A READY-MADE HEIR.
Garrison had flattered himself that he had known adversity in his
time, but in the months succeeding his dismissal from the hospital he
qualified for a post-graduate course in privation. He was cursed with
the curse of the age; it was an age of specialties, and he had none.
His only one, the knowledge of the track, had been buried in him, and
nothing tended to awaken it.
He had no commercial education; nothing but the _savoir-faire_ which
wealth had given to him, and an inherent breeding inherited from his
mother. By reason of his physique he was disbarred from mere manual
labor, and that haven of the failure--the army.
So Garrison joined the ranks of the Unemployed Grand Army of the
Republic. He knew what it was to sleep in Madison Square Park with
a newspaper blanket, and to be awakened by the carol of the touring
policemen. He came to know what it meant to stand in the bread-line, to
go the rounds of the homeless “one-night stands.”
He came perilously near reaching the level of the sodden. His morality
had suffered with it all. Where in his former days of hardship he had
health, ambition, a goal to strive for, friends to keep him honest with
himself, now he had nothing. He was alone; no one cared.
If he had only taken to the track, his passion--legitimate passion--for
horse-flesh would have pulled him through. But the thought that he ever
could ride never suggested itself to him.
He had no opportunity of inhaling the track's atmosphere. Sometimes
he wondered idly why he liked to stop and caress every stray horse. He
could not know that those same hands had once coaxed thoroughbreds down
the stretch to victory. His haunts necessarily kept him from meeting
with those whom he had once known. The few he did happen to meet he cut
unconsciously as he had once cut Jimmy Drake.
And so day by day Garrison's morality suffered. It is so easy for the
well-fed to be honest. But when there is the hunger cancer gnawing at
one's vitals, not for one day, but for many, then honesty and dishonesty
cease to be concrete realities. It is not a question of piling up
luxuries, but of supplying mere necessity.
And day by day as the hunger cancer gnawed at Garrison's vitals it
encroached on his original stock of honesty. He fought every minute
of the day, but he grimly foresaw that there would come a time when he
would steal the first time opportunity afforded.
Day by day he saw the depletion of his honor. He was not a moralist,
a saint, a sinner. Need sweeps all theories aside; in need's fierce
crucible they are transmuted to concrete realities. Those who have never
known what it is to be thrown with Garrison's handicap on the charity
of a great city will not understand. But those who have ever tasted the
bitter crust of adversity will. And it is the old blatant advice from
the Seats of the Mighty: “Get a job.” The old answer from the hopeless
undercurrent: “How?”
There came a day when the question of honesty or dishonesty was put up
to Garrison in a way he had not foreseen. The line was drawn distinctly;
there was no easy slipping over it by degrees, unnoticed.
The toilet facilities of municipal lodging-houses are severely crude and
primitive. For the sake of sanitation, the whilom lodger's clothes are
put in a net and fumigated in a germ-destroying temperature. The men
congregate together in one long room, in various stages of pre-Adamite
costumes, and the shower is turned upon them in numerical rotation.
This public washing was one of the many drawbacks to public charity
which Garrison shivered at. As the warm weather set in he accordingly
took full advantage of the free baths at the Battery. On his second
day's dip, as he was leaving, a man whom he had noticed intently
scanning the bathers tapped him on the arm.
He was shaped like an olive, with a pair of shrewd gray eyes, and a
clever, clean-shaven mouth. He was well-dressed, and was continually
probing with a quill tooth-pick at his gold-filled front teeth,
evidently desirous of excavating some of the precious metal.
“My name's Snark--Theobald D. Snark,” he said shortly, thrusting a card
into Garrison's passive hand. “I am an eminent lawyer, and would be
obliged if you would favor me with a five minutes' interview in my
office--American Tract Building.”
“Don't know you,” said Garrison blandly.
“You'll like me when you do,” supplemented the eminent lawyer coolly.
“Merely a matter of business, you understand. You look as if a little
business wouldn't hurt you.”
“Feel worse,” added Billy mildly, inspecting his crumpled outfit.
He was very hungry. He caught eagerly at this quondam opening. Perhaps
it would be the means of starting him in some legitimate business. Then
a wild idea came to him, and slowly floated away again as he remembered
that Mr. Snark had agreed that he did not know him. But while it lasted,
the idea had been a thrilling one for a penniless, homeless wanderer.
It had been: Supposing this lawyer knew him? Knew his real identity, and
had tracked him down for clamoring relatives and a weeping father
and mother? For to Garrison his parents might have been criminals or
millionaires so far as he remembered.
The journey to Nassau Street was completed in silence, Mr. Snark
centering all his faculties on his teeth, and Garrison on the probable
outcome of this chance meeting.
