Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (167 page)

‘Michael,’ said his uncle, ‘the reason that I am here is because I cannot endure those nephews of mine. I find them intolerable.’

‘I daresay you do,’ assented Michael, ‘I never could stand them for a moment.’

‘They wouldn’t let me speak,’ continued the old gentleman bitterly; ‘I never was allowed to get a word in edgewise; I was shut up at once with some impertinent remark. They kept me on short allowance of pencils, when I wished to make notes of the most absorbing interest; the daily newspaper was guarded from me like a young baby from a gorilla. Now, you know me, Michael. I live for my calculations; I live for my manifold and ever-changing views of life; pens and paper and the productions of the popular press are to me as important as food and drink; and my life was growing quite intolerable when, in the confusion of that fortunate railway accident at Browndean, I made my escape. They must think me dead, and are trying to deceive the world for the chance of the tontine.’

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

‘Pecuniarily speaking, I am rich,’ returned the old man with cheerfulness. ‘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 how little a man of intellectual interest requires to bother with books in a progressive 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 you scarcely understand what a peculiar position I occupy. There are some little financial complications; as a guardian, my efforts were not altogether blessed; and not to put too fine a point upon the matter, I am absolutely in the power of that vile fellow, Morris.’

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

‘I had already canvassed that idea,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘but feared to awaken remark in my unpretentious lodgings. The aristocracy, I am well aware — ’

‘But see here,’ interrupted Michael, ‘how do you come to have any money at all? Don’t make a stranger of me, Uncle Joseph; I know all about the trust, and the hash you made of it, and the assignment you were forced to 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 foot in it. You had no right to do what you did.’

‘The whole thing is mine, Michael,’ protested the old gentleman. ‘I founded 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 extremely shaky; but now, my dear sir, it means the dock.’

‘It isn’t possible,’ cried Joseph; ‘the law cannot be so unjust as that?’

‘And the cream of the thing,’ interrupted Michael, with a sudden shout of laughter, ‘the cream of the thing is this, that of course you’ve downed the leather business! I must say, Uncle Joseph, you have strange ideas 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?’ asked Michael.

‘No one but myself,’ replied Joseph.

‘Poor devil of a Morris! O, poor devil of a Morris!’ cried the lawyer in delight. ‘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, what do you suppose the leather business worth?’

‘It was worth a hundred thousand,’ said Joseph bitterly, ‘when it was in my hands. But then there came a Scotsman — it is supposed he had a certain talent — it was entirely directed to bookkeeping — no accountant in London could understand a word of any of his books; and then there was Morris, who is perfectly incompetent. And now it is worth very little. Morris tried to sell it last year; and Pogram and Jarris offered only 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 whole field of commerce more surprising than the fluctuations of the leather market. Its sensitiveness may be described as morbid.’

‘And now, Uncle Joseph, what have you done with all that money?’ asked the lawyer.

‘Paid it into a bank and drew twenty pounds,’ answered Mr Finsbury promptly. ‘Why?’

‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘Tomorrow I shall send down a clerk with a cheque for a hundred, and he’ll draw out the original sum and return it to the Anglo-Patagonian, with some sort of explanation which I will try to invent for you. That will clear your feet, and as Morris can’t touch a 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 to me again.’

‘I would rather not be beholden to your bounty all the same,’ said Joseph, biting at his white moustache. ‘I would rather live on my own money, 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 attention to law,’ he said; ‘it will be a new field; for though, of course, I understand its general principles, I have never really applied my mind to the details, and this view of yours, for example, comes on me entirely by surprise. But you may be right, and of course at my time of life — for I am no longer young — any really long term of imprisonment would be highly prejudicial. But, my dear nephew, I have no claim on you; you have no call to support me.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Michael; ‘I’ll probably get it out of the leather business.’

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

‘What a wonderful old muddler!’ he reflected, ‘and what a singular thing is life! I seem to be condemned to be the instrument of Providence. Let me 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 lot of most indifferent liquor. Let’s top off with a visit to my cousins, and be the instrument of Providence in earnest. Tomorrow I can turn my attention to leather; tonight I’ll just make it lively for ‘em in a friendly spirit.’

