Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (157 page)

‘I’d like to know what I ever bungled,’ cried Morris; ‘I have the best collection of signet rings in London.’

‘Well, you know, there’s the leather business,’ suggested the other. ‘That’s considered rather a hash.’

It was a mark of singular self-control in Morris that he suffered this to pass unchallenged, and even unresented.

‘About the business in hand,’ said he, ‘once we can get him up to Bloomsbury, there’s no sort of trouble. We bury him in the cellar, which seems made for it; and then all I have to do is to start out and find a venal doctor.’

‘Why can’t we leave him where he is?’ asked John.

‘Because we know nothing about the country,’ retorted Morris. ‘This wood may be a regular lovers’ walk. Turn your mind to the real difficulty. How are we to get him up to Bloomsbury?’

Various schemes were mooted and rejected. The railway station at Browndean was, of course, out of the question, for it would now be a centre of curiosity and gossip, and (of all things) they would be least able to dispatch a dead body without remark. John feebly proposed getting an ale-cask and sending it as beer, but the objections to this course were so overwhelming that Morris scorned to answer. The purchase of a packing-case seemed equally hopeless, for why should two gentlemen without baggage of any kind require a packing-case? They would be more likely to require clean linen.

‘We are working on wrong lines,’ cried Morris at last. ‘The thing must be gone about more carefully. Suppose now,’ he added excitedly, speaking by fits and starts, as if he were thinking aloud, ‘suppose we rent a cottage by the month. A householder can buy a packing-case without remark. Then suppose we clear the people out today, get the packing-case tonight, and tomorrow I hire a carriage or a cart that we could drive ourselves — and take the box, or whatever we get, to Ringwood or Lyndhurst or somewhere; we could label it “specimens”, don’t you see? Johnny, I believe I’ve hit the nail at last.’

‘Well, it sounds more feasible,’ admitted John.

‘Of course we must take assumed names,’ continued Morris. ‘It would never do to keep our own. What do you say to “Masterman” itself? It sounds quiet and dignified.’

‘I will NOT take the name of Masterman,’ returned his brother; ‘you may, if you like. I shall call myself Vance — the Great Vance; positively the last six nights. There’s some go in a name like that.’

‘Vance?’ cried Morris. ‘Do you think we are playing a pantomime for our amusement? There was never anybody named Vance who wasn’t a music-hall singer.’

‘That’s the beauty of it,’ returned John; ‘it gives you some standing at once. You may call yourself Fortescue till all’s blue, and nobody cares; but to be Vance gives a man a natural nobility.’

‘But there’s lots of other theatrical names,’ cried Morris. ‘Leybourne, Irving, Brough, Toole — ’

‘Devil a one will I take!’ returned his brother. ‘I am going to have my little lark out of this as well as you.’

‘Very well,’ said Morris, who perceived that John was determined to carry his point, ‘I shall be Robert Vance.’

‘And I shall be George Vance,’ cried John, ‘the only original George Vance! Rally round the only original!’

Repairing as well as they were able the disorder of their clothes, the Finsbury brothers returned to Browndean by a circuitous route in quest of luncheon and a suitable cottage. It is not always easy to drop at a moment’s notice on a furnished residence in a retired locality; but fortune presently introduced our adventurers to a deaf carpenter, a man rich in cottages of the required description, and unaffectedly eager to supply their wants. The second place they visited, standing, as it did, about a mile and a half from any neighbours, caused them to exchange a glance of hope. On a nearer view, the place was not without depressing features. It stood in a marshy-looking hollow of a heath; tall trees obscured its windows; the thatch visibly rotted on the rafters; and the walls were stained with splashes of unwholesome green. The rooms were small, the ceilings low, the furniture merely nominal; a strange chill and a haunting smell of damp pervaded the kitchen; and the bedroom boasted only of one bed.

Morris, with a view to cheapening the place, remarked on this defect.

‘Well,’ returned the man; ‘if you can’t sleep two abed, you’d better take a villa residence.’

‘And then,’ pursued Morris, ‘there’s no water. How do you get your water?’

‘We fill THAT from the spring,’ replied the carpenter, pointing to a big barrel that stood beside the door. ‘The spring ain’t so VERY far off, after all, and it’s easy brought in buckets. There’s a bucket there.’

