Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, page 128
‘Very well,’ responded Michael with entire composure, ‘neither can I see. But just as you like. Anything to oblige a friend.’
A glimpse of the ostler’s darkening countenance decided Pitman. ‘All right,’ he said desperately, ‘you drive. I’ll tell you where to go.’
On Michael in the character of charioteer (since this is not intended to be a novel of adventure) it would be superfluous to dwell at length. Pitman, as he sat holding on and gasping counsels, sole witness of this singular feat, knew not whether most to admire the driver’s valour or his undeserved good fortune. But the latter at least prevailed, the cart reached Cannon Street without disaster; and Mr Brown’s piano was speedily and cleverly got on board.
‘Well, sir,’ said the leading porter, smiling as he mentally reckoned up a handful of loose silver, ‘that’s a mortal heavy piano.’
‘It’s the richness of the tone,’ returned Michael, as he drove away.
It was but a little distance in the rain, which now fell thick and quiet, to the neighbourhood of Mr Gideon Forsyth’s chambers in the Temple. There, in a deserted by-street, Michael drew up the horses and gave them in charge to a blighted shoe-black; and the pair descending from the cart, whereon they had figured so incongruously, set forth on foot for the decisive scene of their adventure. For the first time Michael displayed a shadow of uneasiness.
‘Are my whiskers right?’ he asked. ‘It would be the devil and all if I was spotted.’
‘They are perfectly in their place,’ returned Pitman, with scant attention. ‘But is my disguise equally effective? There is nothing more likely than that I should meet some of my patrons.’
‘O, nobody could tell you without your beard,’ said Michael. ‘All you have to do is to remember to speak slow; you speak through your nose already.’
‘I only hope the young man won’t be at home,’ sighed Pitman.
‘And I only hope he’ll be alone,’ returned the lawyer. ‘It will save a precious sight of manoeuvring.’
And sure enough, when they had knocked at the door, Gideon admitted them in person to a room, warmed by a moderate fire, framed nearly to the roof in works connected with the bench of British Themis, and offering, except in one particular, eloquent testimony to the legal zeal of the proprietor. The one particular was the chimney-piece, which displayed a varied assortment of pipes, tobacco, cigar-boxes, and yellow-backed French novels.
‘Mr Forsyth, I believe?’ It was Michael who thus opened the engagement. ‘We have come to trouble you with a piece of business. I fear it’s scarcely professional—’
‘I am afraid I ought to be instructed through a solicitor,’ replied Gideon.
‘Well, well, you shall name your own, and the whole affair can be put on a more regular footing tomorrow,’ replied Michael, taking a chair and motioning Pitman to do the same. ‘But you see we didn’t know any solicitors; we did happen to know of you, and time presses.’
‘May I enquire, gentlemen,’ asked Gideon, ‘to whom it was I am indebted for a recommendation?’
‘You may enquire,’ returned the lawyer, with a foolish laugh; ‘but I was invited not to tell you — till the thing was done.’
‘My uncle, no doubt,’ was the barrister’s conclusion.
‘My name is John Dickson,’ continued Michael; ‘a pretty well-known name in Ballarat; and my friend here is Mr Ezra Thomas, of the United States of America, a wealthy manufacturer of india-rubber overshoes.’
‘Stop one moment till I make a note of that,’ said Gideon; any one might have supposed he was an old practitioner.
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind my smoking a cigar?’ asked Michael. He had pulled himself together for the entrance; now again there began to settle on his mind clouds of irresponsible humour and incipient slumber; and he hoped (as so many have hoped in the like case) that a cigar would clear him.
‘Oh, certainly,’ cried Gideon blandly. ‘Try one of mine; I can confidently recommend them.’ And he handed the box to his client.
‘In case I don’t make myself perfectly clear,’ observed the Australian, ‘it’s perhaps best to tell you candidly that I’ve been lunching. It’s a thing that may happen to any one.’
‘O, certainly,’ replied the affable barrister. ‘But please be under no sense of hurry. I can give you,’ he added, thoughtfully consulting his watch— ‘yes, I can give you the whole afternoon.’
‘The business that brings me here,’ resumed the Australian with gusto, ‘is devilish delicate, I can tell you. My friend Mr Thomas, being an American of Portuguese extraction, unacquainted with our habits, and a wealthy manufacturer of Broadwood pianos—’
‘Broadwood pianos?’ cried Gideon, with some surprise. ‘Dear me, do I understand Mr Thomas to be a member of the firm?’
‘O, pirated Broadwoods,’ returned Michael. ‘My friend’s the American Broadwood.’
‘But I understood you to say,’ objected Gideon, ‘I certainly have it so in my notes — that your friend was a manufacturer of india — rubber overshoes.’
‘I know it’s confusing at first,’ said the Australian, with a beaming smile. ‘But he — in short, he combines the two professions. And many others besides — many, many, many others,’ repeated Mr Dickson, with drunken solemnity. ‘Mr Thomas’s cotton-mills are one of the sights of Tallahassee; Mr Thomas’s tobacco-mills are the pride of Richmond, Va.; in short, he’s one of my oldest friends, Mr Forsyth, and I lay his case before you with emotion.’
