manner."
"Of course, sir--only after a manner," added Penfold, sadly perplexed.
"Miss Rouse is incapable of anything else. But, if you please, m'm, I
don't presume to know the exact relation;" and then with great reserve,
"but you know you are anxious about him."
Miss Rouse sniffed, and threw her nose in the air--as if to throw a doubt
even on that view of the matter.
"Well, madam," says Wardlaw, "I am sorry to say I can give you no
information. I share your anxiety, for I have got 160,000 pounds of gold
in the ship. You might inquire at Lloyd's. Direct her there, Mr. Penfold,
and bring me my letters."
With this he entered his inner office, sat down, took out a golden key,
opened the portrait of Helen, gazed at it, kissed it, uttered a deep
sigh, and prepared to face the troubles of the day.
Penfold brought in a leathern case, like an enormous bill-book. It had
thirty vertical compartments; and the names of various cities and
seaports, with which Wardlaw & Son did business, were printed in gold
letters on some of these compartments; on others the names of persons;
and on two compartments the word "Miscellaneous." Michael brought this
machine in, filled with a correspondence enough to break a man's heart to
look at.
This was one of the consequences of Wardlaw's position. He durst not let
his correspondence be read, and filtered, in the outer office. He opened
the whole mass; sent some back into the outer office; then touched a
hand-bell, and a man emerged from the small apartment adjoining his own.
This was Mr. Atkins, his shorthand writer. He dictated to this man some
twenty letters, which were taken down in short-hand; the man retired to
copy them, and write them out in duplicate from his own notes, and this
reduced the number to seven. These Wardlaw sat down to write himself, and
lock up the copies.
While he was writing them, he received a visitor or two, whom he
dispatched as quickly as his letters.
He was writing his last letter, when he heard in the outer office a voice
he thought he knew. He got up and listened. It was so. Of all the voices
in the city, this was the one it most dismayed him to hear in his office
at the present crisis.
He listened on, and satisfied himself that a fatal blow was coming. He
then walked quietly to his table, seated himself, and prepared to receive
the stroke with external composure.
Penfold announced, "Mr. Burtenshaw."
"Show him in," said Wardlaw quietly.
Mr. Burtenshaw, one of the managers of Morland's bank, came in, and
Wardlaw motioned him courteously to a chair, while he finished his
letter, which took only a few moments.
While he was sealing it, he half turned to his visitor, and said, "No bad
news? Morland's is safe, of course."
"Well," said Burtenshaw, "there is a run upon our bank--a severe one. We
could not hope to escape the effects of the panic."
He then, after an uneasy pause, and with apparent reluctance, added, "I
am requested by the other directors to assure you it is their present
extremity alone, that-- In short, we are really compelled to beg you to
repay the amount advanced to you by the bank."
Wardlaw showed no alarm, but great surprise. This was clever; for he felt
great alarm, and no surprise.
"The 81,000 pounds," said he. "Why, that advance was upon the freight of
the _Proserpine._ Forty-five thousand ounces of gold. She ought to be
here by this time. She is in the Channel at this moment, no doubt."
"Excuse me; she is overdue, and the underwriters uneasy. I have made
inquiries."
"At any rate, she is fully insured, and you hold the policies. Besides,
the name of Wardlaw on your books should stand for bullion."
Burtenshaw shook his head. "Names are at a discount to-day, sir. We can't
pay you down on the counter. Why, our depositors look cross at Bank of
England notes."
To an inquiry, half ironical, whether the managers really expected him to
find 81,000 pounds cash, at a few hours' notice, Burtenshaw replied,
sorrowfully, that they felt for his difficulty while deploring their own;
but that, after all, it was a debt. And, in short, if he could find no
means of paying it, they must suspend payment for a time, and issue a
statement--and--
He hesitated to complete his sentence, and Wardlaw did it for him.
"And ascribe your suspension to my inability to refund this advance?"
said he, bitterly.
"I am afraid that is the construction it will bear."
Wardlaw rose, to intimate he had no more to say.
Burtenshaw, however, was not disposed to go without some clear
understanding. "May I say we shall hear from you, sir?"
"Yes."
And so they wished each other good-morning; and Wardlaw sank into his
chair.
In that quiet dialogue, ruin had been inflicted and received without any
apparent agitation; ay, and worse than ruin--exposure.
