CHAPTER VIII.
MAKE OR BREAK.
Maggie plied the kind-hearted physician with questions in regard to her father's condition—with questions which no man with merely human knowledge could answer. He thought André would be able to talk to her by the next day; but he feared the patient would not be well enough to resume his place in the shop for weeks, and perhaps months.
André appeared to be quite comfortable, and did not seem to be suffering very severely. The doctor had given him some medicine before he was removed from the banker's house, and the sick man went to sleep soon after he was put to bed in his own room. Dr. Fisher then went out into the rear room, and told Maggie that her father would probably sleep for several hours.
"I will come again in the morning, Maggie," said he. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing more, I thank you, sir," replied she. "I am very grateful to you for what you have done."
"I know nothing about your father's circumstances; but if you need any assistance, I hope you will make it known."
"Thank you, sir; I don't think we need anything," replied Maggie, a slight blush mantling her pretty face; for the idea of asking or accepting charity was painful to her.
"I fear it will be a long time before your father will be able to work again," continued Dr. Fisher, glancing around the room to ascertain, if possible, whether the singular family were in poverty or in plenty.
"I will take good care of him, whether it be for weeks or for months, or even for years. You don't know how sorry I am to have poormon pèresick; but you can't think what a pleasure it is to me to have an opportunity to do something for him. I wish I could tell you how good and kind he has always been to me; how tenderly he watched over me when I was sick; how lovingly he prayed for me; but I cannot, though it makes me happy to think I can now do something for him."
"You are a good girl, Maggie, and I don't see how André could have done any less for you," replied the doctor. "Who keeps house here?"
"O, I do that, sir."
"Then you must have to work very hard."
"Indeed, I don't! I have to keep busy almost all day; but it is such a pleasure to me to know that I am doing something formon père, that I never think it is hard at all."
Everything looked so neat and nice in the house that the doctor could not decide whether any assistance was required or not. He was one of those good physicians who felt for the poor and the humble. Though he practised in some of the richest and most aristocratic families in the city, his mission was not to them alone. He visited the haunts of poverty, and not only contributed his professional services in their aid, but he gave with no stinted hand from his own purse to relieve their wants. When he died, the sermon preached on the Sunday after his funeral was from the text, "The beloved physician;" and no one ever went to his reward in heaven who better deserved the praise bestowed upon him.
In the present instance, he felt that his work was not alone to heal the sick. His patient was a journeyman barber, with only a boy, and a girl of fifteen, to depend upon. This same doctor often went among his friends in State Street, in 'change hours, to preach the gospel of charity in his own unostentatious way. All gave when he asked, and it was not a very difficult matter for him to raise fifty or a hundred dollars for a deserving family. He purposed to do this for those under the barber's humble roof, who, without being connected by the remotest tie of blood, were more loving and devoted towards each other than many whom God had joined by the ties of kindred.
The doctor never told anybody of his good deeds. Hardly did his left hand know what his right hand did; and one of his eyes, which followed not the other's apparent line of vision, seemed to be looking out all the time for some hidden source of human suffering. He was as tender of the feelings of others as he was of the visible wounds of his patients. He saw the blush upon the cheeks of Maggie, and he interpreted it as readily as though the sentiment had been expressed in words. He forbore to make any further inquiries in regard to the pecuniary condition of the strange family; but he was determined that all their wants should be supplied, without injury to their laudable pride. He went away, and Maggie and Leo were left to themselves.
"You haven't been to supper, Leo," said Maggie, when Dr. Fisher had gone.
"I don't seem to care about any supper," replied Leo, gloomily.
"You must eat your supper, Leo," added Maggie, as she placed the teapot on the table. "There are some cold sausages I saved formon père. Sit down, Leo. We must work now, and we need all the strength we can get."
Then she crept on tiptoe into the front room, and looked into the face of the sleeper. He was still slumbering, and she returned to the table, seating herself in her accustomed place, near the stove. Leo looked heavy and gloomy, as well he might; for the sad event of that day promised to blast the bright hopes in which his sanguine nature revelled. He knew, and Maggie knew, that André Maggimore had made no preparation for the calamity which had so suddenly overtaken him.
It was Wednesday, and the wages of the preceding week were more than half used. He had no money, no resources, no friends upon whom he could depend, to fall back on in the day of his weakness. The barber was faithful and affectionate as a woman, but he had no business calculation, and his forethought rarely extended beyond the duration of a single week. While he owed no man anything, and never contracted any debts, he had never saved a dollar beyond what he had invested in furnishing the small house.
The dark day had come, and Leo was the first to see it. In another week, or, at most, in two weeks, every dollar the barber had would have been spent. It was plain enough to him that he could not continue to attend school till exhibition day came, and he would lose the medal he coveted, and for which he had worked most diligently. Maggie poured out his cup of tea, and handed it to him. He was eating his supper; but his head was bowed down.
"Leo," said she.
He looked up with a start, took his tea, and immediately lost himself again.
