Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, page 124
‘I suppose nobody else would have a gift of him,’ said Julia. ‘And for that matter, I think we could have done without the monster very well.’
‘O, don’t say that,’ returned Gideon. ‘This has been one of the most amusing experiences of my life.’
‘I don’t think you’ll forget it very soon,’ said Julia. ‘Your hand will remind you.’
‘Well, I suppose I must be going,’ said Gideon reluctantly. ‘No,’ pleaded Julia. ‘Why should you? Stay and have tea with me.’
‘If I thought you really wished me to stay,’ said Gideon, looking at his hat, ‘of course I should only be too delighted.’
‘What a silly person you must take me for!’ returned the girl. ‘Why, of course I do; and, besides, I want some cakes for tea, and I’ve nobody to send. Here is the latchkey.’
Gideon put on his hat with alacrity, and casting one look at Miss Hazeltine, and another at the legs of Hercules, threw open the door and departed on his errand.
He returned with a large bag of the choicest and most tempting of cakes and tartlets, and found Julia in the act of spreading a small tea-table in the lobby.
‘The rooms are all in such a state,’ she cried, ‘that I thought we should be more cosy and comfortable in our own lobby, and under our own vine and statuary.’
‘Ever so much better,’ cried Gideon delightedly.
‘O what adorable cream tarts!’ said Julia, opening the bag, ‘and the dearest little cherry tartlets, with all the cherries spilled out into the cream!’
‘Yes,’ said Gideon, concealing his dismay, ‘I knew they would mix beautifully; the woman behind the counter told me so.’
‘Now,’ said Julia, as they began their little festival, ‘I am going to show you Morris’s letter; read it aloud, please; perhaps there’s something I have missed.’
Gideon took the letter, and spreading it out on his knee, read as follows:
DEAR JULIA, I write you from Browndean, where we are stopping over for a few days. Uncle was much shaken in that dreadful accident, of which, I dare say, you have seen the account. Tomorrow I leave him here with John, and come up alone; but before that, you will have received a barrel CONTAINING SPECIMENS FOR A FRIEND. Do not open it on any account, but leave it in the lobby till I come.
Yours in haste,
M. FINSBURY.
P.S. — Be sure and leave the barrel in the lobby.
‘No,’ said Gideon, ‘there seems to be nothing about the monument,’ and he nodded, as he spoke, at the marble legs. ‘Miss Hazeltine,’ he continued, ‘would you mind me asking a few questions?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Julia; ‘and if you can make me understand why Morris has sent a statue of Hercules instead of a barrel containing specimens for a friend, I shall be grateful till my dying day. And what are specimens for a friend?’
‘I haven’t a guess,’ said Gideon. ‘Specimens are usually bits of stone, but rather smaller than our friend the monument. Still, that is not the point. Are you quite alone in this big house?’
‘Yes, I am at present,’ returned Julia. ‘I came up before them to prepare the house, and get another servant. But I couldn’t get one I liked.’
‘Then you are utterly alone,’ said Gideon in amazement. ‘Are you not afraid?’
‘No,’ responded Julia stoutly. ‘I don’t see why I should be more afraid than you would be; I am weaker, of course, but when I found I must sleep alone in the house I bought a revolver wonderfully cheap, and made the man show me how to use it.’
‘And how do you use it?’ demanded Gideon, much amused at her courage.
‘Why,’ said she, with a smile, ‘you pull the little trigger thing on top, and then pointing it very low, for it springs up as you fire, you pull the underneath little trigger thing, and it goes off as well as if a man had done it.’
‘And how often have you used it?’ asked Gideon.
‘O, I have not used it yet,’ said the determined young lady; ‘but I know how, and that makes me wonderfully courageous, especially when I barricade my door with a chest of drawers.’
‘I’m awfully glad they are coming back soon,’ said Gideon. ‘This business strikes me as excessively unsafe; if it goes on much longer, I could provide you with a maiden aunt of mine, or my landlady if you preferred.’
‘Lend me an aunt!’ cried Julia. ‘O, what generosity! I begin to think it must have been you that sent the Hercules.’
