Shivers for Christmas (36 page)

Annie looked pale again instantly at this part of the story. As for ‘Julius Caesar', though he said nothing, he was evidently suffering from a second attack of the sympathetic cold perspiration which had already troubled him. He used the cotton handkerchief more copiously than ever just at this moment.

‘The butcher was speaking when I came in,' pursued Mr Wray. ‘“Who's been and took it,” says the fellow, (his grammar and elocution were awful, Annie!) “nobody don't know yet; but the Town Council will know by tomorrow, and then he'll be took himself.” “Ah,” says a dirty little man in black, “he'll be cast into prison, for taking a cast—eh?” They laughed, actually laughed at this vile pun. Then another man asked how it had been found out. “Some says,” answered the butcher, “he was seen a doin' of it, through the window, by some chap looking in accidental like: some says, nobody don't know but the churchwardens, and
they
won't tell till they've got him.” “Well,” says a woman, waiting with a basket to be served, “but how will they get him?—(two chops, please, when you're quite ready)—that's the thing: how will they get him?” “Quite easy; take my word for it;” says the man who made the bad pun. “In the first place, they've posted up handbills, offering a reward for him; in the second place, they're going to examine the people who show the church; in the third place—” “Bother your places!” cried the woman, “I wish I could get my chops.” “There you are Mum,” says the butcher, cutting off the chops, “and if you want my opinion about this business, it's this here: they'll transport him right away, in no time.” “They can't,” cries the dirty man, “they can only imprison him.” “For life—eh?” says the woman, going off with the chops. “Be so kind as to let me have a couple of kidneys,” said I; for my knees knocked together, and I could stand it no longer.'

‘Then you thought, grandfather, that they suspected you?'

‘I thought everything that was horrible, Annie. However, I got my kidneys, and went out unhindered, leaving them still talking about it. On my way home I saw the handbill—the handbill itself! Ten pounds reward for apprehending the man who had taken the cast! I read it twice through, in a sort of trance of terror. My mask taken away, and myself put in prison, if not transported—that was the prospect I had to give me an appetite for the kidneys. There was only one thing to be done: to get away from Stratford while I had the chance. The night-coach went that very evening, straight through to this place, which was far enough off for safety. We had some money, you know, left, after that last private-theatrical party, where they treated us so generously. In short, I made you pack up, Annie, as you said just now, and got you both off by the coach, in time, not daring to speak a word about my secret, and as miserable as I could be the whole journey. But let us say no more about that—here we are, safe and sound! and here's my face of Shakespeare—my diamond above all price—safe and sound, too! You shall see it; you shall look at the mask, both of you, and then, I hope, you'll acknowledge that you know as much as I do about the mystery!'

‘But the mould,' cried Annie; ‘haven't you got the mould with you, too?'

‘Lord bless my soul!' exclaimed Mr Wray, slapping both hands, in desperation, on the lid of the cash box. ‘Between the fright and the hurry of getting away, I quite forgot it—it's left at Stratford!'

‘Left at Stratford!' echoed Annie, with a vague feeling of dismay, that she could not account for.

‘Yes: rolled up in the canvas bag, and poked behind the landlord's volumes of the
Annual Register
, on the top shelf of the cupboard, in my bedroom. Between thinking of how to take care of the mask, and how to take care of myself, I quite forgot it. Don't look so frightened, Annie! The people at the lodgings are not likely to find it; and if they did, they wouldn't know what it was, and would throw it away. I've got the mask; and that's all I want—the mould is of no consequence to
me
, now—it's the mask that's everything—everything in the world!'

‘I can't help feeling frightened, grandfather; and I can't help wishing you had brought away the mould, though I don't know why.'

‘You're frightened, Annie, about the Stratford people coming after me here—that's what you're frightened about. But, if you and Julius Caesar keep the secret from everybody—and I know you will—there is no fear at all. They won't catch me back at Stratford again, or you either; and if the churchwardens themselves found the mould,
that
wouldn't tell them where I was gone, would it? Look up, you silly little Annie! We're quite safe here. Look up, and see the great sight I'm going to show you—a sight that nobody in England can show, but me;—the mask! the mask of Shakespeare!'

