CHAPTER XIII. The Tribulations of Morris: Part the Second
In a really polite age of literature I would have scorned to cast my eyeagain on the contortions of Morris. But the study is in the spirit ofthe day; it presents, besides, features of a high, almost a repulsive,morality; and if it should prove the means of preventing any respectableand inexperienced gentleman from plunging light-heartedly into crime,even political crime, this work will not have been penned in vain.
He rose on the morrow of his night with Michael, rose from the leadenslumber of distress, to find his hand tremulous, his eyes closed withrheum, his throat parched, and his digestion obviously paralysed.'Lord knows it's not from eating!' Morris thought; and as he dressedhe reconsidered his position under several heads. Nothing will so welldepict the troubled seas in which he was now voyaging as a reviewof these various anxieties. I have thrown them (for the reader'sconvenience) into a certain order; but in the mind of one poor humanequal they whirled together like the dust of hurricanes. With the sameobliging preoccupation, I have put a name to each of his distresses;and it will be observed with pity that every individual item would havegraced and commended the cover of a railway novel.
Anxiety the First: Where is the Body? or, The Mystery of Bent Pitman. Itwas now manifestly plain that Bent Pitman (as was to be looked for fromhis ominous appellation) belonged to the darker order of the criminalclass. An honest man would not have cashed the bill; a humane man wouldnot have accepted in silence the tragic contents of the water-butt; aman, who was not already up to the hilts in gore, would have lackedthe means of secretly disposing them. This process of reasoning left ahorrid image of the monster, Pitman. Doubtless he had long ago disposedof the body--dropping it through a trapdoor in his back kitchen, Morrissupposed, with some hazy recollection of a picture in a penny dreadful;and doubtless the man now lived in wanton splendour on the proceeds ofthe bill. So far, all was peace. But with the profligate habits of a manlike Bent Pitman (who was no doubt a hunchback in the bargain), eighthundred pounds could be easily melted in a week. When they were gone,what would he be likely to do next? A hell-like voice in Morris's ownbosom gave the answer: 'Blackmail me.'
Anxiety the Second: The Fraud of the Tontine; or, Is my Uncle dead?This, on which all Morris's hopes depended, was yet a question. He hadtried to bully Teena; he had tried to bribe her; and nothing came ofit. He had his moral conviction still; but you cannot blackmail a sharplawyer on a moral conviction. And besides, since his interview withMichael, the idea wore a less attractive countenance. Was Michaelthe man to be blackmailed? and was Morris the man to do it? Graveconsiderations. 'It's not that I'm afraid of him,' Morris so farcondescended to reassure himself; 'but I must be very certain of myground, and the deuce of it is, I see no way. How unlike is life tonovels! I wouldn't have even begun this business in a novel, but whatI'd have met a dark, slouching fellow in the Oxford Road, who'd havebecome my accomplice, and known all about how to do it, and probablybroken into Michael's house at night and found nothing but a waxworkimage; and then blackmailed or murdered me. But here, in real life, Imight walk the streets till I dropped dead, and none of the criminalclasses would look near me. Though, to be sure, there is always Pitman,'he added thoughtfully.
Anxiety the Third: The Cottage at Browndean; or, The UnderpaidAccomplice. For he had an accomplice, and that accomplice was bloomingunseen in a damp cottage in Hampshire with empty pockets. What could bedone about that? He really ought to have sent him something; if it wasonly a post-office order for five bob, enough to prove that he was keptin mind, enough to keep him in hope, beer, and tobacco. 'But whatwould you have?' thought Morris; and ruefully poured into his handa half-crown, a florin, and eightpence in small change. For a man inMorris's position, at war with all society, and conducting, with thehand of inexperience, a widely ramified intrigue, the sum was already aderision. John would have to be doing; no mistake of that. 'But then,'asked the hell-like voice, 'how long is John likely to stand it?'