‘Believe me,’ cried the young man, ‘I admire you too much to send you such an infamous work of art..’
Julia was beginning to reply, when they were both startled by a knocking at the door.
‘O, Mr Forsyth!’
‘Don’t be afraid, my dear girl,’ said Gideon, laying his hand tenderly on her arm.
‘I know it’s the police,’ she whispered. ‘They are coming to complain about the statue.’
The knock was repeated. It was louder than before, and more impatient.
‘It’s Morris,’ cried Julia, in a startled voice, and she ran to the door and opened it.
It was indeed Morris that stood before them; not the Morris of ordinary days, but a wild-looking fellow, pale and haggard, with bloodshot eyes, and a two-days’ beard upon his chin.
‘The barrel!’ he cried. ‘Where’s the barrel that came this morning?’ And he stared about the lobby, his eyes, as they fell upon the legs of Hercules, literally goggling in his head. ‘What is that?’ he screamed. ‘What is that waxwork? Speak, you fool! What is that? And where’s the barrel — the water-butt?’
‘No barrel came, Morris,’ responded Julia coldly. ‘This is the only thing that has arrived.’
‘This!’ shrieked the miserable man. ‘I never heard of it!’
‘It came addressed in your hand,’ replied Julia; ‘we had nearly to pull the house down to get it in, that is all that I can tell you.’
Morris gazed at her in utter bewilderment. He passed his hand over his forehead; he leaned against the wall like a man about to faint. Then his tongue was loosed, and he overwhelmed the girl with torrents of abuse. Such fire, such directness, such a choice of ungentlemanly language, none had ever before suspected Morris to possess; and the girl trembled and shrank before his fury.
‘You shall not speak to Miss Hazeltine in that way,’ said Gideon sternly. ‘It is what I will not suffer.’
‘I shall speak to the girl as I like,’ returned Morris, with a fresh outburst of anger. ‘I’ll speak to the hussy as she deserves.’
‘Not a word more, sir, not one word,’ cried Gideon. ‘Miss Hazeltine,’ he continued, addressing the young girl, ‘you cannot stay a moment longer in the same house with this unmanly fellow. Here is my arm; let me take you where you will be secure from insult.’
‘Mr Forsyth,’ returned Julia, ‘you are right; I cannot stay here longer, and I am sure I trust myself to an honourable gentleman.’
Pale and resolute, Gideon offered her his arm, and the pair descended the steps, followed by Morris clamouring for the latchkey.
Julia had scarcely handed the key to Morris before an empty hansom drove smartly into John Street. It was hailed by both men, and as the cabman drew up his restive horse, Morris made a dash into the vehicle.
‘Sixpence above fare,’ he cried recklessly. ‘Waterloo Station for your life. Sixpence for yourself!’
‘Make it a shilling, guv’ner,’ said the man, with a grin; ‘the other parties were first.’
‘A shilling then,’ cried Morris, with the inward reflection that he would reconsider it at Waterloo. The man whipped up his horse, and the hansom vanished from John Street.
CHAPTER VI. The Tribulations of Morris: Part the First
As the hansom span through the streets of London, Morris sought to rally the forces of his mind. The water-butt with the dead body had miscarried, and it was essential to recover it. So much was clear; and if, by some blest good fortune, it was still at the station, all might be well. If it had been sent out, however, if it were already in the hands of some wrong person, matters looked more ominous. People who receive unexplained packages are usually keen to have them open; the example of Miss Hazeltine (whom he cursed again) was there to remind him of the circumstance; and if anyone had opened the water-butt— ‘O Lord!’ cried Morris at the thought, and carried his hand to his damp forehead. The private conception of any breach of law is apt to be inspiriting, for the scheme (while yet inchoate) wears dashing and attractive colours. Not so in the least that part of the criminal’s later reflections which deal with the police. That useful corps (as Morris now began to think) had scarce been kept sufficiently in view when he embarked upon his enterprise. ‘I must play devilish close,’ he reflected, and he was aware of an exquisite thrill of fear in the region of the spine.
