The Wrong Box Read online

  CHAPTER IX. Glorious Conclusion of Michael Finsbury's Holiday

  I know Michael Finsbury personally; my business--I know the awkwardnessof having such a man for a lawyer--still it's an old story now, andthere is such a thing as gratitude, and, in short, my legal business,although now (I am thankful to say) of quite a placid character, remainsentirely in Michael's hands. But the trouble is I have no natural talentfor 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 alwayswrite to Michael at his office, I cannot swear to his number in theKing's Road. Of course (like my neighbours), I have been to dinnerthere. Of late years, since his accession to wealth, neglect ofbusiness, and election to the club, these little festivals have becomecommon. He picks up a few fellows in the smoking-room--all men of Atticwit--myself, for instance, if he has the luck to find me disengaged; astring of hansoms may be observed (by Her Majesty) bowling gaily throughSt James's Park; and in a quarter of an hour the party surrounds one ofthe best appointed boards in London.

  But at the time of which we write the house in the King's Road (let usstill continue to call it No. 233) was kept very quiet; when Michaelentertained guests it was at the halls of Nichol or Verrey that he wouldconvene them, and the door of his private residence remained closedagainst his friends. The upper storey, which was sunny, was set apartfor his father; the drawing-room was never opened; the dining-room wasthe scene of Michael's life. It is in this pleasant apartment,sheltered from the curiosity of King's Road by wire blinds, and entirelysurrounded by the lawyer's unrivalled library of poetry and criminaltrials, that we find him sitting down to his dinner after his holidaywith Pitman. A spare old lady, with very bright eyes and a mouthhumorously compressed, waited upon the lawyer's needs; in every line ofher countenance she betrayed the fact that she was an old retainer;in every word that fell from her lips she flaunted the gloriouscircumstance of a Scottish origin; and the fear with which this powerfulcombination fills the boldest was obviously no stranger to the bosom ofour friend. The hot Scotch having somewhat warmed up the embers of theHeidsieck. It was touching to observe the master's eagerness to pullhimself together under the servant's eye; and when he remarked, 'Ithink, Teena, I'll take a brandy and soda,' he spoke like a man doubtfulof his elocution, and not half certain of obedience.

  'No such a thing, Mr Michael,' was the prompt return. 'Clar't andwater.'

  'Well, well, Teena, I daresay you know best,' said the master. 'Veryfatiguing day at the office, though.'

  'What?' said the retainer, 'ye never were near the office!'

  'O yes, I was though; I was repeatedly along Fleet Street,' returnedMichael.

  'Pretty pliskies ye've been at this day!' cried the old lady, withhumorous alacrity; and then, 'Take care--don't break my crystal!' shecried, as the lawyer came within an ace of knocking the glasses off thetable.

  'And how is he keeping?' asked Michael.

  'O, just the same, Mr Michael, just the way he'll be till the end,worthy man!' was the reply. 'But ye'll not be the first that's asked methat the day.'

  'No?' said the lawyer. 'Who else?'

  'Ay, that's a joke, too,' said Teena grimly. 'A friend of yours: MrMorris.'

  'Morris! What was the little beggar wanting here?' enquired Michael.

  'Wantin'? To see him,' replied the housekeeper, completing her meaningby a movement of the thumb toward the upper storey. 'That's by his wayof it; but I've an idee of my own. He tried to bribe me, Mr Michael.Bribe--me!' she repeated, with inimitable scorn. 'That's no' kind of ayoung gentleman.'

  'Did he so?' said Michael. 'I bet he didn't offer much.'

  'No more he did,' replied Teena; nor could any subsequent questioningelicit from her the sum with which the thrifty leather merchant hadattempted to corrupt her. 'But I sent him about his business,' she saidgallantly. 'He'll not come here again in a hurry.'

  'He mustn't see my father, you know; mind that!' said Michael. 'I'm notgoing to have any public exhibition to a little beast like him.'

  'No fear of me lettin' him,' replied the trusty one. 'But the jokeis this, Mr Michael--see, ye're upsettin' the sauce, that's a cleantablecloth--the best of the joke is that he thinks your father's deadand you're keepin' it dark.'

  Michael whistled. 'Set a thief to catch a thief,' said he.

  'Exac'ly what I told him!' cried the delighted dame.

  'I'll make him dance for that,' said Michael.