Anxiety the Fourth: The Leather Business; or, The Shutters at Last: aTale of the City. On this head Morris had no news. He had not yet daredto visit the family concern; yet he knew he must delay no longer, andif anything had been wanted to sharpen this conviction, Michael'sreferences of the night before rang ambiguously in his ear. Well andgood. To visit the city might be indispensable; but what was he to dowhen he was there? He had no right to sign in his own name; and, withall the will in the world, he seemed to lack the art of signing withhis uncle's. Under these circumstances, Morris could do nothing toprocrastinate the crash; and, when it came, when prying eyes began to beapplied to every joint of his behaviour, two questions could not fail tobe addressed, sooner or later, to a speechless and perspiring insolvent.Where is Mr Joseph Finsbury? and how about your visit to the bank?Questions, how easy to put!--ye gods, how impossible to answer! The manto whom they should be addressed went certainly to gaol, and--eh! whatwas this?--possibly to the gallows. Morris was trying to shave when thisidea struck him, and he laid the razor down. Here (in Michael's words)was the total disappearance of a valuable uncle; here was a time ofinexplicable conduct on the part of a nephew who had been in badblood with the old man any time these seven years; what a chance for ajudicial blunder! 'But no,' thought Morris, 'they cannot, they dare not,make it murder. Not that. But honestly, and speaking as a man to a man,I don't see any other crime in the calendar (except arson) that I don'tseem somehow to have committed. And yet I'm a perfectly respectable man,and wished nothing but my due. Law is a pretty business.'
With this conclusion firmly seated in his mind, Morris Finsburydescended to the hall of the house in John Street, still half-shaven.There was a letter in the box; he knew the handwriting: John at last!
'Well, I think I might have been spared this,' he said bitterly, andtore it open.
Dear Morris [it ran], what the dickens do you mean by it? I'm in anawful hole down here; I have to go on tick, and the parties on the spotdon't cotton to the idea; they couldn't, because it is so plain I'm in astait of Destitution. I've got no bedclothes, think of that, I must havecoins, the hole thing's a Mockry, I wont stand it, nobody would. I wouldhave come away before, only I have no money for the railway fare. Don'tbe a lunatic, Morris, you don't seem to understand my dredful situation.I have to get the stamp on tick. A fact.
--Ever your affte. Brother,
J. FINSBURY
'Can't even spell!' Morris reflected, as he crammed the letter in hispocket, and left the house. 'What can I do for him? I have to go to theexpense of a barber, I'm so shattered! How can I send anybody coins?It's hard lines, I daresay; but does he think I'm living on hot muffins?One comfort,' was his grim reflection, 'he can't cut and run--he's gotto stay; he's as helpless as the dead.' And then he broke forth again:'Complains, does he? and he's never even heard of Bent Pitman! If he hadwhat I have on my mind, he might complain with a good grace.'
But these were not honest arguments, or not wholly honest; there was astruggle in the mind of Morris; he could not disguise from himself thathis brother John was miserably situated at Browndean, without news,without money, without bedclothes, without society or any entertainment;and by the time he had been shaved and picked a hasty breakfast at acoffee tavern, Morris had arrived at a compromise.
'Poor Johnny,' he said to himself, 'he's in an awful box! I can'tsend him coins, but I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll send him the PinkUn--it'll cheer John up; and besides, it'll do his credit good gettinganything by post.'
Accordingly, on his way to the leather business, whither he proceeded(according to his thrifty habit) on foot, Morris purchased anddispatched a single copy of that enlivening periodical, to which (ina sudden pang of remorse) he added at random the Athenaeum, theRevivalist, and the Penny Pictorial Weekly. So there was John set upwith literature, and Morris had laid balm upon his conscience.