‘Main line or loop?’ enquired the cabman, through the scuttle.
‘Main line,’ replied Morris, and mentally decided that the man should have his shilling after all. ‘It would be madness to attract attention,’ thought he. ‘But what this thing will cost me, first and last, begins to be a nightmare!’
He passed through the booking-office and wandered disconsolately on the platform. It was a breathing-space in the day’s traffic. There were few people there, and these for the most part quiescent on the benches. Morris seemed to attract no remark, which was a good thing; but, on the other hand, he was making no progress in his quest. Something must be done, something must be risked. Every passing instant only added to his dangers. Summoning all his courage, he stopped a porter, and asked him if he remembered receiving a barrel by the morning train. He was anxious to get information, for the barrel belonged to a friend. ‘It is a matter of some moment,’ he added, ‘for it contains specimens.’
‘I was not here this morning, sir,’ responded the porter, somewhat reluctantly, ‘but I’ll ask Bill. Do you recollect, Bill, to have got a barrel from Bournemouth this morning containing specimens?’
‘I don’t know about specimens,’ replied Bill; ‘but the party as received the barrel I mean raised a sight of trouble.’
‘What’s that?’ cried Morris, in the agitation of the moment pressing a penny into the man’s hand.
‘You see, sir, the barrel arrived at one-thirty. No one claimed it till about three, when a small, sickly — looking gentleman (probably a curate) came up, and sez he, “Have you got anything for Pitman?” or “Wili’m Bent Pitman,” if I recollect right. “I don’t exactly know,” sez I, “but I rather fancy that there barrel bears that name.” The little man went up to the barrel, and seemed regularly all took aback when he saw the address, and then he pitched into us for not having brought what he wanted. “I don’t care a damn what you want,” sez I to him, “but if you are Will’m Bent Pitman, there’s your barrel.”’
‘Well, and did he take it?’ cried the breathless Morris.
‘Well, sir,’ returned Bill, ‘it appears it was a packing-case he was after. The packing-case came; that’s sure enough, because it was about the biggest packing-case ever I clapped eyes on. And this Pitman he seemed a good deal cut up, and he had the superintendent out, and they got hold of the vanman — him as took the packing-case. Well, sir,’ continued Bill, with a smile, ‘I never see a man in such a state. Everybody about that van was mortal, bar the horses. Some gen’leman (as well as I could make out) had given the vanman a sov.; and so that was where the trouble come in, you see.’
‘But what did he say?’ gasped Morris.
‘I don’t know as he SAID much, sir,’ said Bill. ‘But he offered to fight this Pitman for a pot of beer. He had lost his book, too, and the receipts, and his men were all as mortal as himself. O, they were all like’ — and Bill paused for a simile— ‘like lords! The superintendent sacked them on the spot.’
‘O, come, but that’s not so bad,’ said Morris, with a bursting sigh. ‘He couldn’t tell where he took the packing-case, then?’
‘Not he,’ said Bill, ‘nor yet nothink else.’
‘And what — what did Pitman do?’ asked Morris.
‘O, he went off with the barrel in a four-wheeler, very trembling like,’ replied Bill. ‘I don’t believe he’s a gentleman as has good health.’
‘Well, so the barrel’s gone,’ said Morris, half to himself.
‘You may depend on that, sir,’ returned the porter. ‘But you had better see the superintendent.’
‘Not in the least; it’s of no account,’ said Morris. ‘It only contained specimens.’ And he walked hastily away.
Ensconced once more in a hansom, he proceeded to reconsider his position. Suppose (he thought), suppose he should accept defeat and declare his uncle’s death at once? He should lose the tontine, and with that the last hope of his seven thousand eight hundred pounds. But on the other hand, since the shilling to the hansom cabman, he had begun to see that crime was expensive in its course, and, since the loss of the water-butt, that it was uncertain in its consequences. Quietly at first, and then with growing heat, he reviewed the advantages of backing out. It involved a loss; but (come to think of it) no such great loss after all; only that of the tontine, which had been always a toss-up, which at bottom he had never really expected. He reminded himself of that eagerly; he congratulated himself upon his constant moderation. He had never really expected the tontine; he had never even very definitely hoped to recover his seven thousand eight hundred pounds; he had been hurried into the whole thing by Michael’s obvious dishonesty. Yes, it would probably be better to draw back from this high-flying venture, settle back on the leather business —
‘Great God!’ cried Morris, bounding in the hansom like a Jack-in-a-box. ‘I have not only not gained the tontine — I have lost the leather business!’