About a quarter of an hour later, as the clocks were striking eleven, the instrument of Providence descended from a hansom, and, bidding the driver 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 narrow opening: ‘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 lobby and marched into the dining-room, with Morris at his heels.

‘Where’s my Uncle Joseph?’ demanded Michael, sitting down in the most comfortable chair.

‘He’s not been very well lately,’ replied Morris; ‘he’s staying at Browndean; 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 your father,’ returned Morris.

‘Fiddlestick,’ said Michael. ‘My father is my father; but Joseph is just as much my uncle as he’s yours; and you have no right to sequestrate his person.’

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

‘I’ll tell you what, then,’ said Michael. ‘I’ll make a clean breast of it. I have come down like the opossum, Morris; I have come to compromise.’

Poor Morris turned as pale as death, and then a flush of wrath against the injustice of man’s destiny dyed his very temples. ‘What do you mean?’ he cried, ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’ And when Michael had assured him of his seriousness, ‘Well, then,’ he cried, with another deep 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, and you 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 the finny tribe.’

‘Do you mean to insinuate anything?’ cried Morris stormily, trying the high hand.

‘Insinuate?’ repeated Michael. ‘O, don’t let’s begin to use awkward expressions! Let us drown our differences in a bottle, like two affable kinsmen. The Two Affable Kinsmen, sometimes attributed to Shakespeare,’ he added.

Morris’s mind was labouring like a mill. ‘Does he suspect? or is this chance and stuff? Should I soap, or should I bully? Soap,’ he concluded. ‘It gains time.’ ‘Well,’ said he aloud, and with rather a painful affectation of heartiness, ‘it’s long since we have had an evening together, Michael; and though my habits (as you know) are very temperate, I may as well make an exception. Excuse me one moment till I fetch a bottle of whisky from the cellar.’

‘No whisky for me,’ said Michael; ‘a little of the old still champagne or 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 had perceived his advantage; in thus dunning him for the cream of the cellar, Michael was playing into his hand. ‘One bottle?’ he thought. ‘By George, I’ll give him two! this is no moment for economy; and once the beast is drunk, it’s strange if I don’t wring his secret out of him.’

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

‘I drink to you, cousin!’ he cried gaily. ‘Don’t spare the wine-cup in my house.’

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

‘The spoils of war!’ he said apologetically. ‘The weakest goes to the wall. Science, Morris, science.’ Morris could think of no reply, and for an appreciable interval silence reigned. But two glasses of the still champagne produced a rapid change in Michael.

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

‘What makes you think me deep?’ asked Morris with an air of pleased simplicity.

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

‘Well, YOU wouldn’t compromise before, you know,’ said the smiling Morris. ‘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’? ‘S quite a remarrable — remarkable problem,’ he added, triumphing over oral obstacles, not without obvious pride. ‘Wonder what we each think — don’t you?’

‘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 of Providence, but not that kind! You get out of it yourself, like Aesop and 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 a valuable uncle disappeared. Now, what I want to know: where’s valuable uncle?’

‘I have told you: he is at Browndean,’ answered Morris, furtively wiping his 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’s total disappearance of an uncle. Not businesslike.’ And he wagged his head.

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

‘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 if you tell me contrary now, of course I’m bound to believe either the one story or the other. Point is I’ve upset this bottle, still champagne’s exc’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’lent thing 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 wavering Michael.

‘You shall not go till you have explained your hints,’ returned Morris fiercely. ‘What do you mean? What brought you here?’

‘No offence, I trust,’ said the lawyer, turning round as he opened the door; ‘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 he approached, and asked where he was to go next.

Michael observed that Morris had followed him to the steps; a brilliant inspiration came to him. ‘Anything t’ give pain,’ he reflected. . . . ‘Drive Shcotlan’ Yard,’ he added aloud, holding to the wheel to steady himself; ‘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 the lower orders for an intoxicated gentleman. ‘I had better take you home, sir; you can go to Scotland Yard tomorrow.’