CHAPTER XX.
AN AVALANCHE OF GOOD FORTUNE.
Mr. Wittleworth was more astonished than he had ever before been in his life. This was the gratitude of great men! Mr. Checkynshaw did not seem to be at all rejoiced to find his papers, and was so mean as to send for Constable Clapp.
"Didn't you offer a reward of five hundred dollars for your papers, Mr. Checkynshaw?" asked Fitz.
"I did; and I am willing to pay the reward the moment you have explained to me where you got them," replied the banker, as he pitched his prisoner into a chair to await the arrival of the officer.
"I came here in good faith, and I didn't expect to be treated in this manner," growled Mr. Wittleworth.
"I am not yet willing to pay you for stealing my papers and money, or for employing another person to do it for you," added Mr. Checkynshaw, dryly.
"I did not steal them."
"Then you cannot object to telling me where you obtained them."
Mr. Wittleworth did object. He had undertaken to manage this business, and he expected to make at least a commission out of it. His plan was to pay Maggie fifty or a hundred dollars of the reward, and keep the rest himself. It was not probable that the barber,—who was ill at the time,—or his family, had read the newspapers, and it was not likely that they knew anything about the reward. Maggie, or even Leo, would be entirely satisfied with the fifty dollars, and ought to be exceedingly obliged to him for managing the matter so well for them.
Constable Clapp arrived in a few moments, and the case was stated to him.
"How much money was stolen with the papers?" asked the officer.
"About three hundred and fifty dollars," replied the banker.
"Very well; if this young gentleman will restore the papers and the money, he may take the reward; and then we shall be ready to attend to the criminal charge. That will make a balance of one hundred and fifty dollars in his favor," chuckled the officer.
"I am entirely willing to pay the reward I offered," added Mr. Checkynshaw, magnanimously.
"Where did you get the papers, Mr. Wittleworth?" asked the detective.
"I didn't steal them."
"I don't say you did. Where did you get them, was the question I asked."
"Of course I don't wish to expose anybody. They came into my possession in consequence of an accident."
"Exactly so!" said the officer, taking the papers from Fitz, and producing a pair of handcuffs. "In consequence of an accident, I shall be obliged to put these irons on your wrists, and take you over to the jail."
"Me!" gasped Fitz, the iron entering his lofty soul. "I should like to know what my friend Choate would say to that!"
"In one word, will you wear the bracelets, or will you tell where you obtained the papers? Of course Mr. Checkynshaw will pay the reward. He is an honorable man, and does all he agrees. You will want the money to pay your friend Choate for keeping you out of the State Prison. What will you do?"
Fitz thought for a moment. The disgrace of being marched through the streets by a person so well known as Mr. Clapp, and with a pair of irons on his wrists, was intolerable to think of, and he decided to inform the officer where he had obtained the papers. He then related the particulars of his interview with Maggie.
"Then you did not find the papers yourself?" said Mr. Checkynshaw, with a feeling of relief, for it would have galled him sorely to pay the five hundred dollars to one he disliked so much.
"I did not," replied Fitz.
"Then the reward does not belong to you."
"It is hardly necessary for me to say that I was doing the business for Miss Maggimore."
"But it was hardly necessary for you to conceal her name."
The banker was really overjoyed to find his papers, and at once drew a check for the amount which he had offered as a reward.
"We will go down and see Maggie," said the banker, putting the check into his pocket.
"I think the case is plain enough," added the constable. "When I ascertain where the papers were found, I shall be better satisfied."
Mr. Checkynshaw called a carriage, and they went to Phillimore Court. No further notice was taken of Mr. Wittleworth; in fact he was utterly ignored from the moment he had told his story. He was permitted to depart in peace. He did depart, but not in peace; for he was not entirely satisfied. The reward ought to have been paid to him, and he should have had the lion's share of it. This was his feeling as he retired from the office.
Maggie was fearfully frightened when she saw the banker and the constable. The roses fled from her cheek, and she was pale and trembling. That awful officer had come to bear Leo away to the jail. She was almost sorry that she had not burned the papers, instead of sending them back to the owner.
"You have come for poor Leo!" exclaimed she, in terror, when she opened the door.
"Don't be alarmed, Maggie," said Mr. Checkynshaw, in a tone which was gentle for him. "We come to inquire about those papers you found."
"I knew you did!" gasped Maggie in despair, as the two gentlemen followed her into the rear room.
"Where did you find them?" asked Mr. Clapp, in a gentler tone than the banker could speak.
"In Leo's room," stammered she. "I must tell the truth; but I hope you won't harm poor Leo."
"Will you show us just where you found them?"
"I will, if you will come up stairs," she added, leading the way. "You won't put poor Leo in jail—will you? I'm sure he didn't intend to do any wrong."
"I don't think he did," replied the officer, moved by the distress of the poor girl.
"I found them at the bottom of Leo's chest," said Maggie, as she pointed to the place where she had discovered them. "I was cleaning house, and I cleared out all the closets and drawers. I took all Leo's things out of his chest, and I found those papers under his summer clothes."
"Did Leo know they were there?"
"I'm sure I don't know whether he did or not. I don't believe he did. He never stays in his room only when he is asleep. All the clothes he wears in the winter are in the top of the chest."