"Leo!" added Maggie, in her peculiarly tender tones.
He looked up again.
"What are you thinking about, Leo?" she continued, gazing earnestly at him. "I need not ask you, Leo. You are thinking of poormon père."
"I was thinking of him. I was thinking, too, that I should lose my medal now," replied Leo, gloomily.
"Fie on your medal! Don't think of such a trifle as that!" she added, gently rebuking the selfish thought of her brother.
"You don't quite understand me, Maggie."
"I hope you are not thinking of yourself, Leo—only ofmon père."
"I was thinking that he has worked for me, and now I must work for him. I must give up my school now."
"You must, indeed, Leo."
"We can't stay in this house unless we pay the rent. Father made ten dollars a week, and it took every cent of it to pay the expenses. What shall we do now?"
"We must both work."
"We can't make ten dollars a week if both of us work. But you can't do anything more than take care of father. I don't see how we are going to get along. Fitz Wittleworth has only five dollars a week at Mr. Checkynshaw's. If he gave me the same wages, it wouldn't more than half pay our expenses."
Maggie looked puzzled and perplexed at this plain statement. It was a view of the situation she had not before taken, and she could not suggest any method of solving the difficult problem.
"We can reduce our expenses," said she, at last, a cheerful glow lighting up her face as she seemed to have found the remedy.
"You can't reduce them. The doctor's bill and the medicines will more than make up for anything we can save in things to eat and drink."
"That's very true, Leo. What shall we do?" inquired Maggie, sorrowfully, as her ingenious argument was overthrown.
"I don't know what we can do. They say doctors charge a dollar a visit, and that will make seven dollars a week. The medicines will cost another dollar, at least, perhaps two or three. That makes eight dollars. Even if we save three dollars a week in provisions and such things, it will cost fifteen dollars a week. I might as well try to fly as to make that. I couldn't do it. It's half as much again as father could make."
"O, dear!" sighed Maggie, appalled by this array of financial demands.
"I suppose the doctor won't bring in his bill yet a while," added Leo.
"But we must pay him.Mon pèrewould worry himself to death in a short time if he knew he was getting in debt."
"I don't see how we can do it."
Leo relapsed into silence again, and finished his supper. The problem troubled him. He sat down by the stove, and did not move for half an hour. Maggie cleared off the table, washed the dishes and put them away, creeping stealthily into the front room every few moments to assure herself that all was well with her father.
"Leo, don't worry any more. We shall be cared for somehow. Our good Father in heaven will watch over us in the future, as he has in the past. Trust in God, Leo," said Maggie, impressively. "I will not worry any more, and you must not."
"I will trust in God; but God expects me to do something more than that. He helps those who help themselves. I am going to do something!" exclaimed he, springing to his feet. "Make or Break, I'm going to do my duty; I'm going to do my whole duty."
"What are you going to do, Leo?"
"I don't know yet; but, make or break, I'm going to do something. It's no use for me to work for Mr. Checkynshaw at five dollars a week, when it will cost us fifteen dollars a week to get along. I'm going to do something," continued Leo, as he took a lamp from the shelf and lighted it.
Then he stopped before Maggie, and looked her full in the face, his eyes lighting up with unusual lustre.
"Why, what's the matter, Leo? What makes you look at me so?"
"Maggie, André is not our own father; but he has done all that an own father could do for us. Maggie, let me take your hand."
She gave him her hand, and was awed by the impressive earnestness of his manner.
"Maggie, I'm going to do my duty now. I want to promise you that poor father shall never want for anything. I want to promise you that I will do all for him that a real son could do."
"Good, kind Leo! We will both do our whole duty."
Leo dropped her hand, and went down stairs into his workshop. The white mice were capering and gamboling about their palatial abodes, all unconscious that poor André had been stricken down. Leo gave them their suppers, and sat down on the work-bench. He was in deep thought, and remained immovable for a long time.
He was a natural mechanic. His head was full of mechanical ideas. Was there not some useful article which he could make and sell—a boot-jack, a work-box, a writing-desk—something new and novel? He had half a dozen such things in his mind, and he was thinking which one it would pay best to mature. His thought excited him, and he twisted about on the bench, knocking a chisel on the floor. The noise frightened the mice, and they made a stampede to their nests. He looked up at them.
"That's an idea!" exclaimed he, leaping off the bench. "Make or break, I'll put it through!"
CHAPTER IX.
MR. CHECKYNSHAW AND FAMILY.
We left Mr. Checkynshaw entering the house of Mrs. Wittleworth, in Atkinson Street; and, as he was a gentleman of eminent dignity and gravity, we feel compelled to beg his pardon for leaving him so long out in the cold of a winter night. Having made the barber as comfortable as the circumstances would permit, we are entirely willing to let the banker in, though the abode at which he sought admission was hardly worthy of the distinguished honor thus conferred upon it.
