Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1472 page)

‘Promised a fiddlestick!’ exclaimed the Squire, in a passion. ‘What’s the use of keeping a secret that’s half let out already? I’ll tell you what, you Mr — , what’s your name? There’s some joke about calling you Julius Caesar. What’s your real name, if you really have one?’

‘Martin Blunt, sir. But don’t, pray don’t ask me to tell the secret! I don’t say
you
would blab it, sir; but if it
did
leak out, like; and get to Stratford-upon-Avon,’ — here he suddenly became silent, feeling he was beginning to commit himself already.

‘Stop! I’ve got it!’ cried Mr Colebatch. ‘Hang me, if I haven’t got it at last!’

‘Don’t tell
me,
sir! Pray don’t tell me, if you have!’

‘Stick to your chair, Mr Martin Blunt! No shirking with
me!
I was a fool not to suspect the thing, the moment I saw it was a portrait of Shakespeare. I’ve seen the Stratford bust, Master Blunt! You’re afraid of Stratford, are you? — Why? I know! Some of you have been taking that cast from the Stratford bust, without leave — it’s as like it, as two peas! Now, young fellow, I’ll tell you what! if you don’t make a clean breast to me at once, I’m off to the office of the ‘Tidbury Mercury’, to put in my version of the whole thing, as a good local anecdote! Will you tell me? or will you not? — I’m asking this in Mr Wray’s interests, or I’d die before I asked you at all!’

Confused, threatened, bullied, bawled at, and out-manoeuvred, the unfortunate carpenter fairly gave way. ‘If it’s wrong in me to tell you, sir, it’s your fault what I do,’ said the simple fellow; and he forthwith retailed, in a very roundabout, stammering manner, the whole of the disclosure he had heard from old Reuben — the Squire occasionally throwing in an explosive interjection of astonishment, or admiration; but, otherwise, receiving the narrative with remarkable calmness and attention.

‘What the deuce is all this nonsense about the Stratford Town Council, and the penalties of the law?’ — cried Mr Colebatch, when the carpenter had done — ’But never mind; we can come to that afterwards. Now tell me about going back to get the mould out of the cupboard, and making the new cast. I know who did it! It’s that dear, darling, incomparable little girl! — but tell me all about it — come! quick, quick! — don’t keep me waiting!’

‘Julius Caesar’ got on with his second narrative much more glibly than with the first. How Annie had suddenly remembered, one night, in her bedroom, about the mould having been left behind — how she was determined to try and restore her grandfather’s health and faculties, by going to seek it; and how he (the carpenter), had gone also, to protect her — how they got to Stratford, by the coach (outside places, in the cold, to save money) — how Annie appealed to the mercy of their former landlord; and instead of inventing some falsehood to deceive him, fairly told her whole story in all its truth — how the landlord pitied them, and promised to keep their secret — how they went up into the bed-room, and found the mould in the old canvas bag, behind the volumes of the
Annual Register,
just where Mr Wray had left it — how Annie, remembering what her grandfather had told her, about the process of making a cast, bought plaster, and followed out her instructions; failing in the first attempt, but admirably succeeding in the second — how they were obliged, in frightful suspense, to wait till the third day for the return coach; and how they finally got back, safe and sound, not only with the new cast, but with the mould as well. — All these particulars flowed from the carpenter’s lips, in a strain of homely eloquence, which no elocutionary aid could have furnished with one atom of additional effect, that would have done it any good whatever.

