ALL VAN WINKLES
The fortnight between that fateful day on the links and the Wednesday
aforesaid, was full of surprising complications for the Van Winkle and
Barrows families.
The two girls went into fits of hysteria on receipt of a cablegram from
their mother in Paris announcing her marriage to Mr. Courtney Van
Winkle, of New York. They were still more prostrated on learning from
their wide-eyed sweethearts that not only was Courtney their
step-father but he was on the point of becoming their brother-in-law as
well. A still greater shock came the day of their own double wedding
which took place in the Barrows mansion on Ardmore Avenue in the
presence of a small company of guests. It developed that the Mrs. Smith
who nursed old Mr. Van Winkle and afterwards married him was their
divorced sister, Mary, who had not only grown tired of a husband but of
nursing other women's husbands as well. The situation was unique.
"Good heavens," said Rip, after the ceremony which linked the entire
Barrows family to the Van Winkles, "what relation are we to each other?"
"Well," said his wife, "for one thing, you are my uncle by marriage."
"And I am my father's brother-in-law. By the same argument, the
governor becomes his own son's son-in-law. Can you beat it?"
"Your brother becomes your father, and my mother is my sister. Now,
let's see what else--"
"And your sister is now your mother-in-law. By the way, has she any
children?"
"Two little girls," said Toots.
"That makes poor old Corky a grandfather," groaned Rip.
Pretty much the same conversation took place between Jeff and Beppy.
"Corky is my father-brother," said Jeff, summing it all up.
On the high seas, Mr. and Mrs. Courtney Van Winkle threshed out the
amazing situation, and in the mists of the Maine coast, the
flabbergasted father of the three young men who fared forth to make men
of themselves agonised over the result of their efforts.
"When I am quite strong again, my dear," said he to the comely
ex-nurse--who, by the way, had engaged a male attendant to take her
place in looking after the convalescent gentleman, "we must have a
family gathering in New York. What is your mother like?"
"She is like all women who marry at her age," said she without
hesitation--and without rancour. "She's very silly. What sort of a
person is your son?"
"I don't know," said Mr. Van Winkle with conviction.
We will permit three months to slip by. No honeymoon should be shorter
than that. It is meet that we should grant our quiddlers three and
their excellent parent the supreme felicity of enjoying the period
without being spied upon by a mercenary story-teller. But all
interests, as well as all roads, lead to a common centre. The centre in
this case was New York City.
It goes without saying that the Barrows girls, Edith and Gwendolyn,
preferred New York to W---- as a place of residence. They married New
Yorkers and it was only right and proper that they should love New
York. Possessing a full third of the enormous fortune left by their
distilling father, they maintained that they could afford to live in
New York, even though their husbands remained out of employment for the
rest of their natural lives. We already know that Mrs. Corky Van Winkle
longed for a seat among the lofty, and that Mrs. Bleecker Van Winkle
had married at least two gentlemen of Gotham in the struggle to feel at
home there. Therefore, we are permitted to announce that Jefferson and
Ripley Van Winkle resigned their positions as golf-instructors the
instant the wedding bells began to ring, and went upon the retired list
with the record of an honourable, even distinguished career behind
them. They said something about going into "the Street," and their
amiable and beautiful wives exclaimed that it would be perfectly lovely
of them. But, they added, there was really no excuse for hurrying.
We come now to the family gathering in the palatial home of Mr.
Courtney Van Winkle, just off Fifth Avenue (on the near east side), and
it is December. Corky's wife bought the place, furnished. He couldn't
stop her. The only flaw in the whole arrangement, according to the
ambitious Grand Duchess, was the deplorable accident that admitted a
trained nurse into the family circle. It would be very hard to live
down. She never could understand why Mr. Van Winkle did it!
The twins and their brides were occupying enormous suites at one of the
big hotels, pending the completion of a new and exclusive apartment
building in Fifth Avenue. They had been in town but a week when
Courtney and the Grand Duchess returned from Virginia Hot Springs,
where they had spent November. Old Mr. Van Winkle was just out of the
hospital after a second operation: an adhesion. He was really unfit for
the trip up town from the old Van Winkle mansion; nevertheless, he made
it rather than disappoint his new--(I use the word
provisionally)--daughter-in-law, who had set her heart upon having the
family see what she had bought. I am not quite certain that she didn't
include Corky in the exhibit.
There were introductions all around. Mr. Van Winkle, senior, was
presented to his mother-in-law and to his sisters, and, somewhat
facetiously, to his father-in-law, his brothers, his sons and his
daughters. Corky had the pleasure of meeting his three sons-in-law, his
three daughters-in-law, his two sisters, his brothers, his father and
his granddaughters-in-law. The twins--but why continue? Puzzles of this
character provide pleasure for those who choose to work them out for
themselves, and no doubt many who have followed the course of this
narrative are to be classed among them.
Of course, in his own home Corky sat at the head of the table, but it
is not to be assumed that he was the undisputed head of the family,
although he may have advanced claims to the distinction because of his
position as father-in-law to every one else of the name. Mr. Van
Winkle, pere, jocosely offered to relinquish the honour to his son, and
the twins vociferously shouted their approval.
"You are the oldest member of the family by marriage, Corky," said
Jeff, and was rewarded by a venomous stare from his joint
mother-and-sister-in-law.
"How you talk!" said the Grand Duchess, suddenly remembering her
lorgnette. The stare became intensified. "Isn't the house attractive,
Mr. Van Winkle?" she asked, turning to the old gentleman, with a
mirthless smile.
"Are you addressing me, my dear, as your son-in-law or as your
father-in-law?" enquired Mr. Van Winkle.
"Why do you ask?" she demanded.
"Because if you are speaking to me as your son, I prefer to be called
Bleecker."
"Stuff and nonsense, Mr. Van Winkle! Why, I scarcely know you."
"Won't you tell me your Christian name? I can't very well go about
calling my daughter MISSIS Van Winkle."
"Minervy--I mean Minerva. Of course, I shall expect you to call me
Minerva. I--I suppose it is only right that I should call you Bleecker.
Isn't it an odd situation?"
"I should say so," put in Rip. "I'll have to give up calling you
father, Bleecker. You are my brother now."
"I don't think we should carry a joke too far," said his father
severely.
"It's no joke," said Kip. "Is it, Father Corky?"
"See here, confound you, don't get funny," snapped Corky from the head
of the table. "You forget the servants."
"I'm not ashamed to have them hear me call you father, Corky,"
protested Rip. "I'll shout it from the house top if you think there's
any doubt about my sincerity."
"Don't tease, Ripley," said Toots. "Your poor brother is dreadfully
embarrassed."
"You must go with me to the dressmaker's tomorrow, girls," said the
Grand Duchess, effectually putting a stop to the discussion. "I shall
be there all day trying on gowns, and I want your opinions."
"Didn't you have anything made in Paris, Mother?" cried Toots and Beppy
in unison.
"She did," said Corky emphatically. "We paid duty on seventy-three
gowns, to say nothing of other things."
"But they are all out of fashion by this time," said Mrs. Corky,
joyously. "They are at least three months old. I'm getting everything
new. The season promises to be an unusually brilliant one, doesn't it,
dear?"
Every one waited for Gorky's reply. He appeared to have swallowed
something the wrong way. It was just like them to wait, CONFOUND them,
thought he resentfully.
"Yes," said he, so succinctly that the four ladies were bitterly
disappointed. For them, the topic called for the most elaborate
treatment. "I shall give a big ball right after the holidays," said the
Grand Duchess, determined to keep the subject going. "Corky and I have
been going over the list of invitations this week. We mean to make it
very select. On a rough estimate, we figure that the affair won't cost
a cent less than fifty thousand--"
"My dear!" cried Corky, rapping violently on the table with his fork in
his agitation.
"That's a pearl-handled fork," his wife reminded him, going very red
under her rouge.
At this juncture Jefferson arose and, clearing his throat, began a
toast to the brides.
"On your feet, gentlemen! Here's to the four Mrs. Van Winkles, the
fourest of the fair--I mean the fairest of the four--ouch!--the
fairest--of--the--fair. May they never know an hour of remorse! May
their hearts always beat time to the tune of love we shall sing into
their lovely ears, and may they be kind enough to forgive us our
transgressions while they listen to our eternal and everlasting song!
Drink, gentlemen!"
As the four gentlemen drained their glasses, the four ladies applauded
the eloquent Jeff.
"You must write that out for Corky, Jefferson," cried his
mother-in-law. "He may have an opportunity to spring it--"
"Ahem!" barked Corky, quite viciously.
"I am sure we shall all love one another and be happy to the end of our
days," cried Mrs. Bleecker Van Winkle, an extremely handsome woman of
thirty-three.
"Good for you, Mother!" shouted Rip, with enthusiasm and every one
laughed, Corky the loudest of all.
Beppy rose half way out of her seat and peered down the table in the
direction of her sister Mary.
"Stop holding hands, you silly things!" she cried, shaking her finger
at Bleecker Van Winkle and his wife.
"I'm not holding hands," cried Mary.
"She was feeling my pulse," explained the old gentleman hastily.