  'Couldn't ye get the law of him some way?' suggested Teena truculently.

  'No, I don't think I could, and I'm quite sure I don't want to,'replied Michael. 'But I say, Teena, I really don't believe this claret'swholesome; it's not a sound, reliable wine. Give us a brandy and soda,there's a good soul.' Teena's face became like adamant. 'Well, then,'said the lawyer fretfully, 'I won't eat any more dinner.'

  'Ye can please yourself about that, Mr Michael,' said Teena, and begancomposedly to take away.

  'I do wish Teena wasn't a faithful servant!' sighed the lawyer, as heissued into Kings's Road.

  The rain had ceased; the wind still blew, but only with a pleasantfreshness; the town, in the clear darkness of the night, glittered withstreet-lamps and shone with glancing rain-pools. 'Come, this is better,'thought the lawyer to himself, and he walked on eastward, lending apleased 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, andentered a flaunting public-house. A good many persons were present, awaterman from a cab-stand, half a dozen of the chronically unemployed, agentleman (in one corner) trying to sell aesthetic photographs out ofa leather case to another and very youthful gentleman with a yellowgoatee, and a pair of lovers debating some fine shade (in the other).But the centre-piece and great attraction was a little old man, in ablack, ready-made surtout, which was obviously a recent purchase. Onthe marble table in front of him, beside a sandwich and a glass ofbeer, there lay a battered forage cap. His hand fluttered abroad withoratorical gestures; his voice, naturally shrill, was plainly tuned tothe pitch of the lecture room; and by arts, comparable to those ofthe Ancient Mariner, he was now holding spellbound the barmaid, thewaterman, and four of the unemployed.

  'I have examined all the theatres in London,' he was saying; 'and pacingthe principal entrances, I have ascertained them to be ridiculouslydisproportionate to the requirements of their audiences. The doorsopened the wrong way--I forget at this moment which it is, but have anote of it at home; they were frequently locked during the performance,and when the auditorium was literally thronged with English people. Youhave probably not had my opportunities of comparing distant lands; butI can assure you this has been long ago recognized as a markof aristocratic government. Do you suppose, in a country reallyself-governed, such abuses could exist? Your own intelligence, howeveruncultivated, tells you they could not. Take Austria, a country evenpossibly more enslaved than England. I have myself conversed with one ofthe survivors of the Ring Theatre, and though his colloquial Germanwas not very good, I succeeded in gathering a pretty clear idea of hisopinion of the case. But, what will perhaps interest you still more,here is a cutting on the subject from a Vienna newspaper, which I willnow read to you, translating as I go. You can see for yourselves; itis printed in the German character.' And he held the cutting out forverification, much as a conjuror passes a trick orange along the frontbench.

  'Hullo, old gentleman! Is this you?' said Michael, laying his hand uponthe orator's shoulder.

  The figure turned with a convulsion of alarm, and showed the countenanceof Mr Joseph Finsbury. 'You, Michael!' he cried. 'There's no one withyou, is there?'

  'No,' replied Michael, ordering a brandy and soda, 'there's nobody withme; whom do you expect?'

  'I thought of Morris or John,' said the old gentleman, evidently greatlyrelieved.

  'What the devil would I be doing with Morris or John?' cried the nephew.

  'There is s
omething in that,' returned Joseph. 'And I believe I cantrust you. I believe you will stand by me.'

  'I hardly know what you mean,' said the lawyer, 'but if you are in needof 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,' responded the nephew. 'I stand treat, Uncle Joseph; whatwill you have?'

  'In that case,' replied the old gentleman, 'I'll take anothersandwich. I daresay I surprise you,' he went on, 'with my presence ina public-house; but the fact is, I act on a sound but little-knownprinciple of my own--'

  'O, it's better known than you suppose,' said Michael sipping his brandyand soda. 'I always act on it myself when I want a drink.'

  The old gentleman, who was anxious to propitiate Michael, laughed acheerless laugh. 'You have such a flow of spirits,' said he, 'I am sureI often find it quite amusing. But regarding this principle of whichI was about to speak. It is that of accommodating one's-self to themanners of any land (however humble) in which our lot may be cast. Now,in France, for instance, every one goes to a cafe for his meals; inAmerica, to what is called a "two-bit house"; in England the peopleresort to such an institution as the present for refreshment. Withsandwiches, tea, and an occasional glass of bitter beer, a man can liveluxuriously in London for fourteen pounds twelve shillings per annum.'

