Dr. Sam Johnson, Detector
Page 16
JOHNSON: “Simple English.”
BOSWELL: “How can this be?”
JOHNSON: “The triangles and scratches along the edges of yonder paper were halved lines of writing, and had only to be laid together to be read off.”
BOSWELL: “Yet how are the top and bottom of a single strip of paper to be laid together?”
JOHNSON: “The Spartans, of whom you yourself reminded me, did it by means of a staff or scytale, around which the strip is wound, edge to edge, both for writing and for reading.”
BOSWELL: “Hence your search for a staff or broomstick.”
JOHNSON: “Yes, sir. Now it went in my mind, yonder one-legged man had a strange wooden leg, which did not taper as they usually do, but was straight up and down like a post. Was he perhaps both the emissary and the key? At the cost of a half-crown I had it of him—carried it out of his sight that he might not babble of my proceedings—and read the communication with ease.”
BOSWELL: “This is most notable, sir. I will make sure to record it this very night.”
JOHNSON: “Pray, Mr. Boswell, spare me that; for though the play-acting clergyman with his two hundred pounds and his Welsh antiquities failed to deceive me, yet ’tis cold truth that under my nose a green boy has conspired with a school-girl to steal first a diamond and then the lass herself; so let’s hear no more on’t.”
The Conveyance of Emelina Grange
“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “’tis the best function of the law, not to punish, but to forestall, deeds of violence and fraud.”
“What, sir,” I exclaimed, rallying my learned guest, “do you tell me I must go forth like the beadle into the byways of Edinburgh, rather than to the Court of Session like the responsible advocate I am?”
“Ay must you,” retorted Dr. Johnson in the same spirit, “and well you’ll look with a staff in your hand!”
’Twas the eve of our departure for our long-expected visit to the Hebrides. How I rejoiced to see my respected friend so cordially at home in my house in Edinburgh, sitting by the fire as easy and jovial as ever I saw him at the Mitre.
“But, sir,” I continued in more serious vein, “how is this to be done? ‘There’s no art,’ says the poet, ‘to find the mind’s construction in the face.’”
“Nor would I find it in the face,” replied Dr. Johnson, “but in the betraying actions, the necessary arrangements, which must come as the forerunners of a contemplated crime.”
“Mr. Boswell,” said my servant, appearing at the door, “here’s a fellow below-stairs with a message, which he’ll trust to no ear but yours.”
“Admit him,” said I. “Pray excuse me, Dr. Johnson.”
“Willingly,” said Dr. Johnson, “I will devote my attention to Miss here.”
My daughter Veronica, then kicking her heels in her nurse’s arms by the fire, was at four months of age a great favourite with my majestic friend. As he peered into her small face and nodded his head repeatedly, she crowed with joy; when he stopped, she fluttered and made a little infantine noise, and a kind of signal for him to begin again; which he delighted to do.
“’Tis strange indeed, Bozzy,” commented Dr. Johnson in a mellow voice, “to see the complaisance with which Miss is pleased to accept of my poor attentions.”
Miss gurgled with joy, and reached for my learned friend’s impressive nose. The door opened to admit a hulking, weatherbeaten, red-headed countryman who made a leg to the company at large.
“My good friend Saunders!” I cried in surprise. “What brings you from Kincardon?”
“I’m no from Kincardon, sir, only from the Canongate,” replied the man in a rich Scotch accent which I despair of reproducing. He handed me a folded paper. “My master sends you this billet, sir, and begs that your famous friend Dr. Johnson will accept of his hospitality as well as you, Mr. Boswell, and he begs that you will honour him with your presence, and—and so do I too, sir.”
This strange harangue was delivered with a tone and look of desperate urgency.
“Is your master in trouble?” I enquired.
SAUNDERS: “He’ll no say so, Mr. Boswell, but all’s very ill in that house.”
BOSWELL: “But why does he send to me? Surely there’s those he could sooner turn to than me.”
SAUNDERS: “He invites you to sup with him, sir. But I, sir—I make so bold as to beg you, for the sake of the old days at Kincardon, to come down to that dreadful house and try to set things straight if you can, sir.”