His cheeks flushed, his fingers trembled, as he took the key out of his pocket and put it into the lock of the old cash box. ‘Julius Caesar', breathless with wonder and suspense, clapped both his hands behind him, to make sure of breaking nothing this time. Even Annie caught the infection of the old man's triumph and delight, and breathed quicker than usual when she heard the click of the opening lock.

‘There!' cried Mr Wray, throwing back the lid; ‘there is the face of William Shakespeare! there is the treasure which the greatest lord in this land doesn't possess—a copy of the Stratford bust! Look at the forehead! Who's got such a forehead now? Look at his eyes; look at his nose. He was not only the greatest man that ever lived, but the handsomest, too! Who says this isn't just what his face was; his face taken after death? Who's bold enough to say so? Just look at the mouth, dropped and open—that's one proof? Look at the cheek, under the right eye; don't you see a little paralytic gathering up of the muscle, not visible on the other side?—that's another proof! Oh, Annie, Annie! there's the very face that once looked out, alive and beaming, on this poor old world of ours! There's the man who's comforted me, informed me, made me what I am! There's the “counterfeit presentment”, the precious earthly relic of that great spirit who is now with the angels in Heaven, and singing among the sweetest of them!'

His voice grew faint, and his eyes moistened. He stood looking at the mask, with a rapture and a triumph which no speech could express. At such moments as those, even through that poor, meagre face, the immortal spirit within could still shine out in the beauty which never dies!—even in that frail old earthly tenement, could still vindicate outwardly the divine destiny of all mankind!

They were yet gathered silently round the Shakespeare cast, when a loud knock sounded at the room door. Instantly, old Reuben banged down the lid of the cash box, and locked it; and
as
instantly, without waiting for permission to enter, a stranger walked in.

He was dressed in a long greatcoat, wore a red comforter round his neck, and carried a very old and ill-looking cat-skin cap in his hand. His face was uncommonly dirty; his eyes uncommonly inquisitive; his whiskers uncommonly plentiful; and his voice most uncommonly and determinately gruff, in spite of his efforts to dulcify it for the occasion.

‘Miss, and gentlemen both, beggin' all your pardons,' said this new arrival, ‘vich
is
Mr Wray?' As he spoke, his eyes travelled all round the room, seeing everything and everybody in it; and then glancing sharply at the cash box.

‘I am Mr Wray, sir,' exclaimed our old friend, considerably startled, but recovering the Kemble manner and the Kemble elocution as if by magic.

‘Wery good,' said the stranger. ‘Then beggin' your pardon again, sir, in pertickler, could you be so kind as to 'blige me with a card o' terms? It's for a young gentleman as wants you, Mr Wray,' he continued in a whisper, approaching the old man, and quite abstractedly leaning one hand on the cash box.

‘Take your hand off that box, sir,' cried Mr Wray, in a very fierce manner, but with a very trembling voice. At the same moment ‘Julius Caesar' advanced a step or two, partially doubling his fist. The man with the cat-skin cap had probably never before been so nearly knocked down in his life. Perhaps he suspected as much; for he took his hand off the box in a great hurry.

‘It was inadwertent, sir,' he remarked in explanation—‘a little inadwertency of mine, that's all. But
could
you 'blige me vith that card o' terms? The young gentleman as wants it has heerd of your advertisement; and, bein' d'awful shaky in his pronounciashun, as veil as 'scruciatin' bad at readin' aloud, he's 'ard up for improvement—the sort o' secret thing you gives, you know, to the oraytors and the clujjymen, at three-and-six an hour. You'll heer from him in secret, Mr Wray, sir; and precious vork you'll 'ave to git him to rights; but do just 'blige me 'vith the card o' terms and the number of the 'ouse; 'cos I promised to git 'em for him today.'

‘There is a card, sir, and I will engage to improve his delivery be it ever so bad,' said Mr Wray, considerably relieved at hearing the real nature of the stranger's errand.

‘Miss, and gentlemen both, good mornin',' said the man, putting on his cat-skin cap, ‘you'll heer from the young gentleman today; and wotever you do, sir, mind you keep the h'applicashun a secret—mind that!' He winked; and went out.