As if to reward him, he was received in his place of business with goodnews. Orders were pouring in; there was a run on some of the back stock,and the figure had
gone up. Even the manager appeared elated. As forMorris, who had almost forgotten the meaning of good news, he longed tosob like a little child; he could have caught the manager (a pallidman with startled eyebrows) to his bosom; he could have found it inhis generosity to give a cheque (for a small sum) to every clerk inthe counting-house. As he sat and opened his letters a chorus of airyvocalists sang in his brain, to most exquisite music, 'This wholeconcern may be profitable yet, profitable yet, profitable yet.'
To him, in this sunny moment of relief, enter a Mr Rodgerson, acreditor, but not one who was expected to be pressing, for hisconnection with the firm was old and regular.
'O, Finsbury,' said he, not without embarrassment, 'it's of course onlyfair to let you know--the fact is, money is a trifle tight--I have somepaper out--for that matter, every one's complaining--and in short--'
'It has never been our habit, Rodgerson,' said Morris, turning pale.'But give me time to turn round, and I'll see what I can do; I daresaywe can let you have something to account.'
'Well, that's just where is,' replied Rodgerson. 'I was tempted; I'velet the credit out of MY hands.'
'Out of your hands?' repeated Morris. 'That's playing rather fast andloose with us, Mr Rodgerson.'
'Well, I got cent. for cent. for it,' said the other, 'on the nail, in acertified cheque.'
'Cent. for cent.!' cried Morris. 'Why, that's something like thirty percent. bonus; a singular thing! Who's the party?'
'Don't know the man,' was the reply. 'Name of Moss.'
'A Jew,' Morris reflected, when his visitor was gone. And what could aJew want with a claim of--he verified the amount in the books--a claimof three five eight, nineteen, ten, against the house of Finsbury? Andwhy should he pay cent. for cent.? The figure proved the loyalty ofRodgerson--even Morris admitted that. But it proved unfortunatelysomething else--the eagerness of Moss. The claim must have been wantedinstantly, for that day, for that morning even. Why? The mystery of Mosspromised to be a fit pendant to the mystery of Pitman. 'And just whenall was looking well too!' cried Morris, smiting his hand upon the desk.And almost at the same moment Mr Moss was announced.
Mr Moss was a radiant Hebrew, brutally handsome, and offensively polite.He was acting, it appeared, for a third party; he understood nothing ofthe circumstances; his client desired to have his position regularized;but he would accept an antedated cheque--antedated by two months, if MrFinsbury chose.
'But I don't understand this,' said Morris. 'What made you pay cent. percent. for it today?'
Mr Moss had no idea; only his orders.
'The whole thing is thoroughly irregular,' said Morris. 'It is not thecustom of the trade to settle at this time of the year. What are yourinstructions if I refuse?'
'I am to see Mr Joseph Finsbury, the head of the firm,' said Mr Moss.'I was directed to insist on that; it was implied you had no statushere--the expressions are not mine.'
'You cannot see Mr Joseph; he is unwell,' said Morris.
'In that case I was to place the matter in the hands of a lawyer. Letme see,' said Mr Moss, opening a pocket-book with, perhaps, suspiciouscare, at the right place--'Yes--of Mr Michael Finsbury. A relation,perhaps? In that case, I presume, the matter will be pleasantlyarranged.'
To pass into the hands of Michael was too much for Morris. He struck hiscolours. A cheque at two months was nothing, after all. In two monthshe would probably be dead, or in a gaol at any rate. He bade the managergive Mr Moss a chair and the paper. 'I'm going over to get a chequesigned by Mr Finsbury,' said he, 'who is lying ill at John Street.'
A cab there and a cab back; here were inroads on his wretched capital!He counted the cost; when he was done with Mr Moss he would be left withtwelvepence-halfpenny in the world. What was even worse, he had now beenforced to bring his uncle up to Bloomsbury. 'No use for poor Johnnyin Hampshire now,' he reflected. 'And how the farce is to be kept upcompletely passes me. At Browndean it was just possible; in Bloomsburyit seems beyond human ingenuity--though I suppose it's what Michaeldoes. But then he has accomplices--that Scotsman and the whole gang. Ah,if I had accomplices!'