BOSWELL: “What do you complain of, Saunders?”
SAUNDERS: “Nothing for myself, sir. I will tell you what I ken. I was close to Master Jamie, sir, for we were of an age, and hunted together at Kincardon in the old man’s time. Then Master Alick was laird, and brought the estate very low with his gaming and his tricks. My heart bled for Master Jamie, for he loves Kincardon, and it turned him glowering mean to see it racked for his brother’s pleasure. He’s had no education, Master Jamie, and none to care for him, and all he loves is Kincardon.”
“Yet he left Kincardon,” said I, who held a less romantick notion of Jamie Grange of Kincardon, “he left so soon as he inherited the estate.”
“He did so, sir,” admitted Saunders. “He went to London and married the Sassenach woman with all the siller, and brought her back to Scotland. But the lady herself, nor nane o’ her siller, never came to Kincardon till the day I’m to tell you about. Of a sudden one night, now two months gone, he rode up to the old house at Kincardon that’s falling to ruin, and the Sassenach lady with him, and her Sassenach maid that’s own cousin to her, and there they lay till morning.”
“So he did return to Kincardon,” I remarked.
“No more than I’ve told you. For it stormed that night, and I heard the lady weeping and crying, and swearing she’d no be buried in the country to be drowned under a leaky roof, and Master Jamie give in to her, and in the morning he carried her back again to Edinburgh, and me along with them.”
“Come, Saunders, my man,” cried I, laughing, “here’s no cause for disquiet. Nay, this is pure comedy, this tale of the lady who abhors the country.”
“’Tis not comick at the Canongate,” said honest Saunders pitifully. “He’s turned off all the servants, sir, and sits there all day glommering with only me to do for him. And the lady’s gey ill, and lies in the dark with only Master Jamie to carry her her bit parritch. I’m fair frighted, sir, what he’ll do.”
“Has the lady no woman to wait on her?” I asked thoughtfully.
“None, sir, for they turned off the fat Sassenach woman at Kincardon, and my brother Geordie rode her on her way before the day dawned.”
“So the companion’s sent back to England, eh?” I mused.
“No, sir; Geordie told my mother he was for the Western Islands. ’Tis like a tomb in the Canongate. Do come down, sir, and see my master.”
He looked at me with the appeal of a hungry spaniel, then hastily made a leg as my dear wife entered from an inner door and seated herself by the fire. Veronica made a little crow of pleasure and waved hard at my learned friend as I turned to consult him.
“How say you, Dr. Johnson, shall we sup in the Canongate?”
“Let us do so, sir,” replied my sagacious friend. “I have a fancy to see this lady out of Congreve, who fears to be buried in the country.”
“Say to your master,” said I to the honest messenger, “that we will come.”
Faithful Saunders withdrew covered with gratitude.
“Where,” said my wife, “will you come, Mr. Boswell?”
“To dine with Jamie Grange of Kincardon.”
“Surely, Mr. Boswell, you’ll not go to Jamie Grange!” cried my anxious spouse. “’Tis notorious he’s mad, and a miser to boot.”
“How can he be a miser,” I enquired reasonably, “if he’s married an heiress?”
“And if that be madness, ma’am,” added Dr. Johnson, “then half London is mad or aspires to lunacy.”
“Nay, sir,” replied my
wife, “I never thought him mad at Kincardon, though he was a surly churl enough; nor when he scraped together a few pounds to take him to London, nor when he brought back his English heiress in April and took the house in the Canongate and summoned all Edinburgh to wish him joy.”
“Who will ever say that the prosperous man is mad?” enquired my sententious friend.
“’Twas in May,” pursued Mrs. Boswell, “that she gave her last rout. You was in London, Mr. Boswell; but I was there when Jamie denounced her to her face for a spendthrift, and turned all the company out of doors. ‘You’re ruining me,’ cries he, ‘with your frivolity and extravagance!’ And she a great heiress! Is not this madness?”
“’Tis a kind of madness,” observed Dr. Johnson, “all too scarce in London.”
“And since then,” concluded my wife, “she’s never shewed her face out of doors, nor has any of their former acquaintance ever supped there. I had thought them gone to Kincardon.”