The barrister looked at Mr Thomas and was agreeably prepossessed by his open although nervous countenance, and the simplicity and timidity of his manner. ‘What a people are these Americans!’ he thought. ‘Look at this nervous, weedy, simple little bird in a lownecked shirt, and think of him wielding and directing interests so extended and seemingly incongruous! ‘But had we not better,’ he observed aloud, ‘had we not perhaps better approach the facts?’
‘Man of business, I perceive, sir!’ said the Australian. ‘Let’s approach the facts. It’s a breach of promise case.’
The unhappy artist was so unprepared for this view of his position that he could scarce suppress a cry.
‘Dear me,’ said Gideon, ‘they are apt to be very troublesome. Tell me everything about it,’ he added kindly; ‘if you require my assistance, conceal nothing.’
‘You tell him,’ said Michael, feeling, apparently, that he had done his share. ‘My friend will tell you all about it,’ he added to Gideon, with a yawn. ‘Excuse my closing my eyes a moment; I’ve been sitting up with a sick friend.’
Pitman gazed blankly about the room; rage and despair seethed in his innocent spirit; thoughts of flight, thoughts even of suicide, came and went before him; and still the barrister patiently waited, and still the artist groped in vain for any form of words, however insignificant.
‘It’s a breach of promise case,’ he said at last, in a low voice. ‘I — I am threatened with a breach of promise case.’ Here, in desperate quest of inspiration, he made a clutch at his beard; his fingers closed upon the unfamiliar smoothness of a shaven chin; and with that, hope and courage (if such expressions could ever have been appropriate in the case of Pitman) conjointly fled. He shook Michael roughly. ‘Wake up!’ he cried, with genuine irritation in his tones. ‘I cannot do it, and you know I can’t.’
‘You must excuse my friend,’ said Michael; ‘he’s no hand as a narrator of stirring incident. The case is simple,’ he went on. ‘My friend is a man of very strong passions, and accustomed to a simple, patriarchal style of life. You see the thing from here: unfortunate visit to Europe, followed by unfortunate acquaintance with sham foreign count, who has a lovely daughter. Mr Thomas was quite carried away; he proposed, he was accepted, and he wrote — wrote in a style which I am sure he must regret today. If these letters are produced in court, sir, Mr Thomas’s character is gone.’
‘Am I to understand—’ began Gideon.
‘My dear sir,’ said the Australian emphatically, ‘it isn’t possible to understand unless you saw them.’
‘That is a painful circumstance,’ said Gideon; he glanced pityingly in the direction of the culprit, and, observing on his countenance every mark of confusion, pityingly withdrew his eyes.
‘And that would be nothing,’ continued Mr Dickson sternly, ‘but I wish — I wish from my heart, sir, I could say that Mr Thomas’s hands were clean. He has no excuse; for he was engaged at the time — and is still engaged — to the belle of Constantinople, Ga. My friend’s conduct was unworthy of the brutes that perish.’
‘Ga.?’ repeated Gideon enquiringly.
‘A contraction in current use,’ said Michael. ‘Ga. for Georgia, in The same way as Co. for Company.’
‘I was aware it was sometimes so written,’ returned the barrister, ‘but not that it was so pronounced.’
‘Fact, I assure you,’ said Michael. ‘You now see for yourself, sir, that if this unhappy person is to be saved, some devilish sharp practice will be needed. There’s money, and no desire to spare it. Mr Thomas could write a cheque tomorrow for a hundred thousand. And, Mr Forsyth, there’s better than money. The foreign count — Count Tarnow, he calls himself — was formerly a tobacconist in Bayswater, and passed under the humble but expressive name of Schmidt; his daughter — if she is his daughter — there’s another point — make a note of that, Mr Forsyth — his daughter at that time actually served in the shop — and she now proposes to marry a man of the eminence of Mr Thomas! Now do you see our game? We know they contemplate a move; and we wish to forestall ‘em. Down you go to Hampton Court, where they live, and threaten, or bribe, or both, until you get the letters; if you can’t, God help us, we must go to court and Thomas must be exposed. I’ll be done with him for one,’ added the unchivalrous friend.
‘There seem some elements of success,’ said Gideon. ‘Was Schmidt at all known to the police?’
‘We hope so,’ said Michael. ‘We have every ground to think so. Mark the neighbourhood — Bayswater! Doesn’t Bayswater occur to you as very suggestive?’
For perhaps the sixth time during this remarkable interview, Gideon wondered if he were not becoming light-headed. ‘I suppose it’s just because he has been lunching,’ he thought; and then added aloud, ‘To what figure may I go?’
‘Perhaps five thousand would be enough for today,’ said Michael. ‘And now, sir, do not let me detain you any longer; the afternoon wears on; there are plenty of trains to Hampton Court; and I needn’t try to describe to you the impatience of my friend. Here is a five-pound note for current expenses; and here is the address.’ And Michael began to write, paused, tore up the paper, and put the pieces in his pocket. ‘I will dictate,’ he said, ‘my writing is so uncertain.’