As a matter of fact, when Mary undertook to bestow upon her husband the
caress known as "holding hands" she invariably took his wrist between
her thumb and forefinger and absent-mindedly counted ten or twelve
before realising her mistake.
The father of the three young men took this particular moment to
revoke, in a very diplomatic way, the sentence he had declared a few
months earlier in the year. Without saying it in so many words, he gave
them to understand that he considered their fortunes made and warmly
congratulated them upon the successful issue of their endeavours. He
made so bold as to state that he took upon his own shoulders all of the
trivial mistakes they may have made during years of adolescence, and
gave to them the glory of achieving success when failure might have
been their lot because of the foolish adoration of a doting parent. It
was a very pretty speech, but the boys noticed that he carefully
refrained from acknowledging that they had made men of themselves.
"And now," said he, in conclusion, "permit me to paraphrase the toast
of that amiable ancestor whom fiction has given to us, the ancient Rip
whose days will be longer than ours, whose life will run smoothly
through centuries to come: 'May we all live long--and prosper'!"
They drank it standing.
The Grand Duchess beamed. "So that dear old gentleman WAS your ancestor
after all. How glad I am to know it!"
"Yes, my dear daughter," said her venerable son-in-law, running his
fingers through his niveous thatch, "he was the first of the
time-wasting Van Winkles."
THE LATE MR. TAYLOR
Hawkins was not a drinking man. To be sure, he took a glass of
something occasionally, but he thoroughly understood himself at the
time. He took it to be companionable, that was all. Therefore, in view
of what happened to him on one unforgetable night, it is well to know
that Hawkins bore an impeccable reputation for sobriety. Likewise, his
veracity never had been seriously questioned.
The night was bitterly cold--so cold, in fact, that Hawkins relished
the prospect of remaining in-doors. There was a blizzard blowing fifty
knots an hour. Hawkins rarely used the word "mile," it may be said; he
was of a decidedly nautical turn ever since the memorable trip to
Europe and back. He was middle-aged and a bachelor. This explains the
fact that he was a man of habits if not of parts. For years he had
lived in cosy apartments on the fifth floor, surrounded by unmistakable
signs of connubial joy, but utterly oblivious to these pertinent
manifestations. Away back--I should say abaft--in the dim past he had
given some little thought to matrimony but she was now almost beyond
memory.
Each day after Hawkins had balanced the books at the bank--and they
always balanced, so methodical was Hawkins--he went for his stroll in
the park. Then came dinner, then a half hour or so of conversation with
the other boarders, and then the club or the theatre. Usually he went
home early in the night as he always went to town early in the morning.
The occasions were not infrequent when he could smile grimly and
pityingly upon one or more of his companions of the night before as
they passed him on their belated way home long after dawn. It was then
that Hawkins drew himself a trifle more erect, added a bit of
elasticity to his notably springy stride, and congratulated himself
warmly on being what he was.
Soon after eight o'clock on the night of the great blizzard, Hawkins
forsook the companionship of the disgruntled coterie downstairs and
retired to his library on the fifth floor. His suite consisted of three
rooms--and a bath, as they say when they talk of letting them to you.
There was a library, a bed chamber and a parlour with broad couches
against two of the walls. Sometimes Hawkins had friends to stay all
night with him. They slept on the couches because it did not make any
difference to them and because Hawkins was of a philanthropic turn of
mind when occasion demanded.
He got into his dressing gown and slippers, pulled the big leather
chair up to the blazing grate, and prepared for a long and enjoyable
visit with one Charles Dickens. A young woman of charm and persistence
had induced him, only the week before to purchase a full set of Dickens
with original Cruikshank engravings--although Hawkins secretly
confessed that he was sceptical--and it was not like him to spend money
without getting its full value in return. It was with some show of
gratitude then that he looked upon the blizzard which kept him indoors
for the night. Years ago he had read "Oliver Twist" and "David
Copperfield," but that was the extent of his acquaintance with Dickens.
Now that he had the full set on his shelves, it behooved him to read
the great Englishman from beginning to end.
"This is a terrible night," he mused, as he ran his eye along the row
of green and gilt books, and "Bleak House" seems especially fit for the
hour. "We'll begin with that."
Outside the wind howled like mad, shrieking around the corners as if
bent on destroying every bit of harmony in the world. It whistled and
screamed and gnashed its way through the helpless night, the biting
sleet so small that it could penetrate the very marrow of man. Hawkins
serenely tucked his heels into the cushions of the footstool and
laughed at the storm.
"I sha'n't be disturbed tonight, that's sure," he thought,
complacently. "No one but a drivelling idiot would venture out in such
a blizzard as this unless absolutely driven to it. 'Gad, that wind is
something awful! I haven't heard anything like it since last February
and that was when we had the coldest night in forty years, if one can
believe the weather bureau." Here Hawkins allowed "Bleak House" to drop
listlessly into his lap while he indulged in a moment or two of
retrospection. "Let's see; that was said to have been the deadliest
cold snap Chicago has ever known. Scores of people were frozen to death
on the streets and many of them in their homes. I hope there is no one
so luckless as to be homeless tonight. The hardiest man would be
helpless. Think of the poor cab-drivers and--oh, well, it doesn't help
matters to speculate on what may be happening outside. I shudder to
think, though, of what the papers will tell in the morning."
The midnight hour was close at hand before Hawkins reluctantly and
tenderly laid "Bleak House" on the library table, stretched himself and
prepared for bed. The blizzard had not lost any of its fury. Indeed, it
seemed to have grown more vicious, more merciless. Hawkins, in his
pajamas, lifted the curtain and sought a glimpse of the night and its
terrors. The window panes were white with frost. He scraped away the
thick layer and peered forth into the swirling storm.
"Worse than ever," he thought, a troubled look in his eyes. "Poor
devils, who ever you are, I feel for you if you're out in all this."
He turned off the lights, banked the fire on the grate and was soon
shivering between the icy sheets of his bed. It seemed to him they
never would get warm and cosy, as he had so confidently expected.
Hawkins, being a bank clerk, was a patient and enduring man. Years of
training had made him tolerant even to placidity. As he cuddled in the
bed, his head almost buried in the covers, he resignedly convinced
himself that warmth would come sooner or later and even as the chills
ran up and down his back he was philosophic. So much for system and a
clear conscience.
Gradually the chill wore away and Hawkins slumbered, warm and serene
despite the wrath of the winds which battered against the walls of his
habitation. At just what minute sleep came he did not know. He heard
the clock striking the hour of twelve. Of that he was sure, because he
counted the strokes up to nine before they ran into a confused jangle.
He remembered wondering dimly if any one had been able to distinguish
the precise instant when sleep succeeds wakefulness. At any rate, he
slept.
The same little clock struck twice a few minutes after a sudden chill
aroused him to consciousness. For a moment or two he lay there
wondering how he came to be out-of-doors. He was so cold and damp that
some minutes of wakefulness were required to establish the fact that he
was still in his own room and bed. It struck Hawkins as strange that
the bedclothes, tucked about his head, seemed wet and heavy and mouldy.
He pulled them tightly about his shivering body, curled his legs up
until the knees almost touched the chin and--yes, Hawkins said damn
twice or thrice. It was not long until he was sufficiently awake to
realise that he was very much out of patience.
Presently he found himself sniffing the air, his nostrils dilating with
amazement. There was a distinct odour of earth, such as one scents only
in caverns or in mossy places where the sun is forever a stranger. It
was sickening, overpowering. Hawkins began to feel that the chill did
not come from the wintry winds outside but from some cool, aguish
influence in the room itself. Half asleep, he impatiently strove to
banish the cold, damp smell by pulling the coverlet over his head. His
feet felt moist and his knees were icy cold. The thick blanket seemed
plastered to his black, wet and rank with the smell of stagnant water.
"What in thunder is the matter with me?" growled he, to himself. "I
never felt this way before. It's like sleeping in a fog or worse. A big
slug of whiskey is what I need, but it's too infernal cold to get out
of bed after it. How the dickens is it that typhoid fever starts in on
a fellow? Chilly back and all that, I believe,--but I can't recall
anything clammy about it."
The more he thought of it the more worried he became; more earnest
became his efforts to shut out the chilly dampness. It occurred to him
that it would be wise to crawl out and poke up the fire in the next
room. Then he remembered that there was a gas grate in his bedroom,
behind the bureau. Of course, it would be quite a task to move the
bureau and even then he might find that the gas pipe was not connected
with the burner. The most sensible proceeding, he finally resolved,
would be to get up and rebuild the fire and afterward add an overcoat
and the cherished steamer rug to the bed coverings. Damper and damper
grew the atmosphere in the room. Everything seemed to reek with the
odour of rotting wood and mouldy earth; his nostrils drank the smell of
decaying vegetation and there seemed to be no diminution. Instead, the
horrible condition appeared to grow with each succeeding breath of
wakefulness.