‘We’d no notion, sir,’ said ‘Julius Caesar’, in conclusion, ‘that poor Mr Wray was so bad as he really was, when we went away. It was a dreadful trial to Annie, sir, to go. She went down on her knees to the landlady — I saw her do it, half wild, like; she was in such a state — she went down on her knees, sir, to ask the woman to be as a daughter to the old man, till she came back. Well, sir, even after that, it was a toss-up whether she went away, when the morning came. But she was obliged to do it. She durstn’t trust me to go alone, for fear I should let the mould tumble down, when I got it (which I’m afraid, sir, was very likely!) — or get into some scrape, by telling
what
I oughtn’t,
where
I oughtn’t; and so be taken up, mould and all, before the Town Council, who were going to put Mr Wray in prison, only we ran off to Tidbury; and so — ’

‘Nonsense! stuff! they could no more put him in prison for taking the cast than I can,’ cried the Squire. ‘Stop! I’ve got a thought! I’ve got a thought at least, that’s worth — Is the mould here? — Yes or No?’

‘Yes, sir! Bless us and save us, what’s the matter!’

‘Run!’ cried Mr Colebatch, pacing up and down the room like mad. ‘No. 15 in the street! Dabbs and Clutton, the lawyers! Fetch one of them in a second! Damn it, run! or I shall burst a blood vessel!’

The carpenter ran
to
No. 15; and Mr Dabbs, who happened to be in, ran
from
No. 15. Mr Colebatch met him at the street door, dragged him into the back parlour, pushed him on to a chair, and instantly stated the case between Mr Wray and the authorities at Stratford, in the fewest possible words and the hastiest possible tones. ‘Now,’ said the old gentleman at the end, ‘can they, or can they not, hurt him for what he’s done?’

‘It’s a very nice point,’ said Mr Dabbs, ‘a very nice point indeed, sir.’

‘Hang it, man!’ cried the Squire, ‘don’t talk to
me
about “nice points”, as if a point was something good to eat! Can they, or can they not, hurt him? Answer that in three words!’

‘They can’t,’ said Dabbs, answering it triumphantly in two.

‘Why?’ asked the Squire, beating him by a rejoinder in one.

‘For this reason,’ said Dabbs. ‘What does Mr Wray take with him into the church? Plaster of his own, in powder. What does he bring out with him? The same plaster, in another form. Does any right of copyright reside in a bust two hundred years old? Impossible. Has Mr Wray hurt the bust? No; or they would have found him out here, and prosecuted directly — for they know where he is. I heard of the thing from a Stratford man, yesterday, who said they knew he was at Tidbury. Under all these circumstances, where’s there a shadow of a case against Mr Wray? Nowhere!’

‘Capital, Dabbs! capital! you’ll be Lord Chancellor some day: never heard a better opinion in my life! Now, Mr Julius Caesar Blunt, do you see what my thought is? No! Look here. Take casts from that mould till your arms ache again; clap them upon slabs of black marble to show off the white face; sell them, at a guinea each, to the loads of people who would give anything to have a portrait of Shakespeare; and then open your breeches’ pockets fast enough to let the gold tumble in, if you can! Tell Mr Wray that; and you tell him he’s a rich man, or — no don’t, you’re no more fit to do it properly than I am! Tell every syllable you’ve heard here to Annie, directly; she’ll know how to break it to him; go! be off!’

‘But what are we to say about how we got the mould here, sir? We can’t tell Mr Wray the truth.’

‘Tell him a flam, of course! Say it’s been found in the cupboard, by the landlord, at Stratford, and sent on here. Dabbs will bear witness that the Stratford people know he’s at Tidbury, and know they can’t touch him: he’s sure to think
that
a pretty good proof that we are right. Say I bullied you out of the secret, when I saw the mould come here — say anything — but only go, and settle matters at once! I’m off to take my walk, and see about the black slabs at the stone masons. I’ll be back in an hour, and see Mr Wray.’

The next moment, the impetuous old Squire was out of the house; and before the hour was up, he was in it again, rather more impetuous than ever.

When he entered the drawing-room, the first sight that greeted him was the carpenter, hanging up a box containing the mask (with the lid taken off) boldly and publicly over the fireplace.