The eminent lawyer's office was in a corner of the fifth shelf of the
American Tract Building bookcase. It was unoccupied, Mr. Snark being so
intelligent as to be able to dispense with the services of office-boy
and stenographer; it was small but cozy. Offices in that building can be
rented for fifteen dollars per month.
After the eminent lawyer had fortified himself from a certain black
bottle labeled “Poison: external use only,” which sat beside the
soap-dish in the little towel-cabinet, he assumed a very preoccupied
and highly official mien at his roller-top desk, where he became vitally
interested in a batch of letters, presumably that morning's mail, but
which in reality bore dates ranging back to the past year.
Then the eminent lawyer delved importantly into an empty letter-file;
emerged after ten minutes' study in order to give Blackstone a few
thoroughly familiar turns, opened the window further to cool his fevered
brain, lit a highly athletic cigar, crossed his legs, and was at last
at leisure to talk business with Garrison, who had almost fallen asleep
during the business rush.
“What's your name?” he asked peremptorily.
Ordinarily Garrison would have begged him to go to a climate where
thermometers are not in demand, but now he was hungry, and wanted a job,
so he answered obediently: “William Good.”
“Good, William,” said the eminent lawyer, smiling at himself in the
little mirror of the towel-cabinet. He understood that he possessed a
thin vein of humor. Necessary quality for an eminent lawyer. “And no
occupation, I presume, and no likelihood of one, eh?”
Garrison nodded.
“Well”--and Mr. Snark made a temple of worship from his fat fingers, his
cigar at right angles, his shrewd gray eyes on the ceiling--“I have a
position which I think you can fill. To make a long story short, I
have a client, a very wealthy gentleman of Cottonton, Virginia; name of
Calvert--Major Henry Clay Calvert. Dare say you've heard of the Virginia
Calverts,” he added, waving the rank incense from the athletic cigar.
He had only heard of the family a week or two ago, but already he
persuaded himself that their reputation was national, and that his
business relations with them dated back to the Settlement days.
Garrison found occasion to say he'd never heard of them, and the eminent
lawyer replied patronizingly that “we all can't be well-connected,
you know.” Then he went on with his short story, which, like all short
stories, was a very long one.
“Now it appears that Major Calvert has a nephew somewhere whom he has
never seen, and whom he wishes to recognize; in short, make him his
heir. He has advertised widely for him during the past few months, and
has employed a lawyer in almost every city to assist in this hunt for a
needle in a haystack. This nephew's name is Dagget--William C. Dagget.
His mother was a half-sister of Major Calvert's. The search for this
nephew has been going on for almost a year--since Major Calvert heard of
his brother-in-law's death--but the nephew has not been found.”
The eminent lawyer cleared his throat eloquently and relighted the
athletic cigar, which had found occasion to go out.
“It will be a very fine thing for this nephew,” he added speculatively.
“Very fine, indeed. Major Calvert has no children, and, as I say, the
nephew will be his heir--if found. Also the lawyer who discovers the
absent youth will receive ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars is
not a sum to be sneezed at, Mr. Good. Not to be sneezed at, sir. Not to
be sneezed at,” thundered the eminent lawyer forensically.
Garrison agreed. He would never think of sneezing at it, even if he was
subject to that form of recreation. But what had that to do with him?
The eminent lawyer attentively scrutinized the blue streamer from his
cigar.
“Well, I've found him at last. You are he, Mr. Good. Mr. Good, my
heartiest congratulations, sir.” And Mr. Snark insisted upon shaking the
bewildered Garrison impressively by the hand.
Garrison's head swam. Then his wild dream had come true! His identity
had been at last discovered! He was not the offspring of some criminal,
but the scion of a noble Virginia house! But Mr. Snark was talking
again.
“You see,” he began slowly, focusing an attentive eye on Garrison's
face, noting its every light and shade, “this nice old gentleman and his
wife are hard up for a nephew. You and I are hard up for money. Why not
effect a combination? Eh, why not? It would be sinful to waste such
an opportunity of doing good. In you I give them a nice, respectable
nephew, who is tired of reaping his wild oats. You are probably much
better than the original. We are all satisfied. I do everybody a good
turn by the exercise of a little judgment.”
Garrison's dream crumbled to ashes.
“Oh!” he said blankly, “you--you mean to palm me off as the nephew?”
“Exactly, my son, the long-lost nephew. You are fitted for the role.
They haven't ever seen the original, and then, by chance, you have a
birthmark, shaped like a spur, beneath your right collar-bone. Oh, yes,
I marked it while you were bathing. I've hunted the baths in the chance
of finding a duplicate, for I could not afford to run the risks of
advertising.