The palms of his hands were wet, his face was saturated. Hawkins was
conscious of a dreadful fear that he was covered with mildew. Once,
when he was a small boy, he had gone into a vault in the cemetery with
some relatives. Somehow, the same sensations he felt on that far-off
day were now creeping over him. The room seemed stifled with the smell
of dead air, cold and gruesome. He tried to convince himself that he
was dreaming, but it was too easy to believe the other way. Suddenly
his heart stopped beating and his blood turned to ice, for there shot
into his being the fear that some dreadful thing was about to clutch
him from behind, with cold, slimy hands. In his terror he could almost
feel the touch of ghastly fingers against his flesh.
With rigid, pulseless hands he threw the soggy covers from his face and
looked forth with wide startled eyes. His face was to the wall, his
back--(his cringing back)--to the open room. Hawkins was positive that
he had heard the clock strike two and he knew that no hour of the
winter's night was darker. And yet his eyes told him that his ears had
lied to him.
It was not inky darkness that met his gaze. The room was draped in the
grey of dawn, cold, harsh, lifeless. Every object on the wall was
plainly visible in this drear light. The light green stripes in the
wall paper were leaden in colour, the darker border above was almost
blue in its greyness. For many minutes Hawkins remained motionless in
his bed, seeking a solution of the mystery. Gradually the conviction
grew upon him that he was not alone in the room. There was no sound, no
visible proof that any one was present, but something supernatural told
him that an object--human or otherwise--was not far from his side. The
most horrible feeling came over him. He was ready to shriek with
terror, so positive was his belief that the room was occupied by some
dreadful thing.
Even as he prepared to turn his face toward the open room, there came
to his ears the most terrifying sound. Distinctly, plainly he heard a
chuckle, almost at the bedside. A chuckle, hollow, sepulchral,
mirthless. The hair on Hawkins's head stood straight on end. The
impulse to hide beneath the covers was conquered by the irresistible
desire to know the worst.
He whirled in the bed, rising to his elbow, his eyes as big as dollars.
Something indescribable had told him that the visitor was no robber
midnight marauder. He did not fear physical injury, strange as it may
seem.
There, in the awful grey light, sitting bolt upright in the Morris
chair, was the most appalling visitor that man ever had. For what
seemed hours to Hawkins, he gazed into the face of this ghastly
being--the grey, livid, puffy face of a man who had been dead for
weeks.
Fascination is a better word than fright in describing the emotion of
the man who glared at this uncanny object. Unbelief was supreme in his
mind for a short time only. After the first tremendous shock, his rigid
figure relaxed and he trembled like a leaf. Horror seemed to be turning
his blood to ice, his hair to the whiteness of snow. Slowly the natural
curiosity of the human mind asserted itself. His eyes left the face of
the dread figure in the chair and took brief excursions about the room
in search of the person who had laughed an age before. Horror increased
when he became thoroughly convinced that he was alone with the cadaver.
Whence came that chuckle?
Surely not from the lips of this pallid thing near the window. His
brain reeled. His stiff lips parted as if to cry out but no sound
issued forth.
In a jumbled, distorted way his reason began to question the reality of
the vision, and then to speculate on how the object came to be in his
room. To his certain knowledge, the doors and windows were locked. No
one could have brought the ghastly thing to his room for the purpose of
playing a joke on him. No, he almost shrieked in revulsion, no one
could have handled the terrible thing, even had it been possible to
place it there while he slept. And yet it had been brought to his
bedroom; it could not have come by means of its own.
He tried to arise, but his muscles seemed bound in fetters of steel. In
all his after life he was not to forget the picture of that hideous
figure, sitting there in the tomb-like grey. The face was bloated and
soft and flabby, beardless and putty-like; the lips thick and
colourless; the eyes wide, sightless and glassy. The black hair was
matted and plastered close to the skull, as if it had just come from
the water. The clothes that covered the corpse were wet, slimy and
reeking with the odour of stagnant water. Huge, stiff, puffy hands
extended over the ends of the chair's arms, the fingers twice the
natural size and absolutely shapeless. Truly, it was a most repulsive
object. There was no relief in the thought that the man might have
entered the room alive, in some mysterious manner, for every sign
revealed the fact that he had been dead for a long time.
Hawkins, in his horror, found himself thinking that if he were to poke
his finger suddenly into the cheek of the object, it would leave an
impression that hours might not obliterate.
It was dead, horribly dead, and--the chuckle? His ears must have
deceived him. No sound could have come from those pallid lips--
But the thing was speaking!
"It is so nice and warm here," came plainly and distinctly from the
Morris chair, the voice harsh and grating. Something rattled in each
tone. Hawkins felt his blood freeze within him and he knew his eyes
were bulging with terror. They were glued upon the frightful thing
across the room, but they saw no movement of the thick lips.
"Wha--What?" gasped Hawkins, involuntarily. His own voice sounded high
and squeaky.
"I've been so cursed cold," responded the corpse, and there were
indications of comfort in the weird tones. "Say, I've had a devil of a
time. It's good to find a warm spot again. The Lord knows I've been
looking for it long enough."
"Good Lord! Am I crazy? Is it actually talking?" murmured Hawkins,
clutching the bedclothes frantically.
"Of course, I'm talking. Say, I'm sorry to have disturbed you at this
time of night, but you wouldn't mind if you knew how much I've suffered
from this terrible cold. Don't throw me out, for God's sake. Let me
stay here till I thaw out, please do. You won't put me out, will you?"
The appeal in those racking tones was too grotesque for description.
"I wouldn't--wouldn't touch you for a million dollars," gasped Hawkins.
"Good Heavens, you're dead!"
"Certainly. Any fool could tell that," answered the dead man,
scornfully.
"Then--then how do you come to be here?" cried the owner of the room.
"How can you be dead and still able to talk? Who placed you in that
chair?"
"You'll have to excuse me, but my brain is a trifle dull just now. It
hasn't had time to thaw out, I fancy. In the first place, I think I
came up the fire escape and into that window. Don't get up, please; I
closed it after me. What was the next question? Oh, yes--I remember.
It isn't an easy matter to talk, I'll confess. One's throat gets so
cold and stiff, you know. I kept mine in pretty good condition by
calling out for help all the time I was in the water."
"In the--water?"
"Yes. That's how I happen to be so wet and disagreeable. You see, I've
been out there in the lake for almost a year!"
Hawkins fell back in the bed, speechless. He started with fresh terror
when he passed his hand over his wet forehead. The hand was like ice.
"There's a lot of them out there, you may be sure. I stumbled over them
two or three times a day. No matter where you walk or float, you're
always seeing dead people out there. They're awful sights, too,--give
one the shivers. The trouble with most people who go to the bottom is
that they give up and are content to lie there forever, washed around
in the mud and sand in a most disgusting way. I couldn't bear the
thought of staying down there for ages, so I kept on trying to get out.
Shows what perseverance will do, doesn't it?"
"You don't mean to say that--that--Good Lord, I must have brain fever!"
cried poor Hawkins hoarsely.
"Do I annoy you? I'll be going presently, although I hate to leave this
warm corner. But you can rest assured of one thing: I'll never go near
that lake again. All the weight in the world couldn't drag me to the
bottom after what I've gone through. It's not right, I know, to
trespass like this. It's a rank shame. But don't be hard on me,
Mr.--Mr.--?"
"I don't know it," groaned Hawkins, who could not have told his name if
his life was at stake. He had forgotten everything except the terrible
thing in the Morris chair.
"My name is--or was--Taylor, Alfred B. Taylor. I used to live in
Lincoln Avenue, quite a distance out. Perhaps you have heard of me.
Didn't the newspapers have an account of my disappearance last
February? They always print such stuff, so I'm sure they had something
about me. I broke through the ice off Lincoln Park one day while
walking out toward the crib."
"I--I remember," Hawkins managed to whisper. "You were the Board of
Trade man who--who--"
"Who took one chance too many," completed the dead man, grimly. "A
Board of Trade man often gets on very thin ice, you know," the
sepulchral laugh that oozed from those grey lips rang in the listener's
ears till his dying day. "These clothes of mine were pretty good the
day I went down, but the water and the fishes have played havoc with
them, I'm afraid. It strikes me they won't hold together much longer."
"You--you don't look as though you'd hold together very long yourself,"
ventured Hawkins, picking up a little courage.
"Do I look that bad?" asked Mr. Taylor, quite ruefully. "Well, I
daresay it's to be expected. I've been plodding around on the bottom of
the lake for a year and the wear and tear is enormous. For months I was
frozen stiff as a rail. Then summer came along and I was warmed up a
bit. The terrible cold snap we're having just now almost caught me
before I got out of the water. The trouble was, I lost my bearings and
wandered miles and miles out into the lake. Then it was like hunting a
needle in a haystack to find dry land. I'm sure I travelled a circle
for hundreds of miles before I accidentally wandered upon the beach
down there by the Fresh Air place. I really believe this is a colder
night than the first one I spent in the lake, and that day was supposed
to be a record breaker, I remember. Twenty-six below zero, if I'm not
mistaken. By George, I'm warming up nicely in here. I feel like
stretching a bit!"
"For God's sake, don't!" almost shrieked Hawkins, burying his head
beneath the covers.
"Very well, since you object," came to his muffled ears. "You must be
very warm in that bed. I'd give all I have in the world if I could get
into a nice warm bed like that once more."