"I looked into that chest when I searched the room on the day the safe was robbed," added the officer. "I put my hand down into the clothing; but I suppose I didn't reach the bottom. Where is Leo now?"
"He is at school."
"Can you send for him?"
"You won't take him up—will you? It would break his heart," pleaded Maggie.
"I don't think it will be necessary to arrest him," replied the constable, rather cautiously. "The man that stole the papers came to this room, and I have no doubt he put them there to get rid of them."
"Send for Leo; I will promise you he shall not be taken up," added Mr. Checkynshaw, taking the responsibility upon himself.
Maggie wrote a note, and sent Tom Casey to the school with it, the gentlemen having taken seats in the front parlor. In a short time Leo appeared, trembling lest his father had had another attack of paralysis. He was not a little surprised to find the banker and the constable awaiting his arrival.
"Leo, what do you keep in that chest of yours, up in your room?" asked the officer.
"My clothes, sir," replied Leo, astonished at the strange question.
"What else?"
"Nothing else."
"Don't you keep any white mice in it?" said the constable, smiling.
"No, sir."
"Don't your mice get out of their houses down stairs, and come up?"
"I have seen two or three of them in the kitchen."
"But don't they go up in your chamber?"
"I never saw any up there," answered Leo, puzzled by these singular inquiries.
"What would you say if I told you that a couple of them had made a nest in your chest up stairs, and had a litter of little ones there?"
"I don't know what I should say. I don't know that it would be very strange."
"Should you deny it?"
"If you saw them there I should not, though I don't see how they could get into the chest. The lid is always closed."
"But you might have left the lid up some morning, and the mice might have crawled down to the very bottom of the chest, and had a family there. Could this have happened?"
"It could; but I don't think it is very likely it did happen."
"Why not?"
"I should have smelt them," laughed Leo.
"Shouldn't you have seen them?"
"I don't think I should. Maggie puts my shirts and stockings at the top of the chest, and I hardly know what there is at the bottom. She takes care of my things."
"Is there anything in that chest besides your clothes?"
"Yes; I believe there is a piece of brass chain, a ball, some marbles, and a top in the till."
"Anything else?"
"There may be some other things of that sort in the till. I don't remember; if you want to know, I will go up and show you."
"Are there any papers there?" demanded the constable, sharply.
"Yes, sir, there are two or three newspapers."
"Any written papers?"
"Not a paper."
"Have you had any papers there at any time?"
"No, sir; I don't remember that I ever did. I keep my papers in the table drawer in the kitchen."
"Didn't you know there was a package of papers in the chest—such as bonds, deeds, and notes?"
"No, sir, I didn't know it. I never saw anything of the kind there," replied Leo, still puzzled, but satisfied now that something serious had happened.
"Have you overhauled the contents of your chest lately?"
"No, sir; not since last summer, that I remember."
"Leo, in your chest were found the papers which Mr. Checkynshaw lost."
"Then that Mr. Hart, or whatever his name was, put them there!" exclaimed Leo, his face turning red. "I never saw them, and didn't know they were there."
LEO ANSWERS FOR HIMSELF.LEO ANSWERS FOR HIMSELF.—Page 248.
"I am satisfied," interposed Mr. Checkynshaw.
"So am I," added Mr. Clapp.
The truth as it was had been correctly discerned.
"Maggie, I offered a reward of five hundred dollars for those papers," continued the banker. "I would have given five thousand rather than not have had them."
"Then I am very glad you have found them," replied the fair girl, now entirely relieved of all her fears on account of her brother.
"But you found them, Maggie, and you are entitled to the reward. Here is my check for the amount. Your father can draw the money for you."
"I don't deserve the reward!" exclaimed Maggie, blushing deeply, as she took the check. "It is reward enough for me to find that Leo is as good as I always believed him to be."
"You found the papers, and I am indebted to you for their preservation. Another might have destroyed them."
"But I only took them out of the chest. I didn't know what they were. I almost made up my mind that they were good for nothing, and that Leo had saved them from the dirt barrels to learn how to write such papers from. I didn't know what to do, and I sent for Mr. Wittleworth to tell me whether they were good for anything or not. He said they were very valuable, and told me it was fortunate I sent for him, and then kindly undertook to return them to you."
"Very kindly!" sneered the banker. "He claimed this reward."
"He did?"
"Yes; but I am very glad it goes to you, instead of to him."
Maggie objected to taking such a vast sum of money for so slight a service; but Mr. Checkynshaw's mandate was imperative, and he departed, leaving her bewildered at the sudden fortune which had come down like an avalanche upon her. Leo went back to school, as delighted at her good luck as his own in finding himself entirely freed from the charge of being concerned in the robbery.
As usual, Mr. Wittleworth was the only person who was not satisfied. He had again been "left out in the cold." He wanted to know what had happened at the house of André, and after dinner he called there; but Maggie had gone to the barber's shop with her father's noonday meal, and he found the door locked. In the evening he went again, when both André and Leo were at home.
CHAPTER XXI.
MR. WITTLEWORTH's WRONGS.
