 CHAPTER IX. The First Conclusion of Michael Finnsbury's Holiday I know Michael Finnsbury personally, in my business. I know the awkwardness of having such a man for a lawyer. Still, it's an old story now, and there is such a thing as gratitude, and in short, my legal business, although now I'm thankful to say of quite a placid character, remains entirely in Michael's hands. But the trouble is, I have no natural talent for addresses. I learn one for every man. That is, friendship's offering. And the friend who subsequently changes his residence is dead to me, memory refusing to pursue him. Thus it comes about that, as I always write to Michael at his office, I cannot swear to his number in the King's Road. Of course, like my neighbours, I have been to dinner there. Of late years, once his accession to wealth, neglect of business, and election to the club, these little festivals have become common. He picks up a few fellows in the smoking-room, all men of attic wit, myself for instance, if he has the luck to find me disengaged. A string of handsoms may be observed by Her Majesty, bowling gaily through St James's Park, and in a quarter of an hour the party surrounds one of the best appointed boards in London. It's at the time of which we write. The house in the King's Road, let us still continue to call it to number 233, was kept very quiet. When Michael entertained guests, he was at the halls of Nicolle or Verrie that he would convene them, and the door of his private residence remained closed against his friends. The upper story, which was sunny, was set apart for his father. The drawing-room was never opened. The dining-room was the scene of Michael's life. It is in this pleasant apartment, sheltered from the curiosity of King's Road by wire-blinds, and entirely surrounded by the lawyer's unrivaled library of poetry and criminal trials, that we find him sitting down to his dinner after his holiday with Pittman. A spare old lady, with very bright eyes, and a mouth humorously compressed, waited upon the lawyer's needs. In every line of her countenance she betrayed the fact that she was an old retainer. In every word that fell from her lips she flaunted the glorious circumstance of a Scottish origin, and the fear with which this powerful combination fills the boldest was obviously no stranger to the bosom of our friend. The hot scotch, having somewhat warmed up the embers of the hide-sick, it was touching to observe the master's eagerness to pull himself together under the servant's eye. And when he remarked, I think, Tina, I'll take a brandy and soda. He spoke like a man doubtful of his elocution, and not half-certain of obedience. No such thing, Mr. Michael, was the prompt return. Clareton, water! Very well, Tina, I daresay you know best," said the master. Very fatiguing day at the office, though. What? said the retainer. You never were near the office. Oh, yes I was, though. I was repeatedly along Fleet Street. Returned Michael. Pretty Plisks, you've been at this day, cried the old lady, with humorous alacrity, and then, Take care, don't break my crystal! she cried, as the lawyer came within an ace of knocking the glasses off the table. And how is he keeping? asked Michael. Oh, just the same, Mr. Michael, just the way he'll be till the end, worthy man, was the reply. But you'll not be the first that's asked me that, the day. No, said the lawyer. Who else? Aye, that's a joke, too, said Tina grimly. A friend of yours, Mr. Morris. Morris? What was the little beggar wanting here? inquired Michael. Wanted to see him, replied the housekeeper, completing her meaning by a movement of the thumb towards the upper story. That's by his way of it, but I have an idea of my own. He tried to bribe me, Mr. Michael. Bribe! Me! she repeated, with an imitable scorn. There's no kind of a young gentleman. Did he so? said Michael. I bet he didn't offer much. No more he did, replied Tina. Nor could any subsequent questioning elicit from her the sum with which the thrifty leather merchant had attempted to corrupt her. But I sent him out about his business, she said gallantly. He'll not come here again in a hurry. He mustn't see my father, you know. Mind that, said Michael. I'm not going to have any public exhibition to a little beast like him. No fear of me letting him, replied the trusty one. But the joke is this, Mr. Michael. See, you're upsetting the sauce as a clean tablecloth. The best of the joke is, he thinks your father's dead and you're keeping it dark. Michael whistled. Set a thief to catch a thief, said he. Exactly what I told him! cried the delighted dame. I'll make him dance for that, said Michael. Couldn't you get the law of him some way? suggested Tina, truckulantly. No, I don't think I could, and I'm quite sure I don't want to, replied Michael. But I say, Tina, I really don't believe this Clarence wholesome. It's not a sound reliable wine. Give us a brandy and soda. There's a good soul. Tina's face became like adamant. Well then, said the lawyer fretfully, I won't eat any more dinner. You can please yourself about that, Mr. Michael, said Tina, and began compositely to take away. I do wish Tina wasn't a faithful servant, sighed the lawyer as he eschewed into the King's Road. The rain had ceased, the wind still blew, but only with the present freshness. The town, in the clear darkness of the night, glittered with street lamps, and shone with glancing rain-pools. Come, this is better! thought the lawyer to himself. And he walked on eastward, lending a pleased ear to the wheels and the million footfalls of the city. Near the end of the King's Road, he remembered his brandy and soda, and entered a flaunting public house. A good many persons were present, a waterman from a cab stand, half a dozen of the chronically unemployed, a gentleman in one corner trying to sell aesthetic photographs, out of a leather case to another and very youthful gentleman with the yellow goatee, and a pair of lovers debating some fine shade in the other. But the centerpiece and great attraction was a little old man in a black, ready-made sertu, which was obviously a recent purchase. On the marble table in front of him, beside the sandwich and a glass of beer, there lay a battered forage-cap. His hand fluttered abroad with oratorical gestures. His voice, naturally shrill, was plainly tuned to the pitch of the lecture room. And by arts comparable to that of the ancient mariner, he was now holding spellbound the barmaid, the waterman, and four of the unemployed. They have examined all the theatres in London, he was saying, and pacing the principal entrances, they have ascertained them to be ridiculously disproportionate to the requirements of their audiences. The doors opened the wrong way. I forget at this moment which it is, but have a note of it at home. They were frequently locked during the performance, and when the auditorium was literally thronged with English people, you have probably not had my opportunities of comparing distant lands, but I can assure you that this has been long ago recognized as a mark of aristocratic government. Do you suppose in a country rarely self-governed such abuses could exist? Your own intelligence, however uncultivated, tells you they could not. Take Austria, a country even possibly more enslaved than England. I have myself conversed with one of the survivors of the Ringtheater, and though his colloquial German was not very good, I succeeded in gathering a pretty clear idea of his opinion of the case. But what will perhaps interest you still more? Here is a cutting on the subject from a Vienna newspaper, which I will now read to you, translating as I go. You can see for yourselves it is printed in the German character. And he held the cutting out for verification, much as a conjurer passes a trick-orange along the front bench. Hello, old gentleman, is this you? said Michael, laying his hand upon the auditor's shoulder. The figure turned with a convulsion of alarm and showed the countenance of Mr. Joseph Finsbury. Are you, Michael? he cried. There's no one with you, is there? No, replied Michael, ordering a brandy and soda. There's nobody with me. Whom do you expect? I thought of Maurice or John, said the old gentleman, evidently greatly relieved. What the devil should I be doing with Maurice or John? cried the nephew. There is something in that, returned Joseph, and I believe I can trust you. I believe you will stand by me. I hardly know what you mean, said the lawyer. But if you're in need of money, I am flush. It's not that, my dear boy, said the uncle, shaking him by the hand. I'll tell you all about it afterwards. All right, replied the nephew. I stand treat. Uncle Joseph, what will you have? In that case, replied the old gentleman, I'll take another sandwich. I dare say I surprise you, he went on, with my presence in the public house. But the fact is, I act on a sound, but a little-known principle of my own. Oh, it's better known than you suppose, said Michael, sipping his brandy and soda. I always act on it myself when I want to drink. The old gentleman, who was anxious to probitiate Michael, laughed a chairless laugh. You have such a flow of spirits, said he. I'm sure I often find it quite amusing. But regarding this principle of which I was about to speak, it is that of accommodating oneself to the manners of any land, however humble, in which our lot may be cast. Now, in France, for instance, everyone goes to a cafe for his meals, in America, to what is called a two-bit house. In England, the people resort to such an institution as the present for refreshment. With sandwiches, tea, and the occasional glass of bitter beer, a man can live luxuriously in London for fourteen pounds, twelve shillings per annum. Yes, I know, return Michael, but that's not including clothes, washing, or boots. The whole thing with cigars and occasional sprees costs me over seven hundred a year. But this was Michael's last interruption. He listened in good human silence to the remainder of his uncle's lecture, which speedily branched to political reform, thence to the theory of the weather-glass with an illustrative account of a borah in the Adriatic, thence again to the best manner of teaching arithmetic to the deaf and dumb, and with that the sandwich being no more, explicoit Valdepelicida. A moment later the pair issued forth on the king's road. Michael, said his uncle, the reason I am here is because I cannot endure those nephews of mine I find them intolerable. I daresay you do, assented Michael, I could never stand them for a moment. They wouldn't let me speak, continued the old gentleman Bitterly. I was never allowed to get a word in edgewise. I was shut up at once with some impertinent remark. They kept me on short allowance of pencils, when I wished to make notes of the most absorbing interest. The daily newspaper was