Hawkins peeped from beneath the cover in dire apprehension, but was
intensely relieved to see that the terrible Mr. Taylor had not changed
his attitude. The eyes of the watcher suddenly fixed themselves on the
visitor's right hand. The member was slowly sliding off the arm of the
chair. Fascinated, Hawkins continued to watch its progress. At last, it
dropped heavily from its resting place. The position of the corpse
changed instantly, the sudden jerk of the dead weight pulling the body
forward and to one side. The head lolled to the right and the lower jaw
dropped, leaving the mouth half open. One eyelid closed slowly, as if
the cadaver was bestowing a friendly wink upon his host.
"Very awkward of me," apologised Mr. Taylor, his voice not so distinct,
his words considerably jumbled on account of the unfortunate mishap to
his mouth.
"Get out of here!" shrieked Hawkins, unable to endure the horror any
longer. "Get out!"
"Oh, you don't mean that, do you?" pleaded the thing in the chair. "I'm
just beginning to feel comfortable and--"
"Get out!" again cried Hawkins, frenzied.
"It's rotten mean of you, old man," said Mr. Taylor. "I wouldn't turn
you out if our positions were reversed. Hang it, man, I'd be humane.
I'd ask you to get into bed and warm up thoroughly. And I'd set out the
whiskey, too."
But Hawkins was speechless.
"Confound your penurious soul," growled Mr. Taylor, after a long
silence, "I've a notion to climb into that bed anyhow. If you want to
throw me out, go ahead. I'm used to being knocked about and a little
more of it won't hurt me, I guess. Move over there, old man. I'm going
to get in."
With a scream of terror, Hawkins leaped up in the bed. The dead man was
slowly rising from the chair, one eye fixed on the ceiling, the other
directed toward the floor. Just as the awful body lurched forward,
Hawkins sprang from the bed and struck out frantically with his
clenched hand. The knuckles lodged against the bulging brow of the dead
man and they seemed to go clear to the skull, burying themselves in the
cushion-like flesh. As the horrid object crashed to the floor, Hawkins
flew through the library and into the hall, crying like a madman.
Other occupants of the building, awakened by the frightful shrieks,
found him crouching in a corner on one of the stair landings, his wide
eyes staring up the steps down which he had just tumbled. It was an
interminably long time before he could tell them what had happened and
then they all assured him he had been dreaming. But Hawkins knew he had
not been dreaming.
Three of the men who went to his bedroom came hurriedly down the
stairs, white-faced and trembling. They had not seen the corpse but
they had found plenty of evidence to prove that something terrible had
been in Hawkins' bedroom.
The window was open and the chair which stood in front of it was
overturned, as if some one had upset it in crawling out upon the fire
escape platform. One of the men looked out into the night. He saw a man
crossing the street in the very face of the gale, running as if
pursued. It was too dark to see the man's face, but the observer was
sure that he turned twice to look up at the open window. The figure
turned into an alley, going toward the lake.
The Morris chair was wet and foul-smelling, and the floor was saturated
in places. A piece of cloth, soaked with mud, was found beneath the
window sill. Evidently it had been caught and torn away by the curtain
hook on the window sash. Hawkins would not go near the room and it was
weeks before he was able to resume work at the bank.
And, stranger than all else, the dead body of a man was found in the
snow near the Fresh Air Sanitarium the next morning, but no one could
identify the corpse. The man had been dead for months.
THE TEN DOLLAR BILL
A CHRISTMAS STORY
Mr. and Mrs. Digby Trotter had been married just five years. Five years
before Digby had gone to his father to tell him that he intended to
marry Kate Anderson. The old gentleman grew very red in the face and
observed, more forcibly than considerately:
"You must be a dod-gasted idiot! You get married? And to that brainless
little fool whose father exhorts or extorts religion for $600 a year at
that miserable little church over there on Queen Street--is that the
girl you mean?" And then Trotter, pere, ceased speaking to look
searchingly into his son's face; an embarrassed smile brightened his
grim old countenance and he went on, good humour growing stronger in
each succeeding word: "You rascal! Why did you tell me that? Do you
know, for a moment, I actually thought you were in earnest, and--well,
demme! it did work me up a little. I ought to have known better,
too--but, then, you did say it as if you meant it. Excuse me, boy; I
guess I'm the fool, myself."
"That remains to be seen, sir," was the most polite thing that his son
could say under the circumstances, taking his hands out of his pockets
and putting them back again at once. "You see, it's this way, Father,
you laughed too soon. It's not so devilish much of a joke as you think.
I meant it."
Mr. Trotter's smile faded away as does the sunshine that hides itself
in the dusk of eventide. Father and son grew warm in the discussion of
this most amazing determination on the part of the latter and it all
came to a sharp end when both lost temper. When Digby jammed his hat
down over his eyes, buttoned close his overcoat and dashed out of the
bank into the street, he might have been heard to say, as a parting
shot:
"I'll marry her now if I starve for two thousand years!"
And marry her he did.
Trotter, senior, did not attend the wedding, did not send the young
couple a present, nor a greeting; in fact, he did nothing but ignore
them completely. He had told Digby that he would never forgive him and
had gone so far as to call on poor little Dr. Anderson, the unfortunate
possessor of a pretty daughter and a $600 charge, expressing himself as
earnestly averse to the union of their children. When he had concluded
his interview with the minister the latter was extremely pale and
nervous, but he was master of the situation. He stood, holding open the
door to his plain, pitiful old study and Mr. Trotter, very much injured
and crestfallen, was passing out with these words stinging his ears:
"I am sorry, sir--just as sorry as you. I like Digby; he is a good,
open-hearted boy, but I had hoped to see Kate better wedded!" Then he
closed the door and seated himself in the old cushioned chair, staring
at the grate until the glare seemed to hurt his eyes. At least, they
grew very hot and dry, then streaming wet.
And so they were married five years ago. Since then their struggle had
been a hard one; both ends would not meet, no matter how firmly Digby
persevered in his efforts to bring about such a union. He would not,
could not ask his father for assistance, nor would that patient,
faithful little wife have permitted him to harbour such a design had he
weakened in his avowed intention to "get along without a dollar from
dad." Notwithstanding their feeble warfare against privation, in which
defeat hovered constantly over fields where victory seemed assured,
theirs had been a happy sort of misery. Digby loved Kate and Kate
worshipped him; his pity for her was overwhelmed by the earnestness
with which she pitied him. No struggle of his failed but that she
shouldered and bore the failure with him, cheering him when he felt
like lagging, smiling when he despaired the deepest. Between them a
speck of joy grew larger, brighter each day despite the gloom that
surrounded it. Their child was their one possession of worth,
4-year-old Helen--sunny-faced Helen--Helen who suffered none of the
pangs because of the sacrifices made by those whose darkness she
illumined.
Trotter had married Kate with a heart overrunning with the glorious
ambition of untried youth, the happy confidence of strength, fully
convinced that nothing was necessary toward securing success save the
establishment of a purpose. And that is quite, quite the fact.
They began with a dollar and they had seen but few, since the
beginning, that they could call their own. Too late did Digby learn
that he knew but little and that the world was full of young men whose
beginning in life had been so much worse than his that necessity had
made them equal to the struggle for which he had been so illy prepared
by an indulgent parent. Digby found the banks in which he had hoped to
secure positions thronged with clerks and accountants who had worked
slowly, painfully from the bottom upward. Grey-haired men, whose lives
had been spent in the one great battle for gold, told him of their
years in the patient ranks; thoughtful-faced young men told him how
they had been office boys, messenger boys, even janitor boys, in the
climb up the Matterhorn of success. Here he was a man of 25, strong,
bright and the possessor of an unusual intelligence, a college man, a
rich man's son, but poorer than the smallest clerk that had ever bent
his throbbing, ambitious head over the desk in his father's bank, and
who had often envied the life of his employer's son. Now that son was
beneath them all because he did not know how to work!
Work--toil--slave! The definition of success.
At first the failures originating from inexperience had been of small
consequence to Digby. His old-time independence resisted the harsh
criticisms of his first employers and he had, on more than one
occasion, thrown away fair positions because the spirit could not
endure the thumb of mastery. For months he rebelled against the
requirements of servitude, but gradually it dawned upon him that though
the rich man was his father he was no longer the rich man's son.
So, when the first year of their wedded life had rolled by, Digby
Trotter, still neat, still independent, yet not so defiant--wore a
haggard look which could no longer be disguised. The once fashionable
garments were beginning to look shabby; his recently purchased clothing
had come from the bargain counters in cheap "ready-made"
establishments; his once constantly used evening dress suit hung in a
closet, lonely and forlorn, minus the trousers. He was keeping the
books in a street car office and his salary was $40 a month.
When, at the close of their first happy, miserable year, her father
died and their baby was born, many changes came. They were forced to
take the house for themselves and had to be accountable for the rent.
Dr. Anderson had given them the right to call his home their own so
long as he should live and it was the earnings of two men that kept the
little establishment crowded with happiness, if not comforts, during
his lifetime. One day a blow came to them. The landlord ejected them.