‘I declare,' muttered Mr Wray, as the door closed, ‘I thought he was a thief-taker from Stratford. Think of his being only a messenger from a new pupil! I told you we should have a pupil today. I told you so.'

‘A very strange-looking messenger, grandfather, for a young gentleman to choose!' said Annie.

‘He can't help his looks, my dear; and I'm sure we shan't mind them, if he brings us money. Have you seen enough of the mask? if you haven't I'll open the box again.'

‘Enough for today, I think, grandfather. But, tell me, why do you keep the mask in that old cash box?'

‘Because I've nothing else, Annie, that will hold it, and lock up too. I was sorry, my dear, to disturb your “odds and ends”, as you call them; but really there was nothing else to take. Stop! I've a thought! Julius Caesar shall make me a new box for the mask, and then you shall have your old one back again.'

‘I don't want it, grandfather! I'd rather we none of us had it. Carrying a cash box like that about with us, might make some people think we had money in it.'

‘Money! People think
I
have any money! Come, come, Annie! that really won't do! That's much too good a joke, you sly little puss, you!' And the old man laughed heartily, as he hurried off, to deposit the precious mask in his bedroom.

‘You'll make that new box, Julius Caesar, won't you?' said Annie earnestly, as soon as her grandfather left the room.

‘I'll get some wood, this very day,' answered the carpenter, ‘and turn out such a box, by tomorrow, as—as—' He was weak at comparisons; so he stopped at the second ‘as'.

‘Make it quick, dear, make it quick,' said the little girl, anxiously; ‘and then we'll give away the old cash box. If grandfather had only told us what he was going to do, at first, he need never have used it; for you could have made him a new box beforehand. But, never mind! make it quick, now!'

Oh, ‘Julius Caesar!' strictly obey your little betrothed in this, as in all other injunctions! You know not how soon that new box may be needed, or how much evil it may yet prevent!

Perhaps, by this time, you are getting tired of three such simple, homely characters as Mr and Miss Wray, and Mr ‘Julius Caesar', the carpenter. I strongly suspect you, indeed, of being downright anxious to have a little literary stimulant provided in the shape of a villain. You shall taste this stimulant—double distilled; for I have
two
villains all ready for you in the present chapter.

But, take my word for it, when you know your new company, you will be only too glad to get back again to Mr Wray and his family.

About three miles from Tidbury-on-the-Marsh, there is a village called Little London; sometimes, popularly entitled, in allusion to the characters frequenting it, ‘Hell-End'. It is a dirty, ruinous-looking collection of some dozen cottages, and an ale-house. Ruffianly men, squalid women, filthy children, are its inhabitants. The chief support of this pleasant population is currently supposed to be derived from their connection with the poaching and petty larcenous interests of their native soil. In a word, Little London looks bad, smells bad, and is bad; a fouler blot of a village, in the midst of a prettier surrounding landscape, is not to be found in all England.

Our principal business is with the ale-house. The ‘Jolly Ploughboys' is the sign; and Judith Grimes, widow, is the proprietor. The less said about Mrs Grimes's character, the better; it is not quite adapted to bear discussion in these pages. Mrs Grimes's mother (who is now bordering on eighty) may be also dismissed to merciful oblivion; for, at her daughter's age, she was—if possible—rather the worse of the two. Towards her son, Mr Benjamin Grimes (as one of the rougher sex), I feel less inclined to be compassionate. When I assert that he was in every respect a complete specimen of a provincial scoundrel, I am guilty, according to a profound and reasonable maxim of our law, of uttering a great libel, because I am repeating a great truth.

You know the sort of man well. You have seen the great, hulking, heavy-browed, sallow-complexioned fellow often enough, lounging at village corners, with a straw in his mouth and a bludgeon in his hand, Perhaps you have asked your way of him; and have been answered by a growl and a petition for money; or, you have heard of him in connection with a cowardly assault on your rural policeman; or a murderous fight with your friend's gamekeeper; or a bad case for your other friend, the magistrate, at petty sessions. Anybody who has ever been in the country, knows the man—the ineradicable plague-spot of his whole neighbourhood—as well as I do.