‘You shall not stay in my house,’ cried Mr Watts. ‘This is the last time you shall have a bed at the “Tregonwell Arms”.’
‘I insist upon remaining,’ replied Mr Finsbury, with spirit; ‘I remain by Act of Parliament; turn me out if you dare.’
‘Then pay your bill,’ said Mr Watts.
‘Take that,’ cried the old man, tossing him the negotiable bill.
‘It is not legal tender,’ replied Mr Watts. ‘You must leave my house at once.’
‘You cannot appreciate the contempt I feel for you, Mr Watts,’ said the old gentleman, resigning himself to circumstances. ‘But you shall feel it in one way: I refuse to pay my bill.’
‘I don’t care for your bill,’ responded Mr Watts. ‘What I want is your absence.’
‘That you shall have!’ said the old gentleman, and, taking up his forage cap as he spoke, he crammed it on his head. ‘Perhaps you are too insolent,’ he added, ‘to inform me of the time of the next London train?’
‘It leaves in three-quarters of an hour,’ returned the innkeeper with alacrity. ‘You can easily catch it.’
Joseph’s position was one of considerable weakness. On the one hand, it would have been well to avoid the direct line of railway, since it was there he might expect his nephews to lie in wait for his recapture; on the other, it was highly desirable, it was even strictly needful, to get the bill discounted ere it should be stopped. To London, therefore, he decided to proceed on the first train; and there remained but one point to be considered, how to pay his fare.
Joseph’s nails were never clean; he ate almost entirely with his knife. I doubt if you could say he had the manners of a gentleman; but he had better than that, a touch of genuine dignity. Was it from his stay in Asia Minor? Was it from a strain in the Finsbury blood sometimes alluded to by customers? At least, when he presented himself before the station-master, his salaam was truly Oriental, palm-trees appeared to crowd about the little office, and the simoom or the bulbul — but I leave this image to persons better acquainted with the East. His appearance, besides, was highly in his favour; the uniform of Sir Faraday, however inconvenient and conspicuous, was, at least, a costume in which no swindler could have hoped to prosper; and the exhibition of a valuable watch and a bill for eight hundred pounds completed what deportment had begun. A quarter of an hour later, when the train came up, Mr Finsbury was introduced to the guard and installed in a first-class compartment, the station-master smilingly assuming all responsibility.
As the old gentleman sat waiting the moment of departure, he was the witness of an incident strangely connected with the fortunes of his house. A packing-case of cyclopean bulk was borne along the platform by some dozen of tottering porters, and ultimately, to the delight of a considerable crowd, hoisted on board the van. It is often the cheering task of the historian to direct attention to the designs and (if it may be reverently said) the artifices of Providence. In the luggage van, as Joseph was borne out of the station of Southampton East upon his way to London, the egg of his romance lay (so to speak) unhatched. The huge packing-case was directed to lie at Waterloo till called for, and addressed to one ‘William Dent Pitman’; and the very next article, a goodly barrel jammed into the corner of the van, bore the superscription, ‘M. Finsbury, 16 John Street, Bloomsbury. Carriage paid.’
In this juxtaposition, the train of powder was prepared; and there was now wanting only an idle hand to fire it off.
CHAPTER IV. The Magistrate in the Luggage Van
The city of Winchester is famed for a cathedral, a bishop — but he was unfortunately killed some years ago while riding — a public school, a considerable assortment of the military, and the deliberate passage of the trains of the London and South-Western line. These and many similar associations would have doubtless crowded on the mind of Joseph Finsbury; but his spirit had at that time flitted from the railway compartment to a heaven of populous lecture-halls and endless oratory. His body, in the meanwhile, lay doubled on the cushions, the forage-cap rakishly tilted back after the fashion of those that lie in wait for nursery-maids, the poor old face quiescent, one arm clutching to his heart Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper.
To him, thus unconscious, enter and exeunt again a pair of voyagers. These two had saved the train and no more. A tandem urged to its last speed, an act of something closely bordering on brigandage at the ticket office, and a spasm of running, had brought them on the platform just as the engine uttered its departing snort. There was but one carriage easily within their reach; and they had sprung into it, and the leader and elder already had his feet upon the floor, when he observed Mr Finsbury.
‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘Uncle Joseph! This’ll never do.’
And he backed out, almost upsetting his companion, and once more closed the door upon the sleeping patriarch.
The next moment the pair had jumped into the baggage van.
‘What’s the row about your Uncle Joseph?’ enquired the younger traveller, mopping his brow. ‘Does he object to smoking?’
‘I don’t know that there’s anything the row with him,’ returned the other. ‘He’s by no means the first comer, my Uncle Joseph, I can tell you! Very respectable old gentleman; interested in leather; been to Asia Minor; no family, no assets — and a tongue, my dear Wickham, sharper than a serpent’s tooth.’
‘Cantankerous old party, eh?’ suggested Wickham.
‘Not in the least,’ cried the other; ‘only a man with a solid talent for being a bore; rather cheery I dare say, on a desert island, but on a railway journey insupportable. You should hear him on Tonti, the ass that started tontines. He’s incredible on Tonti.’
‘By Jove!’ cried Wickham, ‘then you’re one of these Finsbury tontine fellows. I hadn’t a guess of that.’
‘Ah!’ said the other, ‘do you know that old boy in the carriage is worth a hundred thousand pounds to me? There he was asleep, and nobody there but you! But I spared him, because I’m a Conservative in politics.’
Mr Wickham, pleased to be in a luggage van, was flitting to and fro like a gentlemanly butterfly.
‘By Jingo!’ he cried, ‘here’s something for you! “M. Finsbury, 16 John Street, Bloomsbury, London.” M. stands for Michael, you sly dog; you keep two establishments, do you?’
‘O, that’s Morris,’ responded Michael from the other end of the van, where he had found a comfortable seat upon some sacks. ‘He’s a little cousin of mine. I like him myself, because he’s afraid of me. He’s one of the ornaments of Bloomsbury, and has a collection of some kind — birds’ eggs or something that’s supposed to be curious. I bet it’s nothing to my clients!’
‘What a lark it would be to play billy with the labels!’ chuckled Mr Wickham. ‘By George, here’s a tack-hammer! We might send all these things skipping about the premises like what’s-his-name!’
At this moment, the guard, surprised by the sound of voices, opened the door of his little cabin.
‘You had best step in here, gentlemen,’ said he, when he had heard their story.
‘Won’t you come, Wickham?’ asked Michael.
‘Catch me — I want to travel in a van,’ replied the youth.
And so the door of communication was closed; and for the rest of the run Mr Wickham was left alone over his diversions on the one side, and on the other Michael and the guard were closeted together in familiar talk.
‘I can get you a compartment here, sir,’ observed the official, as the train began to slacken speed before Bishopstoke station. ‘You had best get out at my door, and I can bring your friend.’
Mr Wickham, whom we left (as the reader has shrewdly suspected) beginning to ‘play billy’ with the labels in the van, was a young gentleman of much wealth, a pleasing but sandy exterior, and a highly vacant mind. Not many months before, he had contrived to get himself blackmailed by the family of a Wallachian Hospodar, resident for political reasons in the gay city of Paris. A common friend (to whom he had confided his distress) recommended him to Micha
el; and the lawyer was no sooner in possession of the facts than he instantly assumed the offensive, fell on the flank of the Wallachian forces, and, in the inside of three days, had the satisfaction to behold them routed and fleeing for the Danube. It is no business of ours to follow them on this retreat, over which the police were so obliging as to preside paternally. Thus relieved from what he loved to refer to as the Bulgarian Atrocity, Mr Wickham returned to London with the most unbounded and embarrassing gratitude and admiration for his saviour. These sentiments were not repaid either in kind or degree; indeed, Michael was a trifle ashamed of his new client’s friendship; it had taken many invitations to get him to Winchester and Wickham Manor; but he had gone at last, and was now returning. It has been remarked by some judicious thinker (possibly J. F. Smith) that Providence despises to employ no instrument, however humble; and it is now plain to the dullest that both Mr Wickham and the Wallachian Hospodar were liquid lead and wedges in the hand of Destiny.