Morris nudged his brother as they examined the water-butt. It was new, and very solidly constructed for its office. If anything had been wanting to decide them, this eminently practical barrel would have turned the scale. A bargain was promptly struck, the month’s rent was paid upon the nail, and about an hour later the Finsbury brothers might have been observed returning to the blighted cottage, having along with them the key, which was the symbol of their tenancy, a spirit-lamp, with which they fondly told themselves they would be able to cook, a pork pie of suitable dimensions, and a quart of the worst whisky in Hampshire. Nor was this all they had effected; already (under the plea that they were landscape-painters) they had hired for dawn on the morrow a light but solid two-wheeled cart; so that when they entered in their new character, they were able to tell themselves that the back of the business was already broken.

John proceeded to get tea; while Morris, foraging about the house, was presently delighted by discovering the lid of the water-butt upon the kitchen shelf. Here, then, was the packing-case complete; in the absence of straw, the blankets (which he himself, at least, had not the smallest intention of using for their present purpose) would exactly take the place of packing; and Morris, as the difficulties began to vanish from his path, rose almost to the brink of exultation. There was, however, one difficulty not yet faced, one upon which his whole scheme depended. Would John consent to remain alone in the cottage? He had not yet dared to put the question.

It was with high good-humour that the pair sat down to the deal table, and proceeded to fall-to on the pork pie. Morris retailed the discovery of the lid, and the Great Vance was pleased to applaud by beating on the table with his fork in true music-hall style.

‘That’s the dodge,’ he cried. ‘I always said a water-butt was what you wanted for this business.’

‘Of course,’ said Morris, thinking this a favourable opportunity to prepare his brother, ‘of course you must stay on in this place till I give the word; I’ll give out that uncle is resting in the New Forest. It would not do for both of us to appear in London; we could never conceal the absence of the old man.’

John’s jaw dropped.

‘O, come!’ he cried. ‘You can stay in this hole yourself. I won’t.’

The colour came into Morris’s cheeks. He saw that he must win his brother at any cost.

‘You must please remember, Johnny,’ he said, ‘the amount of the tontine. If I succeed, we shall have each fifty thousand to place to our bank account; ay, and nearer sixty.’

‘But if you fail,’ returned John, ‘what then? What’ll be the colour of our bank account in that case?’

‘I will pay all expenses,’ said Morris, with an inward struggle; ‘you shall lose nothing.’

‘Well,’ said John, with a laugh, ‘if the ex-s are yours, and half-profits mine, I don’t mind remaining here for a couple of days.’

‘A couple of days!’ cried Morris, who was beginning to get angry and controlled himself with difficulty; ‘why, you would do more to win five pounds on a horse-race!’

‘Perhaps I would,’ returned the Great Vance; ‘it’s the artistic temperament.’

‘This is monstrous!’ burst out Morris. ‘I take all risks; I pay all expenses; I divide profits; and you won’t take the slightest pains to help me. It’s not decent; it’s not honest; it’s not even kind.’

‘But suppose,’ objected John, who was considerably impressed by his brother’s vehemence, ‘suppose that Uncle Masterman is alive after all, and lives ten years longer; must I rot here all that time?’

‘Of course not,’ responded Morris, in a more conciliatory tone; ‘I only ask a month at the outside; and if Uncle Masterman is not dead by that time you can go abroad.’

‘Go abroad?’ repeated John eagerly. ‘Why shouldn’t I go at once? Tell ‘em that Joseph and I are seeing life in Paris.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Morris.

‘Well, but look here,’ said John; ‘it’s this house, it’s such a pig-sty, it’s so dreary and damp. You said yourself that it was damp.’

‘Only to the carpenter,’ Morris distinguished, ‘and that was to reduce the rent. But really, you know, now we’re in it, I’ve seen worse.’

‘And what am I to do?’ complained the victim. ‘How can I entertain a friend?’

‘My dear Johnny, if you don’t think the tontine worth a little trouble, say so, and I’ll give the business up.’

‘You’re dead certain of the figures, I suppose?’ asked John. ‘Well’ — with a deep sigh — ’send me the Pink Un and all the comic papers regularly. I’ll face the music.’

As afternoon drew on, the cottage breathed more thrillingly of its native marsh; a creeping chill inhabited its chambers; the fire smoked, and a shower of rain, coming up from the channel on a slant of wind, tingled on the window-panes. At intervals, when the gloom deepened toward despair, Morris would produce the whisky-bottle, and at first John welcomed the diversion — not for long. It has been said this spirit was the worst in Hampshire; only those acquainted with the county can appreciate the force of that superlative; and at length even the Great Vance (who was no connoisseur) waved the decoction from his lips. The approach of dusk, feebly combated with a single tallow candle, added a touch of tragedy; and John suddenly stopped whistling through his fingers — an art to the practice of which he had been reduced — and bitterly lamented his concessions.