‘I’m glad to see that, sir,’ said Mr Colebatch, shaking hands with Mr Wray. ‘Annie has told you my good news — eh?’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered the old man; ‘the best news I’ve heard for some time: I can hang up my treasure there, now, where I can see it all day. It was rather too bad, sir, of those Stratford people to go frightening me, by threatening what they couldn’t do. The best man among them is the man who was my landlord; he’s an honest, careful fellow, to send me back my old canvas bag, and the mould (which must have seemed worthless to him), just because they were belonging to me, and left in my bedroom. I’m rather proud, sir, of making that mask. I can never repay you for your kindness in defending my character, and taking me up as you’ve done — but if you would accept a copy of the cast, now we have the mould to take it from, as Annie says — ’

‘That I will, and thankfully,’ said the Squire, ‘and I order five more copies, as presents to my friends, when you begin to sell to the public.’

‘I really don’t know, sir, about that,’ said Mr Wray, rather uneasily. ‘Selling the cast is like making my great treasure very common; it’s like giving up my particular possession to everybody.’

Mr Colebatch parried this objection instantly. Could Mr Wray, he asked, seriously mean to be so selfish as to deny to other lovers of Shakespeare the privilege he prized so much himself, of possessing Shakespeare’s portrait? — to say nothing of as good as plumply refusing a pretty round sum of money at the same time. Could he be selfish enough, and inconsiderate enough to do that? No: Mr Wray, on consideration, allowed he could not. He saw the subject in a new light now; and begging Mr Colebatch’s pardon, if he had seemed selfish or unthankful, he would take the Squire’s advice.

‘That’s right!’ said the old gentleman. ‘Now I’m happy. You’ll soon be strong enough, my good friend, to take the cast yourself.’

‘I hope so,’ said Mr Wray. ‘It’s very odd that a mere dream should make me feel so weak as I do — I suppose they told you, sir, what a horrible dream it was. If I didn’t see the mask hanging up there now, as whole as ever, I should really believe it had been broken to pieces, just as I dreamt it. It must have been a dream, you know, sir of course; for I dreamt that Annie had gone away and left me; and I found her at home as usual, when I woke up. It seems, too, that I’m a week or more behindhand, in my notion about the day of the month. In short, sir, I should almost think myself bewitched,’ he added, pressing his trembling hand over his forehead, ‘if I didn’t know it was near Christmas time, and didn’t believe what sweet Will Shakespeare says in Hamlet — a passage, by-the-by, sir, which Mr Kemble always regretted to see struck out of the acting copy.’

Here he began to declaim — faintly, but still with all the old Kemble cadences — the exquisite lines to which he referred; the Squire beating time to each modulation, with his forefinger: —

      
‘Some say, that ever ‘gainst that season comes,

       
Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,

       
This bird of dawning singeth all night long:

       
And then they say no spirit dares stir abroad;

       
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,

       
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,

       
So hallow’d and so gracious is the time.’

‘There’s poetry!’ exclaimed Mr Colebatch, looking up at the mask. ‘That’s a cut above my tragedy of the
Mysterious Murderess,
I’m afraid. Eh, sir? And how you recite, — splendid! Hang it! we havn’t had half our talk, yet, about Shakespeare and John Kemble. A chat with an old stager like you, is new life to me, in such a barbarous place as this! Ah, Mr Wray!’ (and here the Squire’s voice lowered, and grew strangely tender for such a rough old gentleman), ‘you are a happy man, to have a grandchild to keep you company at all times, but especially at Christmas time. I’m a lonely old bachelor, and must eat my Christmas dinner without wife or child to sweeten the taste to me of a single morsel!’

As little Annie heard this, she rose, and stole up to the Squire’s side. Her pale face was covered with blushes (all her pretty natural colour had not come back yet); she looked softly at Mr Colebatch, for a moment — then looked down — then said —

‘Don’t say you’re lonely sir! If you would let
me
be like a grandchild to you, I should be so glad. I — I always make the plum pudding, sir, on Christmas Day, for grandfather — if he would allow, — and if — if you — ’