  'Yes, I know,' returned 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-humouredsilence to the remainder of his uncle's lecture, which speedily branchedto political reform, thence to the theory of the weather-glass, with anillustrative account of a bora in the Adriatic; thence again to the bestmanner of teaching arithmetic to the deaf-and-dumb; and with that, thesandwich being then no more, explicuit valde feliciter. A moment laterthe pair issued forth on the King's Road.

  'Michael,' said his uncle, 'the reason that I am here is because Icannot endure those nephews of mine. I find them intolerable.'

  'I daresay you do,' assented Michael, 'I never could stand them for amoment.'

  'They wouldn't let me speak,' continued the old gentleman bitterly; 'Inever was allowed to get a word in edgewise; I was shut up at once withsome impertinent remark. They kept me on short allowance of pencils,when I wished to make notes of the most absorbing interest; the dailynewspaper was guarded from me like a young baby from a gorilla. Now, youknow me, Michael. I live for my calculations; I live for my manifold andever-changing views of life; pens and paper and the productions of thepopular press are to me as important as food and drink; and my lifewas growing quite intolerable when, in the confusion of that fortunaterailway accident at Browndean, I made my escape. They must thinkme dead, and are trying to deceive the world for the chance of thetontine.'

  'By the way, how do you stand for money?' asked Michael kindly.

  'Pecuniarily speaking, I am rich,' returned the old man withcheerfulness. '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's extraordinary howlittle a man of intellectual interest requires to bother with books in aprogressive 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 youscarcely understand what a peculiar position I occupy. There are somelittle financial complications; as a guardian, my efforts were notaltogether blessed; and not to put too fine a point upon the matter, Iam absolutely in the power of that vile fellow, Morris.'

  'You should be disguised,' cried Michael eagerly; 'I will lend you apair of window-glass spectacles and some red side-whiskers.'

  'I had already canvassed that idea,' replied the old gentleman, 'butfeared to awaken remark in my unpretentious lodgings. The aristocracy, Iam well aware--'

  'But see here,' interrupted Michael, 'how do you come to have any moneyat all? Don't make a stranger of me, Uncle Joseph; I know all about thetrust, and the hash you made of it, and the assignment you were forcedto make to Morris.'

  Joseph narrated his dealings with the bank.

  'O, but I say, this won't do,' cried the lawyer. 'You've put your footin it. You had no right to do what you did.'

  'The whole thing is mine, Michael,' protested the old gentleman. 'Ifounded 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 extremelyshaky; but now, my dear sir, it means the dock.'

  'It isn't possible,' cried Joseph; 'the law cannot be so unjust asthat?'

  'And the cream of the thing,' interrupted Michael, with a sudden shoutof laughter, 'the cream of the thing is this, that of course you'vedowned the leather business! I must say, Uncle Joseph, you have strangeideas of law, but I like your taste in humour.'

  'I see nothing to laugh at,' observed Mr Finsbury tartly.

  'And talking of that, has Morris any power to sign for the firm?' askedMichael.

  'No one but myself,' replied Joseph.

  'Poor devil of a Morris! O, poor devil of a Morris!' cried the lawyer indelight. 'And his keeping up the farce that you're at home! O, Morris,the Lord has delivered you into my hands! Let me see, Uncle Joseph, whatdo you suppose the leather business worth?'

  'It was worth a hundred thousand,' said Joseph bitterly, 'when it wasin my hands. But then there came a Scotsman--it is supposed he had acertain talent--it was entirely directed to bookkeeping--no accountantin London could understand a word of any of his books; and then therewas Morris, who is perfectly incompetent. And now it is worth verylittle. Morris tried to sell it last year; and Pogram and Jarris offeredonly 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 wholefield of commerce more surprising than the fluctuations of the leathermarket. Its sensitiveness may be described as morbid.'

  'And now, Uncle Joseph, what have you done with all that money?' askedthe lawyer.

  'Paid it into a bank and drew twenty pounds,' answered Mr Finsburypromptly. 'Why?'

  'Very well,' said Michael. 'Tomorrow I shall send down a clerk with acheque for a hundred, and he'll draw out the original sum and return itto the Anglo-Patagonian, with some sort of explanation which I will tryto invent for you. That will clear your feet, and as Morris can't toucha 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 send you a cheque for a hundred;which leaves you eighty to go along upon; and when that's done, apply tome again.'