Smitten with the desire to shine in Michael’s eyes and show himself a person of original humour and resources, the young gentleman (who was a magistrate, more by token, in his native county) was no sooner alone in the van than he fell upon the labels with all the zeal of a reformer; and, when he rejoined the lawyer at Bishopstoke, his face was flushed with his exertions, and his cigar, which he had suffered to go out was almost bitten in two.
‘By George, but this has been a lark!’ he cried. ‘I’ve sent the wrong thing to everybody in England. These cousins of yours have a packing-case as big as a house. I’ve muddled the whole business up to that extent, Finsbury, that if it were to get out it’s my belief we should get lynched.’
It was useless to be serious with Mr Wickham. ‘Take care,’ said Michael. ‘I am getting tired of your perpetual scrapes; my reputation is beginning to suffer.’
‘Your reputation will be all gone before you finish with me,’ replied his companion with a grin. ‘Clap it in the bill, my boy. “For total loss of reputation, six and eightpence.” But,’ continued Mr Wickham with more seriousness, ‘could I be bowled out of the Commission for this little jest? I know it’s small, but I like to be a JP. Speaking as a professional man, do you think there’s any risk?’
‘What does it matter?’ responded Michael, ‘they’ll chuck you out sooner or later. Somehow you don’t give the effect of being a good magistrate.’
‘I only wish I was a solicitor,’ retorted his companion, ‘instead of a poor devil of a country gentleman. Suppose we start one of those tontine affairs ourselves; I to pay five hundred a year, and you to guarantee me against every misfortune except illness or marriage.’
‘It strikes me,’ remarked the lawyer with a meditative laugh, as he lighted a cigar, ‘it strikes me that you must be a cursed nuisance in this world of ours.’
‘Do you really think so, Finsbury?’ responded the magistrate, leaning back in his cushions, delighted with the compliment. ‘Yes, I suppose I am a nuisance. But, mind you, I have a stake in the country: don’t forget that, dear boy.’
CHAPTER V. Mr Gideon Forsyth and the Gigantic Box
It has been mentioned that at Bournemouth Julia sometimes made acquaintances; it is true she had but a glimpse of them before the doors of John Street closed again upon its captives, but the glimpse was sometimes exhilarating, and the consequent regret was tempered with hope. Among those whom she had thus met a year before was a young barrister of the name of Gideon Forsyth.
About three o’clock of the eventful day when the magistrate tampered with the labels, a somewhat moody and distempered ramble had carried Mr Forsyth to the corner of John Street; and about the same moment Miss Hazeltine was called to the door of No. 16 by a thundering double knock.
Mr Gideon Forsyth was a happy enough young man; he would have been happier if he had had more money and less uncle. One hundred and twenty pounds a year was all his store; but his uncle, Mr Edward Hugh Bloomfield, supplemented this with a handsome allowance and a great deal of advice, couched in language that would probably have been judged intemperate on board a pirate ship. Mr Bloomfield was indeed a figure quite peculiar to the days of Mr Gladstone; what we may call (for the lack of an accepted expression) a Squirradical. Having acquired years without experience, he carried into the Radical side of politics those noisy, after-dinner-table passions, which we are more accustomed to connect with Toryism in its severe and senile aspects. To the opinions of Mr Bradlaugh, in fact, he added the temper and the sympathies of that extinct animal, the Squire; he admired pugilism, he carried a formidable oaken staff, he was a reverent churchman, and it was hard to know which would have more volcanically stirred his choler — a person who should have defended the established church, or one who should have neglected to attend its celebrations. He had besides some levelling catchwords, justly dreaded in the family circle; and when he could not go so far as to declare a step un-English, he might still (and with hardly less effect) denounce it as unpractical. It was under the ban of this lesser excommunication that Gideon had fallen. His views on the study of law had been pronounced unpractical; and it had been intimated to him, in a vociferous interview punctuated with the oaken staff, that he must either take a new start and get a brief or two, or prepare to live on his own money.