guarded from me like a young baby from a gorilla. Now you know me, Michael. I live for my calculations. I live for my manifold and ever-changing views of life. Pens and paper and the productions of the popular press are to me as important as food and drink, and my life was growing quite intolerable when, in the confusion of that fortunate railway accident at Brownean, I made my escape. They must think me dead and are trying to deceive the world for the chance of the tontine. By the way, how do you stand for money? asked Michael kindly. A peculiarly speaking, I am rich. Return the old man with cheerfulness. I am living at present at the rate of one hundred a year with unlimited pens and paper, the British Museum at which to get books, and all the newspapers I choose to read. But it is extraordinary how little a man of intellectual interest requires to bother with books in a progressive age. The newspapers supply all the conclusions. I'll tell you what, said Michael. Come and stay with me. Michael, said the old gentleman, it's very kind of you, but you scarcely understand what a peculiar position I occupy. There are some little financial complications. As a guardian, my efforts were not altogether blessed, and not to put too fine a point upon the matter. I am absolutely in the power of that vile fellow Morris. You should be disguised, cried Michael eagerly. I will lend you a pair of window-glass spectacles and some red side whiskers. I have already canvassed that idea, replied the old gentleman, but feared to awake a mark in my unpretentious lodgings. The aristocracy, I am well aware. But see here, interrupted Michael, how do you come to have any money at all? Don't make a stranger of me, Uncle Joseph. I know all about the trust and the hash you made of it, and the assignment you were forced to make to Morris. Joseph narrated his dealings with the bank. Oh, but I say this won't do, cried the lawyer. You've put your foot in it. You had no right to do what you did. The whole thing is mine, Michael, protested the old gentleman. I founded and nursed that business on principles entirely of my own. That's all very fine. said the lawyer. But you made an assignment. You were forced to make it too. Even then your position was extremely shaky. But now, my dear sir, it means the dock. It isn't possible, cried Joseph. The law cannot be so unjust as that. And the cream of the thing, interrupted Michael, with a sudden shout of laughter, the cream of the thing is this, that of course you've downed the leather business. I must say, Uncle Joseph, you have strange ideas of law, but I like your taste in humour. I've seen nothing to laugh at, observed Mr. Finsbury, tartly. And talking of that, has Morris any power to sign for the firm? asked Michael. No one but myself, replied Joseph. Poor devil of a Morris! Oh, poor devil of a Morris! cried the lawyer in delight, and his keeping up the fast that you're at home. Oh, Morris, the Lord has delivered you into my hands. Let me see, Uncle Joseph. What do you suppose the leather business is worth? It was worth a hundred thousand, said Joseph Bitterly, when it was in my hands. But then there came a Scotsman. It is supposed he had a certain talent. It was entirely directed to bookkeeping. No accountant in London could understand a word of any of his books. And then there was Morris, who is perfectly incompetent. Now it is worth very little. Morris tried to sell it last year, and Pogrom and Jarris offered only four thousand. I shall turn my attention to leather, said Michael with decision. You, asked Joseph, I advise you not, there is nothing in the whole field of commerce more surprising than the fluctuations of the leather market. Its sensitiveness may be described as morbid. And now, Uncle Joseph, what have you done with all that money? asked the lawyer. Bade it into a bank and drew twenty pounds. Answered Mr. Finsbury promptly. Why? Very well, said Michael. Tomorrow I shall send down a clerk with a check for a hundred, and he'll draw out the original sum, and return it to the Anglo-Patagonian with some sort of explanation which I will try to invent for you. That will clear your feet, and as Morris can't touch a penny of it without forgery, it will do no harm to my little scheme. But what am I to do? asked Joseph. I cannot live upon nothing. Don't you hear? Returned Michael, I will send you a check for a hundred, which leaves you eighty to go along upon, and when that's done apply to me again. I would rather not be beholden to your bounty all the same. said Joseph, biting at his white moustache, I would rather live on my own money, since I have it. Michael grasped his arm. Will nothing make you believe? he cried, that I am trying to save you from Dartmoor. His earnestness staggered the old man. I must turn my attention to law, he said. It will be a new field, for though, of course, I understand his general principles, I have never really applied my mind to the details, and this view of yours, for example, comes on me entirely by surprise. But you may be right, and of course at my time of life, for I am no longer young, any really long term of imprisonment would be highly prejudicial. But, my dear nephew, I have no claim on you. You have no call to support me. That's all right, said Michael. I'll probably get it out of the leather business. And having taken down the old gentleman's address, Michael left him at the corner of the street. What a wonderful old muddler, he reflected, and what a singular thing is life. I seem to be condemned to be the instrument of Providence. Let me see what have I done today? Disposed of a dead body? Saved Pitman? Saved my Uncle Joseph? Brightened up Forsythe? And drunk a devil of a lot of most indifferent liquor? Let's top off with a visit to my cousins, and be the instrument of Providence in earnest. Tomorrow I can turn my attention to leather. Tonight I'll just make it lively for them in a friendly spirit. About a quarter an hour later, as the clocks were striking eleven, the instrument of Providence descended from a handsome, and bidding the driver-weight, wrapped at the door of No. 16 John Street. It was promptly opened by Morris. Ah, it's due, Michael, he said, carefully blocking up the narrow opening. It's very late. Michael, without a word, reached forth, grasped Morris warmly by the hand, and gave it so extreme a squeeze that the sullen householder fell back. Profiting by this movement, the lawyer obtained a footing in the lobby, and marched into the dining-room with Morris at his heels. Where's my uncle Joseph? demanded Michael, sitting down in the most comfortable chair. No, he's not been very well lately. Replied Morris, he's staying at Brown Dean. John is nursing him, and I'm alone, as you see. Michael smiled to himself. I want to see him on particular business, he said. You can't expect to see my uncle when you won't let me see your father. Returned Morris. Fiddlestick, said Michael, my father is my father, but Joseph is just as much my uncle as he's yours, and you have no right to sequestrate his person. Ah, I do no such thing! said Morris doggedly. He's not well, he's dangerously ill, and nobody can see him. I'll tell you what then, said Michael, I'll make a clean breast of it. I have come down like the apostle Morris. I have come to compromise. Poor Morris turned a pale of death. And then a flush of wroth against the injustice of man's destiny died his very temples. What do you mean? he cried. I don't believe a word of it. And when Michael had assured him of his seriousness, well then, he cried with another deep flush, or I won't, so you can put that in your pipe and smack it. Oh, ho! said Michael, clearly. You say your uncle is dangerously ill, and you won't compromise. There's something very fishy about that. What do you mean? cried Morris, hoarsely. I only say it's fishy. Returned Michael. That is, pertaining to the Finney tribe. Do you mean to insinuate anything? cried Morris, stormily, trying the high hand. Insinuate! repeated Michael. Oh, don't let's begin to use awkward expressions. Let us drown our differences in a bottle like two affable kinsmen. The two affable kinsmen, sometimes attributed to Shakespeare, he added. Morris's mind was laboring like a mill. Does he suspect? Is this chance and stuff? Shall I sow, or shall I bully? So, he concluded, it gains time. Well, said he aloud, and with rather a painful affictation of heartiness, it's a long time since we have had an evening together, Michael, and though my habits, as you now are very temperate, I may as well make an exception. Excuse me one moment while I fetch a bottle of whisky from the cellar. No whisky for me, said Michael, a little of the old still champagne or nothing. For a moment Morris stood irresolute, for the wine was very valuable. The next he had quitted the room without a word. His quick mind had perceived his advantage. In thus donening him for the cream of the cellar, Michael was playing into his hand. One bottle? He thought, ah, George, I'll give him two. This is no moment for economy, and once the beast is drunk, it's strange if I don't bring his secret out of him. With two bottles, accordingly, he returned. Glasses were produced, and Morris filled them with a hospitable grace. Ah, drink to you, cousin! he cried gaily. Don't spare the wine-cup in my house! Michael drank his glass deliberately, standing at the table, filled it again, and returned to his chair, carrying the bottle along with him. The spoils of war, he said apologetically. The weakest goes to the wall. Science, Morris! Science! Morris could think of no reply, and for an appreciable interval, silence reigned. But two glasses of the still champagne produced a rapid change in Michael. There's a want of vivacity about you, Morris. He observed you may be deep, but I'll be hanged if you're vivacious. What makes you think me deep? asked Morris, with an air of pleased simplicity. Because you won't compromise, said the lawyer. You're a deep dog, Morris, very deep dog. Not the compromise. Remarkable deep dog. And a very good glass of wine. It's the only respectable feature in the Finsbury family, this wine. Rarer thing than a title. Much rarer. Now a man with a glass wine, like in this cellar, I wonder why I won't compromise. Well, you wouldn't compromise before you know, said the smiling Morris. Turnabout is fair play. Wonder why I wouldn't compromise. I wonder why you wouldn't, inquired Michael. I wonder why we each think the other wouldn't. It's quite a remarkable, remarkable problem, he added. Triumphing over oral obstacles, not without obvious pride. Wonder what we each think. Then, don't you? What do you suppose to have been my reason? asked Morris adroitly. Michael looked at him and winked. That's cool, said he. Next thing you'll ask me to help you out of the muddle. I know I'm a misery of providence, but