Mrs. Wittleworth cautiously opened the door, for those who have the least to steal are often the most afraid of robbers; but, recognizing the lofty personage at the door, she invited him to enter, much wondering what had driven him from his comfortable abode in Pemberton Square to seek out her obscure residence at that hour in the evening. Mr. Checkynshaw was conducted to an apartment which served as kitchen, parlor, and bed-room for the poor woman, her son having a chamber up stairs. A seat was handed to the great man, and he sat down by the cooking-stove, after bestowing a glance of apparent disgust at the room and its furnishings.
The banker rubbed his hands, and looked as though he meant business; and Mrs. Wittleworth actually trembled with fear lest some new calamity was about to be heaped upon the pile of misfortunes that already weighed her down. Mr. Checkynshaw had never before darkened her doors. Though she had once been a welcome guest within his drawing-rooms, she had long since been discarded, and cast out, and forgotten. When the poor woman, worse than a widow, pleaded before him for the means of living, he had given her son a place in his office, at a salary of five dollars a week. If she had gone to him again, doubtless he would have done more for her; but, as long as she could keep soul and body together by her ill-paid drudgery, she could not endure the humiliation of displaying her poverty to him.
Mrs. Wittleworth had once lived in affluence. She had been brought up in ease and luxury, and her present lot was all the harder for the contrast. Her father, James Osborne, was an enterprising merchant, who had accumulated a fortune of a hundred thousand dollars, on which he had the good sense to retire from active business. Of his four children, the two sons died, leaving the two daughters to inherit his wealth.
John Wittleworth, the father of Fitz, was a clerk in the counting-room of Mr. Osborne, and finally became the partner of his employer, whose confidence he obtained to such a degree that the merchant was willing to trust him with all he had. He married Ellen Osborne; and when her father retired from business, his son-in-law carried it on alone. At this time, doubtless, John Wittleworth was worthy of all the confidence reposed in him, for the terrible habit, which eventually beggared him, had not developed itself to an extent which seemed perilous even to the eye of affection.
A few years after the marriage of Ellen, Mr. Checkynshaw, then aspiring to no higher title than that of a simple broker, presented himself as the suitor of Mary, the younger daughter of the retired merchant. Mr. Osborne did not like him very well; but Mary did, and their affair was permitted to take its course. Only a few months after this alliance of the Checkynshaw and the Osborne, the merchant was taken sick. When it was evident that his days were drawing to a close, he made his will.
His property consisted of about one hundred thousand dollars. One half of it was invested in a block of stores, which paid a heavy rental, and the other half was in money, stocks, and debts. In settling the affairs of the firm he had taken John Wittleworth's notes for thirty thousand dollars, secured by a mortgage on the stock. In making his will, Mr. Osborne gave to Ellen or—what was the same thing in those days, when a woman did not own her own property—to her husband, all the money, stocks, and debts due from Wittleworth. He did this because his late partner wanted more capital to increase his business.
To Mary, the wife of Mr. Checkynshaw, he gave the block of stores; but, not having so much confidence in Mary's husband as in Ellen's, he gave her the property with certain restrictions. The income of the estate was to be hers—or her husband's—during her life. At her death the estate was to pass to her children. If she died without children, the property was to be her sister's, or her sister's children's. But Mr. Osborne did not wish to exhibit any want of confidence in Mary's husband; so he made Mr. Checkynshaw the trustee, to hold the block of stores for his wife and for her children. He had the power to collect the rents, and as long as his wife lived, or as long as her children lived, the money was practically his own.
Mary, the first Mrs. Checkynshaw, was in rather feeble health, and the doctors advised her to spend the winter in the south of France. Her husband complied with this advice; and her child, Marguerite, was born in Perpignan, and had a French name because she was born in France. The family returned home in the following spring; but Mrs. Checkynshaw died during the succeeding winter. Marguerite was a fine, healthy child; and to her now belonged the block of stores bequeathed by her grandfather, her father holding it in trust for her.
In another year Mr. Checkynshaw married his second wife, who treated little Marguerite well enough, though she felt no deep and motherly interest in her, especially after Elinora, her own daughter, was born. Mr. Checkynshaw called himself a banker now. He had taken Mr. Hart and another gentleman into the concern as partners, and the banking-house of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. was a rising establishment.
The second Mrs. Checkynshaw was an ambitious woman, vain and pretentious. Her friends had been to London, Paris, Naples, and Rome. She had never been in Europe, and it galled her to be out of the fashion. When Elinora was only two years old, she insisted upon going abroad. Her husband did not like the idea of travelling with two children, one five and the other two years old. But he was over-persuaded, and finally consented to go. They arrived in Paris in July, and intended to remain there two months; but, before this period elapsed, the banker received a letter from Mr. Hart informing him of the sudden death of the third partner in their house. This event compelled him to return immediately; but Mrs. Checkynshaw was so well pleased with Parisian life, that she was unwilling to leave the city so soon. The voyage to her was terrible, and she had seen little or nothing of Europe. The family had taken apartments, and she was loath to leave them.