No wonder if Gideon was moody. He had not the slightest wish to modify his present habits; but he would not stand on that, since the recall of Mr Bloomfield’s allowance would revolutionize them still more radically. He had not the least desire to acquaint himself with law; he had looked into it already, and it seemed not to repay attention; but upon this also he was ready to give way. In fact, he would go as far as he could to meet the views of his uncle, the Squirradical. But there was one part of the programme that appeared independent of his will. How to get a brief? there was the question. And there was another and a worse. Suppose he got one, should he prove the better man?
Suddenly he found his way barred by a crowd. A garishly illuminated van was backed against the kerb; from its open stern, half resting on the street, half supported by some glistening athletes, the end of the largest packing-case in the county of Middlesex might have been seen protruding; while, on the steps of the house, the burly person of the driver and the slim figure of a young girl stood as upon a stage, disputing.
‘It is not for us,’ the girl was saying. ‘I beg you to take it away; it couldn’t get into the house, even if you managed to get it out of the van.’
‘I shall leave it on the pavement, then, and M. Finsbury can arrange with the Vestry as he likes,’ said the vanman.
‘But I am not M. Finsbury,’ expostulated the girl.
‘It doesn’t matter who you are,’ said the vanman.
‘You must allow me to help you, Miss Hazeltine,’ said Gideon, putting out his hand.
Julia gave a little cry of pleasure. ‘O, Mr Forsyth,’ she cried, ‘I am so glad to see you; we must get this horrid thing, which can only have come here by mistake, into the house. The man says we’ll have to take off the door, or knock two of our windows into one, or be fined by the Vestry or Custom House or something for leaving our parcels on the pavement.’
The men by this time had successfully removed the box from the van, had plumped it down on the pavement, and now stood leaning against it, or gazing at the door of No. 16, in visible physical distress and mental embarrassment. The windows of the whole street had filled, as if by magic, with interested and entertained spectators.
With as thoughtful and scientific an expression as he could assume, Gideon measured the doorway with his cane, while Julia entered his observations in a drawing-book. He then measured the box, and, upon comparing his data, found that there was just enough space for it to enter. Next, throwing off his coat and waistcoat, he assisted the men to take the door from its hinges. And lastly, all bystanders being pressed into the service, the packing-case mounted the steps upon some fifteen pairs of wavering legs — scraped, loudly grinding, through the doorway — and was deposited at length, with a formidable
convulsion, in the far end of the lobby, which it almost blocked. The artisans of this victory smiled upon each other as the dust subsided. It was true they had smashed a bust of Apollo and ploughed the wall into deep ruts; but, at least, they were no longer one of the public spectacles of London.
‘Well, sir,’ said the vanman, ‘I never see such a job.’
Gideon eloquently expressed his concurrence in this sentiment by pressing a couple of sovereigns in the man’s hand.
‘Make it three, sir, and I’ll stand Sam to everybody here!’ cried the latter, and, this having been done, the whole body of volunteer porters swarmed into the van, which drove off in the direction of the nearest reliable public-house. Gideon closed the door on their departure, and turned to Julia; their eyes met; the most uncontrollable mirth seized upon them both, and they made the house ring with their laughter. Then curiosity awoke in Julia’s mind, and she went and examined the box, and more especially the label.
‘This is the strangest thing that ever happened,’ she said, with another burst of laughter. ‘It is certainly Morris’s handwriting, and I had a letter from him only this morning, telling me to expect a barrel. Is there a barrel coming too, do you think, Mr Forsyth?’
“‘Statuary with Care, Fragile,’“ read Gideon aloud from the painted warning on the box. ‘Then you were told nothing about this?’
‘No,’ responded Julia. ‘O, Mr Forsyth, don’t you think we might take a peep at it?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ cried Gideon. ‘Just let me have a hammer.’
‘Come down, and I’ll show you where it is,’ cried Julia. ‘The shelf is too high for me to reach’; and, opening the door of the kitchen stair, she bade Gideon follow her. They found both the hammer and a chisel; but Gideon was surprised to see no sign of a servant. He also discovered that Miss Hazeltine had a very pretty little foot and ankle; and the discovery embarrassed him so much that he was glad to fall at once upon the packing-case.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) Page 122