“Well, my dear,” said I, “we shall see how they go on,”
“’Tis great folly, Mr. Boswell,” objected she. “Saunders is a gloomy fool. There’ll be no more amiss than the misconceived œconomy of a miser’s household. Depend upon it, Jamie Grange will give you a bad dinner and then want something of you—he’s going to law, as like as not, and wants a lawyer’s advice without a lawyer’s fee.”
“Then I’ll eat his bad dinner and give him bad advice.”
“And I,” struck in Dr. Johnson, “shall pay my respects to the lady.”
“Fie, sir,” cried my wife, “ever the gallant to the fair, be she four months or forty years.”
The infant Veronica gurgled imperiously, and waved a tiny hand toward my venerable friend’s massive nose.
Jamie Grange received us civilly enough, and set us down to a bad dinner of kale and boiled mutton. ’Twas coarse fare, coarsely served by the niggardly light of two candle-ends. Waiting against the gloomy wainscoting, the man Saunders was uneasy. His little eyes darted about in the gloom, and he continually wiped his clammy palms on the crumpled serviette he carried.
Jamie Grange, the Laird of Kincardon, was at his ease. His thick bull neck, his weatherbeaten complection, his heavy hands, marked the country-bred laird. He was the same as I remembered him from the old days at Auchinleck, only for the marks of age gathering upon him, and a certain composed, waiting stillness about him. He ate little and spoke little, beyond uttering without grace the necessary civilities to his distinguished guest. He had never read The Rambler nor heard of Rasselas, so his compliments were without substance.
“Sir,” said the learned lexicographer perfunctorily, “you are most obliging.”
After this exchange conversation languished till the uncouth servitor placed on the table the cheese-ends and the thin wine, and withdrew. It then transpired that my domestick Cassandra had been doubly right. Jamie Grange followed his bad dinner by laying a legal problem before me. He spoke of his lady’s illness with concern.
“She is to bring Kincardon an heir,” said the laird quietly, “at her age the shock and strain have prostrated her. She is filled with concern for the child to come, and is feverishly anxious to provide for the little one’s material welfare. I fear for her reason unless she is enabled to effectuate her desire without delay.”
“Surely,” said I, “this is a matter for the Court of Session.”
“So I take it,” agreed Kincardon, “but she is impatient of delay. Surely it is possible to draw up an instrument which, signed by reputable witnesses, would hold good until she is delivered. The Court of Session has just risen. She will be delivered in four months time, and then we may do all things orderly. But for the interim she is bent on executing a document which she has prepared; and begs that Mr. Boswell and Dr. Johnson will wait on her to witness such a conveyance.”
“I shall be happy to wait on the lady, the more since I understand that she is my countrywoman,” assented Dr. Johnson with an eagerness that forestalled the more cautious reply which I had framed.
“That is true,” replied Kincardon, rising. “She is the only daughter of Sir Hampton Boon.”
“Do you say so!” exclaimed Dr. Johnson. “Sir Hampton is well known to me, for his seat lies in the neighbourhood of my native Lichfield, and I have more than once been obliged by the use of his very extensive library. I remember Miss Boon as a child.”
“Do you so?” exclaimed Kincardon, seating himself abruptly.
“A bonnie blue-eyed lass,” said Dr. Johnson, “I hope the years have used her well. I fear her present indisposition may be aggravated by her apprehensions concerning her father’s state of health.”
“Is he then no better?” enquired Kincardon with some emotion.
“He grows daily more dropsical,” returned Dr. Johnson. “When I last saw Lichfield ’twas said to be only a matter of months, perhaps weeks. Yet if the old man would but heed his physicians and amend his way of life, all might be changed.”
“We have been in continual apprehension for him,” said Kincardon, “fearing that every packet will bring news of his dissolution.”
“’Tis most sad,” agreed Dr. Johnson. “But come, I am longing to present my respects to my old friend.”
“I am sorry, Dr. Johnson,” said Kincardon calmly, without moving, “but I fear this meeting cannot be. The shock of meeting an old friend, and one who must give such a gloomy account of her father’s state of being, would only too surely prove fatal to my hope of posterity. I am sure Dr. Johnson will understand my position.”