Kate wept as she passed out through the little front gate, leaving
behind the dear old home with its rose bushes, its lilacs, its
gravelled walks, perhaps forever. Digby buttoned his coat tightly about
his thinning figure and scowled as he followed her through the gate. He
scowled at that invisible fate which preceded them both. Now, at the
end of five years, they were living in a tenement house, a crowded,
filthy place, ruled by a miserly, relentless landlord, whose gold was
his god.
The young husband had been employed by many men and in many occupations
during these five years. Fate pursued him always, despite his dogged
determination, his earnest efforts to surmount the obstacles which
crowded his path to happiness and peace. If a reduction was necessary
in a working force he was one of the first to go: if any one was to be
superseded by a new and favoured applicant he was the one. On many
occasions he had taken up his coat and hat, stepping to the pavement
with the crushed heart of a despairing man, tears in his wistful eyes,
his tired brain filling, almost bursting with the thoughts of the
little woman whose brave eyes would grow large and bright when he told
her of the end, and who would kiss him and bid him not to despair. He
could almost hear her suppressed sob as he thought of her, her head
upon his shoulder, her soft voice blaming herself for having dragged
him down to this.
In this warfare of poverty they had seen many hungry days, many
hardships, but neither had relinquished faith in Digby's ability to
baffle adversity and stem the tide. Like tennis balls, they had been
batted from one end of the year to the other, and now, at this time,
Digby Trotter and wife had become members of New York's "floating
population." Seldom did they live in one place more than three months,
sometimes less than one. Frequently they moved because their
surroundings were so distasteful to Kate, whose natural sense of
refinement was averse, not to poverty and squalor, but to the vice with
which it often is associated in districts where an ignorant and vicious
element flocks as if drawn by the magnetism of sin.
A man of strong will was Digby, and a woman of wonderful strength of
purpose was his wife, or he would have lost heart, and lost her in the
end. Only once had he come home to her intoxicated, driven to it
through despair and by what he thought to be approaching illness. On
awakening from the drunken sleep shame made him fear to meet the eyes
of her who suffered with him. But she had gently said:
"Don't be ashamed, Digby; poor, dear boy! You couldn't help it, I know.
But, dear, do try to be strong, stronger than ever, for baby's sake if
not for your own and mine. We shall all be happy yet, I'm sure we
shall, if you--if you will but resist that one misfortune."
He never drank another drop of liquor.
Then, at last, the brave little woman took in plain sewing, greatly to
Digby's anguish and mortification. Never had he felt so little like a
man as when she showed so plainly that it was necessary for her to
assist in the maintenance of the little household over which he
presided. The few dollars that she could earn kept them supplied with
food--at least part of the time. His odd jobs helped; the dollar that
he earned once in a while was made to go a long way. Not once did she
complain, not once did she cry out against the son who had taken his
father's curse for her sake. There are but few women who would be so
considerate.
When he came home at nights, climbing the wearisome steps that led to
their miserable home near the roof of the vast building he knew that
she would smile and kiss him, that the baby would laugh and climb gaily
upon his knee, and he knew that he would not have to tell her that he
had failed to find the coveted employment. His face would be the
indicator, and, beneath her first smile of welcome, he could always
distinguish the searching glance of anxiety; under her warm kiss he
could feel the words:
"Poor boy! I am sorry; you have tried so hard!"
Their home was poor, poorer than Digby had thought any man's home could
be, but there was no sign of the filth that characterised the condition
of other homes in the house. Mrs. Trotter kept it clean, kept it neat,
and kept it as bright as possible. While they were as poor, if not
poorer than the other inhabitants of this roofed world, they were
looked upon as and called "the aristocrats." No poverty could remove
nor deface the indelible stamp of superiority which good blood and
culture had given them as birthrights. Their apparel was cleaner than
anything of its kind in the building, fairly immaculate when compared
with the wretched garb of the beings who were looked upon as human but
who were--well, they were unfortunate to have that distinction;
something less would have been more fitting.
When occasion presented, Digby would bring home flowers, plucked from
the gardens that he passed. Kate would bedeck the room with the
blossoms, her eyes glistening as she thought of the lovely spot she had
known five long years ago. Once in awhile the more beautiful of his
tributes would adorn her coal black hair, lending wealth to what seemed
so much like waste.
They had curtains for their windows, too--muslin, of course--and,
although the windows were almost paneless, they presented quite a
home-like appearance, especially from the street, eight floors below.
Heavy wads of cloth served as glass in most of the vacant places, but
they did not serve well as light filterers. Besides all these valuables
they owned a bedstead, a stove, some chairs, a table, a sewing machine
and a mirror. Not another family in the house owned a mirror.
But they were lovers ever--the same, sweet comrades in love. The baby
was their Cupid at whose shrine they worshipped. She ruled their
affections and there was no kingdom wider than her domain. Digby,
covered with shame, despair and bitterness against the world, turned
himself loose into the pasture of joy when she cooed her authority;
romped like a boy whose heart had never felt as heavy as a chunk of
lead; talked to her, sang to her with a voice that had never felt the
quiver of dismay. Upon these sad pleasantries Mrs. Trotter smiled her
worship. Better than all, Digby had never been compelled to walk with
her for two or three hours in the middle of the night. It is said that
she was the only child on earth that never had the colic.
On the 23d of December in the year of our story, Digby had gone, bright
and early, to the big queensware store of Balling and Peet, word having
reached him that they needed extra help during the holidays. When he
neared his old haunts, the prominent downtown streets, instead of going
boldly along the sidewalks as of yore, he slunk through alleys and
across corners avoiding all possible chance of meeting the
acquaintances of bygone days, the men about town, the women he had
known, none of whom would know him now. It was not that he feared their
recognition, but that they would refuse to look at him at all.
The morning was bright and crisp, cold and prophetic of still greater
chill. Men in great overcoats passed him, muffled to the chin, their
whiskers frosty with the whitened air of life that came from tingling
noses; ruddy cheeks abounded on this typical winter day. Mr. Trotter
possessed no overcoat, but presumably following the fashion set out by
other wintry pedestrians, his thin sack coat was buttoned tightly and
the collar turned up defiantly. His well-brushed though seedy Derby
looked chilly as it topped off his shivering features. His face was
blue, not ruddy. Here and there he passed companions in poverty, but
their rags were worse than his, their faces more haggard. Never did he
feel more like the gentleman than when he saw what he could be if he
were not one.
Something jaunty beneath his brow-beaten spirits told him that he was
to have work, that his mission would be productive of the result so
long desired. In three months he had earned but ten days' wages and he
had found it rather difficult, not to say annoying to be a gentleman
with nothing on which to keep up outward appearances.
With an exultant feeling he approached the big store, but as he entered
it the old trepidation returned, the old anxiety, the old shudder at
the thought of failure. Being directed to the manager of the busy
establishment, he accosted him in the office, something like meekness
underlying the apparent straightforwardness to which his manly exterior
seemed so well acquainted.
The manager was different from others of his ilk. He greeted the
applicant kindly and told him to come back the next day at noon and he
would be set to work in the express department. If he proved
satisfactory he would be retained during the whole week, perhaps
permanently. They were looking for good men there, he said. Digby's
whole being seemed lighter than it had been for months when he left the
place and hurried homeward.
Kate's heart thumped strangely when she heard him coming down the long
hall with great rapid strides, so unlike the usual slow, deliberate
tread. She opened the door to admit him and when he clasped her in his
arms and rained kisses upon her face she knew that she was but
receiving the proofs of her sudden guess. Their frugal meal was
dispatched slowly, the diners allowing their tongues to display greater
diligence than their teeth. They were all very happy.
The great rush of business was at its height when Digby strode between
the counters of Balling and Peet's store the next day noon, on his way
to the office. Hundreds of people thronged the place, and he could not
help thinking of the days when he, a lad, had accompanied his mother to
this same great store where purchases were made that now seemed like
dreams to him. The smallest priced article that stood on the counters
was now beyond his power of possession. Mr. Sampson, the manager, was
in the office when Digby entered.
"Ah, you are here, I see," he said, but his voice was not so friendly
as it had been on the day before. "I am sorry, Mr.--Mr.--"
"Trotter," volunteered Digby, forgetting to add the servile "sir." His
heart was cold with apprehension.
"We were forced by rush of business this morning to put extra men to
work much earlier than I had expected. Not knowing your address I could
not notify you, and we have filled the places with men who came in
early. We did not expect the rush quite so early, you see. I am sorry,
sir. Perhaps we can do something for you later on."
Digby's eyes were misty, but there was a gleam of proud resentment
beneath the mist. His first thought was: "How can I go home and tell
her of this?"
"Have you nothing else, sir, that I can do?" he asked, from the depths
of his disappointment. He actually hated the man who had failed to
remember him--unreasonably, he knew, but he hated him.
"Nothing, I believe, Mr.--Mr. Potter--no, there is nothing at all. Good
day." The manager turned to his desk and Digby, smarting to the very
centre of his heart, shot a glance of insulted pride toward him, while
beneath his breath there welled the unhappy threat: "I'll some day make
you remember me! I'll not always be at the bottom."