Maggie, fluttering with delight, had taken Mr. Checkynshaw's check to her father when she carried his dinner. The barber was astonished as well as pleased with the gift, and, having drawn the check, deposited the money in the Savings Bank, as a provision for dark days, like those through which they had passed at the beginning of André's illness.
After supper the family gathered around the cooking-stove in the kitchen. Never before had they been so happy as now, and never before were they so strongly attached to each other. They had passed through the storm of privation and trial—they had triumphed over adverse circumstances. Leo tried to study his lesson, while André and Maggie were talking about the great event of the day, and comparing their present situation with the first days of the barber's illness, when all of them were trembling for the future.
"God has been very good to us, my children, and I hope we shall always be grateful to him for his mercies," said André, as a tear, which he could not repress, stole down his pale cheek.
"I'm sure I never felt so good before in my life; and I know my prayers mean more to me now than ever before," replied Maggie.
"We have been faithful to each other, and God has been faithful to all of us, as he always is, even when we forsake and forget him."
"Ah,mon père, how could we help being faithful to you, when you were always so kind to us!" exclaimed Maggie, as she rested her hand on André's arm. "And Leo—he has really been a lion! You don't know how brave he was; how he worked, and how he persevered! It was allmake, and nobreak—wasn't it, Leo?"
"It has been, so far," replied Leo, less demonstrative, but not less delighted than the other members of the family. "I think we can do anything we make up our minds to do. I have made up my mind to take the Franklin medal this year, and, make or break, I'm going to do it."
Leo bent over his slate again, and seemed to be determined, make or break, that he would attend to his lessons, whatever happened in the room. Unfortunately, in this instance, it was at least a partial break, for a very imperative knock was heard a few moments later at the front door. André answered the summons, and admitted Mr. Wittleworth.
"I hope I don't intrude," said Fitz, as daintily as Paul Pry himself could have said it.
"Take a seat, Mr. Wittleworth," added Maggie, giving him a chair at the stove.
"Thank you. I don't often go out evenings, for mother is alone. My friends groan and complain because I don't visit them; but really this is the first time I have been out of the house of an evening for a month," continued Mr. Wittleworth, as he seated himself in the offered chair, expecting the barber's family to appreciate his condescension in this particular instance.
"The last time I went out of an evening," he added, "I called on my friend Choate—you know Choate? Of course you do, Mr. Maggimore."
"I have not that honor," replied the barber, modestly.
"Choate's a good fellow—Choate is. He is the most gentlemanly person I ever met, not even excepting Everett, who, by the way, was at Choate's when I called upon him. Winthrop was there, too; but Winthrop is rather stiff—Winthrop is. Of course I haven't anything to say against Winthrop. He is a great man, talented, a good speaker, and all that sort of thing; but you see he hasn't that companionable way with him that Choate has. Of course you will not mention what I say to Winthrop, for I don't want him to know but what I think as much of him as I do of Choate or Everett."
André very kindly promised not to mention any disparaging allusion he might make in regard to the honorable gentleman.
"In a private conversation one does not like to be held responsible for remarks dropped without much reflection," continued Fitz. "I have nothing against Winthrop, only he is not just like Choate. Choate is my idea of a perfect gentleman—Choate is. But perhaps I am prejudiced in Choate's favor. I used to be in the law business myself—in the same office with Choate. Well, really, I didn't come here to talk about Choate, or any of the rest of my friends. Isn't it singular how a light remark, casually dropped, leads us off into a conversation which occupies a whole evening?"
André acknowledged that it was singular how a light remark, casually dropped, leads us into a conversation which occupies a whole evening; but he hoped no light remark of Mr. Wittleworth would be expanded to that extent, for his room was better than his company, now that the family were at the high tide of happiness and prosperity.
"I suppose Miss Maggimore has informed you that she sent for me this morning, in order to obtain the benefit of my advice," continued Fitz.
"Yes, sir, she did," replied André.
"The case was rather a singular one; and being alone, she needed the counsel of some person of experience, and of extensive knowledge. She sent for me, and I came," added Mr. Wittleworth, rubbing his chin and pouting his lips, as was his habit when his bump of self-esteem was rubbed; though it was a notable fact that he always rubbed it himself—nobody else ever appeared to do so.
"It was kind of you to come when I sent for you," said Maggie, willing to give him all the credit she could.
"I came; I saw—" but he did not conquer. "I saw the papers, and I undertook to manage the business for Miss Maggimore. I was willing to give her the full benefit of my knowledge and experience, though my doing so came very near involving me in a painful difficulty."
"I am very sorry for that," interposed Maggie.
"It was all on account of my own excessive expenditure of good-nature. I wished to do you a good turn, and Checkynshaw a good turn. So far as Checkynshaw was concerned, it was a mistake; I am willing to confess that it was a blunder on my part. I confided in his honor. I might have known better, for Checkynshaw is a cur—Checkynshaw is."
Mr. Wittleworth slipped lightly over the "painful difficulty" in which he was so nearly involved. He was willing to give Maggie the benefit of his knowledge and experience in negotiating the strictly business matter in relation to the reward; but Checkynshaw basely calumniated him, and bit the hand that was extended to serve him.