Gideon took down the address, ‘Count Tarnow, Kurnaul Villa, Hampton Court.’ Then he wrote something else on a sheet of paper. ‘You said you had not chosen a solicitor,’ he said. ‘For a case of this sort, here is the best man in London.’ And he handed the paper to Michael.
‘God bless me!’ ejaculated Michael, as he read his own address.
‘O, I daresay you have seen his name connected with some rather painful cases,’ said Gideon. ‘But he is himself a perfectly honest man, and his capacity is recognized. And now, gentlemen, it only remains for me to ask where I shall communicate with you.’
‘The Langham, of course,’ returned Michael. ‘Till tonight.’
‘Till tonight,’ replied Gideon, smiling. ‘I suppose I may knock you up at a late hour?’
‘Any hour, any hour,’ cried the vanishing solicitor.
‘Now there’s a young fellow with a head upon his shoulders,’ he said to Pitman, as soon as they were in the street.
Pitman was indistinctly heard to murmur, ‘Perfect fool.’
‘Not a bit of him,’ returned Michael. ‘He knows who’s the best solicitor in London, and it’s not every man can say the same. But, I say, didn’t I pitch it in hot?’
Pitman returned no answer.
‘Hullo!’ said the lawyer, pausing, ‘what’s wrong with the long-suffering Pitman?’
‘You had no right to speak of me as you did,’ the artist broke out; ‘your language was perfectly unjustifiable; you have wounded me deeply.’
‘I never said a word about you,’ replied Michael. ‘I spoke of Ezra Thomas; and do please remember that there’s no such party.’
‘It’s just as hard to bear,’ said the artist.
But by this time they had reached the corner of the by-street; and there was the faithful shoeblack, standing by the horses’ heads with a splendid assumption of dignity; and there was the piano, figuring forlorn upon the cart, while the rain beat upon its unprotected sides and trickled down its elegantly varnished legs.
The shoeblack was again put in requisition to bring five or six strong fellows from the neighbouring public-house; and the last battle of the campaign opened. It is probable that Mr Gideon Forsyth had not yet taken his seat in the train for Hampton Court, before Michael opened the door of the chambers, and the grunting porters deposited the Broadwood grand in the middle of the floor.
‘And now,’ said the lawyer, after he had sent the men about their business, ‘one more precaution. We must leave him the key of the piano, and we must contrive that he shall find it. Let me see.’ And he built a square tower of cigars upon the top of the instrument, and dropped the key into the middle.
‘Poor young man,’ said the artist, as they descended the stairs.
‘He is in a devil of a position,’ assented Michael drily. ‘It’ll brace him up.’
‘And that reminds me,’ observed the excellent Pitman, ‘that I fear I displayed a most ungrateful temper. I had no right, I see, to resent expressions, wounding as they were, which were in no sense directed.’
‘That’s all right,’ cried Michael, getting on the cart. ‘Not a word more, Pitman. Very proper feeling on your part; no man of self-respect can stand by and hear his alias insulted.’
The rain had now ceased, Michael was fairly sober, the body had been disposed of, and the friends were reconciled. The return to the mews was therefore (in comparison with previous stages of the day’s adventures) quite a holiday outing; and when they had returned the cart and walked forth again from the stable-yard, unchallenged, and even unsuspected, Pitman drew a deep breath of joy. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘we can go home.’
‘Pitman,’ said the lawyer, stopping short, ‘your recklessness fills me with concern. What! we have been wet through the greater part of the day, and you propose, in cold blood, to go home! No, sir — hot Scotch.’
And taking his friend’s arm he led him sternly towards the nearest public-house. Nor was Pitman (I regret to say) wholly unwilling. Now that peace was restored and the body gone, a certain innocent skittishness began to appear in the manners of the artist; and when he touched his steaming glass to Michael’s, he giggled aloud like a venturesome schoolgirl at a picnic.
CHAPTER IX. Glorious Conclusion of Michael Finsbury’s Holiday
I know Michael Finsbury personally; 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 am 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, since 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 hansoms 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.
But at the time of which we write the house in the King’s Road (let us still continue to call it No. 233) was kept very quiet; when Michael entertained guests it was at the halls of Nichol or Verrey that he would convene them, and the door of his private residence remained closed against his friends. The upper storey, 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 unrivalled library of poetry and criminal trials, that we find him sitting down to his dinner after his holiday with Pitman. 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 Heidsieck. It was touching to observe the master’s eagerness to pull himself together under the servant’s eye; and when he remarked, ‘I think, Teena, I’ll take a brandy and soda,’ he spoke like a man doubtful of his elocution, and not half certain of obedience.
‘No such a thing, Mr Michael,’ was the prompt return. ‘Clar’t and water.’
‘Well, well, Teena, I daresay you know best,’ said the master. ‘Very fatiguing 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,’ returned Michael.
‘Pretty pliskies ye’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.