Defiantly he strode from the office, banging the door after him
indignantly. The manager looked around in mild surprise and muttered:
"Poor devil! I suppose he hasn't had a drink all day."
When Digby reached the sidewalk the bright sunlight sent him tumbling
back into the reality of his position. Hardly knowing what he did, he
turned the corner, meeting the cutting wind from the west. The moisture
that came into his tired eyes as he walked dejectedly along, however,
was not caused by the wind. It came from the cells of shame,
disconsolation and despair.
Ahead of him on the busy thoroughfare walked an old-time friend, Joe
Delapere. But a few years ago they had been boon companions, running
the same race, following the same course together. Now one slunk along,
shorn of his rapid spurs, while the other sped the gay course in happy
unconcern. If Joe had a care it was over his love affairs, and, as he
had admitted, they were annoyances more than cares after he had ceased
to care. Digby was bitter against the world he had once inhabited, his
father more than all the rest of it together. That was the difference
between their ways of looking at the world.
Delapere stepped to the edge of the sidewalk and hailed a cab, a sudden
and increasing flurry of snow changing his desire to walk into the
necessity of riding. Cabby came dashing up and Joe pulled forth his
well filled purse.
"Get me to No. -- Morton avenue in five minutes and another dollar is
yours. Be brisk, now!" Selecting a bill, he handed it to the driver and
sprang into the cab. To his box climbed the well-urged driver, crack
went his whip and once more the boon companions went their different
ways--in different fashion.
But as Delapere thrust his purse back into his coat pocket something
fluttered to the gutter. Digby's hungry eyes saw at a glance that it
was a bank note, and, calling to the cabman, he rushed to curbing and
fished the bill from the slush.
A ten dollar bill! And the cabman had not heard his shout! Putting his
cold fingers to his lips he gave vent to that shrill whistle which
always attracts the attention of Jehu, but the cabby was earning his
extra dollar and heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing but the big
flakes that struck his tingling face Digby stopped at the corner and
saw the cab disappear down the street.
"I'll take it to him tomorrow," he resolved. As he started to put the
bill into his pocket the thought came to him that Kate and the baby
were suffering. All the way home he battled with his conscience,
striving to convince himself that Delapere had not dropped the note,
that it belonged to him by virtue of discovery, and that he deserved it
if any one in the world did. At last there came a solution. He would
explain it all to Kate and take her advice. He knew she would insist
that he take it to the owner at once, and his conscience was
temporarily eased. But, he would have to confess that he had failed to
find work! Ah, that was the rub!
Another thought! Why should he tell her he had failed! Why not deceive
her? He had the amount of a week's wages in his pocket and he had but
to absent himself from the house during the days to carry out the
deception. Conscience was gone--everything was gone except the desire
to shield the ones at home.
At 5 o'clock he climbed the stairs, feeling like a joint thief and
millionaire, possessing the sort of conscience that both ignore. Kate
met him at the door of their room and he smiled gaily as he kissed her
then snatched the baby from between his feet where she had planted
herself precipitously. Kate was looking at him when he took his seat
near the stove in which burned the remnants of store boxes that he had
found that morning. His eyes could not meet hers when she asked:
"Is it all that you thought it would be, Digby?"
"Yes; I am pleased with the place. I only hope it will be permanent."
"Didn't they give you any satisfaction about the time that they will
need you?"
"Not over a week, they said, but there is chance for a permanent place,
of course."
"What--er--what are they to pay you, dear?"
"Ten dollars a week--it will be a great help, won't it? The rent can be
paid and you can have something warm to wear and--and--" then he
interrupted himself to stir up the fire, a wave of guilt causing him to
withdraw from the ordeal imposed by her trusting blue eyes. "By the
way, Kate, we must be quite merry tonight--isn't that so, Nell? Pop's
got a job!" And with forced gaiety he juggled the laughing child toward
the ceiling. "We ought to eat, drink and be merry.
But--" (lugubriously)--"what have we to eat and drink, not counting the
merriment, Kate?"
"Bread, liver and water--a feast, isn't it? But, oh, Digby, how many
there are who have not even that. And tomorrow is Christmas, too. What
shall we have for our grand dinner?"
"We'll have to have a change, to be sure--you can warm over the water,
liver and bread."
"I have a few cents left, dear--I could have sent with you for a few
little extras for tonight, too. I wish I had; it would be so jolly,
wouldn't it?"
"I haven't had a cent for so long that I--I don't know how it would
feel. Keep your money, Kate; I'll have some tomorrow. I have made
arrangements to draw my pay every day." He felt like a murderer as he
sat there with that fortune in his trousers pocket. Then he danced and
romped with Helen as only he could romp. In the midst of one of the
wildest figures Kate suddenly seized his arm and cried.
"Digby Trotter! Stoop over, this instant! Why, what kind of a wife am
I? Good gracious, but you need a patch there--it's positively
disgraceful. How long have you been going around with that hole there?"
"I don't know--in fact, I had not observed it," he answered, like a
shame-faced boy.
"And your coat is so short, too. Take them off at once and I'll put a
patch there before I do another thing."
"I'll have to go to bed, my dear. Can't you patch 'em with 'em on me?"
"Of course not! I'd certainly sew them fast to your person. Go to bed,
if you please, then. I'll promise not to be long."
And so the head of the house had to go to bed while its mistress
repaired the garment.
"Say, Kate," called out Digby from the bed, where he was playing with
the baby, "that's a positive proof that I've been compelled to sit
around a good deal this year, isn't it?"
"The evidence is certainly damaging," she replied, laughingly, her
fingers busy with the repairs.
"Do the knees require patching, deary?"
"Not in the least; they are the soundest part of the pants," said his
wife.
Just then something slipped from one of the pockets and fell
noiselessly to the floor, Kate's eyes catching sight of it as it
fluttered before them.
A ten dollar bill!
And he had told her that he had no money! Poor bewildered Kate picked
up the bill and sat staring at it with wide-spread eyes, her thoughts
chaos. Had he been lying to her all along? Was there money in his
pockets all these months through which she had slaved to help him keep
their little home together? Deep into her unwilling heart sank a shaft
of distrust, the first it had ever felt. Then for shame she tried to
withdraw the shaft, to ease the pain it had caused, but with all her
tugging the thought went deeper, beyond control, becoming rooted,
settled in that long unblemished home of fidelity, love and
trustfulness.
A hundred excuses came to his defence, but her bewildered brain could
not complete them; they became chaotic conflicts between devotion and
suspicion. No sooner did she see her way clear than it was blocked
again. There was the bill! It had fallen from his pocket--more money
than she had known him to possess in months. And with that bill in his
pocket he had wilfully told her that he had no money, not even a cent.
Distrust grew stronger, faith faded away, resentment flooded the heart
of the loving little woman, and the years of happy misery she had spent
with him became the memory of deception and neglect. Tears welled up in
the glittering eyes; then her teeth came firmly together as if to
suppress the emotion with which she found herself struggling. The
bitterness of reproach came to her as she turned toward the bed on
which frolicked the husband and the child. The child! He played, toyed
with the little one, whose every want he had forgotten, with money in
his selfish pockets. His wife found herself beginning to hate, to
despise him.
But words refused to come, the reproach was unuttered, for a sudden
thought intervened. The thought was mother to a resolution and Digby
Trotter was spared.
"I guess I'll go down town," said Digby when he stood clothed as he had
been before Kate discovered the necessity for a patch. "Perhaps I can
get a chance to help some one of the store-keepers this evening and
earn enough to get up a little dinner for tomorrow." He was buttoning
his little coat tightly around his neck as he made this declaration,
and he noticed that Kate did not respond. "Come, kiss popper good-bye,"
he cried to the child and the response was ready, eager. Then he looked
at Kate's quiet figure bending over the sewing near the candle flame. A
cold chill shot over him, piercing deeper than the chills of the night
without. Something like fear, suspense, grew in his heart as he bent
his eyes upon the form of one who had never allowed him to leave her
presence without a kiss, a cheery word. For an instant the thought came
to him that she had at last ceased to love the useless beggar, the
robber of her joys, the man who had dragged her from comfort to this
life of squalor. With inconsiderate swiftness came the memory of the
days when he and the same Joe Delapere had been rivals for her love,
both rich and influential. She had chosen the one who bore her down;
perhaps now she was regretting the choice in a heart that longed for
the other. She had spoken of Joe frequently during the past two weeks
and had told him of numerous accidental meetings with his old-time
rival. But, in an instant more, his heart had revolted against this
gross suspicion, hardly formed, and he almost cursed himself for the
moment of doubt. Dear, dear little Kate!
"Kate," he said, "aren't you going to kiss me?" He was astonished by
the flushed face she turned toward him and at the wavering eyes which
met his in a fashion so strange that he felt a second chill go through
his being.
"Certainly, dear," she said, coming to his side. "Baby shall not undo
me in politeness."
"Affection would sound better," he said, taking her cold, almost
lifeless hands in his. He stooped to kiss the lips upturned to his, but
drew back, a dismal uncertainty taking possession of him. "What is the
matter, Kate? Tell me, dear. Don't you want to kiss me?" He could not
prevent the moisture from dimming his eyes, drawn by the pride which
felt itself put to shame.