“It seems this nephew has a similar mark, his mother having mentioned
it once in a letter to her brother, and it is the only means of
identification. Luck is with us, Mr. Good, and of course you will
take full advantage of it. As a side bonus you can pay me twenty-five
thousand or so when you come into the estate on your uncle's death.”
The eminent lawyer, his calculating eye still on Garrison, then
proceeded with much forensic ability and virile imagination to lay the
full beauties of the “cinch” before him.
“But supposing the real nephew shows up?” asked Garrison hesitatingly,
after half an hour's discussion.
“Impossible. I am fully convinced he's dead. Possession is nine points
of the law, my son. If he should happen to turn up, which he won't, why,
you have only to brand him as a fraud. I'm a kind-hearted man, and I
merely wish Major Calvert to have the pleasure of killing fatted calf
for one instead of a burial. I'm sure the real nephew is dead. Anyway,
the search will be given up when you are found.”
“But about identification?”
“Oh, the mark's enough, quite enough. You've never met your kin, but you
can have very sweet, childish recollections of having heard your mother
speak of them. I know enough of old Calvert to post you on the family.
You've lived North all your life. We'll fix up a nice respectable series
of events regarding how you came to be away in China somewhere, and thus
missed seeing the advertisement.
“We'll let my discovery of you stand as it is, only we'll substitute the
swimming-pool of the New York Athletic Club in lieu of the Battery. The
Battery wouldn't sound good form. Romanticism always makes truth more
palatable. Trust me to work things to a highly artistic and flawless
finish. I can procure any number of witnesses--at so much per head--who
have time and again distinctly heard your childish prattle regarding
dear Uncle and Aunty Calvert.
“I'll wire on that long-lost nephew has been found, and you can proceed
to lie right down in your ready-made bed of roses. There won't be any
thorns. Bit of a step up from municipal lodging-houses, eh?”
Garrison clenched his hands. His honor was in the last ditch. The great
question had come; not in the guise of a loaf of bread, but this. How
long his honor put up a fight he did not know, but the eminent lawyer
was apparently satisfied regarding the outcome, for he proceeded very
leisurely to read the morning paper, leaving Garrison to his thoughts.
And what thoughts they were! What excuses he made to himself--poor
hostages to a fast-crumbling honor! Only the exercise of a little
subterfuge and all this horrible present would be a past. No more
sleeping in the parks, no more of the hunger cancer. He would have a
name, friends, kin, a future. Something to live for. Some one to care
for; some one to care for him. And he would be all that a nephew should
be; all that, and more. He would make all returns in his power.
He had even reached the point when he saw in the future himself
confessing the deception; saw himself forgiven and being loved for
himself alone. And he would confess it all--his share, but not Snark's.
All he wanted was a start in life. A name to keep clean; traditions to
uphold, for he had none of his own. All this he would gain for a little
subterfuge. And perhaps, as Snark had acutely pointed out, he might be a
better nephew than the original. He would be.
When a man begins to compromise with dishonesty, there is only one
outcome. Garrison's rag of honor was hauled down. He agreed to the
deception. He would play the role of William C. Dagget, the lost nephew.
When he made his intention known, the eminent lawyer nodded as if to say
that Garrison wasted an unnecessary amount of time over a very childish
problem, and then he proceeded to go into the finer points of the game,
building up a life history, supplying dates, etc. Then he sent a wire to
Major Calvert. Afterward he took Garrison to his first respectable lunch
in months and bought him an outfit of clothes. On their return to the
corner nook, fifth shelf of the bookcase, a reply was awaiting them from
Major Calvert. The long-lost nephew, in company with Mr. Snark, was to
start the next day for Cottonton, Virginia. The telegram was warm, and
commended the eminent lawyer's ability.
“Son,” said the eminent lawyer dreamily, carefully placing the momentous
wire in his pocket, “a good deed never goes unrewarded. Always remember
that. There is nothing like the old biblical behest: 'Let us pray.'
You for your bed of roses; me for--for----” mechanically he went to the
small towel-cabinet and gravely pointed the unfinished observation with
the black bottle labeled “Poison.”
“To the long-lost nephew, Mr. William C. Dagget. To the bed of roses.
And to the eminent lawyer, Theobald D. Snark, Esq., who has mended
a poor fortune with a better brain. Gentlemen,” he concluded
grandiloquently, slowly surveying the little room as if it were an
overcrowded Colosseum--“gentlemen, with your permission, together with
that of the immortal Mr. Swiveller, we will proceed to drown it in the
rosy. Drown it in the rosy, gentlemen.” And so saying, Mr. Snark gravely
tilted the black bottle ceilingward.
The following evening, as the shadows were lengthening, Garrison and
the eminent lawyer pulled into the neat little station of Cottonton. The
good-by to Gotham had been said. It had not been difficult for Garrison
to say good-by. He was bidding farewell to a life and a city that had
been detestable in the short year he had known it. The lifetime spent in
it had been forgotten. But with it all he had said good-by to honor.