Morland's suspension, on account of money lost by Wardlaw & Son, would at
once bring old Wardlaw to London, and the affairs of the firm would be
investigated, and the son's false system of bookkeeping be discovered.
He sat stupefied awhile, then put on his hat and rushed to his solicitor;
on the way, he fell in with a great talker, who told him there was a
rumor the _Shannon_ was lost in the Pacific.
At this he nearly fainted in the street; and his friend took him back to
his office in a deplorable condition. All this time he had been feigning
anxiety about the _Proserpine,_ and concealing his real anxiety about the
_Shannon._ To do him justice, he lost sight of everything in the world
now but Helen. He sent old Penfold in hot haste to Lloyd's, to inquire
for news of the ship; and then he sat down sick at heart; and all he
could do now was to open her portrait, and gaze at it through eyes
blinded with tears. Even a vague rumor, which he hoped might be false,
had driven all his commercial maneuvers out of him, and made all other
calamities seem small.
And so they all are small, compared with the death of the creature we
love.
While he sat thus, in a stupor of fear and grief, he heard a well-known
voice in the outer office; and, next after Burtenshaw's, it was the one
that caused him the most apprehension. It was his father's.
Wardlaw senior rarely visited the office now; and this was not his hour.
So Arthur knew something extraordinary had brought him up to town. And he
could not doubt that it was the panic, and that he had been to Morland's,
or would go there in course of the day; but, indeed, it was more probable
that he had already heard something, and was come to investigate.
Wardlaw senior entered the room.
"Good-morning, Arthur," said he. "I've got good news for you."
Arthur was quite startled by an announcement that accorded so little with
his expectations.
"Good news--for _me?"_ said he, in a faint, incredulous tone.
"Ay, glorious news! Haven't you been anxious about the _Shannon?_ I have;
more anxious than I would own."
Arthur started up. "The _Shannon!_ God bless you, father."
"She lies at anchor in the Mersey," roared the old man, with all a
father's pride at bringing such good news. "Why, the Rollestons will be
in London at 2:15. See, here is his telegram."
At this moment in ran Penfold, to tell them that the _Shannon_ was up at
Lloyd's, had anchored off Liverpool last night.
There was hearty shaking of hands, and Arthur Wardlaw was the happiest
man in London--for a little while.
"Got the telegram at Elmtrees, this morning, and came up by the first
express," said Wardlaw senior.
The telegram was from Sir Edward Rolleston. _"Reached Liverpool last
night; will be at Euston, two-fifteen."_
"Not a word from _her!"_
"Oh, there was no time to write; and ladies do not use the telegram." He
added slyly, "Perhaps she thought coming in person would do as well, or
better, eh!"
"But why does he telegraph you instead of me?"
"I am sure I don't know. What does it matter? Yes, I do know. It was
settled months ago that he and Helen should come to me at Elmtrees, so I
was the proper person to telegraph. I'll go and meet them at the station;
there is plenty of time. But, I say, Arthur, have you seen the papers?
Bartley Brothers obliged to wind up. Maple & Cox, of Liverpool, gone;
Atlantic trading. Terry & Brown suspended, International credit gone. Old
friends, some of these. Hopley & Timms, railway contractors, failed, sir;
liabilities, seven hundred thousand pounds and more."
"Yes, sir," said Arthur, pompously. "1866 will long be remembered for its
revelations of commercial morality."
The old gentleman, on this, asked his son, with excusable vanity, whether
he had done ill in steering clear of speculation; he then congratulated
him on having listened to good advice and stuck to legitimate business.
"I must say, Arthur," added be, "your books are models for any trading
firm."
Arthur winced in secret under this praise, for it occurred to him that in
a few days his father would discover those books were all a sham and the
accounts a fabrication.
However, the unpleasant topic was soon interrupted, and effectually, too;
for Michael looked in, with an air of satisfaction on his benevolent
countenance, and said, "Gentlemen, such an arrival! Here is Miss Rouse's
sweetheart, that she dreamed was drowned."
"What is the man to me?" said Arthur peevishly. He did not recognize
Wylie under that title.
"La, Mr. Arthur! why, he is the mate of the _Proserpine,_" said Penfold.