"Mr. Checkynshaw came here, with the constable, and inquired into all the circumstances attending the finding of the papers," said Maggie, tired of Mr. Wittleworth's tedious exordium. "He was entirely satisfied with what we had done."
Maggie then explained the manner in which the papers had come into Leo's chest; that they were concealed there by "Pilky Wayne."
"Mr. Checkynshaw was very good and very kind," she added, with enthusiasm.
"Checkynshaw?" exclaimed Fitz, incredulously.
"He was, indeed."
"Checkynshaw don't know how to be good and kind—Checkynshaw don't. It isn't in him."
"Indeed, he does!" protested Maggie.
"So he does!" chimed in Leo, who was very grateful to Mr. Checkynshaw for buying his merchandise and recommending it to his friends. "I blow for Checkynshaw!"
"Mr. Checkynshaw has been very kind to us, and we feel grateful to him for his goodness," added André, in his mild, silky-toned voice.
"I know Checkynshaw. I've summered him and wintered him; and you have to summer and winter a man like Checkynshaw before you know him. My friend Choate knows him. Me and Choate both know him. Checkynshaw is mean; Checkynshaw has a small soul. You could set up two such souls as Checkynshaw's on the point of a cambric needle, and they could wander about till the end of time without coming within hailing distance of each other."
"Mr. Checkynshaw is not mean," replied Maggie, her pretty face red with excitement and indignation.
"Excuse me, Miss Maggimore, but you don't know him."
"I think I do know him. He gave me the reward of five hundred dollars for returning the papers to him," said Maggie, warmly; and the banker might have rejoiced to be defended by so fair and spirited an advocate.
"Checkynshaw!" ejaculated Mr. Wittleworth, springing out of his chair.
About the same instant Leo closed his book savagely, and sprang to his feet, his manly face wearing a decidedly belligerent look.
"See here, Fitz; you have said just about enough," Leo began, both fists clinched. "Mr. Checkynshaw is a friend of ours, and we are not going to sit here and have him abused."
"Don't be angry, Leo; he isn't worth minding," whispered Maggie in his ear.
"Then he gave you the reward?" added Fitz, sitting down again.
"He did," replied Maggie.
"Well, that is the only white spot on the general blackness of his character."
"No, 'tisn't!" protested Leo.
"You will excuse me, Miss Maggimore, if you think I speak too plainly; but candor is one of the attributes of a gentleman."
"It's not necessary for you to be so very candid," suggested Maggie.
"I know the man," said Fitz, pompously. "Did I ever tell you how he treated me and my mother? I never did. Well, I will."
"Nobody cares how he treated you and your mother," interposed Leo.
"Allow me to contradict you, Leo. I care; my mother cares; and every person who loves justice and fairness cares."
In spite of several very pointed hints from André, Maggie, and Leo, that they did not care to bear the story, Fitz persisted in telling it, and did tell it. He declared it was his solemn conviction that Mr. Checkynshaw had wronged his mother out of the block of stores, and ten years' income of the same, for which he had paid her the petty consideration of ten thousand dollars. Fitz had heard from his mother the narrative of the second Mrs. Checkynshaw's sickness, and of the sickness of little Marguerite, who had been taken to the cholera hospital; and he related it all in the most painfully minute manner.
"That child was the heir of my grandfather's property," continued Fitz, eloquently; for he was still burning under the sense of his own wrongs. "If that child died, the block of stores, according to my grandfather's will, was to come to my mother. That child did die, in my opinion."
"What makes you think so?" asked André, interested, in spite of himself, in the story.
"What makes me think so?" repeated Mr. Wittleworth, magnificently. "Am I a man of ordinary common sense? Have I lived to attain my present stature without growing wiser with every day of life I lived? Of what avail are my judgment, my knowledge, and my experience, if I cannot penetrate a sham so transparent as this? What makes me think so? Does a man of wealth and influence leave his own child among strangers, in a foreign land, for ten years? No! I repeat it, no!"
"You say the child was sent to the cholera hospital?" asked André, nervously.
"She was; but in my opinion she died there."
"O, she died there—did she?" said André, with apparent relief.
"Checkynshaw says she did not die; I say she did."
"Why should he say she didn't die, if she did die?" inquired Maggie, very innocently.
"Why should he? Why, indeed?" repeated Fitz, amazed at her obtuseness. "Don't you see that, if the child died, the block of stores belongs to my mother? But it makes no difference now," sighed Mr. Wittleworth, "for my mother, contrary to my advice, contrary to my solemn protest, sold out all her right in the premises for a mere song."
"But where is the child now?"
"Dead!" replied Fitz, in a sepulchral tone.
"Mr. Checkynshaw does not say so," persisted André. "What does he say about the child?"
"He says the child was taken by the Sisters of Charity, and that he found her in one of their nunneries or schools; but of course that is all bosh."
Mr. Wittleworth had told his story, and having done so, he tore himself away, leaving André very thoughtful.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE TWO MARGUERITES.
When Mr. Wittleworth passed out into the street, the excitement of the argument subsided. He felt that he had thoroughly and completely demolished Mr. Checkynshaw, and that nothing more could be said in the banker's favor after what he had said against him. The great man need not attempt to hold up his head again, after that.