not that kind. You get out of it yourself. I ease up and the other fellow. Must be a dreadful muddle for a young orphan of forty. They're the business and all. I'm sure I don't know what you mean, said Morris. Not sure I know myself, said Michael. This is an excellent vintage, though. Excellent vintage. Nothing against the tipple. The only thing is a valuable uncle disappeared. Now, what I want to know was valuable uncle. I've told you he's a brown dean. Answered Morris, furtively wiping his brow. For these repeated hints began to tell upon him cruelly. Very easy say, brown D. Not so easily after all, cried Michael. Easy say, anything's easy say, when you can say it. What I don't like is the total disappearance of an uncle. Not business-like. And he wagged his head. It's all perfectly simple, returned Morris with laborious calm. There is no mystery. He stays at Brown Dean, where he got a shake in the accident. Ah, said Michael. God, there was a shake. Why do you say that? cried Morris sharply. Best possible authority. Tell me so yourself, said the lawyer. But if you tell me contrary now, of course, I'm bound to believe I'm one story or the other. Point is, I have upset this bottle. Still, champagne's excellent thing. Carpets. Point is, valuable uncle. Dead and buried. Morris sprang from his seat. What's that you say? he gasped. I say, I say it's excellent thing, Carpets. Replied Michael, rising. Excellent thing. Promote healthy action of the skin. Well, it's all one anyway. Give my love to Uncle Champagne. You're not going away, said Morris. Oh, sorry, old man. I've got to sit up, sit friend, said the wavering Michael. You shall not go till you've explained your hints. Return, Morris fiercely. What do you mean? What brought you here? No, friends, I trust, said the lawyer, turning round as he opened the door, only doing my duty as a chemistry of province. Groping his way to the front door, he opened it with some difficulty, and descended the steps to the handsome. The tired driver looked up as he approached, and asked where he was to go next. Michael observed that Morris had followed him to the steps. A brilliant inspiration came to him. Anything to give pain, he reflected. Drive Scotland Yard, he added aloud, holding to the wheel to steady himself. There's something devilish fishy cabbie about those cousins. Must be cleared up. Drive Scotland Yard. You don't mean that, sir, said the man, with the ready sympathy of the lower orders for an intoxicated gentleman. I'd better take you home, sir. You can go to Scotland Yard tomorrow. Is this his friend or his professional man? You advise me not to go to Scotland Yard tonight. Inquired Michael. No, all right. Never mind Scotland Yard. Drive Guiety Bar. The Guiety Bar is closed, said the man. In the home, said Michael, with the same cheerfulness. Where to, sir? I don't remember, I'm sure, said Michael, entering the vehicle. Drive Scotland Yard, nask. But you have a card, said the man, through the little aperture in the top. Give me your card case. Oh, what imagination in a cabbie! cried the lawyer, producing his card case and handing it to the driver. The man read it by the light of the lamp. Mr. Michael Finsbury. Do that, you wee, King's Road Chelsea. Is that it, sir? There I are, cried Michael. Drive there, if you can see why. End of Chapter 9, Chapter 10 of The Wrong Box. This is a Libra Box recording. All Libra Box recordings are in the public domain. For further information, or to volunteer, please go to LibraVox.org. Reading by Andy Minter. The Wrong Box. By Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osborne. Chapter 10. Gideon Forsythe and the Broadwood Grand. The reader has perhaps read that remarkable work Who Put Back the Clock by E. H. B., which appeared for several days upon the railway bookstalls, and then vanished entirely from the face of the earth. Whether eating, time makes the chief of his diet out of old editions, whether Providence has passed a special enactment on behalf of authors, or whether these last have taken the law into their own hand, bound themselves into a dark conspiracy with the password, which I would die rather than reveal, a night after night sally forth under some vigorous leader, such as Mr. James Payne or Mr. Walter Besant, on their task of secret spoilation, certainly it is, at least, that the old editions pass giving way to new. To the proof. It is believed that there are now only three copies extant of Who Put Back the Clock, one in the British Museum, successfully concealed by a wrong entry in the catalogue, another in one of the cellars, and the cellar is where the music accumulates of the Advocate's Library at Edinburgh, and a third, bound in Morocco, in the possession of Gideon Forsythe. To account for the very different fate ending this third exemplar, the readiest theory is to suppose that Gideon admired the tale. How to explain that admiration might appear, to those who have perused the work, more difficult, but the weakness of a parent is extreme, and Gideon, and not his uncle whose initials he had humorously borrowed, was the author of Who Put Back the Clock. He had never acknowledged it, or only to some intimate friends while it was still in proof. After its appearance and alarming failure, the modesty of the novelists had become more pressing, and the secret was now likely to be better kept than that of the authorship of Waverly. A copy of the work, for the date of my tale is already yesterday, still figured in dusty solitude in the bookstore at Waterloo, and Gideon, as he passed with his ticket for Hampton Court, smiled contemptuously at the creature of his thoughts. What an idle ambition was the author's. How far beneath him was the practice of that childish art. With his hand closing on his first brief, he felt himself a man at last, and the muse who presides over the police romance, a lady presumably of French extraction, fled his neighbourhood, and returned to join the dance round the springs of Helicon among her Grecian sisters. Robust, practical reflection, still cheered the young barrister upon his journey. Again and again he selected the little country house, in its islet of great oaks, which he was to make his future home. Like a prudent householder, he projected improvements as he passed. To one he added a stable, to another a tennis court, a third he supplied with a becoming rustic boathouse. How little a while ago, he could not but reflect, I was a careless young dog with no thought but to be comfortable. I cared for nothing but boating and detective novels. I would have passed an old-fashioned country house with a large kitchen garden, stabling, boathouse, and spacious offices, without so much as a look, and certainly would have made no inquiries to the drains. How a man ripens with the ears. The intelligent reader will perceive the ravages of Miss Hazeltine. Gideon had carried Julia straight to Mr Bloomfield's house, and that gentleman had been led to understand that she was the victim of oppression, had noisily espoused her cause. He worked himself into a fine breathing heat, in which, to a man of his temperament, action became needful. I do not know which is the worst, he cried, the fraudulent old villain or the unmanly young cub. I will write to the pal-mal and expose them. Nonsense, sir, they must be exposed. It is a public duty. Did you not tell me the fellow was a tory? Oh, the uncle is a radical lecturer, is he? No doubt the uncle has been grossly wronged, but of course, as you say, that makes a change. It becomes scarce so much a public duty. And he sought and instantly found a fresh outlet for his alacrity. Miss Hazeltine, he now perceived, must be kept out of the way. His houseboat was lying ready. He had returned about a day or two before from his usual cruise. There was no place like a houseboat for concealment, and that very morning, in the teeth of the easterly gale, Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield and Miss Julia Hazeltine had started forth on their untimely voyage. Gideon played in vain to be allowed to join the party. No, Gid, said his uncle, you will be watched. You must keep away from us. Nor had the barrister ventured to contest this strange illusion, for he feared, if he rubbed off any of the romance, that Mr. Bloomfield might weary of the whole affair. And his discretion was rewarded, for the squire-radical, laying a heavy hand upon his nephew's shoulder, had added these notable expressions. I see what you're after, Gide. But if you're going to get the girl, you have to work, sir. These pleasing sounds had cheered the barrister all day, as he sat reading in chambers. They continued to form the ground base of his manly musings, as he was welled to Hampton Court. Even when he landed at the station, and began to pull himself together for his delicate interview, the voice of Uncle Ned and the eyes of Julia were not forgotten. But now it began to rain surprises. In all Hampton Court there was no Colonel Villa, no Count Tarno, and no Count. This was strange, but viewed in the light of the incoherency of his instructions, not perhaps inexplicable, Mr. Dixon had been lunching, and he might have made some fatal oversight in the address. What was the thoroughly prompt manly and business-like step, thought Gideon? And he answered himself at once, a telegram, very laconic. Speedily the wires were flashing the following very important missive. Dixon, Langham Hotel. Villain and persons both unknown here. Suppose erroneous address. Follow self next train. Forsythe. And at the Langham Hotel, sure enough, with a brow expressive of dispatch and intellectual effort, Gideon descended not long after from a smoking handsome. I do not suppose that Gideon will ever forget the Langham Hotel. No Count Tarno was one thing. No John Dixon and no Ezra Thomas, quite another. How, why and what next danced in his bewildered brain? From every centre of what we playfully call the human intellect, incongruous messages were telegraphed. And before the hubbub of dismay had quite subsided, the barrister found himself driving furiously for his chambers. There was at least a cave of refuge. It was at least a place to think in. And he climbed the stair, put his key in the lock, and opened the door, with some approach to hope. It was all dark within, for the night had sometime fallen, but Gideon knew his room. He knew where the matches stood on the end of the chimney-piece, and he advanced boldly. And in so doing dashed himself against a heavy body, where, slightly altering the expressions of the song, no heavy body should have been. There had been nothing there when Gideon went out. He had locked the door behind him. He had found it locked on his return. No one could have entered. The furniture could not have changed its own position. And yet, undeniably, there was a something there. He thrust