"What! Wylie! Joseph Wylie?" cried Arthur, in a sudden excitement that
contrasted strangely with his previous indifference.
"What is that?" cried Wardlaw senior; "the _Proserpine;_ show him in at
once."
Now this caused Arthur Wardlaw considerable anxiety; for obvious reasons
he did not want his father and this sailor to exchange a word together.
However, that was inevitable now. The door opened; and the bronzed face
and sturdy figure of Wylie, clad in a rough pea-jacket, came slouching
in.
Arthur went hastily to meet him, and gave him an expressive look of
warning, even while he welcomed him in cordial accents.
"Glad to see you safe home," said Wardlaw senior.
"Thank ye, guv'nor," said Wylie. "Had a squeak for it, this time."
"Where is your ship?"
Wylie shook his head sorrowfully. "Bottom of the Pacific."
"Good heavens! What! is she lost?"
"That she is, sir. Foundered at sea, twelve hundred miles from the Horn,
and more."
"And the freight? the gold?" put in Arthur, with well-feigned anxiety.
"Not an ounce saved," said Wylie, disconsolately. "A hundred and sixty
thousand pounds gone to the bottom."
"Good heavens!"
"Ye see, sir," said Wylie, "the ship encountered one gale after another,
and labored a good deal, first and last; and we all say her seams must
have opened; for we never could find the leak that sunk her," and he cast
a meaning glance at Arthur Wardlaw.
"No matter how it happened," said the old merchant. "Are we insured to
the full; that is the first question?"
"To the last shilling."
"Well done, Arthur."
"But still it is most unlucky. Some weeks must elapse before the
insurances can be realized, and a portion of the gold was paid for in
bills at short date."
"The rest in cash?"
"Cash and merchandise."
"Then there is the proper margin. Draw on my private account, at the Bank
of England."
These few simple words showed the struggling young merchant a way out of
all his difficulties.
His heart leaped so, he dared not reply, lest he should excite the old
gentleman's suspicions.
But ere he could well draw his breath for joy, came a freezer.
"Mr. Burtenshaw, sir."
"Bid him wait," said Arthur, aloud, and cast a look of great anxiety on
Penfold, which the poor old man, with all his simplicity, comprehended
well enough.
"Burtenshaw, from Morland's. What does he want of us?" said Wardlaw
senior, knitting his brows.
Arthur turned cold all over. "Perhaps to ask me not to draw out my
balance. It is less than usual; but they are run upon; and, as you are
good enough to let me draw on you-- By the by, perhaps you will sign a
check before you go to the station."
"How much do you want?"
"I really don't know, till I have consulted Penfold. The gold was a large
and advantageous purchase, sir."
"No doubt; no doubt. I'll give you my signature, and you can fill in the
amount."
He drew a check in favor of Arthur Wardlaw, signed it, and left him to
fill in the figures.
He then looked at his watch, and remarked they would barely have time to
get to the station.
"Good heavens!" cried Arthur; "and I can't go. I must learn the
particulars of the loss of the _Proserpine,_ and prepare the statement at
once for the underwriters."
"Well, never mind. _I_ can go."
"But what will she think of me? I ought to be the first to welcome her."
"I'll make your excuses."
"No, no; say nothing. After all, it was you who received the telegram, so
you naturally meet her; but you will bring her here, father. You won't
whisk my darling down to Elmtrees till you have blessed me with the sight
of her."
"I will not be so cruel, fond lover," said old Wardlaw, laughing, and
took up his hat and gloves to go.
Arthur went to the door with him in great anxiety, lest he should
question Burtenshaw. But, peering into the outer office, he observed
Burtenshaw was not there. Michael had caught his employer's anxious look
and conveyed the banker into the small room where the short-hand writer
was at work. But Burtenshaw was one of a struggling firm; to him every
minute was an hour. He had sat, fuming with impatience, so long as he
heard talking in the inner office; and, the moment it ceased, he took the
liberty of coming in; so that he opened the side door just as Wardlaw
senior was passing through the center door.
Instantly Wardlaw junior whipped before him, to hide his figure from his
retreating father.
Wylie--who all this time had been sitting silent, looking from one to the
other, and quietly puzzling out the game as well as he could--observed
this movement and grinned.
As for Arthur Wardlaw, he saw his father safe out, then gave a sigh of
relief, and walked to his office table and sat down and began to fill in
the check.