A friend of the banker, who with his wife occupied rooms in the same house, suggested that Mrs. Checkynshaw and her children should remain until her husband could return, two or three months later. An arrangement to this effect was made, and the banker hastened home to settle his business affairs. He had hardly departed before the cholera broke out with fearful violence in Paris. One of its first victims was the gentleman who had charge of Mr. Checkynshaw's family. His wife followed him, only a day later, to the cholera hospital.
Of course the banker's wife was terribly frightened, and instantly made her preparations to leave the infected city. Poor little Marguerite was the first of the family to take the disease, and she was hurried off to the hospital by the landlord of the house, who was very polite, but very heartless. This event would not have delayed the departure of Mrs. Checkynshaw, but she was stricken down herself before she could leave. The fearful malady raged with awful violence; hospitals were crowded with patients, and the dead were hurried to their last resting-place without a prayer or a dirge.
Little Elinora was taken by her nurse to the Sisters of Charity, and escaped the disease. Mrs. Checkynshaw recovered, and as soon as she was able, reclaimed her child, and fled to the interior of Switzerland, to a small town which the plague had not yet visited. When the panic had subsided, she returned to Paris. She bad been informed, before her departure, that little Marguerite had died of the disease; but, on her return, she visited the hospital, and made more careful inquiry in regard to the little patient. She was told that the child answering to her description had died, and been buried with a dozen others. It was then impossible to identify the remains of the child.
Mr. Checkynshaw returned to Paris in September. His wife had written to him and to Mrs. Wittleworth as soon as she was able, and her husband had received her letter before his departure from Boston. Poor little Marguerite! She was his own child, and he was sorely grieved at her death. He was not quite satisfied with his wife's investigations, and he determined to inquire further. With Mrs. Checkynshaw he went to the hospital.
"The child died the day after it was brought here," replied the director. "Here is the name;" and he pointed to the record.
The name indicated certainly was not "Checkynshaw," though it was as near it as a Frenchman could be expected to write it. The letters spelled "Chuckingham."
"Allow me to look at the book," said Mr. Checkynshaw.
"Certainly, sir; but I remember the case well. She was a little English girl," added the director.
"This child was American," interposed the anxious father.
"We cannot tell the difference. She spoke only English."
"What is this?" asked Mr. Checkynshaw, pointing to another name. "Marguerite Poulebah."
"That patient was discharged, cured."
"Do you translate English proper names?"
"Never!"
"What became of this patient?" asked Mr. Checkynshaw, deeply interested.
"I don't know."
The banker was satisfied that "Marguerite Poulebah" was his daughter; that the persons who had brought her to the hospital understood a little English, and had translated his surname literally from "chicken" and "pshaw." He investigated the matter for a week. The concierge of the lodgings where he had resided assured him he had not given the name as "Poulebah." At the end of the week he informed his wife that he had obtained a clew to the child. She had been taken from the hospital by the Sisters of Charity, and sent to Strasburg, that she might not have a relapse. Mr. Checkynshaw went to Strasburg alone.
On his return he assured his wife that he had found Marguerite; that she was happy with the Sisters, and cried when he spoke of taking her away. The devoted ladies were very much attached to her, he said; and he had concluded that it would be best to leave her there, at least until they were ready to embark for home. Mrs. Checkynshaw did not object. She had no love for the child, and though she had treated her well from a sense of duty, was rather glad to get rid of her.
The family remained in Europe till the next spring. Mr. Checkynshaw went to see his daughter again. The Sisters were educating her, and he declared that Marguerite was so very happy with them, and begged so hard not to be taken from them, that he had consented to let her remain at their school. Mrs. Checkynshaw did not care; she thought it was strange; but if the child's father deemed it best for her to remain with the Sisters, it was not for her to say anything. She did not say anything—Marguerite was not her own child.
When they returned to Boston, the friends of the Osbornes wished to know what had become of the child. Mr. Checkynshaw had not informed any one of the death of Marguerite when the intelligence came to him in his wife's letter, though Mrs. Wittleworth had received it direct from the same source. He had grieved deeply at the loss of the child. Yet his sorrow was not alone for poor Marguerite; the block of stores, every year increasing in value, must not pass out of his hands.
"The poor child had the cholera in Paris, and was sent to the hospital," was his reply. "When she recovered, Mrs. Checkynshaw was down with the disease, and the Sisters of Charity took her in charge. They treated her as a mother treats her own child, and Marguerite loves them better than she does my wife. I don't like to say anything about it, and will not, except to most intimate friends; but Marguerite was not Mrs. Checkynshaw's own daughter. They were not very fond of each other, and—well, I think you ought to be able to understand the matter without my saying anything more. The poor child is very happy where she is, and I had not the heart to separate her from such dear friends."
Everybody inferred that Mrs. Checkynshaw did not treat the child well, and no more questions were asked. The banking-house of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. increased in wealth and importance, and had extensive foreign connections in England. Every year or two the head of the house crossed the ocean, partly, as he declared, to transact his business in London, and partly to visit his child in France.