  'I would rather not be beholden to your bounty all the same,' saidJoseph, biting at his white moustache. 'I would rather live on my ownmoney, 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 attentionto law,' he said; 'it will be a new field; for though, of course, Iunderstand its general principles, I have never really applied mymind to the details, and this view of yours, for example, comes on meentirely by surprise. But you may be right, and of course at my timeof life--for I am no longer young--any really long term of imprisonmentwould be highly prejudicial. But, my dear nephew, I have no claim onyou; you have no call to support me.'

  'That's all right,' said Michael; 'I'll probably get it out of theleather business.'

  And having taken down the old gentleman's address, Michael left him atthe corner of a street.

  'What a wonderful old muddler!' he reflected, 'and what a singular thingis life! I seem to be condemned to be the instrument of Providence. Le
tme see; what have I done today? Disposed of a dead body, saved Pitman,saved my Uncle Joseph, brightened up Forsyth, and drunk a devil of a lotof most indifferent liquor. Let's top off with a visit to my cousins,and be the instrument of Providence in earnest. Tomorrow I can turnmy attention to leather; tonight I'll just make it lively for 'em in afriendly spirit.'

  About a quarter of an hour later, as the clocks were striking eleven,the instrument of Providence descended from a hansom, and, bidding thedriver wait, rapped at the door of No. 16 John Street.

  It was promptly opened by Morris.

  'O, it's you, Michael,' he said, carefully blocking up the narrowopening: '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 lobbyand marched into the dining-room, with Morris at his heels.

  'Where's my Uncle Joseph?' demanded Michael, sitting down in the mostcomfortable chair.

  'He's not been very well lately,' replied Morris; 'he's staying atBrowndean; John is nursing him; and I am 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 yourfather,' returned Morris.

  'Fiddlestick,' said Michael. 'My father is my father; but Joseph is justas much my uncle as he's yours; and you have no right to sequestrate hisperson.'

  'I do no such thing,' said Morris doggedly. 'He is not well, he isdangerously ill and nobody can see him.'

  'I'll tell you what, then,' said Michael. 'I'll make a clean breastof it. I have come down like the opossum, Morris; I have come tocompromise.'

  Poor Morris turned as pale as death, and then a flush of wrath againstthe injustice of man's destiny dyed his very temples. 'What do youmean?' he cried, 'I don't believe a word of it.' And when Michael hadassured him of his seriousness, 'Well, then,' he cried, with anotherdeep flush, 'I won't; so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it.'

  'Oho!' said Michael queerly. 'You say your uncle is dangerously ill, andyou 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 thefinny tribe.'

  'Do you mean to insinuate anything?' cried Morris stormily, trying thehigh hand.

  'Insinuate?' repeated Michael. 'O, don't let's begin to use awkwardexpressions! Let us drown our differences in a bottle, like two affablekinsmen. The Two Affable Kinsmen, sometimes attributed to Shakespeare,'he added.

  Morris's mind was labouring like a mill. 'Does he suspect? or is thischance and stuff? Should I soap, or should I bully? Soap,' he concluded.'It gains time.' 'Well,' said he aloud, and with rather a painfulaffectation of heartiness, 'it's long since we have had an eveningtogether, Michael; and though my habits (as you know) are verytemperate, I may as well make an exception. Excuse me one moment till Ifetch a bottle of whisky from the cellar.'

  'No whisky for me,' said Michael; 'a little of the old still champagneor 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 hadperceived his advantage; in thus dunning him for the cream of thecellar, Michael was playing into his hand. 'One bottle?' he thought. 'ByGeorge, I'll give him two! this is no moment for economy; and once thebeast is drunk, it's strange if I don't wring his secret out of him.'

  With two bottles, accordingly, he returned. Glasses were produced, andMorris filled them with hospitable grace.

  'I drink to you, cousin!' he cried gaily. 'Don't spare the wine-cup inmy house.'

  Michael drank his glass deliberately, standing at the table; filled itagain, and returned to his chair, carrying the bottle along with him.

  'The spoils of war!' he said apologetically. 'The weakest goes to thewall. Science, Morris, science.' Morris could think of no reply, and foran appreciable interval silence reigned. But two glasses of the stillchampagne produced a rapid change in Michael.