Burtenshaw drew near and said, "I am instructed to say that fifty
thousand pounds on account will be accepted."
Perhaps if this proposal had been made a few seconds sooner, the
ingenious Arthur would have availed himself of it; but as it was, he
preferred to take the high and mighty tone. "I decline any concession,"
said he. "Mr. Penfold, take this check to the Bank of England. 81,647
pounds 10s., that is the amount, capital and interest, up to noon this
day. Hand the sum to Mr. Burtenshaw, taking his receipt, or, if he
prefers it, pay it across his counter, to my credit. That will perhaps
arrest the run."
Burtenshaw stammered out his thanks.
Wardlaw cut him short. "Good-morning, sir," said he. "I have business of
_importance._ Good-day," and bowed him out.
"This is a high-flier," thought Burtenshaw.
Wardlaw then opened the side door and called his short-hand writer.
"Mr. Atkins, please step into the outer office, and don't let a soul come
in to me. Mind, I am out for the day. Except to Miss Rolleston and her
father."
He then closed all the doors, and sunk exhausted into a chair, muttering,
"Thank Heaven! I have got rid of them all for an hour or two. _Now,_
Wylie."
Wylie seemed in no hurry to enter upon the required subject.
Said he, evasively, "Why, guv'nor, it seems to me you are among the
breakers here yourself."
"Nothing of the sort, if you have managed your work cleverly. Come, tell
me all, before we are interrupted again."
"Tell ye all about it! Why, there's part on't I am afraid to think on;
let alone talk about it."
"Spare me your scruples, and give me your facts," said Wardlaw coldly.
"First of all, did you succeed in shifting the bullion as agreed?"
The sailor appeared relieved by this question.
"Oh, that is all right," said he. "I got the bullion safe aboard the
_Shannon,_ marked for lead."
"And the lead on board the _Proserpine?"_
"Ay, shipped as bullion."
"Without suspicion?"
"Not quite."
"Great Heaven! Who?"
"One clerk at the shipping agent's scented something queer, I think.
James Seaton. That was the name he went by."
"Could he prove anything?"
"Nothing. He knew nothing for certain; and what he guessed won't never be
known in England now." And Wylie fidgeted in his chair.
Notwithstanding this assurance Wardlaw looked grave, and took a note of
that clerk's name. Then he begged Wylie to go on. "Give me all the
details," said he. "Leave _me_ to judge their relative value. You
scuttled the ship?"
"Don't say that! don't say that!" cried Wylie, in a low but eager voice.
"Stone walls have ears." Then rather more loudly than was necessary,
"Ship sprung a leak that neither the captain, nor I, nor anybody could
find, to stop. Me and my men, we all think her seams opened, with stress
of weather." Then, lowering his voice again, "Try and see it as we do;
and don't you ever use such a word as that what come out of your lips
just now. We pumped her hard; but 'twarn't no use. She filled, and we had
to take to the boats."
"Stop a moment. Was there any suspicion excited?"
"Not among the crew. And suppose there was, I could talk 'em all over, or
buy 'em all over, what few of 'em is left. I've got 'em all with me in
one house, and they are all square, don't you fear."
"Well, but you said 'among the _crew!'_ Whom else can we have to fear?"
"Why, nobody. To be sure, one of the passengers was down on me; but what
does that matter now?"
"It matters greatly--it matters terribly. Who was this passenger?"
"He called himself the Reverend John Hazel. He suspected something or
other; and what with listening here, and watching there, he judged the
ship was never to see England, and I always fancied he told the lady."
"What, was there a lady there?"
"Ay, worse luck, sir; and a pretty girl she was. Coming home to England
to die of consumption; so our surgeon told me."
"Well, never mind her. The clergyman! This fills me with anxiety. A clerk
suspecting us at Sydney, and a passenger suspecting us in the vessel.
There are two witnesses against us already."
"No; only one."
"How do you make that out?"
"Why, White's clerk and the parson, they was one man."
Wardlaw stared in utter amazement.
"Don't ye believe me?" said Wylie. "I tell ye that there clerk boarded us
under an alias. He had shaved off his beard; but, bless your heart, I
knew him directly."
"He came to verify his suspicions," suggested Wardlaw, in a faint voice.