CHAPTER X.
THE WITTLEWORTH FAMILY.
While everything appeared to be well with the banker, into whose exchequer the revenues of the block of stores flowed with unintermitting regularity, the affairs of the other branch of the Osborne family were in a far less hopeful condition. John Wittleworth drank to excess, and did not attend to his business. It was said that he gambled largely; but it was not necessary to add this vice to the other in order to rob him of his property, and filch from him his good name.
He failed in business, and was unable to reëstablish himself. He obtained a situation as a clerk, but his intemperate habits unfitted him for his duties. If he could not take care of his own affairs, much less could he manage the affairs of another. He had become a confirmed sot, had sacrificed everything, and given himself up to the demon of the cup. He became a ragged, filthy drunkard; and as such, friends who had formerly honored him refused to recognize him, or to permit him to enter their counting-rooms. Just before the opening of our story, he had been arrested as a common drunkard; and it was even a relief to his poor wife to know that he was safely lodged in the House of Correction.
When Mrs. Wittleworth found she could no longer depend upon her natural protector, she went to work with her own hands, like an heroic woman, as she was. As soon as her son was old enough to be of any assistance to her, a place was found for him in a lawyer's office, where he received a couple of dollars a week. Her own health giving way under the drudgery of toil, to which she had never been accustomed, she was obliged to depend more and more upon Fitz, who, in the main, was not a bad boy, though his notions were not suited to the station in which he was compelled to walk. At last she was obliged to appeal to her brother-in-law, who gave Fitz his situation.
Fitz was rather "airy." He had a better opinion of himself than anybody else had—a vicious habit, which the world does not readily forgive. He wanted to dress himself up, and "swell" round among bigger men than himself. His mother was disappointed in him, and tried to teach him better things; but he believed that his mother was only a woman, and that he was wiser, and more skilful in worldly affairs, than she was. He paid her three dollars a week out of his salary of five dollars, and in doing this he believed that he discharged his whole duty to her.
Perhaps we ought again to apologize to Mr. Checkynshaw for leaving him so long in such a disagreeable place as the poor home of his first wife's sister; but he was seated before the cooking-stove, and the contemplation of poverty would do him no harm; so we shall not beg his pardon.
The banker looked around the room, at the meagre and mean furniture, and then at the woman herself; her who had once been the belle of the circle in which she moved, now clothed in the cheapest calico, her face pale and hollow from hard work and ceaseless anxiety. Perhaps he found it difficult to believe that she was the sister of his first wife.
"Where is Fitz?" asked he, in gruff accents.
"He has gone up in Summer Street. He will be back in a few minutes," replied Mrs. Wittleworth, as she seated herself opposite the banker, still fearing that some new calamity was about to overtake her.
"I want to see him," added Mr. Checkynshaw, in the most uncompromising tones.
"Fitz says you discharged him," continued the poor woman, heaving a deep sigh.
"I didn't; he discharged himself. I could not endure the puppy's impudence. But that is neither here nor there. I don't want to see him about that."
"I hope you will take him back."
"Take him back if he will behave himself."
"Will you?" asked she, eagerly.
"I will; that is, if it turns out that he was not concerned in robbing my safe."
"In what?" exclaimed Mrs. Wittleworth.
"My safe has been robbed of some of my most valuable papers."
"Robbed!"
"Yes, robbed."
"Did Fitz do it?" gasped the wretched mother; and this was even a greater calamity than any she had dreaded.
"I don't know whether he did or not; that's what I want to find out; that's what I want to see him for."
Mr. Checkynshaw proceeded to relate the circumstances under which the safe had been robbed. Before he had finished, Fitz came in, and his mother was too impatient to wait for her distinguished visitor to set any of his verbal traps and snares. She bluntly informed her hopeful son that he was suspected of being concerned in the robbery.
"I don't know anything about it. I had nothing to do with it," protested Fitz. "There's nothing too mean for Checkynshaw to say."
"Don't be saucy, Fitz. Try to be civil," pleaded his mother.
"Be civil! What, when he comes here to accuse me of robbing his safe? I can't stand that, and I won't, if I know myself," replied Fitz, shaking his head vehemently at the banker.
"I haven't accused you of anything, Fitz," added Mr. Checkynshaw, very mildly for him. "I came to inquire about it."
"Do you think if I did it that I would tell you of it?"
"I wish to ask you some questions."
"Well, you needn't!"
"Very well, young man," said the banker, rising from his chair, "if you don't choose to answer me, you can answer somebody else. I'll have you arrested."
"Arrested! I'd like to see you do it! What for? I know something about law!" He had been an errand boy in a lawyer's office!
"Don't be so rude, Fitz," begged his mother.
"Arrest me!" repeated the violent youth, whose dignity had been touched by the threat. "Do it! Why didn't you do it before you came here? You can't scare me! I wasn't brought up in the city to be frightened by a brick house. Why don't you go for a constable, and take me up now? I'd like to have you do it."