"I'll kiss you whether I want to or not," she said, smiling vaguely,
and their lips met--both cold, fearful.
As Digby hurried down the long, narrow stairways and out in the biting
air his fear and apprehension grew. Wonder, even dismay, charged upon
him, and his excited imagination recalled the many little short-comings
he had observed in Kate's behaviour of late, all of which began to
assume startling proportions, convincing him beyond all doubt that
something was wrong, woefully wrong. Could it be possible that he had
lost her love, her respect? Had she at last ceased to love the
unfortunate being who had battled so feebly in her behalf? Ah, his
heart waxed sore; he felt not the frost without, but the chill within.
What was he to do? What was left to do? He had started from home
intending to purchase a turkey, some toys for Helen, some sweet little
remembrance for the wife he had thought so loving, but his happy
designs had been frustrated. The chilling heart refused to return to
the warmth of expected joy, to recognise the feelings of anticipation.
"Ah, well," he sighed, almost aloud, to the hurrying wind, "what else
can I expect? I have done all I could; no man could do more and no
woman could have borne more than she. Truly she has borne too much--I
cannot blame her--but, oh, how can she--how can she turn against me
now. After all--after all!"
For blocks he rambled on in this manner, seeing no one as he passed,
observing nothing. At last his face grew brighter and a momentary
shadow of joy overspread it.
"I'll take home the turkey, the toys and the shawl to them. They shall
have them if Delapere never sees his money again--if Kate never kisses
me again in her life. I'll tell her the truth about the money!"
Nevertheless it was with a guilty feeling that he ran his hand into his
trousers pocket to fondle the bill. The fingers wriggled around in the
depths, poking into every corner, searching most anxiously. Then the
other dived into the opposite pocket and the fingers found no bill.
With a startled exclamation he came to a standstill on the sidewalk and
a vigorous investigation was begun, his expression growing more
bewildered and alarmed as the search grew more hopeless. The bill was
gone! Lost!
Passers-by noticed the abstracted man fumbling in his pockets,
muttering to himself, and one man asked, cheerfully:
"Lost something, pardner?"
Digby Trotter did not answer. He walked slowly down the street, his
cold hands reposing listlessly in his empty pockets, his heart in his
boots, his eyes looking vacantly toward his heart.
"It wasn't mine; I had no right to it," he murmured, time and again.
Aimlessly about the streets he wandered, turning homeward at last,
depressed, despising himself, ready to give up in spirit. He was going
home to Kate, expecting no love to greet him, feeling in his heart that
he deserved none.
As he passed the crowded stores he saw the turkeys, the chickens, the
oysters, the apples--all of which he might have bought with the lost
bill. "What use is there to be honest?" he asked of himself. Without
knowing what he did, nor from whence came the resolution, he discovered
that he determined to steal a turkey! And he did not feel guilty; it
seemed as if he had no conscience. Something stilled that hitherto
relentless foe to vice which virtue calls conscience and his whole
being throbbed with the delights of the sin that is condemned in the
ten commandments. Stealing? "Thou shalt not steal." But he did not feel
that he was stealing, so where was the sin? Despising only the level to
which his fortunes had fallen he saw without a conscience, without a
moral fear. It all seemed so natural that he should take home a turkey,
the cranberries and all the little "goodies" that his spare table
required to make it strain with surprise on the glad day-tomorrow.
Digby forgot that he had lost the bill, forgot that Kate had treated
him so strangely, forgot that but an hour ago he had been lamenting the
wrong he was doing Joe Delapere in spending his money. Approaching a
big grocery and general provision store he calmly stepped inside,
passing along the counters with the air of a man who lived solely on
turkey and wine sauce. Scores of purchasers thronged the big
establishment and dozens of clerks were kept busy, providing for them.
As Mr. Trotter walked through the store he viewed the baskets which
stood along the counters, laden with the belongings of customers, ready
for the delivery wagons or for their owners who had left them while
they visited other stores. Nearly every basket contained a bird of some
sort--a Christmas dinner, in fact. Each had a slip of paper on which
the name of the owner was written. As he passed the second counter he
observed a well-filled basket and he stopped to examine the name. "Mrs.
John P. Matthews," was written on the slip. This was his basket,
thought he, calmly and without compunction. Then he began to price the
articles on the shelves near by. This was his style of bargaining:
"What is your cocoa worth a pound? Sure it's fresh?"
"Certainly, sir; it's Baker's best."
"Baker's? We never use it. Let me look at that chocolate. I guess I'll
take some of it"--and his hand went slowly into his pocket--"but, hold
on! We've got chocolate! Confound my forgetfulness; I'll buy out your
store directly. Do you keep mince meat?"
"Yes, sir--over at that counter. Just step over there, please. Mr.
Carew will wait on you."
Digby felt that he had established an identity at the counter on which
stood the Matthews basket, so he walked over to the other counter,
priced sweet potatoes, and was immediately directed to the provision
department in the rear. He found the potatoes too high, the apples too
sweet, the macaroni too old and the buckwheat not the brand he
used--all of which was quite true.
Ten minutes later he drifted back to the second counter, smiled
cheerfully at the clerk, picked up the basket and started for the door,
stopping beside a barrel of dried apples to run his fingers through the
contents and to nibble one of the gritty chunks. He was squeezing his
way hastily through the crowd, nearing the door, when a hand was laid
firmly on his left shoulder. Turning quickly he found himself gazing
into the face of a stranger, fairly well dressed and not overly
intelligent in appearance.
"Is that your basket, sir?" asked the stranger, calmly.
"Of course, it is," exclaimed Digby, hastily, a red flush flying to his
now guilty cheek, fading away, as the snow goes before the sun, an
instant later. Caught!
"I think this basket belongs to a lady, sir."
"My wife," interjected the culprit. "She was with me and went on to
another store. Why, what do you mean!" he suddenly demanded, realising
that it was high time to appear injured. "Do you think I'm a thief!"
"No, sir; but will you tell me your name--or your wife's name? Merely
to satisfy me, you see; I'm a watchman here."
"Matthews is my name, sir--and so's my wife's--John P. Matthews. Is
that satisfactory?"
The man slowly turned over the slip in the basket and read the name.
"Are you quite sure that it is your name?" he asked, deliberately,
looking keenly at Digby.
"Certainly! Do you think I don't know my own name?" demanded Digby with
an excellent show of asperity.
"Then this is not your basket, sir, and I am sorry to say that you will
have to be detained until you can give a satisfactory explanation."
Digby's eyes fairly stuck from his head and his face was as white as
the proverbial sheet.
"Not my--not Mrs. Matthews' basket!" he stammered, clutching the slip
in his trembling fingers. His eyes grew blurred with amazement an
instant later. He passed his hand before them and when he took it away
there was a wild, half insane stare in them. He looked again at the
slip and read: "Mrs. Digby Trotter, Voxburgh building."
His nerveless arm relinquished the basket to the hand of the stranger
and his puzzled eyes sought the floor in a long stare, broken presently
by the voice in his ear:
"Come along. Step back here with me."
Digby shook the man's hand from his arm and, as he turned to follow
him, asked hoarsely:
"Where is she now?"
"Who?"
"My wife of course--Mrs. Trotter."
"Well, you're a bird!" exclaimed his guardian. "How about Mrs.
Matthews?"
"Good Heavens, what have I done--I--I--look here, man. It's a mistake--"
"No, you don't--mistakes don't go. A man ought to know his own name."
Digby saw no one, heard no one but the man beside him as he stumbled
along, pleading with his eyes, his mouth, his every expression. He did
not observe the lady against whom he roughly jostled, but the lady
turned in time to hear him say in piteous accents:
"Man, for God's sake, don't be too hasty--; I---"
"Oh, let up; we're onto you! This ain't your basket and you took it,
that's all there is about it. Come on!" gruffly jerked out the man at
his elbow.
"But where is Mrs. Trotter? I want to--I must see her."
"Here I am, Digby. What is the matter?" cried a well known voice in his
ear. That voice had never sounded so sweet to him, nor had its
sweetness ever sounded so much like condemnation to his wretched soul.
"Kate!" he gasped.
"What is it?" she demanded hurriedly. "What does this man want?" The
man was staring blankly at the pair, stock still with amazement.
"He says I--I have been trying to steal this basket. It's our--yours, I
mean, isn't it? Tell him so, Kate--quick!" cried the miserable man with
the plaintive coat collar turned up about his neck.
"This is our basket, sir," indignantly exclaimed Mrs. Trotter.
"I know it is yours, Mrs. Trotter; I saw you buying the stuff, but--"
"Don't haggle here any longer!" exclaimed Mr. Trotter, boldly now. "Let
go of my arm!"
"I beg your pardon, sir. If the lady says it's all right, why, it
is--but you know you said your name was--"
"You lie, sir!" said Digby, sternly. "I never said anything of the
kind. Mrs. Trotter have you paid for this stuff?"