‘I can’t stay here a month,’ he cried. ‘No one could. The thing’s nonsense, Morris. The parties that lived in the Bastille would rise against a place like this.’

With an admirable affectation of indifference, Morris proposed a game of pitch-and-toss. To what will not the diplomatist condescend! It was John’s favourite game; indeed his only game — he had found all the rest too intellectual — and he played it with equal skill and good fortune. To Morris himself, on the other hand, the whole business was detestable; he was a bad pitcher, he had no luck in tossing, and he was one who suffered torments when he lost. But John was in a dangerous humour, and his brother was prepared for any sacrifice.

By seven o’clock, Morris, with incredible agony, had lost a couple of half-crowns. Even with the tontine before his eyes, this was as much as he could bear; and, remarking that he would take his revenge some other time, he proposed a bit of supper and a grog.

Before they had made an end of this refreshment it was time to be at work. A bucket of water for present necessities was withdrawn from the water-butt, which was then emptied and rolled before the kitchen fire to dry; and the two brothers set forth on their adventure under a starless heaven.

CHAPTER III. The Lecturer at Large

Whether mankind is really partial to happiness is an open question. Not a month passes by but some cherished son runs off into the merchant service, or some valued husband decamps to Texas with a lady help; clergymen have fled from their parishioners; and even judges have been known to retire. To an open mind, it will appear (upon the whole) less strange that Joseph Finsbury should have been led to entertain ideas of escape. His lot (I think we may say) was not a happy one. My friend, Mr Morris, with whom I travel up twice or thrice a week from Snaresbrook Park, is certainly a gentleman whom I esteem; but he was scarce a model nephew. As for John, he is of course an excellent fellow; but if he was the only link that bound one to a home, I think the most of us would vote for foreign travel. In the case of Joseph, John (if he were a link at all) was not the only one; endearing bonds had long enchained the old gentleman to Bloomsbury; and by these expressions I do not in the least refer to Julia Hazeltine (of whom, however, he was fond enough), but to that collection of manuscript notebooks in which his life lay buried. That he should ever have made up his mind to separate himself from these collections, and go forth upon the world with no other resources than his memory supplied, is a circumstance highly pathetic in itself, and but little creditable to the wisdom of his nephews.

The design, or at least the temptation, was already some months old; and when a bill for eight hundred pounds, payable to himself, was suddenly placed in Joseph’s hand, it brought matters to an issue. He retained that bill, which, to one of his frugality, meant wealth; and he promised himself to disappear among the crowds at Waterloo, or (if that should prove impossible) to slink out of the house in the course of the evening and melt like a dream into the millions of London. By a peculiar interposition of Providence and railway mismanagement he had not so long to wait.

He was one of the first to come to himself and scramble to his feet after the Browndean catastrophe, and he had no sooner remarked his prostrate nephews than he understood his opportunity and fled. A man of upwards of seventy, who has just met with a railway accident, and who is cumbered besides with the full uniform of Sir Faraday Bond, is not very likely to flee far, but the wood was close at hand and offered the fugitive at least a temporary covert. Hither, then, the old gentleman skipped with extraordinary expedition, and, being somewhat winded and a good deal shaken, here he lay down in a convenient grove and was presently overwhelmed by slumber. The way of fate is often highly entertaining to the looker-on, and it is certainly a pleasant circumstance, that while Morris and John were delving in the sand to conceal the body of a total stranger, their uncle lay in dreamless sleep a few hundred yards deeper in the wood.

He was awakened by the jolly note of a bugle from the neighbouring high road, where a char-a-banc was bowling by with some belated tourists. The sound cheered his old heart, it directed his steps into the bargain, and soon he was on the highway, looking east and west from under his vizor, and doubtfully revolving what he ought to do. A deliberate sound of wheels arose in the distance, and then a cart was seen approaching, well filled with parcels, driven by a good-natured looking man on a double bench, and displaying on a board the legend, ‘I Chandler, carrier’. In the infamously prosaic mind of Mr Finsbury, certain streaks of poetry survived and were still efficient; they had carried him to Asia Minor as a giddy youth of forty, and now, in the first hours of his recovered freedom, they suggested to him the idea of continuing his flight in Mr Chandler’s cart. It would be cheap; properly broached, it might even cost nothing, and, after years of mittens and hygienic flannel, his heart leaped out to meet the notion of exposure.