"I will do it if you don't behave yourself," said the banker, beginning to be a little ruffled by the violent and unreasonable conduct of Mr. Wittleworth.
"I wish you would! I really wish you would! I should like to know what my friend Choate would say about it."
"How silly you talk!" exclaimed his mother, quite as much disgusted as her stately visitor.
"You may let him badger you, if you like, mother; but he shall not come any odds on me—not if I know it, and I think I do!"
"It is useless for me to attempt to say anything to such a young porcupine," added Mr. Checkynshaw, taking his hat from the table.
Mrs. Wittleworth burst into tears. She had hoped to effect a reconciliation between her son and his employer, upon which her very immunity from blank starvation seemed to depend. The case was a desperate one, and the bad behavior of Fitz seemed to destroy her last hope.
"I will give up now, Fitz, and go to the almshouse," sobbed she.
Fitz was inclined to give up also when this stunning acknowledgment was made in the presence of his great enemy, the arch dragon of respectability.
"I am willing to work, but not to be trodden upon," added he, sullenly; but his spirit for the moment seemed to be subdued.
"Mr. Checkynshaw wishes to ask you some questions, and it is your duty to answer them," said Mrs. Wittleworth, a little encouraged by the more hopeful aspect of her belligerent son.
"Ask away," replied Fitz, settling himself into a chair, and fixing his gaze upon the stove.
"Do you know Pilky Wayne?" asked the banker, who had a certain undefined fear of Fitz since the robbery, which, however, the immensity of his dignity prevented him from exposing.
"Know who?" demanded Fitz, looking up.
"Pilky Wayne."
"Never heard of him before."
"Yes, you have; you made an arrangement with him to rob my safe," continued the banker, who could not help browbeating his inferior.
"Did I? Well, if I did, I did," answered Fitz, shaking his head. "What do you think my friend Choate would say to that?"
"He would say you were a silly fellow," interposed Mrs. Wittleworth. "Don't be impudent, Fitz."
"Well, I won't be impudent!" said Fitz, with a kind of suppressed chuckle.
"There were, or you thought there were, certain papers in my safe which might be useful to you," added Mr. Checkynshaw.
"I don't believe there were any letters from my cousin Marguerite among them," replied Fitz, with a sneering laugh. "Marguerite must be able to write very pretty letters by this time."
"Be still, Fitz," pleaded Mrs. Wittleworth.
"Fitz, I don't want to quarrel with you," continued Mr. Checkynshaw, in the most pliable tones Fitz had ever heard the banker use to him.
"I thought you did. Accusing a gentleman of robbing your safe is not exactly the way to make friends with him," said Fitz, so much astonished at the great man's change of tone that he hardly knew what to say.
"I accuse you of nothing. Fitz, if you want your place in my office again, you can return to-morrow morning."
Mr. Wittleworth looked at his disconsolate mother. A gleam of triumph rested on his face. The banker, the head and front of the great house of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co., had fully and directly recognized the value of his services; had fairly "backed out," and actually entreated him to return, and fill the vacant place, which no other person was competent to fill! That was glory enough for one day. But he concluded that it would be better for the banker to come down a peg farther, and apologize for his abusive treatment of his confidential clerk.
"Certainly he will be glad to take the place again, sir," said Mrs. Wittleworth, who was anxious to help along the negotiation.
"Perhaps I will; and then again, perhaps I will not," replied Mr. Wittleworth, who was beginning to be airy again, and threw himself back on his chair, sucked his teeth, and looked as magnificent as an Eastern prince. "Are you willing to double my salary, Mr. Checkynshaw?"
"After what I have heard here to-night, I am," answered the banker, promptly. "I ought to have done it before; and I should, had I known your mother's circumstances."
That was very unlike Mr. Checkynshaw. Mr. Wittleworth did not like it. His salary was to be doubled as an act of charity, rather than because he deserved such a favor. It was not like the banker to want him at all after what had happened. There was something deep under it; but Fitz was deep himself.
"Perhaps you might help me in finding my papers. Of course I don't care a straw for the three hundred and fifty dollars or so which was stolen with them," suggested Mr. Checkynshaw.
"Perhaps I might; perhaps I have some skill in business of that kind, though I suppose it doesn't exactly become me to say so," added Fitz, stroking his chin. "But if you mean to intimate that I know anything about them, you are utterly and entirely mistaken. I'm an honest man—the noblest work of God."
"I will give you ten dollars a week for the future, if you will return," said Mr. Checkynshaw, impatiently.
"Of course he will," almost gasped the eager mother.
Fitz was deep. The banker was anxious. It meant something. Fitz thought he knew what it meant.
"On the whole, I think I willnotreturn," replied he, deliberately.
"Are you crazy, Fitz?" groaned Mrs. Wittleworth, in despair.
"Never a more sane man walked the earth. Mr. Checkynshaw knows what he is about; I know what I am about."
"We shall both starve, Fitz!" cried his mother.