out his hands in the darkness. Yes, there was something. Something large. Something smooth. Something cold. Heaven forgive me, said Gideon. It feels like a piano. And the next moment he remembered the vestas in his waistcoat pocket, and had struck a light. It was indeed a piano that met his doubtful gaze, a vast and costly instrument, stained with the rains of the afternoon, and defaced with recent scratches. The light of the vestre was reflected from the varnished sides, like a stace in quiet water, and in the further end of the room, the shadow of that strange visitor loomed bulkily, and wavered on the wall. Gideon let the match burn to his fingers, and the darkness closed once more on his bewilderment. Then, with trembling hands, he lit the lamp and drew near. Near or far there was no doubt of the fact. The thing was a piano. There, whereby all the laws of God and man, it was impossible that it should be, there the thing impudently stood. Gideon threw open the keyboard and struck a chord. Not a sound disturbed the quiet of the room. Is there anything wrong with me, he thought, with a pang? A drawing in a seat obstinately persisted in his attempts to ravish silence, now with sparkling arpeggios, now with a sonata of Beethoven's, which, in happier days, he knew to be one of the loudest pieces of that powerful composer. Still not a sound. He gave the broadwood two great bangs with his clenched fist. All was as still as the grave. The young barrister started to his feet. I am stark, staring mad, he cried aloud, and no one knows it but myself. God's worst curse has fallen on me. His fingers encountered his watch-jane. Instantly he had plucked forth his watch and held it to his ear. He could hear it ticking. I am not deaf, he said aloud. I am only insane. My mind has quitted me for ever. He looked uneasily about the room. And gazed with lackluster eyes at the chair in which Mr. Dixon had installed himself. The end of a cigar lay near on the fender. No, he thought. I don't believe that was a dream, but God knows my mind is failing rapidly. I seem to be hungry, for instance. It's probably another hallucination. Still, I might try. I shall have one more good meal. I shall go to the Café Royal and may possibly be removed from there, direct to the asylum. He wondered, with morbid interest, as he descended the stairs, how he would first betray his terrible condition. Would he attack a waiter, or eat glass? And when he had mounted into a cab, he bade the man drive to Nicholls, with a lurking fear that there was no such place. The flaring, gassy entrance of the Café speedily set his mind at rest. He was cheered besides to recognise his favourite waiter. His orders appeared to be coherent. The dinner, when it came, was quite a sensible meal, and he ate it with enjoyment. Ah, upon my word, he reflected, I am about tempted to indulge a hope. Have I been hasty? Have I done what Robert Skill would have done? Robert Skill, I need scarcely mention, was the name of the principal character in Who Put Back the Clock? It had occurred to the author as a brilliant and probable invention. The readers of a critical turn, Robert appeared, scarce upon a level with his surname, but it is the difficulty of the police romance, that the reader is always a man of such vastly greater ingenuity than the writer. In the eyes of his creator, however, Robert Skill was a word to conjure with. The thought braced and spurred him. What that brilliant creature would have done, Gideon would do also. This frame of mind is not uncommon. The distressed general, the bated divine, the hesitating author, decide severally to do what Napoleon, what St Paul, what Shakespeare would have done. And there remains only the minor question, what is that? In Gideon's case, one thing was clear. Skill was a man of singular decision. He would have taken some step, whatever it was, at once, and the only step that Gideon could think of was to return to his chambers. This being achieved, all further inspiration failed him, and he stood pitifully staring at the instrument of his confusion. To touch the keys again was more than he durced venture on. Whether they had maintained their former silence, or responded with the tones of the last trump, it would have equally dethroned his resolution. It may be a practical jest, he reflected, though it seems elaborate and costly, and yet what else can it be? It must be a practical jest. And just then his eye fell upon a feature which seemed corroborative of that view, the pagoda of cigars, which Michael had erected ere he left the chambers. Why that? reflected Gideon. It seems entirely irresponsible. And drawing near, he gingerly demolished it. A key! he thought. Why that? And why so conspicuously placed? He made the circuit of the instrument, and perceived the keyhole at the back. Aha! This is what the key is for, said he. They wanted me to look inside. Stranger and stranger. And with that he turned the key, and raised the lid. In what antics of agony, in what fits of flighty resolution, in what collapses of despair Gideon consumed the night, it would be ungenerous to inquire too closely. That trill of tiny song with which the eavesbirds of London welcomed the approach of day, found him limp and rumpled and bloodshot, and with a mind still vacant of resource. He rose, and looked forth unrejoicingly on blinded windows, an empty street, and the gray daylight dotted with the yellow lamps. There are mornings when the city seems to awake with a sick headache. This was one of them. And still the twittering re-valley of the sparrows stirred in Gideon's spirit. Day here, he thought, and I still helpless. This must come to an end. And he locked up the piano, put the key in his pocket, and set forth in quest of coffee. As he went, his mind trudged for the hundredth time a certain mill-road of terrors, misgivings, and regrets. To call in the police, to give up the body, to cover London with hand-bills, describing John Dixon and Ezra Thomas, to fill the papers with paragraphs, mysterious occurrence in the temple, Mr Forsythe admitted to bail. This was one course, an easy course, a safe course, but not, the more he reflected on it, not a pleasant one. For was it not to publish abroad a number of singular facts about himself? A child ought to have seen through the story of those adventurers, and he had gaped and swallowed it. A barrister of the least self-respect, should have refused to listen to clients who came before him in the manner so irregular. And he had listened. And oh, if he had only listened! But he had gone upon their errand. He, a barrister, uninstructed even by the shadow of a solicitor, upon an errand fit only for a private detective. And alas! and for the hundredth time the blood surged to his brow, he had taken their money. No, said he, the thing is as plain as St. Paul's, I shall be dishonoured. I have smashed my career for a five-pound note. Between the possibility of being hanged in all innocence, and the certainty of a public and merited disgrace, no gentleman of spirit could long hesitate. After three gulps of that hot, snuffy and muddy beverage that passes on the streets of London for a decoction of the coffee-berry, Gideon's mind was made up. He would do without the police. He must face the other side of the dilemma, and be Robert Skill in earnest. What would Robert Skill have done? How does a gentleman dispose of a dead body honestly come by? He remembered the inimitable story of the hunchback, reviewed its course, and dismissed it for a worthless guide. It was impossible to prop a corpse on the corner of Tottenham Court Road without arousing fatal curiosity in the bosoms of the passers-by. As for lowering it down a London chimney, the physical obstacles were insurmountable. To get it on board a train and drop it out, or on the top of an omnibus and drop it off, were equally out of the question. To get it on a yacht and drop it overboard was more conceivable, but for a man of moderate means it seemed extravagant. The hire of the yacht was in itself a consideration. The subsequent support of the whole crew, which seemed a necessary consequence, was simply not to be thought of. His uncle and the houseboat here occurred in very luminous colours to his mind. A musical composer, say of the name of Jimson, might very well suffer like Hogarth's musician before him from the disturbances of London. He might very well be pressed for time to finish an opera, say a comic opera of Orange Pico, Orange Pico Music by Jimson, this young maestro, one of the most promising of our recent English school, vigorous entrance of the drums, etc. The whole character of Jimson and his music arose in bulk before the mind of Gideon. What more likely than Jimson's arrival with the grand piano, say, Padwick, and his residence in a houseboat alone with the unfinished score of Orange Pico? His subsequent disappearance, leaving nothing behind but an empty piano case. It might be more difficult to account for, and yet even that was susceptible of explanation. For suppose Jimson had gone mad over a fugal passage and had thereupon destroyed the accomplice of his infamy and plunged into the welcome river. What end on the whole more probable for a modern musician? By Jove, I'll do it, cried Gideon. Jimson is the boy. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of The Wrong Box This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org Reading by Andy Mentor The Wrong Box by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osborne Chapter 11 The Maestro Jimson Mr. Edward Hugh Bloomfield, having announced his intention to stay in the neighbourhood of Maidenhead, what more probable than that the Maestro Jimson should turn his mind towards Padwick? Near this pleasant riverside village, he remembered to have observed an ancient weedy houseboat lying moored beside a tuft of willows. It had stirred in him, in his careless hours as he pulled down the river under a more familiar name, a certain sense of the romantic. And when the nice contrivance of his story was already complete in his mind, he had come near pulling it all down again, like an under-rateful clock, in order to introduce a chapter in which Richard Skill, who was always being decoyed somewhere, should be decoyed on board that lonely hulk by Lord Belieu, and the American desperado, Jim Sling. It was fortunate he had not done so, he reflected, since the hulk was now required for very different purposes. Jimson, a man of inconspicuous costume but insinuating manners, had little difficulty in finding the hireling who had charge of the houseboat, and still less in persuading him to resign his care. The rent was almost nominal, the entry immediate, the key was exchanged against a suitable advance in money, and Jimson returned to town by the afternoon train to see about dispatching his piano. I will be down to-morrow, he had said reassuringly, my opera is waited for with such impatience, you know. And sure enough, about the hour of noon on the following day, Jimson might have been observed ascending the riverside road that goes from Padwick to Great Haverham, carrying in one hand a basket of provisions, and under the other arm a leather case, containing, it is to be conjectured, the score of orange pico. It was October weather, the stone-gray sky was full of locks, the leaden mirror of the Thames brightened with autumnal foliage, and the fallen leaves of the chestnuts, chirped under the composer's footing. There is no time of the year in England more courageous, and Jimson, though he was not without his troubles, whistled as he went. A little above Padwick, the river lies very solitary. On the opposite shore the trees for private park enclose the view, the chimneys of the mansion just pricking forth above their clusters. On the nearside the path is bordered by willows. Close among these lay the houseboat, the thing so soiled by the tears of the overhanging willows, so groan upon with parasites, so decayed, so battered, so neglected, such a haunt of rats, so advertised a storehouse of rheumatic agonies, that the heart of an intending occupant might well recoil. A plank, by way of a flying drawbridge, joined it to the shore. And it was a dreary moment for Jimson, when he pulled this after him, and found himself alone on this unwholesome fortress. He could hear the rats scuttle and flop in the abhorred interior. The key cried among the wards like a thing in pain. The sitting room was deep in dust, and smelt strong of bilge water. It could not be called a cheerful spot, even for a composer absorbed in beloved toil, how much less for a young gentleman haunted by alarms, and awaiting the arrival of a corpse. He sat down, cleared away a piece of the table, and attacked the cold luncheon in his basket. In case of any subsequent inquiry into the fate of Jimson, it was desirable that he should be little seen. In other words, that he should spend the day entirely in the house. To this end, and further to corroborate his fable, he had brought in the leather case, not only writing materials, but a ream of large-sized music-paper, such as he considered suitable for an ambitious character like Jimson's. And now to work, said he, when he had satisfied his appetite, we must leave traces of the wretched man's activity. And he wrote, in bold characters, Orange Pico, Op. 17, J. B. Jimson, Vocal and P. F. Score. I suppose they never do begin like this, reflected Gideon, but then it's quite out of the question for me to tackle a full score, and Jimson was so unconventional. A dedication would be found convincing, I believe. Dedicated to, let me see, to William J. Gladstone, by his obedient servant, the composer. And now some music. I had better avoid the overture, it seems to present difficulties. Let's give an air for the tenor. Key? Something modern? Seven sharps? And he made a business-like signature across the staves, and then paused and browsed for a while on the handle of his pen. Melody, with no better inspiration than a sheet of paper, is not usually found to spring unbidden in the mind of the amateur, nor is the key of seven sharps a place of much repose to the untried. He cast away that sheet. It will help to build up the character of Jimson, Gideon remarked, and again waited on the muse, in various keys and on diverse sheets of paper, but all with results so inconsiderable that he stood aghast. It's very odd, thought he. I seem to have less fancy than I thought, or this is an off-day with me. Yet Jimson must leave something, and again he bent himself to the task. Presently the penetrating chill of the house-butt began to attack the very seat of life. He desisted from his unremunerative trial, and to the audible annoyance of the rats, walked briskly up and down the cabin. Still he was cold. This is all nonsense, said he. I don't care about the risk, but I will not catch a Qatar. I must get out of this den. He stepped on deck, and passing to the bow of his embarkation, looked for the first time up the river. He started, only a few hundred yards above, another house-boat lay moored among the willows. It was very spick and span, an elegant canoe hung at the stern. The windows were concealed by snowy curtains. A flag floated from a staff. The more Gideon looked at it, the more they mingled with his disgust a sense of impotent surprise. It was very like his uncle's house-boat. It was exceedingly like. It was identical. But for two circumstances he could have sworn that it was the same. The first, that his uncle had gone to Maidenhead, might be explained away by that flightiness of purpose, which is so common a trait among the more than usually manly. The second, however, was conclusive. It was not in the least like Mr Bloomfield to display a banner on his floating residence, and if he ever did, it would certainly be dyed in hues of emblematical propriety. Now the squire radical, like the vast majority of the more manly, had drawn knowledge at the wells of Cambridge. He was wooden spoon in the year 1850, and the flag upon the house-boat streamed on the afternoon air with the colours of that seat of Torreism, that cradle of Puseism, that home of the inexact and the aphete Oxford. Still, it was strangely alike, thought Gideon. And as he thus looked and thought, the door opened, and the young lady stepped forth on deck. The barrister dropped and fled into his cabin. It was Julia Hazeltine. Through the window he watched her draw in the canoe, get on board of it, cast off, and come dropping downstream in his direction. Well, all is up now, said he, and he fell on a seat. Well, up known miss, said a voice on the water, Gideon knew it for the voice of his landlord. Good afternoon, replied Julia. But I don't know who you are, do I? Oh, yes I do, though. You're the nice man that gave us leave to sketch from the old house-boat. Gideon's harp leapt with fear. The acid, returned the man. And what I wanted to say was you couldn't do it any more. Usually I've let it. Let it, cried Julia. Let it for a month, said the man. Seems strange, doesn't it? Can't see what the party wants with it. It seems very romantic of him, I think, said Julia. What sort of person is he? Julia, in her canoe, the landlord in his wary were close alongside, and holding on by the gunnel of the house-boat, so that not a word was lost on Gideon. He's a music-man, said the landlord. Or at least that's what he told me, miss. Come down here to write an opera. Really? cried Julia. I never heard of anything so delightful. Why we shall be able to slip down at night and hear him improvise. What's his name? Jimson, said the man. Jimson, repeated Julia, and interrogated her memory in vain. But indeed our rising school of English music boasts so many professors that we rarely hear of one till he's made a baronet. Are you sure you have it right? Made him spell it to me, replied the landlord. J-r-m-s-o-n, Jimson, and his opera's called... Some kind of tea. Some kind of tea, cried the girl. What a very singular name for an opera. What can it be about? And Gideon heard her pretty laughter flow abroad. We must try to get acquainted with this, Mr. Jimson. I feel sure he must be nice. Well, Miss, I'm afraid I must be getting on. I've got to be at Averham, you see. Oh, don't let me keep you, you kind man, said Julia. Good afternoon. Good hour known to you, Miss. Gideon sat in the cabin, a prey to the most harrowing thoughts. Here he was anchored to a rotting houseboat, soon to be anchored to it, still more emphatically, by the presence of the corpse. And here was the country buzzing about him, and young lady's already proposing pleasure parties to surround his house at night. That meant the gallows, and much he cared for that. What troubled him now was Julia's indescribable levity. That girl would scrape acquaintance with anybody. She had no reserve, none of the enamel of the lady. She was familiar with a brute like his landlord. She took an immediate interest, which she lacked even the delicacy to conceal, in a creature like Jimson. He could conceive her asking Jimson to have tea with her. And it was for a girl like this that a man like Gideon? Down, manly heart. He was interrupted by a sound that sent him whipping behind the door in a trice. Miss Hazeltine had stepped on board the houseboat. Her sketch was promising. Judging from the stillness, she supposed Jimson not yet come. And she had decided to seize occasion, and complete the work of art. Down she sat, therefore, in the bow. Produced her block and watercolours, and was soon singing over, what used to be called, the Lady Like Accomplishment. Now and then, indeed, her song was interrupted, as she searched in her memory for some of the odious little receipts, by means of which the game is practised. More used to be practised in the brave days of old. They say the world, and those ornaments of the world, young ladies, are become more sophisticated now. But Julia had probably started under Pippman, and she stood firm in the old ways. Gideon, meanwhile, stood behind the door, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to think what must follow, wracked by confinement, and born to the ground with tedium. This particular phase, he felt with gratitude, could not last for ever, whatever impended, even the gallows he bitterly, and perhaps erroneously reflected, could not fail to be a relief. To calculate cubes, occurred to him as an ingenious and even profitable refuge from distressing thoughts, and he threw his manhood into that dreary exercise. Thus then were these two persons occupied. Gideon, attacking the perfect number with resolution, Julia, vigorously stippling incongruous colours on her block, when Providence dispatched into these waters, a steam-launch, asthmatically panting up the Thames. All along the banks the water swelled and fell, and the reeds rustled. The houseboat itself, that ancient stationery creature, became suddenly imbued with life, and rolled briskly at her moorings, like a sea-going ship when she begins to smell the harbour-bar. The wash had nearly died away, and the quick panting of the launch sounded already faint and far off, when Gideon was startled by a cry from Julia. Peering through the window, he beheld her staring disconsolently downstream at the fast-vanishing canoe. The barrister, whatever were his faults, displayed on this occasion a promptitude worthy of his hero Robert Skill. With one effort of his mind he foresaw what was about to follow. With one movement of his body he dropped to the floor and crawled under the table. Julia, on her part, was not yet alive to her position. She saw she had lost the canoe. She looked forward with something less than avidity to her next interview with Mr