Mr. Checkynshaw had actually paid the reward to Maggie. It was strange, but it was true; and the saddest part of it was, Mr. Wittleworth had received no share of the money. He had given his valuable advice to the barber's daughter, and his late employer had received the full benefit of it. If he, Mr. Wittleworth, had been so vicious and depraved, so lost to the high instincts of a gentleman, as wilfully and maliciously to have given Miss Maggimore bad advice—advice not based on his experience and knowledge of the world; in a word, if he had told her that the papers were good for nothing, the young lady would doubtless have destroyed them.
Instead of this, he had been upright and conscientious; he had given good, wholesome counsel, worthy of his knowledge and experience. Miss Maggimore had actually asked him if the papers were good for anything; and he had actually informed her that they were very valuable, thus saving them from a devastating conflagration in the cooking-stove. Miss Maggimore had actually been paid five hundred dollars for opening that chest, and taking therefrom the package of papers; while he, who had furnished the intelligence, supplied the brains, and even the physical power by which the papers had been conveyed to the banker's office, had not received a cent!
There was something wrong, in the opinion of Mr. Wittleworth. The reward should be at least equally shared between him and her. In the morning he had made up his mind that fifty dollars would pay her handsomely, while the four hundred and fifty would not be an over-adequate compensation for the brains of the transaction. His calculations had been set at nought. He knew the value of those papers, but he had given the banker credit for integrity he did not possess, and had lost all. The world was always hard on Mr. Wittleworth, and at this time it seemed to be peculiarly savage towards him, especially as he had been out of business three months, and needed money badly.
It would be useless for him to represent his redeeming agency in the affair to Mr. Checkynshaw. The great man refused to acknowledge his shining abilities. Mr. Checkynshaw was prejudiced—he was. But the barber was a singularly simple-hearted man. He would not rob a flea of the mite of warm blood needed for its supper. Maggie was known throughout the neighborhood as a good little girl, and Leo was a mere tinker. These people might be brought to see the justice of his claim, and to acknowledge that through his advice and influence the papers had been saved from destruction, and restored to their owner; or, to put the matter in its most direct form, that he had enabled them to obtain the reward. They were indebted to him for it, and it would be exceedingly stupid of them if they could not see that he was fairly entitled to at least one half of it.
The next evening Mr. Wittleworth, to the consternation of Leo, paid another visit to the humble domicile of the barber. The young student was disgusted. His lessons were behind, and he could not afford to be interrupted; and as soon as Fitz came in, Leo retreated to his chamber—a movement which suited the visitor quite as well as the scholar.
"Mr. Wittleworth, I am very glad you called," said André, "for I wished to ask you something more about Mr. Checkynshaw's daughter."
"Any information which I possess I will most cheerfully impart to those who need it; but I ought to say that I came on business, however," replied Fitz, rather anxiously.
"Very well, Mr. Wittleworth; we will attend to the business first, if you desire."
Mr. Wittleworth did desire, and it took him about an hour to go over the argument which had passed through his brain the night before; but he made it appear, to his own entire satisfaction, that he had been the sole instrumentality in enabling his auditors to obtain the princely reward.
"But I hadn't the least intention of burning the papers," protested Maggie. "It is true I almost wished I had burned them; but it was when I was afraid they would get Leo into trouble."
"Exactly so; and it was through my advice, personal influence, and personal efforts, that the papers were restored to Checkynshaw."
"What portion of the reward do you claim, Mr. Wittleworth?" asked André, very mildly.
"I should be satisfied with one half of it, at this stage of the proceedings; though, when I consider that it was entirely through my advice and discreet action that the papers were saved, I think I should be justified in claiming four fifths, or even nine tenths of it. As it is, you having already received the money, I will be content with half of it; though this is rather hard on me, considering the personal indignity and the injury in my feelings to which I was subjected."
Maggie looked at André, and André looked at Maggie. Mr. Wittleworth was modest in his demand, and it was plainly useless to discuss the question.
"We understand your position, Mr. Wittleworth," said André. "It takes us rather by surprise; but we will consider your demand, and return you an answer in a day or two. We may wish to consult Mr. Checkynshaw about it."
"No!" said Fitz, very decidedly. "After what I have said to you about Checkynshaw, it would be absurd for you to consult him. Checkynshaw is rich, and he is prejudiced against me—Checkynshaw is. This is a question of abstract justice, not of personal feeling or personal prejudice. I only ask for justice."
"We will think of it, Mr. Wittleworth, and give you an answer to-morrow or next day," repeated André. "I am very much interested in what you said about Mr. Checkynshaw's first child."
"In a question of abstract justice, André, it is hardly necessary for an honest man to wait a single day before he does his duty. I prefer to settle this little matter at once," added Fitz.
"But I have not the money in the house. I put it in the Savings Bank," replied the barber, anxious only to defer the final answer.
"But you can determine your duty in regard to my claim, and inform me of your intentions."
"I have no intentions at present, and you will pardon me if I decline to say anything more about it to-night."
Fitz began to think he was overdoing the matter. André appeared to be slightly ruffled, and he deemed it prudent to proceed no further.