Such was the monstrous fact. He had no power to sign; he could not draw a cheque for thirty shillings. Until he could produce legal evidence of his uncle’s death, he was a penniless outcast — and as soon as he produced it he had lost the tontine! There was no hesitation on the part of Morris; to drop the tontine like a hot chestnut, to concentrate all his forces on the leather business and the rest of his small but legitimate inheritance, was the decision of a single instant. And the next, the full extent of his calamity was suddenly disclosed to him. Declare his uncle’s death? He couldn’t! Since the body was lost Joseph had (in a legal sense) become immortal.
There was no created vehicle big enough to contain Morris and his woes. He paid the hansom off and walked on he knew not whither.
‘I seem to have gone into this business with too much precipitation,’ he reflected, with a deadly sigh. ‘I fear it seems too ramified for a person of my powers of mind.’
And then a remark of his uncle’s flashed into his memory: If you want to think clearly, put it all down on paper. ‘Well, the old boy knew a thing or two,’ said Morris. ‘I will try; but I don’t believe the paper was ever made that will clear my mind.’
He entered a place of public entertainment, ordered bread and cheese, and writing materials, and sat down before them heavily. He tried the pen. It was an excellent pen, but what was he to write? ‘I have it,’ cried Morris. ‘Robinson Crusoe and the double columns!’ He prepared his paper after that classic model, and began as follows:
Bad. —— Good.
1. I have lost my uncle’s body.
1. But then Pitman has found it.
‘Stop a bit,’ said Morris. ‘I am letting the spirit of antithesis run away with me. Let’s start again.’
Bad. —— Good.
1. I have lost my uncle’s body.
1. But then I no longer require to bury it.
2. I have lost the tontine.
2.But I may still save that if Pitman disposes of the body, and
if I can find a physician who will stick at nothing.
3. I have lost the leather business and the rest of my uncle’s
succession.
3. But not if Pitman gives the body up to the police.
‘O, but in that case I go to gaol; I had forgot that,’ thought Morris. ‘Indeed, I don’t know that I had better dwell on that hypothesis at all; it’s all very well to talk of facing the worst; but in a case of this kind a man’s first duty is to his own nerve. Is there any answer to No. 3? Is there any possible good side to such a beastly bungle? There must be, of course, or where would be the use of this double-entry business? And — by George, I have it!’ he exclaimed; ‘it’s exactly the same as the last!’ And he hastily re-wrote the passage:
Bad. —— Good.
3. I have lost the leather business and the rest of my uncle’s
succession.
3. But not if I can find a physician who will stick at nothing.
‘This venal doctor seems quite a desideratum,’ he reflected. ‘I want him first to give me a certificate that my uncle is dead, so that I may get the leather business; and then that he’s alive — but here we are again at the incompatible interests!’ And he returned to his tabulation:
Bad. —— Good.
4. I have almost no money.
4. But there is plenty in the bank.
5. Yes, but I can’t get the money in the bank.
5. But — well, that seems unhappily to be the case.
6. I have left the bill for eight hundred pounds in Uncle
Joseph’s pocket.
6. But if Pitman is only a dishonest man, the presence of this
bill may lead him to keep the whole thing dark and throw the body
into the New Cut.
7. Yes, but if Pitman is dishonest and finds the bill, he will
know who Joseph is, and he may blackmail me.
7. Yes, but if I am right about Uncle Masterman, I can blackmail
Michael.
8. But I can’t blackmail Michael (which is, besides, a very
dangerous thing to do) until I find out.
8. Worse luck!
9. The leather business will soon want money for current