Necessity is the mother of the arts. Under a spur so immediate, Morrissurprised himself by the neatness and dispatch of his new forgery, andwithin three-fourths of an hour had handed it to Mr Moss.
'That is very satisfactory,' observed that gentleman, rising. 'I was totell you it will not be presented, but you had better take care.'
The room swam round Morris. 'What--what's that?' he cried, grasping thetable. He was miserably conscious the next moment of his shrill tongueand ashen face. 'What do you mean--it will not be presented? Why am I totake care? What is all this mummery?'
'I have no idea, Mr Finsbury,' replied the smiling Hebrew. 'It was amessage I was to deliver. The expressions were put into my mouth.'
'What is your client's name?' asked Morris.
'That is a secret for the moment,' answered Mr Moss. Morris bent towardhim. 'It's not the bank?' he asked hoarsely.
'I have no authority to say more, Mr Finsbury,' returned Mr Moss. 'Iwill wish you a good morning, if you please.'
'Wish me a good morning!' thought Morris; and the next moment, seizinghis hat, he fled from his place of business like a madman. Three streetsaway he stopped and groaned. 'Lord! I should have borrowed from themanager!' he cried. 'But it's too late now; it would look dicky to goback; I'm penniless--simply penniless--like the unemployed.'
He went home and sat in the dismantled dining-room with his head in hishands. Newton never thought harder than this victim of circumstances,and yet no clearness came. 'It may be a defect in my intelligence,' hecried, rising to his feet, 'but I cannot see that I am fairly used. Thebad luck I've had is a thing to write to The Times about; it's enough tobreed a revolution. And the plain English of the whole thing is that Imust have money at once. I'm done with all morality now; I'm long pastthat stage; money I must have, and the only chance I see is Bent Pitman.Bent Pitman is a criminal, and therefore his position's weak. He musthave some of that eight hundred left; if he has I'll force him to goshares; and even if he hasn't, I'll tell him the tontine affair, andwith a desperate man like Pitman at my back, it'll be strange if I don'tsucceed.'
Well and good. But how to lay hands upon Bent Pitman, except byadvertisement, was not so clear. And even so, in what terms to ask ameeting? on what grounds? and where? Not at John Street, for it wouldnever do to let a man like Bent Pitman know your real address; nor yetat Pitman's house, some dreadful place in Holloway, with a trapdoorin the back kitchen; a house which you might enter in a light summerovercoat and varnished boots, to come forth again piecemeal in amarket-basket. That was the drawback of a really efficient accomplice,Morris felt, not without a shudder. 'I never dreamed I should come toactually covet such society,' he thought. And then a brilliant ideastruck him. Waterloo Station, a public place, yet at certain hours ofthe day a solitary; a place, besides, the very name of which must knockupon the heart of Pitman, and at once suggest a knowledge of the latestof his guilty secrets. Morris took a piece of paper and sketched hisadvertisement.
WILLIAM BENT PITMAN, if this should meet the eye of, he will hear ofSOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE on the far end of the main line departureplatform, Waterloo Station, 2 to 4 P.M., Sunday next.
Morris reperused this literary trifle with approbation. 'Terse,' hereflected. 'Something to his advantage is not strictly true; but it'staking and original, and a man is not on oath in an advertisement.All that I require now is the ready cash for my own meals and for theadvertisement, and--no, I can't lavish money upon John, but I'll givehim some more papers. How to raise the wind?'
He approached his cabinet of signets, and the collector suddenlyrevolted in his blood. 'I will not!' he cried; 'nothing shall induce meto massacre my collection--rather theft!' And dashing upstairs to thedrawing-room, he helped himself to a few of his uncle's curiosities:a pair of Turkish babooshes, a Smyrna fan, a water-cooler, a musketguaranteed to have been seized from an Ephesian bandit, and a pocketfulof curiou
s but incomplete seashells.
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