The Black Box 5

The Black Box 5

"You have good cause for saying that; yet ’tis not so."

 

"Well, at any rate two peas were never more alike. I remember thinking

that the ’Charles’ looked more like Charley--just as this one does.

Yes, ’tis wonderfully like it."

 

"Ah! I am with you there," rejoined my father grimly. "As you say,

’tis wonderfully like indeed--and why? Because ’twas written by a

wonderfully clever man."

 

"And who was that?" I asked point-blank.

 

"One Robert Ferguson," replied my father slowly.

 

"What! the great Ferguson?" I cried, astonished.

 

"Great if you choose to call him so," came the answer, in the same deep,

measured tones. "But wicked, I should say. Ferguson the

plotter!"--(here he raised his voice)--"Ferguson the traitor, liar,

thief, and hypocrite! As black a scoundrel as e’er set foot upon God’s

earth!"

 

As, with blazing eyes and ever-rising voice, my father poured forth this

fierce denunciation, my amazement broke all bounds. I knew this man,

this wicked rogue, by cold repute--as who did not? for his name and

deeds were blazoned everywhere. How he had been Churchman,

Presbyterian, Independent, Writer, and Preceptor--everything by turn.

How he had used religion as a cloak for vilest ends; how he had played

false with every party; and how, in the end, when the Rye House plot

leaked out (of which he was prime mover), he had, with a mocking laugh,

abandoned his accomplices to their fate, while he, disguised, escaped

abroad.

 

Yes, I knew this brazen, barefaced rogue right well; but that these

documents--these fresh examples of his falsity and cunning--should have

come into our house, was what so amazed me; and this perplexity was

swiftly noted by my father, for while I yet sat there in blank

bewilderment he smiled and said:

 

"This matter sorely puzzles you, I see."

 

"Puzzles me!" I cried. "Aye, sir, that it does and more. What can you

have had to do with Ferguson, and how came you by those papers?"

 

"That is a natural question," he said, "and I will answer it as briefly

as may be. About six years ago I met this man, this rogue, this

Ferguson, in London; though I did not then know that ’twas he, for, as

you know, he went by divers names, and had a separate lodging for each

name. With me he passed as one Elijah Annabat, a scrivener, in the

city; and, oh! shame on me for my blindness, Michael, but his words and

ways were such that I counted him a right good fellow cursed with an

ugly face. Nay, worse, I even trusted him with money. But I overrun my

tale.

 

"At last we became so friendly that I went to visit him at his lodging

in the Chepe, and there it was that I first saw him working on these

forgeries. Night after night I found him bending over them, working like

one possessed. He said that he was making copies for a man in high

estate; but one night he chanced to leave a sheet uncovered at the

bottom, and there I read ’Charles R.’ ’Ah! "high estate" indeed’,

thought I, but of course said nothing. Well, to make few words of it,

another night I chanced to catch him locking up his precious papers in

this very box. This time methought he had an evil, hunted look upon his

ugly face, but, though I had my doubts, I did not see my way to question

him; and as my business took me home upon the morrow, I bade Elijah

Annabat farewell. Now, as I said, I had been surpassing fool enough to

trust him with some money, on which he did profess he could obtain great

usury within a month. Well, I had been home at least two months, and

yet had had no tidings of the matter, so I wrote to him. Another month

passed, but no answer came. I wrote again; but still there was no

answer. Then, while I was yet turning over in my mind what course to

take, the Black Box tale leapt over England, and with it flashed into my

memory what I had seen in London. ’Ah! I will pay a visit to Elijah

Annabat,’ said I: and forthwith posted up to town.

 

"By rare good chance I found him in, and, what was still more to my

liking, there was he seated at a table with the Black Box in his hands.

As I came suddenly upon him he turned a savage glance towards me; then,

having quickly hid the box beneath some papers, he rose, and, holding

out his hand, grinned like a cat and said:

 

"’Well met, good Master Fane!’

 

"’Well met, indeed, good Master Annabat!’ quoth I, remaining stiff and

frowning by the door. ’Where is my money?’

 

"His face changed instantly, as though a mask had fallen from it; and

for a time he stood there stroking his bristly chin and shooting glances

at me from beneath his heavy eyebrows.