Bloomfield. But she had no idea that she was imprisoned, for she knew of the Plank Bridge. She made the circuit of the house, and found the door open and the bridge withdrawn. It was plain, then, that Jimson must have come. Plain, too, that he must be on board. He must be a very shy man to have suffered this invasion of his residence and made no sign. And her courage rose higher at the thought. He must come now. She must force him from his privacy, for the Plank was too heavy for her single strength. So she tapped on the open door, and then she tapped again. Mr Jimson, she cried, Mr Jimson, here, come. You must come, you know, sooner or later, for I can't get off without you. Oh, don't be so exceedingly silly. Oh, please, come. Still there was no reply. If he is here, he must be mad, she thought, with a little fear. And the next moment she remembered that he had probably gone aboard like herself in a boat. In that case, she might as well see the houseboat, and she pushed open the door and stepped in. Under the table, where he lay, smothered with dust, Gideon's heart stood still. There were the remains of Jimson's lunch. He liked rather nice things to eat, she thought. Oh, I'm sure he's quite a delightful man. I wonder if he is as good looking as Mr Forsythe. Mrs Jimson, I don't believe it sounds as nice as Mrs Forsythe, but then Gideon is so really odious. And here is some of his music too. This is delightful. Orange pico. Oh, that's what he meant by some kind of tea. And she trialled with laughter. Adagio molto expressivo, sempre legato, she read next. For the literary part of a composer's business, Gideon was well equipped. How very strange to have all these directions and only three or four notes. Oh, here's another with some more. And antepathetico. And she began to glance over the music. Oh, dear me, she thought, he must be terribly modern. It all seems discord to me. Let's try the air. It is very strange. Seems familiar. She began to sing it. And suddenly broke off with laughter. Why, it's Tommy make room for your uncle, she cried aloud, so that the soul of Gideon was filled with bitterness. And antepathetico, indeed, the man must be a mere imposter. And just at this moment there came a confused scuffling sound from underneath the table. A strange note, like that of a barn door foul, ushered in a most explosive sneeze. The head of the sufferer was at the same time brought smartly in contact with the boards above, and the sneeze was followed by a hollow groan. Julia fled to the door, and there, with the salutary instinct of the brave, turned and faced the danger. There was no pursuit. The sounds continued. Below the table a crouching figure was indistinctly to be seen, jostled by the throes of a sneezing fit, and that was all. Surely, thought Julia, this is most unusual behavior. He cannot be a man of the world. Meanwhile, the dust of years had been disturbed by the young barrister's convulsions, and the sneezing fit was succeeded by her passion at access of coughing. Julia began to feel a certain interest. I'm afraid you're really quite ill, she said, drawing a little nearer. Please, don't let me put you out, and do not stay under that table, Mr. Jimson. Indeed, it cannot be good for you. Mr. Jimson only answered by a distressing cough, and the next moment the girl was on her knees, and their faces had almost knocked together under the table. Oh, my goodness gracious! explained Miss Hazeltine, and sprang to her feet. Mr. Forsyth gone mad. I am not mad, said the gentleman, roofily, extracting himself from his position. Dearest Miss Hazeltine, I vow to you upon my knees I am not mad. You are not, she cried panting. I know, he said, that to a superficial eye my conduct may appear unconventional. If you are not mad, it was no conduct at all, cried the girl with a flash of color, and showed you did not care one penny for my feelings. Oh, this is the very devil and all I know. I admit that, cried Gideon, with a great effort of manly candour. It was abominable conduct, said Julia, with energy. I know it must have shaken your esteem, said the barrister, but dearest Miss Hazeltine, I beg of you to hear me out. My behavior, strange as it may seem, is not unsusceptible of explanation, and I positively cannot and will not consent to try to exist without the esteem of one whom I admire. The moment is ill-chosen. I am well aware of that, but I repeat the expression, one whom I admire. A touch of amusement appeared on Miss Hazeltine's face. Very well, said she, come out of this dreadfully cold place and let us sit down on the deck. The barrister dullfully followed her. Now, said she, making herself comfortable against the end of the house, go on, I will hear you out. And then, seeing him stand before her with so much obvious disrelish at the task, she was suddenly overcome with laughter. Julia's laugh was a thing to ravish lovers. She rolled her mirthful descant with the freedom and the melody of a blackbird's song upon the river, and repeated by the echoes of the further bank. It seemed a thing in its own place and a sound native to the open air. There was only one creature who heard it without joy, and that was her unfortunate admirer. Miss Hazeltine, he said, in a voice that tottered with annoyance, I speak as your sincere well-wisher, but this can only be called levity. Julia made great eyes at him. I can't withdraw the word, he said. Already the freedom with which I heard you hobnobbing with the boatman gave me exquisite pain. Then there was a want of reserve about Jimson. But Jimson appears to be yourself, objected Julia. I am far from denying that, cried the barrister, but you did not know it at the time. What could Jimson be to you? Who was Jimson? Miss Hazeltine, it cut me to the heart. Really, this seems to me to be very silly, returned Julia with severe decision. You have behaved in the most extraordinary manner. You pretend you are able to explain your conduct, and instead of doing so, you begin to attack me. I am well aware of that, replied Gideon. I will make a clean rest of it. When you know all the circumstances, you will be able to excuse me. And sitting down beside her on the deck, he poured forth his miserable history. Oh, Mr. Forsythe! she cried, when he had done. I am so sorry. I wish I hadn't laughed at you. Only you know you really were so exceedingly funny. But I wish I hadn't, and I wouldn't either, if I had only known. And she gave him her hand. Gideon kept it in his own. You do not think the worse of me for this? he asked, tenderly. Because you have been so silly and got into such dreadful trouble. You poor boy know, cried Julia. And in the warmth of the moment reached him her other hand. You may count on me, she added. Really? said Gideon. Really and really? replied the girl. I do then, and I will, cried the young man. I admit the moment is not well chosen, but I have no friends to speak of. No more have I, said Julia. But don't you think it is perhaps time you gave me back my hands? Alasidara am la mano, said the barrister. The merest moment more. I have so few friends, he added. I thought it was considered such a bad account of a young man to have no friends. Absurd, Julia. Oh, but I have crowds of friends, cried Gideon. That's not what I mean. I feel the moment is ill chosen. But, oh, Julia, if you could only see yourself. Mr. Forsythe. Don't call me by that beastly name, by the youth. Call me Gideon. Oh, never that, from Julia. Besides, we have known each other such a short time. Not at all, protested Gideon. We met at Bournemouth ever so long ago. I never forgot you since. Say you never forgot me. Say you never forgot me, and call me Gideon. Isn't this rather a want of reserve about Jimson? Inquired the girl. Oh, I know I'm an ass, cried the barrister, and I don't care a hate me. I know I'm an ass, and you may laugh at me to your heart's delight. And as Julia's lips opened with a smile, he once more dropped into music. There's the land of Cherry Isle, he sang, courting her with his eyes. It's like an opera, said Julia, rather faintly. What should it be? said Gideon. Am I not Jimson? It would be strange if I did not serenade my love. Oh, yes, I meant the word, my Julia, and I mean to win you. I am in dreadful trouble, and I have not a penny of my own, and I have cut the silliest figure, and yet I mean to win you, Julia. Look at me, if you can, and tell me no. She looked at him, and whatever her eyes may have told him, it is to be supposed he took a pleasure in the message. For he read it for a long while. And Uncle Ned will give us some money to go upon in the meanwhile, he said at last. Well, I call that cool! said a cheerful voice at his elbow. Gideon and Julia sprang apart with wonderful alacrity. The latter annoyed to observe that, although they had never moved since they sat down, they were now quite close together, both presenting faces of a very heightened colour to the eyes of Mr Edward Hugh Bloomfield. That gentleman, coming up the river in his boat, had captured the truant canoe, and, divining what had happened, had thought to steal a march upon Miss Hazeltine at her sketch. He had unexpectedly brought down two birds with one stone, and as he looked upon the pair of flushed and breathless culprits, the pleasant human instinct of the matchmaker softened his heart. Well, I call that cool! he repeated. You seem to count very securely upon Uncle Ned. But look here, Gideon, I thought I'd told you to keep away. To keep away from Maidenhead, replied Gideon, but how should I expect to find you here? Hmm, there is something in that. Mr Bloomfield admitted, you see, I thought it better that even you should be ignorant of my address. Those rascals the Finsbury's would have wormed it out of you, and just to put them off the scent, I hoisted these abominable colours. But that's not all, Gideon, you promised me to work, and here I find you playing the fool at Padwick. Oh, please, Mr Bloomfield, you mustn't be hard on Mr Forsythe, said Julia. Poor boy, he is in dreadful straits. What's this, Gideon? Inquired the uncle. Have you been fighting, or is it a bill? These, in the opinion of the Squire Radical, were the two misfortunes incident to gentlemen, and indeed both were culled from his own career. He had once put his name, as a matter of form, on a friend's paper. It had cost him a cool thousand, and the friend had gone about with the fear of death upon him ever since, and never turned a corner without scouting in front of him for Mr Bloomfield and the Oaken staff. As for fighting, the Squire Radical was always on the brink of it, and once, when, in the character of President of a Radical Club, he had cleared out the hall of his opponents, things had gone even further. Mr Holton, the Conservative candidate, who lay so long upon the bed of sickness, was prepared to swear to Mr Bloomfield, I will swear