"On the contrary, mother, we shall soon be in possession of that block of stores, with an income of five or six thousand a year," added Fitz, complacently.
"The boy's an idiot!" exclaimed the banker, as he took his hat, and rushed out of the house.
CHAPTER XI.
THE MOUSE BUSINESS.
While Maggie Maggimore took upon herself the blessed task of nursing the barber, Leo charged himself with the duty of providing for the wants of the family. Each had assumed all that one person could be expected to achieve. It was no small thing for a girl of fifteen to take the entire care of a helpless invalid; and it was no small thing for a boy of fifteen to take upon himself the task of providing for the expenses of the house, and the medical attendance of the sick man.
It would have been much easier for Leo to fail in his assumed task than for Maggie to do so. Even a young man of so much importance as Fitzherbert Wittleworth, upon whom the salvation of the great house of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. seemed to depend, toiled for the meagre pittance of five dollars a week. Leo had some acquaintance with the late clerk in the private office of the banker, and he had listened with wonder to the astounding achievements of Fitz in the postal and financial departments of the house. Of course Mr. Wittleworth would be a partner in the concern as soon as he was twenty-one, if not before; for, besides his own marvellous abilities, he had the additional advantage of being a relative of the distinguished head of the concern.
Leo was abashed at his own insignificance when he stood in the presence of the banker's clerk. If such an astonishing combination of talent as Mr. Wittleworth possessed could be purchased for five dollars a week, what could he, who was only a mere tinker, expect to obtain? Half that sum would have been an extravagant valuation of his own services, under ordinary circumstances. But beneath the burden which now rested upon him, he felt an inspiration which had never before fired his soul; he felt called upon to perform a miracle.
He was born with a mechanical genius, and he felt it working within him. There was no end of wooden trip-hammers, saw-mills, and other working machines he had invented and constructed. Under the pressure of the present necessity he felt able to accomplish better things. Something must be done which would produce fifteen, or at least ten, dollars a week. It was no use to think it couldn't be done; it must be done. It looked like a species of lunacy on his part to flatter himself that it was possible to make even more than a journeyman mechanic's wages.
Leo had in his busy brain half a dozen crude plans of simple machines. Often, when he saw people at work, he tried to think how the labor might be done by machinery. As he sat in the kitchen, where Maggie was sewing or preparing the dinner, he was devising a way to perform the task with wood and iron. Only a few days before the illness of the barber, he had seen her slicing potatoes to fry, and the operation had suggested a potato slicer, which would answer equally well for cucumbers, onions, and apples.
Sitting on the bench, he was thinking of this apparatus, when fifteen dollars a week became a necessity. But the machine required more iron than wood work, and he had not the means to do the former, and no capital to invest in other people's labor. Then he turned his attention to a new kind of boot-jack he had in his mind—an improvement on one he had seen, which could be folded up and put in a traveller's carpet-bag. As this implement was all wood except the hinges and screws, it looked more hopeful. He could make half a dozen of them in a day, and they would sell for half a dollar apiece. He was thinking of an improvement on the improvement, when the stampede of the mice deranged his ideas; but they gave him a new one.
White mice were beautiful little creatures. Their fur was so very white, their eyes so very pink, and their paws so very cunning, that everybody liked to see them. Even the magnificent Mr. Checkynshaw had deigned to regard them with some attention, and had condescended to say that his daughter Elinora would be delighted to see them. Then the houses, and the gymnastic apparatus which Leo attached to them, rendered them tenfold more interesting. At a store in Court Street the enterprising young man had seen them sold for half a dollar a pair; indeed, he had paid this sum for the ancestral couple from which had descended, in the brief space of a year and a half the numerous tribes and families that peopled the miniature palaces on the basement walls.
At this rate his present stock was worth seventy-five dollars—the coveted salary of five whole weeks! In another month, at least fifty more little downy pink-eyes would emerge from their nests, adding twenty-five dollars more to his capital stock in trade!
Leo had already decided to go into the mouse business.
He was counting his chickens before they were hatched, and building magnificent castles in the air; but even the most brilliant success, as well as the most decided failure, is generally preceded by a vast amount of ground and lofty tumbling in the imagination. If the man in Court Street could sell a pair of white mice for fifty cents, and a beggarly tin box with a whirligig for a dollar, making the establishment and its occupants cost a dollar and a half, why would not one of his splendid palaces, with two or three pairs of mice in it, bring three, or even five dollars? That was the point, and there was the argument all lying in a nutshell.
Leo had faith. What would a rich man care for five dollars when he wanted to please his children? He had watched his mice day after day, and week after week, by the hour at a time, and had never failed to be amused at their gambols. Everybody that came to the house was delighted with them. If the man in Court Street could sell them, he could. There was money in the speculation, Leo reasoned, and it should not fail for the want of a fair trial.
He could make houses of various sizes, styles, and prices, and thus suit all tastes. He could stock each one with as many mice as the customer desired. He could make a pretty elaborate establishment in two days—five-dollar size; and of the smaller and plainer kind—two-dollar pattern—he could make two in a day.