 

"’Hum!’ he said at last. ’Your money, eh, friend? Ah, to be sure, your

money. Yes, of course. Well, friend, I fear ’tis like the sheep of

which we read in Holy scripture--lost!’"

 

"On hearing this, I paused a moment: then suddenly a wild idea seized

me. ’That being so,’ I said, ’I will have your Black Box in exchange

for it.’

 

"Never have I seen a man so struck as he was by those words. His face

went white, then red; and then, without a moment’s warning, he sprang on

me like a tiger.

 

"He was a younger and a stronger man than I, and moreover had the

advantage of attack; but, as you know, I was something of a wrestler in

my youth, and so by a well-proved trick I sent him flying from me.

Reeling back, his head struck full upon the wall, and there he lay like

one dead. Nor was this all, for, as he fell, a paper left his pocket.

Picking it up I read ’To Robert Ferguson, Esquire.’ That was enough for

me. Taking the box I left him lying there, and started straightway on

my homeward journey.

 

"As for Ferguson, I hoped devoutly he was killed, and still regret he

was not; but, alack! within a fortnight from that time the Rye House

Plot came out, and he was forced to flee the country, and, thank Heaven,

hath never dared to show his wicked face in England since. So there you

have the answer to your question, Michael," said my father, in

conclusion. "Is all now clear to you, my son?"

 

"Yes, sir," I answered, "it is clear enough how you met Ferguson and got

his box; but why, having such clear proof of his amazing falseness, did

you not expose him to the world?"

 

"Because I dared not, Michael," replied the old man slowly. "Wrong

breeds wrong, and violence violence. In my anger I had taken that to

which I had no right; but, as you see, there is naught save my written

word to prove I was not privy to these forgeries; nor would those in

authority have believed it was not so. And remember that the law was

even then, as ten times more so now, gathered up in one foul, cruel

fellow--that bloody-minded man, Judge Jeffreys. Yea, verily, to be

found with this," he added, tapping the box significantly, "would then,

as now, have spelt death to any man. And although, even six years ago

my days were not many, I had no wish to cut them short by dangling at a

rope-end. Wherefore I kept the box, and--well, here it is."

 

"And Ferguson made no stir about it?"

 

"Nay, by the same token that he dare not, for would they not have asked

how he had knowledge of it? What now? Hast any further questions,

Michael?"

 

"Nay, sir," I answered, after thinking for a moment, "I have no more

questions, but, if I may, I would make one suggestion."

 

"Ah, certainly; what is it?"

 

"Why, that in your written statement you should add unto the words ’Rank

forgeries’--’by Ferguson, the Plotter.’"

 

"A right excellent suggestion, too," rejoined my father. "It shall be

done forthwith."

 

Taking up his pen he did it, and was replacing the papers in their small

black house, when I saw him add the letter concerning "A Certain

Person", which, as you know, did not belong to him.

 

"Stay!" I interrupted, "why that one, sir?"

 

"Because ’tis the safest place for it," he answered, as he closed and

locked the lid. "To give it to its rightful owner would need

explanations, and those would be risky and might lead to trouble.

Therefore let it rest here. And now," he added, pushing back the box,

"I have told you everything. I always meant to do so on your eighteenth

birthday, and glad am I ’tis done, for the sharing of a secret trustily

brings great relief. As to the future; well, as I said before, when I

am gone--when the secret is again one man’s--you will do exactly as you

please, but I would counsel you, when that time comes, to burn the box

and all that it contains."

 

"Why not burn it now," I put in eagerly, "and be done with it for ever?"

 

My father drew the box towards him, and, as it seemed to me, caressed

it.

 

"Because," he said, "I could not bring myself to do it. ’Tis perchance

naught save an old man’s foolish fancy, Michael, but I tell you I have

kept this little thing so long that I--I love it, even as I fear it."

 

"Then why not burn the papers only?" I suggested.

 

"Ah! that would leave an empty shell indeed; and what is a body when the

heart is taken from it? Nor would I trust the flames. No, no! When I

am dead, burn as and what you please, but until then my little friend

goes back into his resting-place. Come! let me show you how the panel may be opened."