to it in any court it was the hand of that brute that struck me down, he was reported to have said, and when he was thought to be sinking, it was known that he had made an anti-Mortem statement in that sense. It was a cheerful day for the Squire Radical when Holton was restored to his brewery. It's much worse than that, said Gideon, a combination of circumstances really providentially unjust. In fact, a syndicate of murderers seemed to have perceived my latent ability to rid them of the traces of their crime. It's a legal study, after all you see. And with these words, Gideon, for the second time that day, began to describe the adventures of the Broadwood Grand. I must write to the Times, cried Mr Bloomfield. Do you want to get me disbarred? asked Gideon. Disbarred? Can't be as bad as that, said his uncle. It's a good honest liberal government that's in, and they would certainly move at my request. Thank God the days of Tory jobbery are at an end. It wouldn't do, Uncle Ned, said Gideon. But you're not mad enough, cried Mr Bloomfield, to persist in trying to dispose of it yourself. There is no other path open to me, said Gideon. It's not common sense, and I will not hear of it, cried Mr Bloomfield. I command you, positively, Gideon, to desist from this criminal interference. Very well, then, I hand it over to you, said Gideon, and you can do what you like with the dead body. God forbid, ejaculated the President of the Radical Club. I'll have nothing to do with it. Then you must allow me to do the best I can, returned his nephew. Believe me, I have a distinct talent for this sort of difficulty. Or he might forward it to that Pest House, the Conservative Club. Observe, Mr Bloomfield. It might damage them in the eyes of their constituents, and it could be profitably worked up in the local journal. If you see any political capital in the thing, said Gideon, you may have it for me. No, no, Gideon, no, no, I thought you might. I will have no hand in the thing. On reflection, it's highly undesirable that either I or Miss Hazeltine should linger here. We might be observed, said the President, looking up and down the river, and in my public position the consequences would be painful for the party, and at any rate it's dinner time. What! cried Gideon, plunging for his watch, and so it is. Great Heaven the piano should have been here hours ago. Mr Bloomfield was clambering back into his boat, but at these words he paused. I saw it arrive myself at the station. I hired the carrier man. He had a round to make, but he was to be here by four at the latest, cried the barrister. No doubt the piano is open and the body found. You must fly at once, cried Mr Bloomfield. It's the only manly step. But suppose it's all right, well Gideon. Suppose the piano comes and I'm not here to receive it. I shall have hanged myself by my cowardice. No, Uncle Ned, inquiries must be made in Padwick. I dare not go, of course. But you may. You could hang about the police office, don't you see? No, Gideon, no, my dear nephew, said Mr Bloomfield, with the voice of one on the rack. I regard you with the most sacred affection, and I thank God I am an Englishman and all that, but not the police, Gideon. Then you desert me, said Gideon, say it plainly. Far from it, far from it, protested Mr Bloomfield. I only propose caution. Common sense, Gideon, should always be an Englishman's guide. Will you let me speak, said Julia? I think Gideon had better leave this dreadful houseboat and wait among the willows over there. If the piano comes, then he could step out and take it in. And if the police come, he could slip into our houseboat and there needn't be any more gymson at all. He could go to bed and we could burn his clothes, couldn't we, in the steam-launch, and then really it seems as if it would be all right. Mr Bloomfield is so respectable, you know, and such a leading character it would be quite impossible even to fancy he could be mixed up with it. This young lady has strong common sense, said the Squire Radical. Oh, I don't think I'm at all a fool, said Julia, with conviction. But what if neither of them come? asked Gideon. What shall I do then? Why then, said she, you had better go down to the village after dark, and I can go with you, and then I'm sure you could never be suspected. And even if you were, I could tell them it was altogether a mistake. I will not permit that, I will not suffer Miss Hazeltine to go. Cried Mr Bloomfield. Why? asked Julia. Mr Bloomfield had not the least desire to tell her why, for it was simply a craven fear of being drawn himself into the imbruglio. But with the usual tactics of a man who is ashamed of himself, he took the high hand. God forbid, my dear Miss Hazeltine, that I should dictate to a lady on the question of propriety. He began. Oh, is that all? interrupted Julia. Then we must go, all three. Caught, thought the squire radical. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of The Wrong Box This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information, or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Reading by Andy Mentor The Wrong Box by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osborne Chapter 12 Positive the Last Appearance of the Broadwood Grand England is supposed to be unmusical, but without dwelling on the patronage extended to the organ grinder, without seeking to found any argument on the prevalence of the Jews-Trump, there is surely one instrument that may be said to be national in the fullest acceptance of the word. The herd-boy in the room, already musical in the days of Father Chaucer, startles, and perhaps pains, the lark with this exiguous pipe. And in the hands of the skilled Brickler, the thing becomes a trumpet. When he blows, as a general rule, either the British grenadiers or cherry-ripe. The latter air is indeed the chivaleth and diploma-piece of the penny-whistler. And I hazard to guess it was originally composed for this instrument. It is singular enough that a man should be able to gain a livelihood, or even to tide over a period of unemployment, by the display of his proficiency upon the penny whistle. Still more so that the professional should almost invariably confine himself to cherry-ripe. But indeed singularities surround the subject, thick like blackberries. Why, for instance, should the pipe be called a penny whistle? I think no one ever bought it for a penny. Why should the alternative name be Tin Whistle? I'm grossly deceived if it be made of tin. Lastly, in what deaf catacomb, in what earless desert, does the beginner pass the excruciating interval of his apprenticeship? We have all heard people learning the piano, the fiddle, and the cornet. But the young of the penny-whistler, like that of the salmon, is our cult from observation. He is never heard until proficient, and Providence, perhaps alarmed by the works of Mr. Mallock, defends human hearing from his first attempts upon the upper octave. A really noteworthy thing was taking place in a green lane, not far from Padwick. On the bench of a carrier's cart there sat a toe-headed, lanky, modest-looking youth. The reins were on his lap. The whip lay behind him in the interior of the cart. The horse proceeded without guidance or encouragement. The carrier, or the carrier's man, wrapped in a higher sphere than that of his daily occupations. His looks, dwelling on the skies, devoted himself wholly to the brand-new D. Penny-whistler, whence he diffidently endeavoured to elicit that pleasing melody, the plow-boy. To any observant person who should have chance to saunter in that lane, the hour would have been thrilling. Here, at last, he would have said, is the beginner. The toe-headed youth, whose name was Harker, had just on-caught himself for the nineteenth time, when he was struck into the extremity of confusion by the discovery that he was not alone. There you have it! cried a manly voice from the side of the road. That's as good as I want to hear! But so little loilier in the run, the voice suggested, with meditative gusto, give it it again. Harker glanced from the depths of his humiliation at the speaker. He beheld a powerful, sun-brown, clean-shaven fellow about forty years of age, striding beside the cart with a non-commissioned military bearing, and, as he strode, spinning in the air a cane. The fellow's clothes were very bad, but he looked clean and self-reliant. I'm only a beginner! gasped the blushing Harker. Oh, he didn't think anybody could hear me. Well, I like that! returned the other. You're a pretty old beginner! Come, I'll give you a lead myself. Give us a seat here beside you. The next moment the military gentleman was perched on the cart, pipe in hand. He gave the instrument a knowing rattle on the shaft. Bout it, appeared to commune for a moment with the muse, and dashed into the girl I left behind me. He was a great, rather than a fine performer. He lacked the bird-like richness. He could scarce have extracted all the honey out of cherry-ripe. He did not fear. He even ostentatiously displayed and seemed to revel in the shrillness of the instrument. But in fire, speed, precision, evenness, and fluency, in linked agility of Jimmy, a technical expression by Olive, answering to warblers on the backpipe, and perhaps above all in that inspiring side-glass of the eye with which he followed the effect, and, as by a human appeal, eked out the insufficiency of his performance. In these the fellow stood without a rival. Harker listened. The girl I left behind me filled him with despair. The soldier's joy carried him beyond jealousy into generous enthusiasm. "'Turn about,' said the military gentleman, offering the pipe. "'Oh, no, after you,' cried Harker. "'You're a provisional.' "'No,' said his companion, and I'm not sure like yourself. That's one style of play. Yours is the other, and I like it best. But I began when I was a boy, you see, before my taste was formed. When you're my age, you play that thing like a corned-apiston. Give us that air again. How does it go?' And he affected to endeavour to recall the plough-boy. A timid, insane hope sprang in the breast of Harker. Was it possible? Was there something in his playing? It had indeed seemed to him at times as if he got a kind of richness out of it. Was he a genius? Meanwhile the military gentleman stumbled over the air. "'No,' said the unhappy Harker. "'That's not quite it. It goes this way. Just to show you.' And taking the pipe between his lips he sealed his doom. When he had played the air, and then a second time, and a third, when the military gentleman had tried it once more and once more failed, when it became clear to Harker that he, the blushing debutante, was actually giving a lesson to this full-grown flutist, and the flutist under his care was not very brilliantly progressing, how am I to tell what floods of glory brightened