The palace on the bench was nearly completed, and he went to work at once and finished it. It had a glass front, so that the dainty little occupants of the institution could not get out, and the foe of white mice, the terrible cat, could not get in. This establishment had been intended for Mr. Stropmore; but as that gentleman had not been informed of his purpose to present it, Leo decided that it should be used to initiate the experiment on whose success so much depended.
It was ten o'clock at night when the grand palace on the bench was finished. Leo put some cotton wool into the sleeping apartments, and then transferred three pairs of mice from the most densely populated house to the new one. He watched them for a while, as they explored their elegant hotel, going up stairs and down, snuffing in every corner, standing upon their hind legs, and taking the most minute observations of the surroundings.
Leo was entirely satisfied with the work of his hands, and with the conduct of the mice who had been promoted to a residence in its elegant and spacious quarters. If there was not five dollars in that establishment, then the rich men of Boston were stingy and ungrateful. If they could not appreciate that superb palace, and those supple little beauties who held court within its ample walls, why, they were not worthy to be citizens of the Athens of America!
Leo went up stairs. André still slept, and Maggie sat by the bedside, patiently watching him in his slumbers. He crept softly into the front room, and looked at the pale face of his father. His heart was lighter than it had been before since the news of the calamity was told to him. He was full of hope, and almost believed that he had solved the problem of supplying all the wants of the family.
"You must sleep yourself, Maggie," said he, in a whisper.
"Hush!" said she, fearful that the sleeper might be disturbed, as she led the way into the rear room.
"I will sit up half the night, Maggie."
"No, Leo; there is no need of that. I wake very easily, and I can sleep enough in the rocking-chair. You seem to be quite cheerful now, Leo," added she, noticing the change which had come over him.
"I feel so, Maggie. You say we shall want fifteen dollars a week."
"No, you said so, Leo. I might take in sewing; but I don't think both of us can make anything like that sum. I am very much worried. I don't know what will become of us."
"Don't be worried any more. I'm going to make that money myself. You needn't do anything but take care of father; and I'll help you do the housework," added Leo, cheerfully.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going into the mouse business."
"Into what?"
"The mouse business," replied Leo, gravely.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Maggie, puzzled as much by his gravity as by the unintelligible phrase he had used.
Leo explained what he meant, and argued the case with much skill and enthusiasm.
Maggie would have laughed if she had not been solemnly impressed by the condition of her father, and by the burden of responsibility that rested upon her as his nurse. She went into the basement, and looked at the house which Leo had just finished. It was certainly very pretty, and the mice in it were very cunning.
"You don't think any one will give you five dollars for that house—do you?" said she, as she joined him in the back room again.
"I mean to ask six for it, and if folks won't give it, they are mean. That is all I've got to say about it," replied Leo.
"But they won't."
"Why, the mice alone are worth a dollar and a half; and there is two days' work in the house, besides the stock and the glass. I certainly expect to get six dollars for the concern, though I shall not complain if I don't get but five. I can make from three to a dozen of them in a week, and if I don't make at least fifteen dollars a week out of the mouse business, I shall be disappointed—that's all."
"I am afraid you will be disappointed, Leo," replied Maggie, with a sigh, as she thought what a sad thing it would be when the brilliant air-castle tumbled to the ground.
"Perhaps I shall; if I do, I can't help it. But if this fails, I have got another string to my bow."
"What's that?"
"I shall go into the boot-jack business next; and I hope to get up my machine for slicing potatoes, and such things, soon."
"O, dear, Leo! You are full of strange ideas. I only hope that some of them will work well," added Maggie.
"I'm going to be reasonable, sis. I'm not going to give up if a thing fails once, twice, or nineteen times. I'm going to keep pulling. I've got half a dozen things in my head; if five of them fail, I shall make a big thing out of the sixth."
"I hope you will; you are so patient and persevering that you ought to succeed in something."
"O, I shall; you may depend upon that! Make or break, I'm bound to succeed in something."
"What do you mean by 'make or break,' Leo? It sounds just as though you meant to make money if you sacrificed everything."
"I don't mean that."
"I would rather go to the almshouse than be dishonest. I can't think of anything more horrid than being wicked."
"Nor I either. I don't mean to be dishonest, Maggie. I would rather be a good man than a rich one, any day; but I think a man can be both. A good man, with lots of money, is better than a good man without it; for he can do good with it. When I say, 'make or break,' I don't mean anything bad by it. I'll tell you what I mean, Maggie. It seems to me, when I get hold of a good thing, I ought to keep pulling till I carry my point, or pull away till something breaks. I don't mean to risk everything on a turn of the wheel of fortune; nothing of that sort. I mean to persevere and stick to anything so long as there's any chance of success—till the strings break, and the whole thing tumbles down. That's my idea."
The idea was satisfactory to Maggie, and she returned to her patient, while Leo went up to bed; but not to sleep for hours, for the "mouse business" excited his brain, and kept him awake.