"No--I was not through ordering, but what does all this mean, Digby?"
whispered the mystified saviour, feeling herself the shame-faced centre
of a group of wondering people.
"Never mind now," said her husband, with dignity. "And you, sir, unpack
this basket. We don't want a cent's worth of your goods."
"Oh, Digby--" began Kate.
"My dear Mr. Trotter,"--began the luckless attache, but Digby silenced
them both by suddenly grasping his wife's arm and striding toward the
door, he defiantly, conscience stricken, she bewildered beyond all hope
of description.
A moment later they were on the pavement and Digby was racking his
brain for an explanation. How was he to account to her for his
possession of that basket, even though it was hers? It did not occur to
him to wonder how she came to be the owner of the coveted basket--his
penniless Kate.
"Digby, what did that man mean?" asked Kate, finally pulling her wits
together. There was something like sternness in her voice, something
like resentment, something like tears. He tried to look into her eyes;
eyes which were upturned to his so anxiously, but he could not. There
was something creeping up in his throat that compelled him to gulp
suddenly. A rush of shamed degradation flashed over him, overwhelming
him completely, and before he could prevent it his honest, contrite
heart had spoken.
"Little girl--God forgive me--I was trying to steal that--that basket."
He felt her start and gasp and he could distinguish the horror, the
shock in her eyes, although he did not see them. Her hand relaxed its
clasp upon his arm and her trembling voice murmured:
"Oh, Digby! Oh, Digby!"
"Don't--Don't, for heaven's sake, don't, Kate! Don't blame me! I did it
for you, for the baby--I--I couldn't see you hungry on Christmas"--and
here the tears rolled down his cheeks and the words came thick and
choking. "Kate, I don't think I committed a crime--do you? Say you
don't think so, darling!"
"You were stealing," she whispered, numbly.
"For you, darling--please--please forget it--I--I--Oh, I can't say
anything more." Her clasp tightened again on his arm and he felt the
warm spirit of forgiveness, of love communicating with his own
miserable self. No word came to either as they faced the cutting wind,
bound they knew not whither, so distraught were they with the
importance of the moment.
Suddenly he stopped as if struck by a great blow. A glare came to his
eyes and his brain fairly reeled. Pushing her away at arm's length from
him he gave expression to the sudden thought which had so strangely
affected him.
"Where did you get the money to buy that stuff with?" he demanded, and
there was anger, suspicion, almost terror in his voice. His ready brain
had resumed the thoughts of an hour ago. He saw but one solution and it
came rushing along with the reawakened thoughts, firing his soul with
jealousy. Joe Delapere had been providing his wife with money--he could
not be mistaken. Horrible! Horrible!
But back came her answer, equally severe, and if as from a sudden
recollection, also:
"Where did you get it?"
"Get what? he demanded, harshly. Joe Delapere! Joe Delapere! Joe
Delapere--that lover of old filled his brain like a raging fire.
"You know what I mean, Digby Trotter--what is it that you mean? Where
did you get that ten dollars you had in your pocket today?"
"Oh, heaven!" gasped Digby, almost falling over. Then he burst into
rapturous laughter, and, right there on the sidewalk, embraced her
vigorously. Not all the riches in the world could have purchased the
one moment of relief.
"What ten?" he cried. "Was that the ten! Oh, you dear, dear little
Kate--did you do it? I thought I had lost it on the street. Oh, this is
rich!" and he laughed heartier than ever.
"Stop!" she cried, her face flaming. "Where did you get it? Why did you
tell me that you had no money? Have you been doing this all along--all
these bitter years?"
He sobered up in an instant, for he saw the situation as she had seen
it.
"Why, Kate, I--now, listen a minute! You probably won't believe me, but
I swear to you I found that bill--"
"Found it!" she sneered. "That's very likely, isn't it?"
"I knew you'd say that--but I found it, just the same," he went on
patiently. "Joe Delapere dropped it as he was getting into a
carriage--yes, he did, now--and he drove off before I could pick it up
and return it to him. I kept the money, intending to give it back to
him. That's true, dear--so help me God. Don't you believe me?" He was
very, very much in earnest, but she was woman enough to question
further.
"Why didn't you tell me of this before?"
"Because I--well, I didn't get that place at Balling and Feet's and I
didn't have the heart to tell you I had failed again. I kept the hill
just to deceive you. Heaven is my witness that I intended to pay it
back to Joe, but the temptation was too great--I couldn't resist. Don't
you understand now, dear? I wanted it for you and Helen; you don't know
how I prized it. It meant so much. Why, when I started down town to buy
the little dinner that I afterwards tried to steal--"
"From me," she interrupted.
"Yes, from you--I felt so happy in that I was sinning gently for you.
Then I missed the bill and--well, the other followed; you know what I
mean. You don't think I'm a real thief, do you, Kate?"
"No, no, dear; forgive me!" she cried, with true wifely penitence. "I
see it all and I love you for it, better than ever before." She
squeezed his arm tightly and squeezed her eyelids vainly. "But you must
never do it again," she cautioned, tenderly. He laughed again, that
unwilling thief and pauper.
"Oh, by the way, while I think of it, how did you happen to have that
ten?" he asked, with cruel glee.
She felt even guiltier than he and her voice was quite feeble as she
answered:
"Well, you remember when I was mending your trousers," she began. He
gave her arm a tremendous pressure and interrupted:
"But the hole wasn't in the pocket, dear, was it?"
"Oh, you'll forgive me, won't you truly, Digby?" she almost wailed.
"But you were stealing!" he said, solemnly, recalling her condemnatory
words.
"Don't say it that way, Digby," she protested, so faintly that his
heart smote him and he changed the subject with almost ridiculous haste.
"Hadn't we better go to another grocery and buy our Christmas dinner,"
he suggested.
"No, indeed!" she exclaimed. "With what could we buy it!"
"With my--your ten, I mean."
"Digby Trotter, we may carry on our nefarious robberies as individuals,
but I don't intend to form a partnership in the business. I don't
approve of doing it collectively."
"But what will we do with the money? Burn it?"
"I thought you wanted to give it back to its owner."
"But he won't miss it--not just yet, anyhow," he expostulated.
"Neither shall you; you are never to see it again," she said, firmly,
clasping the little purse defiantly.
"Well, I guess you're right. We'll do without our turkey dinner. It's
pretty rough, though, when we are nearer being millionaires than we
have been in months," he said, regretfully.
"I couldn't eat a mouthful of turkey bought with Joe Delapere's money,"
she said, and he felt his heart throb joyfully for some strange cause.
Homeward they wended their disconsolate way, her arm through his,
clinging fondly to him, he proud of the honour she was bestowing upon
him--poor, poor lovers! In spite of all, he felt better for that which
had happened. He had begun what might have been a career of crime.
Circumstance and her sweet influence had averted that career. She, too,
had learned a lesson, deeper in its meaning than any logic could have
been; she had distrusted him. Honour, love and duty bound them together
again. They were going home to dine on dried beef, water and perhaps
bread--Christmas day, too.
Firmly they turned their wistful eyes from the shop windows; they had
nothing in common with them, save desire.
At last they came to the dingy entrance which led to the long halls and
multigenerous stairways of their abiding place. Without a word they
began to climb the steps, tired and with returning discouragement. They
were thinking of the baby. Tears came to the father's eyes, but he
turned his face away and attempted to whistle. She pressed his arm
again in silence, but for the same reason she looked toward the wall.
At the first landing he paused and drew her to his breast. As their
lips met in one brave, compassionate kiss a sob fled from the heart of
each.
Drawing nearer the top floor they heard strange sounds coming from
their own room. A gruff, hoarse voice was prominent and they stopped to
look into each other's eyes with hopeless alarm.
"It's the landlord," whispered Digby. "I might have known it would all
come at once!"
"What shall we do?" asked Kate, with feminine dismay.
"Do? What do we usually do? Nothing! I don't know how I'm going to put
him off again--we're over three weeks behind with the rent. Oh, Kate!"
he almost sobbed.
"Well, dear!" She was trembling. So was he.
"What if he orders us to leave the place?" She could not reply and they
stood silent, looking toward the door that they feared to enter.
"Where is the baby?" he finally asked.
"I left her with the woman across the hall."
"But I hear her voice in our room. What is she doing in there with that
infernal old brute?" Digby's alert ear had caught the sound of the
child's prattle, mingling with the discordant growls of the man.
"Oh, Digby, I'm so frightened! What can they be doing in there?"
"Don't be afraid. I'll chuck him out of there on his head if he has
been tormenting that child with his compliments--and it would be just
like the old scoundrel, too." He took several steps forward.
"Do be careful!" murmured his wife, following faithfully. Digby threw
open the door defiantly and stood glaring into the little room.
A big, portly man was seated near the stove, little Helen on his knee.
As the door opened he raised his chop-whiskered face and then, placing
the child on the floor, drew himself erect and came hastily toward the
pair in the doorway, exclaiming:
"My boy! At last I have got you! God knows I've searched the town over
and over for you--and I find you in a hole like this! Come to my
arms--oh, demme! demme! demme!"
End of Project Gutenberg's Her Weight in Gold, by George Barr McCutcheon