the autumnal countryside? How, unless the reader were an amateur himself, described the heights of idiotic vanity to which the carrier climbed. One significant factual paint the situation. Thenceforth it was Harker who played, and the military gentleman listened and approved. As he listened, however, he did not forget the habit of soldierly precaution, looking both behind and before. He looked behind and computed the value of the carrier's load, divining the contents of the brown paper parcels and the portly hamper, and briefly setting down the grand piano in the brand new piano case as difficult to get rid of. He looked before, and spied at the corner of the green lane, a little country public house, and bowed in roses. I had a shy at it, concluded the military gentleman, and roundly proposed a glass. Well, are you not a rinking man? said Harker. Look here now, cut in the other. I'll tell you who I am. I'm Color Sergeant Brand of the Blankth. That'll tell you if I'm a drinking man or not. It might, and it might not. Thus a Greek chorus would have intervened, and gone on to point out how very far it fell short of telling why the sergeant was tramping a country lane in tatters, or even to argue that he must have pre-emitted some while ago his labours for the general defence, and in the interval possibly turned his attention to Okham, but there was no Greek chorus present, and the man of war went on to contend that drinking was one thing, and a friendly glass another. In the Blue Lion, which was the name of the country public house, Color Sergeant Brand introduced his new friend, Mr. Harker, to a number of ingenious mixtures, calculated to prevent the approaches of intoxication. These, he explained, to be requisite in the service, so that a self-respecting officer should always appear upon parade in a condition honorable to his core. The most efficacious of these devices was to lace a pint of mild ale with two penneth of London gin. I am pleased to hand in this recipe to the discerning reader, who may find it useful even in Civil Station, for its effect upon Mr. Harker was revolutionary. He must be helped on board his own wagon, where he proceeded to display a spirit entirely given over to mirth and music alternately hooting with laughter, to which the Sergeant hastened to bear chorus, and incoherently tootling on the pipe. The man of war, meantime, unostentatiously possessed himself of the reins. It was plain he had a taste for the secluded beauties of an English landscape, for the cart, although it wandered under his guidance for some time, was never observed to issue on the dusty highway, journeying between hedge and ditch, and for the most part under overhanging boughs. It was plain besides he had an eye to the true interests of Mr. Harker, for though the cart drew up more than once at the doors of public houses, it was only the Sergeant who set foot to ground, and being equipped himself with a quart bottle, once more proceeded on his rural drive. To give any idea of the complexity of the Sergeant's course, a map of that part of middle sex would be required, and my publisher is a verse from the expense. Suffice it that, a little after the night had closed, the cart was brought to a standstill in a woody road, where the Sergeant lifted from among the parcels, and tenderly deposited upon the wayside the inanimate form of Harker. If you come to before daylight, thought the Sergeant, I shall be surprised for one. From the various pockets of the slumbering carrier, he gently collected the sum of seventeen shillings of apes and sterling, and getting once more into the cart, drove thoughtfully away. If I was exactly sure of where I was, it would be a good job, he reflected. Anyway, here's a corner. He turned it, and found himself upon the river-side. A little above him the lights of a houseboat shone cheerfully, and already close at hand, so close that it was impossible to avoid their notice, three persons, a lady, and two gentlemen were deliberately drawing near. The Sergeant put his trust in the convenient darkness of the night, and drove on to meet them. One of the gentlemen, who was of a portly figure, walked in the midst of the fairway, and presently held up a staff by way of a signal. My man, have you seen anything of a carrier's cart? he cried. Dark as it was, it seemed to the Sergeant, as though the slimmer of the two gentlemen had made a motion to prevent the other speaking, and, finding himself too late, had skipped aside with some alacrity. At another season Sergeant Brand would have paid more attention to the fact, but he was then immersed in the perils of his own predicament. A carrier's cart? said he, with a perceptible uncertainty of voice. No, sir. Ah, said the portly gentleman, and still decided to let the Sergeant pass. The lady appeared to bend forward and study the cart with every mark of sharpened curiosity, the slimmer gentleman still keeping in the rear. I wonder what the devil they would be at, thought Sergeant Brand. And looking fearfully back, he saw the trio standing together in the midst of the way, like folk consulting. The bravest of military heroes are not always equal to themselves as to their reputation, and fear, on some singular provocation, will find a lodgement in the most unfamiliar bosom. The word detective might have been heard to gurgle in the Sergeant's throat, and vigorously applying the whip he fled up the Riverside Road to Great Haberham at the gallop of the carrier's horse. The lights of the houseboat flashed upon the flying wagon as it passed, the beat of hooves and the rattle of the vehicle gradually coalesced and died away, and presently to the trio on the Riverside silence had redescended. It's the most extraordinary thing, cried the slimmer of those two gentlemen, but that's the cart. And I know I saw a piano, said the girl. Oh, it's the cart, certainly, and the extraordinary thing is it's not the man, added the first. It must be the man-geared, it must be, said the portly one. Well then, why is he running away? asked Gideon. His horse bolted, I suppose, said the squire-radical. Nonsense, I heard the whip going like a flail, said Gideon. It simply defies the human reason. I'll tell you, broken the girl, he came round that corner. Suppose we went, and what you call it in books, followed his trail. There may be a house there, or somebody who saw him or something. Well, suppose we did, for the fun of the thing, said Gideon. The fun of the thing, it would appear, consisted in the extremely close juxtaposition of himself and Miss Hazeltine. Dr. Ned, who was excluded from these simple pleasures, the excursion appeared hopeless from the first, and when a fresh perspective of darkness opened up, dimly contained between the park palings on the one side, and a hedge and a ditch upon the other, the hole without the smallest signal of human habitation, the squire-radical drew up. This is a wild goose-chase, said he. With the cessation of the footfalls, another sound smote upon their ears. Oh, what's that? cried Julia. No, I can't think, said Gideon. The squire-radical had his stick presented like a sword. Gid! He began, Gid, I— Oh, Mr. Forsythe! cried the girl. Oh, don't go forward, you don't know what it might be. It might be something perfectly horrid. It might be the devil itself, said Gideon, disengaging himself, but I am going to see it. Don't be rash, Gide! cried his uncle. The barrister drew near to the sound, which was certainly of a portentous character. In quality it appeared to blend the strains of the cow, the fog-horn and the mosquito, and the startling manner of its enunciation added incalculably to its terrors. A dark object, not unlike the human form divine, appeared on the brink of the ditch. It's a man, said Gideon. It's only a man. He seems to be asleep and snoring. Hello! he added a moment after. There must be something wrong with him. He won't waken. Gideon produced his vesters, struck one, and by its light recognized the toe-head of Harker. This is the man, said he. As drunk as Belial, I see the whole story. Until his companions, who had now ventured to rejoin him, he set forth a theory of the divorce between the carrier and his cart, which was not unlike the truth. Drunken brute, said uncle Ned. Let's get him to a pump and give him what he deserves. Not at all, said Gideon. It is highly undesirable he should see us together. And really, do you know I'm very much obliged to him. For this is about the luckiest thing that could possibly have occurred. It seems to me, uncle Ned. I declare to heaven it seems to me I'm clear of it. Clear of what? asked the square radical. The whole affair, cried Gideon. The man has been ass enough to steal the cart and the dead body. What he hopes to do with it I neither know nor care. My hands are free. Jimson ceases. Down with Jimson. Shake hands with me. Uncle Ned, Julia, darling girl, Julia, I— Gideon, Gideon, said his uncle. Oh, it's all right, uncle. When we're going to be married so soon, said Gideon, you know you said so on the houseboat. Did I? said uncle Ned. I'm certain I said no such thing. Appeal to him. Tell him he did. Get on his soft side, cried Gideon. He's a real brick if you get on his soft side. Dear Mr. Bloomfield, said Julia, I know Gideon will be such a very good boy, and he has promised me to do such a lot of law, and I will see to it that he does too. And you know it is so very steadying to young men. Everybody admits that. Of course I know I have no money, Mr. Bloomfield, she added. My dear young lady, as this rapscallion told you today on the boat, Uncle Ned has plenty, said the Squire Radical, and I can never forget that you have been shamefully defrauded. So, as there's nobody looking, you'll have better give your uncle Ned a kiss. There you rogue. Resume, Mr. Bloomfield, when the ceremony had been daintily performed. This very pretty young lady is yours, and a vast deal more than you deserve. But now, let us get back to the houseboat, get steam on the launch, and the way back to town. That's the thing, cried Gideon, and to-morrow there will be no houseboat, and no Jimson, and no carious cart, and no piano. And when Harker awakes on the ditchside, he may tell himself the whole affair has been a dream. Aha! said Uncle Ned, but there's another man who will have a different awakening. That fellow in the cart will find he has been too clever by half. Uncle Ned and Julia, said Gideon, I am as happy as the King of Tartary. My heart is like a threatening bit. My heels are like feathers. I am out of all my troubles. Julia's hand is in mine. Is this a time for anything but handsome sentiments? There's not room in me for anything that's not angelic. And when I think of that poor unhappy devil in the cart, I stand here in the night and cry with a single heart, God help him. Amen, said Uncle Ned. End of chapter 12