"Very well, André; if you do not see the justice of my claim, I will not press it. You are an honest and a just man. If I had not known you as such, I should not have troubled you. Of course my future opinion of you must depend very much upon your decision in this matter. Not that I care so much for the money, but I love justice. If I can afford you any information in regard to Checkynshaw's child, I shall be glad to do so."
"Mr. Wittleworth, I was in one of the cholera hospitals of Paris at the time that child died—I think you said ten years ago."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed Fitz. "It was ten years ago last August."
"Do you know in what hospital the child was placed?" asked André, with breathless interest.
"I do not, but my mother does. She has a letter written to her by the present Mrs. Checkynshaw, in which she informed her that Marguerite had died in the hospital. But Checkynshaw looked the matter up afterwards; and he says the child did not die; that she was taken away by the Sisters of Charity. That was all bosh."
"Could I see your mother?" asked André.
"Certainly; you can walk over to my house and see her if you like."
"I do not ask from an idle curiosity," added André. "The foreign residents in Paris were generally taken to the same hospital, in the Rue Lacépède. I was then the valet of an English gentleman, who died there of cholera. While I was there—for, after the death of my employer, I was engaged as a kind of interpreter for the English patients who did not speak French—theHôpital des Enfants Maladeswas full, and a portion of our establishment was devoted to foreign children. I well remember two children of the name of Margaret; and I have reason to remember them;" and André glanced tenderly at Maggie. "One of them died, and the other is my Maggie."
"But what was the other name of the one that died?" asked Fitz, nervously.
"Marguerite Chuckingham. I suppose there were other Marguerites there; but I did not know them. They could not find the dead child's parents; they were dead themselves. I would like to see your mother's letter," added André.
Accepting Fitz's invitation, the barber and his daughter walked over to "his house," and were introduced to Mrs. Wittleworth. André repeated his story about the two Marguerites, and she was quite as much interested in it as her son had been.
"I have the letter," said she. "I thought the property was mine, and that the letter might be of use to me; so I have carefully preserved it."
She went to the bureau, and produced the letter. It contained a pitiful account of the sufferings of Mrs. Checkynshaw during the cholera season, and the announcement of little Marguerite's death at the hospital in the Rue Lacépède.
"That's the place!" exclaimed André, much excited.
"What became of the child?" asked Mrs. Wittleworth, not less agitated.
"It must have been Marguerite Chuckingham, for that was as near as a Frenchman would be likely to get the name."
"But it may have been the other Marguerite," suggested Mrs. Wittleworth.
"No!" exclaimed André, with something like a shudder at the thought of having Maggie taken from him, even to dwell in the palatial home of the banker.
"Why may it not have been?"
"Because I traced the parents of my Maggie to their lodgings, and both of them had died of cholera. Theconciergeidentified the clothing and a locket I found upon her neck. Besides, Maggie spoke French then, and the other child did not. I have no doubt the child that died was Mr. Checkynshaw's."
"André, your hand!" said Fitz.
"I don't wish to harm Mr. Checkynshaw," protested the barber, taking the hand involuntarily, rather than because he was interested in the act.
"You love truth and justice; you have the reputation of loving truth and justice, all over the world—you have. You are a noble-minded man," continued Fitz, eloquently. "Now you can see what Checkynshaw is, and now you can see what I am."
"Don't be foolish, Fitz!" interposed Mrs. Wittleworth.
"Foolish! Mother, have I not furnished wisdom for our family? Have I not told you from the beginning what Checkynshaw was? I told you the child was dead. Now it is proved."
"No matter if it is. It makes no difference now."
"It is matter; it does make a difference. Mother, you know how earnestly I protested against your signing that quitclaim deed. Now I am justified. Now you can see that I was right, and you were wrong."
André and Maggie had no interest in this discussion, and they hastened their departure as soon as the atmosphere began to look stormy. The barber was sorry he had said anything. Simple-minded man as he was, he had not foreseen that he was getting Mr. Checkynshaw into trouble, and he determined to say nothing more about it.
Fitz stormed furiously when it was proved that "wisdom was justified of her followers." He declared that Checkynshaw had cheated his mother and himself out of their inheritance, and that justice should be done, if the heavens fell.
"What can we do? I have signed the quitclaim deed to the block of stores."
"No matter if you have. Checkynshaw deceived you. You signed the deed only because he said the child was living. We shall prove that the child is dead. The proceeding will be in equity; all that has been done can be ripped up as easily as you can tear up a piece of paper. I know something about law. Me and Choate have talked over cases in equity."
How long this tempestuous debate would have continued none can know, for it was disturbed by the ringing of the door bell. The person admitted was John Wittleworth himself, the husband and father, who came to his family clothed and in his right mind, from the House of Correction, where he had served a term of four months as a common drunkard. He was cordially welcomed, for he was himself; and there, on his bended knee, he promised, and called upon Heaven to record his vow, that he would never again taste the intoxicating cup.
He had been discharged that afternoon, and had been endeavoring till that late hour to find his wife and son. He had finally traced them to their new home. In the course of the evening, after the past had been fully discussed, Fitz brought up the matter of Mr. Checkynshaw's child, and all the facts which had been developed were fully stated to him.