  'There's a want of vivacity about you, Morris,' he observed. 'You may bedeep; but I'll be hanged if you're vivacious!'

  'What makes you think me deep?' asked Morris with an air of pleasedsimplicity.

  'Because you won't compromise,' said the lawyer. 'You're deep dog,Morris, very deep dog, not t' compromise--remarkable deep dog. Anda very good glass of wine; it's the only respectable feature in theFinsbury family, this wine; rarer thing than a title--much rarer. Now aman with glass wine like this in cellar, I wonder why won't compromise?'

  'Well, YOU wouldn't compromise before, you know,' said the smilingMorris. 'Turn about is fair play.'

  'I wonder why _I_ wouldn' compromise? I wonder why YOU wouldn'?'enquired Michael. 'I wonder why we each think the other wouldn'? 'Squite a remarrable--remarkable problem,' he added, triumphing over oralobstacles, not without obvious pride. 'Wonder what we each think--don'tyou?'

  '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 emissary ofProvidence, but not that kind! You get out of it yourself, like Aesopand the other fellow. Must be dreadful muddle for young orphan o' forty;leather business and all!'

  'I am sure I don't know what you mean,' said Morris.

  'Not sure I know myself,' said Michael. 'This is exc'lent vintage,sir--exc'lent vintage. Nothing against the tipple. Only thing: here's avaluable uncle disappeared. Now, what I want to know: where's valuableuncle?'

  'I have told you: he is at Browndean,' answered Morris, furtively wipinghis brow, for these repeated hints began to tell upon him cruelly.

  'Very easy say Brown--Browndee--no' so easy after all!' cried Michael.'Easy say; anything's easy say, when you can say it. What I don' like'stotal disappearance of an uncle. Not businesslike.' And he wagged hishead.

  'It is all perfectly simple,' returned Morris, with laborious calm.'There is no mystery. He stays at Browndean, where he got a shake in theaccident.'

  'Ah!' said Michael, 'got devil of a shake!'

  'Why do you say that?' cried Morris sharply.

  'Best possible authority. Told me so yourself,' said the lawyer. 'But ifyou tell me contrary now, of course I'm bound to believe either the onestory or the other. Point is I've upset this bottle, still champagne'sexc'lent thing carpet--point is, is valuable uncle dead--an'--bury?'

  Morris sprang from his seat. 'What's that you say?' he gasped.

  'I say it's exc'lent thing carpet,' replied Michael, rising. 'Exc'lentthing 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.

  'Awf'ly sorry, ole man. Got to sit up sick friend,' said the waveringMichael.

  'You shall not go till you have explained your hints,' returned Morrisfiercely. 'What do you mean? What brought you here?'

  'No offence, I trust,' said the lawyer, turning round as he opened thedoor; 'only doing my duty as shemishery of Providence.'

  Groping his way to the front-door, he opened it with some difficulty,and descended the steps to the hansom. The tired driver looked up as heapproached, and asked where he was to go next.

  Michael observed that Morris had followed him to the steps; a brilliantinspiration came to him. 'Anything t' give pain,' he reflected. . . .'Drive Shcotlan' Yard,' he added aloud, holding to the wheel to steadyhimself; 'there's something devilish fishy, cabby, about those cousins.Mush' be cleared up! Drive Shcotlan' Yard.'

  'You don't mean that, sir,' said the man, with the ready sympathy of thelower orders for an intoxicated gentleman. 'I had better take you home,sir; you can go to Scotland Yard tomorrow.'

  'Is it as friend or as perfessional man you advise me not to goShcotlan' Yard t'night?' enquired Michael. 'All righ', never min'Shcotlan' Yard,
drive Gaiety bar.'

  'The Gaiety bar is closed,' said the man.

  'Then home,' said Michael, with the same cheerfulness.

  'Where to, sir?'

  'I don't remember, I'm sure,' said Michael, entering the vehicle, 'driveShcotlan' Yard and ask.'

  'But you'll have a card,' said the man, through the little aperture inthe top, 'give me your card-case.'

  'What imagi--imagination in a cabby!' cried the lawyer, producing hiscard-case, and handing it to the driver.

  The man read it by the light of the lamp. 'Mr Michael Finsbury, 233King's Road, Chelsea. Is that it, sir?'

  'Right you are,' cried Michael, 'drive there if you can see way.'