On the long train trip he had been smothering his conscience, feebly
awakened by the approaching meeting, the touch of new clothes, and the
prospect of a consistently full stomach. He even forgot to cough once or
twice.
But the conscience was only feebly awakened. The eminent lawyer had
judged his client right. For as one is never miserly until one has
acquired wealth, so Garrison was loath to vacate the bed of roses now
that he had felt how exceedingly pleasant it was. To go back to rags
and the hunger cancer and homelessness would be hard; very hard even if
honor stood at the other end.
“There they are--the major and his wife,” whispered Snark, gripping
his arm and nodding out of the window to where a tall, clean-shaven,
white-haired man and a lady who looked the thoroughbred stood anxiously
scanning the windows of the cars. Drawn up at the curb behind them was
a smart two-seated phaeton, with a pair of clean-limbed bays. The driver
was not a negro, as is usually the case in the South, but a tight-faced
little man, who looked the typical London cockney that he was.
Garrison never remembered how he got through his introduction to his
“uncle” and “aunt.” His home-coming was a dream. The sense of shame was
choking him as Major Calvert seized both hands in a stone-crushed grip
and looked down upon him, steadily, kindly, for a long time.
And then Mrs. Calvert, a dear, middle-aged lady, had her arms about
Garrison's neck and was saying over and over again in the impulsive
Southern fashion: “I'm so glad to see you, dear. You've your mother's
own eyes. You know she and I were chums.”
Garrison had choked, and if the eminent lawyer's wonderful vocabulary
and eloquent manner had not just then intervened, Garrison then and
there would have wilted and confessed everything. If only, he told
himself fiercely, Major Calvert and his wife had not been so courteous,
so trustful, so simple, so transparently honorable, incapable of
crediting a dishonorable action to another, then perhaps it would not
have been so difficult.
The ride behind the spanking bays was all a dream; all a dream as they
drove up the long, white, wide Logan Pike under the nodding trees and
the soft evening sun. Everything was peaceful--the blue sky, the waving
corn-fields, the magnolia, the songs of the homing birds. The air tasted
rich as with great breaths he drew it into his lungs. It gave him hope.
With this air to aid him he might successfully grapple with consumption.
Garrison was in the rear seat of the phaeton with Mrs. Calvert,
mechanically answering questions, giving chapters of his fictitious
life, while she regarded him steadily with her grave blue eyes. Mr.
Snark and the major were in the middle seat, and the eminent lawyer was
talking a veritable blue streak, occasionally flinging over his shoulder
a bolstering remark in answer to one of Mrs. Calvert's questions, as his
quick ear detected a preoccupation in Garrison's tones, and he sensed
that there might be a sudden collapse to their rising fortunes. He was
in a very good humor, for, besides the ten thousand, and the bonus he
would receive from Garrison on the major's death, he had accepted an
invitation to stay the week end at Calvert House.
Garrison's inattention was suddenly swept away by the clatter of hoofs
audible above the noise contributed by the bays. A horse, which Garrison
instinctively, and to his own surprise, judged to be a two-year-old
filly, was approaching at a hard gallop down the broad pike. Her rider
was a young girl, hatless, who now let loose a boyish shout and waved a
gauntleted hand. Mrs. Calvert, smilingly, returned the hail.
“A neighbor and a lifelong friend of ours,” she said, turning to
Garrison. “I want you to be very good friends, you and Sue. She is a
very lovely girl, and I know you will like her. I want you to. She has
been expecting your coming. I am sure she is anxious to see what you
look like.”
Garrison made some absent-minded, commonplace answer. His eyes were
kindling strangely as he watched the oncoming filly. His blood was
surging through him. Unconsciously, his hands became ravenous for the
reins. A vague memory was stirring within him. And then the girl had
swung her mount beside the carriage, and Major Calvert, with all the
ceremonious courtesy of the South, had introduced her.
She was a slim girl, with a wealth of indefinite hair, now gold, now
bronze, and she regarded Garrison with a pair of very steady gray eyes.
Beautiful eyes they were; and, as she pulled off her gauntlet and bent
down a slim hand from the saddle, he looked up into them. It seemed as
if he looked into them for ages. Where had he seen them before? In a
dream? And her name was Desha. Where had he heard that name? Memory was
struggling furiously to tear away the curtain that hid the past.
“I'm right glad to see you,” said the girl, finally, a slow blush coming
to the tan of her cheek. She slowly drew away her hand, as, apparently,
Garrison had appropriated it forever.
“The honor is mine,” returned Garrison mechanically, as he replaced his
hat. Where had he heard that throaty voice?