Fitz found a warm supporter of his views in his father, who declared that the quitclaim deed was not valid, because he had not joined her in making it. Within three days proceedings in equity were commenced against Mr. Checkynshaw.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE GOLD LOCKET.
Mr. Checkynshaw was astonished and disgusted at the conduct of the Wittleworths. The block of stores did not appear even yet to be securely in his possession. It was true he had the quitclaim deed of the contingent heir, but this did not seem to be of much value under the circumstances. Mr. Wittleworth, senior, had again appeared upon the stage. He had not before considered him in making his calculations; for he was a miserable sot, before whom, and at no great distance from him, yawned the drunkard's grave.
John Wittleworth, in his right mind, was an able man, and his reappearance explained the decided action of the family. He had joined the temperance society, and he was now a stumbling-block in the path of the banker.
Mr. Checkynshaw was indignant. He had paid ten thousand dollars for that quitclaim deed, or rather he had given it in charity; and this money was to pay the expenses of the suit brought against him!
He went to see Mrs. Wittleworth, and only hoped that he should not see John or his son. Unfortunately, Fitz was at home. Fitz was airy, Fitz was grand, Fitz was magnificent. His views and opinions had come to be appreciated; they had risen where the froth on the beer rises, to the top of the mug. To use his mother's homely but expressive saying, "you couldn't touch Fitz with a ten-foot pole."
"Ellen," said Mr. Checkynshaw, solemnly, "itdidseem to me that I had done my whole duty to you, when, three months ago, I placed you out of the reach of want for the rest of your lifetime. I confess my grief and surprise, after what I have done for you, that this suit should be brought against me."
"If the matter had been left to me, the suit would not have been brought against you," replied Mrs. Wittleworth, who was really much confused and abashed at the reproaches of the great man.
"But, Ellen, I must hold you responsible for it. If you had not consented, it could not have commenced. It is done in your name."
"Hold me responsible, Mr. Checkynshaw," interposed Fitz, placing himself before the banker, and stroking his chin with the most elegant assurance.
Mr. Checkynshaw utterly ignored Fitz, took no notice of him, passed him by in silence.
"The consideration mentioned in the quitclaim deed, Ellen, was ten thousand dollars," continued the great man. "Of course you are ready to pay this back."
"Not at all, sir; we are not ready to pay it back," said Fitz; "but we are ready to give you a receipt for it on account."
"It is hardly right, Ellen, that I should furnish money for you to carry on a suit against me. I gave it to you to keep you from the almshouse, and that you might be independent of any neglect on my part in the future. This money is now to be wasted in idle litigation—in paying the expenses of a lawsuit brought for the sole purpose of annoying me."
"The suit is brought in the name of justice and humanity," shouted Fitz, eloquently, and with a spread-eagle gesture. "The palladium of our liberties—"
"Be still, Fitz—don't be silly!" interposed his mother.
Fitz's elegant speech was nipped in the bud.
"I don't like to do it, Ellen, but I must insist that the money be paid back to me immediately," added the banker. "It is not right for you to spend money given to keep you out of the poorhouse in annoying your benefactor."
Mr. Checkynshaw looked injured.
"I am willing to pay the money back as soon as I can," added Mrs. Wittleworth.
"We are not willing to pay the money back, mother. That would not be proper or business-like, when Mr. Checkynshaw owes us at least fifty thousand dollars for back rents of the block of stores," Fitz protested.
"I shall have to sue you at once, unless the money is paid," said Mr. Checkynshaw, mildly. "Your husband brought the suit against me without giving me any notice. I wished to take a more Christian course with you; but I can stay no longer to be insulted by this puppy!" And the banker nodded his head in the direction of Fitz.
"Puppy!" yelled Mr. Wittleworth, throwing back his head. "Puppy!"
"Be still, Fitz!" said his mother.
"Be still, and be called a puppy!"
"Mr. Checkynshaw, I can only say that I meant to do right," added Mrs. Wittleworth.
"Puppy!" howled Fitz, pacing the room violently. "Puppy!"
"You meant to do right!" exclaimed the banker.
"I did. You told me that Marguerite was alive and well, and that I was—"
"A puppy! That's an insult!" soliloquized Mr. Wittleworth.
"That I was not the legal heir; that I had no claim upon you."
"And you have not," replied Mr. Checkynshaw.
"The blood of the Wittleworths boils!" stormed Fitz.
"But Marguerite is dead—died ten years ago."
"What nonsense is this!" said the banker, in disgust, though his face was a shade paler than usual.
"We have the means of proving that Marguerite died at the time your wife wrote me the letter to that effect."
"Yes, sir; we can prove it, sir!" added Fitz, forgetting for the moment that he was a puppy. "We can prove it by good and reliable witnesses, sir."
"Ellen, this is absurd," continued Mr. Checkynshaw "My wife did write you a letter; but you know what Paris must have been when the cholera was cutting down men, women, and children by the hundred daily. Marguerite had the cholera, and my wife had it. Is it strange that they were separated? Is it strange that the child was reported to be dead? Is it strange that, at such a time, my wife believed the report? She was mistaken. I found the child, and hastened to correct the false rumors."