"Not he. He came for love of the sick girl, and nothing else; and you'll
never see either him or her, if that is any comfort to you."
"Be good enough to conceal nothing. Facts must be faced."
"That is too true, sir. Well, we abandoned her, and took to the boats. I
commanded one."
"And Hudson the other?"
"Hudson! No."
"Why, how was that? and what has become of him?"
"What has become of Hudson?" said Wylie, with a start. "There's a
question! And not a drop to wet my lips and warm my heart. Is this a tale
to tell dry? Can't ye spare a drop of brandy to a poor devil that has
earned ye 150,000 pounds, and risked his life, and wrecked his soul to do
it?"
Wardlaw cast a glance of contempt on him, but got up and speedily put a
bottle of old brandy, a tumbler and a caraffe of water on the table
before him.
Wylie drank a wineglassful neat, and gave a sort of sigh of satisfaction.
And then ensued a dialogue, in which, curiously enough, the brave man was
agitated, and the timid man was cool and collected. But one reason was,
the latter had not imagination enough to realize things unseen, though he
had caused them.
Wylie told him how Hudson got to the bottle, and would not leave the
ship. "I think I see him now, with his cutlass in one hand, and his rum
bottle in the other, and the waves running over his poor, silly face, as
she went down. Poor Hiram! he and I had made many a trip together, before
we took to this."
And Wylie shuddered, and took another gulp at the brandy.
While he was drinking to drown the picture, Wardlaw was calmly reflecting
on the bare fact. "Hum," said he, "we must use that circumstance. I'll
get it into the journals. Heroic captain. Went down with the ship. Who
can suspect Hudson in the teeth of such a fact? Now pray go on, my good
Wylie. The boats!"
"Well, sir, I had the surgeon, and ten men, and the lady's maid, on board
the long-boat; and there was the parson, the sick lady, and five sailors
aboard the cutter. We sailed together, till night, steering for Juan
Fernandez; then a fog came on and we lost sight of the cutter, and I
altered my mind and judged it best to beat to win'ard, and get into the
track of ships. Which we did, and were nearly swamped in a sou' wester;
but, by good luck, a Yankee whaler picked us up, and took us to Buenos
Ayres, where we shipped for England, what was left of us, only four,
besides myself; but I got the signatures of the others to my tale of the
wreck. It is all as square as a die, I tell you."
"Well done. Well done. But, stop! the other boat, with that sham parson
on board, who knows all. She will be picked up, too, perhaps."
"There is no chance for that. She was out of the tracks of trade; and,
I'll tell ye the truth, sir." He poured out half a tumbler of brandy, and
drank a part of it; and, now, for the first time, his hand trembled as he
lifted the glass. "Some fool had put the main of her provisions aboard
the longboat; that is what sticks to me, and won't let me sleep. We took
a chance, but we didn't give one. I think I told you there was a woman
aboard the cutter, that sick girl, sir. Oh, but it was hard lines for
her, poor thing! I see her pale and calm; oh, Lord, so pale and calm;
every night of my life; she kneeled aboard the cutter with her white
hands a-clasped together, praying."
"Certainly, it is all very shocking," said Wardlaw; "but then, you know,
if they had escaped, they would have exposed us. Believe me, it is all
for the best."
Wylie looked at him with wonder. "Ay," said he, after staring at him a
long time; "you can sit here at your ease, and doom a ship and risk her
people's lives. But if you had to do it, and see it, and then lie awake
thinking of it, you'd wish all the gold on earth had been in hell before
you put your hand to such a piece of work."
Wardlaw smiled a ghastly smile. "In short," said he, "you don't mean to
take the three thousand pounds I pay you for this little job."
"Oh, yes, I do; but for all the gold in Victoria I wouldn't do such a job
again. And you mark my words, sir, we shall get the money, and nobody
will ever be the wiser." Wardlaw rubbed his hands complacently. His
egotism, coupled with his want of imagination, nearly blinded him to
everything but the pecuniary feature of the business. "But," continued
Wylie, "we shall never thrive on it. We have sunk a good ship, and we
have as good as murdered a poor dying girl."
"Hold your tongue, ye fool!" cried Wardlaw, losing his sang-froid in a
moment, for he heard somebody at the door.
It opened, and there stood a military figure in a traveling-cap--General
Rolleston.