“Nay, sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “I pledge myself to console, rather than distress the lady.”
“It is out of the question,” said Kincardon, unmoved. “Saunders shall supply Dr. Johnson’s room.”
“So be it,” assented Dr. Johnson without further importunity. Saunders was summoned, and inadequately lighted by one of the guttering candle-ends, we mounted the creaking stairs of the narrow old house, leaving the learned philosopher sitting at the untidy table, deep in meditation.
We found Emelina Boon, the English heiress, lying in the dark in the upper chamber of her husband’s gloomy old house. Her outlines, dimly seen under the wavering shadow of the tester, were thin and sharp in the great bed. The light of the candle as we brought it in caught gleams from her eyeballs as she rolled her prominent blue eyes on us.
“My dear,” began Kincardon, “set your mind at rest. Mr. Boswell will attest the authenticity of the instrument you wish to execute.”
She turned her eyes on me.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Give it me and let me sign it.”
Kincardon presented a paper already indited.
“Pray read it, ma’am, before you sign,” said I. I held the document before her eyes, and she scanned it painfully line by line to the end. Kincardon pressed a quill into her hand. Thrice she brought the point to the paper, and thrice her hand fell powerless.
“I cannot write,” she whispered. “I will make my mark here—so—” with Kincardon guiding her wrist she did so and fell back exhausted.
“And Mr. Boswell,” she resumed weakly, “shall be my witness that I did so with my own hand.”
“Gladly, ma’am,” I assented in pity, taking the document to the table to sign in my turn.
“What’s this, Kincardon?” I said in an undertone. “This form is quite irregular,” and I began to read: I, Emelina Grange, Lady Kincardon, being of sound mind and mindful of the uncertainty of life, do confess and declare, that my child …
Kincardon twitched the paper out of my hand.
“Don’t distress my wife,” he muttered. “This is the form she dictated. When she is better, all can be done anew. Let us leave her alone.”
He turned to the door, and a change passed over his blunt face.
“Dr. Johnson!” he cried. “This is too bad of you!”
“I beg your indulgence,” said Dr. Johnson softly, “I could not control my eagerness to see my old friend’s daughter.”
“Here is an old friend, my dear,” he cried with unnecessary loudness. “You remember Dr. Samuel Johnson, of Lichfield.”
The sick woman turned her great blue eyes on him. Her mouth formed his name inaudibly. Dr. Johnson scanned the gaunt face long and sadly by the light of the one candle.
“I am glad to see you again, my dear,” he said at last. “It is long since we met.”
The wan face in the shadow assented mutely.
“How well I remember, ’twas at Boon Park, in the Gothick grotto by the lake,” pursued Dr. Johnson sentimentally. A puzzled shadow passed over the invalid’s face, and she moved restlessly.
“No,” she whispered, “no. There is no Gothick grotto at Boon Park.”
“Of course there is not,” returned Dr. Johnson, abashed by this slip of memory. “Forgive an old man’s faulty recollection, and tell me what I can do for you.”
“My father—?” articulated the invalid.
“He was very well when I saw him last.”
The head never moved, but the blue eyes slewed sideways and fixed themselves on Dr. Johnson’s face.
“Don’t deceive me,” came the sharp whisper. “He is dying.”
“You need not perjure yourself, sir,” broke in Kincardon, “Emelina knows there is no hope. Come, shall we leave her to her rest? This has been a great strain for her.”
He folded the signed document into an inner pocket, and made as if to lead the way to the door.
“A moment,” said my benevolent friend.
He bent his massive head close to the motionless figure on the bed.
“You may trust me, my dear,” he murmured. “Can I do nothing for you?”
“Nothing,” said the pale lips.
“You are without a servant. May I not send a woman to watch over you?”
The head moved in sharp negation.
“No—no, no,” came the answer. “I sent my woman away because she spied on me. I’ll have no spies about me.” The voice rose hoarse and intense.
“Farewell,” said Dr. Johnson sadly. “Remember that I am your friend. Send to me at Mr. Boswell’s should need arise.”