"We can prove, by a credible witness, that the child, called Marguerite Chuckingham, died," foamed Fitz.
"Who is the witness?" demanded the banker, turning suddenly upon Mr. Wittleworth, and for the first time, apparently, conscious of his presence.
"By André Maggimore, a good man and true, who was employed in the Hotel de Saltpetre, in the Ruee Saleratus," replied Mr. Wittleworth, triumphantly.
He had been reading a book on Paris, where mention was made of theSalpêtrière, a great almshouse; but the street he named was doubtless his own corruption of theRue Lacépède, of which he had only heard in André's narrative.
Mr. Checkynshaw was really troubled now. Another of the recipients of his bounty had proved faithless; one renegade beneficiary had played into the hands of another. André had shaved him for years, but had never said a word about the hospitals of Paris to him; indeed, André had never said anything to him, except in answer to his own questions.
In reply to his inquiries, Mrs. Wittleworth stated that the barber had called upon her, and repeated what he had said, in evidence of the truth of her assertion that Marguerite was dead.
"Perhaps André means to be truthful, and to assert only what he believes to be true; but he is mistaken," said Mr. Checkynshaw, nervously. "Do you think I should not know my own child when I saw her?"
"Of course you would; but André is very positive your child was the Marguerite Chuckingham that died," added Mrs. Wittleworth.
"This matter is too ridiculous to take up my time for a moment. I am ready to abide the decision of the court," continued the banker, taking his hat and moving towards the door. "I hope you are equally ready to do so, Ellen."
"I wish to do only what is right," replied she. "Will you see my husband?"
"No; I will not," answered Mr. Checkynshaw. "If he wished to see me before he commenced this suit, it would have been proper for him to do so. I shall not run after him."
"And he will not run after you," interposed Fitz. "Justice and humanity—"
"Be still, Fitz."
"We shall retain Choate in this case. Me and Choate have talked the matter over, and—"
Mr. Checkynshaw bowed stiffly, and left the room before Fitz had time to say what terrible things "me and Choate" intended to do. The banker was evidently in the most uncomfortable frame of mind. He was nervous and uneasy. His step in the street was quick and sharp, as he walked to Phillimore Court. He did not expect to find André there, and he did not. But Maggie was a remarkably intelligent girl, open and truthful, and she would be less likely to veil any designs from him than one who had seen more of the world.
The banker tried to think what motive the barber could have for arraying himself against one who had done so much for him—one who had voluntarily paid his family the reward of five hundred dollars. It was possible that the Wittleworths had been at work upon André; that they had induced him to give evidence in support of their assertion that Marguerite was dead. Mr. Checkynshaw was a shrewd and deep man, in his own estimation, and he was confident, if any such scheme had been devised, he could fathom it. He rather preferred, therefore, to see the members of the family separately, and Maggie was the best one to begin with.
Mr. Checkynshaw was admitted to the parlor of the barber's home, and Maggie was the only person in the house with him; for Leo was at school, still determined, make or break, to obtain the medal. The fair girl blushed when she recognized the visitor, and, having heard that the Wittleworths had instituted the suit, she trembled with fear; for she suspected that the great man's coming related to that event.
"Maggie, I am sorry you and your father have been giving bad counsels to those Wittleworths," the banker began, in solemn tones, but apparently more in grief than in anger.
"Why, sir! Bad counsels?" exclaimed Maggie.
"I have given the Wittleworths money enough to keep them comfortable for the rest of their lives; but they are ungrateful, and are now seeking to annoy me as much as possible."
"I am very sorry."
"I thought I had done enough for your family to make you all my friends; but it seems I was mistaken," added the great man, sadly reproachful in his manner.
"I am sure, sir, we are very grateful to you, and would not willingly do anything to injure you," protested Maggie, warmly.
"Why did your father tell the Wittleworths, then, that he was employed in the cholera hospital in Paris?"
"Because he was employed there," replied Maggie, who deemed this a sufficient reason for saying so.
"Was he, indeed?" asked the banker, who had been sceptical even on this point.
Maggie told the whole story of the two Marguerites, as she had heard it from her father.
"One Marguerite died, and you were the other," said Mr. Checkynshaw, musing.
"Yes, sir; and I don't know to this day who my father and mother were; but I suppose they died of cholera. I was told they did.Mon pèretraced them to their lodgings, and identified the clothing and a locket I wore."
"A locket?" asked the banker, curiously.
"Yes, sir."
"What was the locket?"
"It was a gold one, with the miniature of a gentleman on one side, and a lady on the other, with locks of hair. I suppose they were my father and mother."
"Where is the locket now?"
"Mon pèrehas it. I don't know where he keeps it. He tried to find my parents before he came to America, but without success. I saw the locket once, when I was a little girl; butmon pèredon't like to talk about these things. He loves me, and he only fears that I may be taken from him."
"But he talked with the Wittleworths about them."
"He couldn't help it then," pleaded Maggie, "when he heard the story of your child from Fitz."
Mr. Checkynshaw abruptly left the house, and hastened to the shop of Cutts & Stropmore. He had a long conversation with André, and finally they went to Phillimore Court together.
The banker insisted upon seeing the locket, and André showed it to him.