Bredes. They came down to breakfast somewhat late, and, as soon as they
arrived, the Biggleses swooped up the last fragments that remained on
their plates, and made a stately march out of the dining–room. Then
Miss Hoogencamp arose and departed, leaving a whole fish–ball on her
plate. Even as Atalanta might have dropped an apple behind her to tempt
her pursuer to check his speed, so Miss Hoogencamp left that fish–ball
behind her, and between her maiden self and Contamination.
We had finished our breakfast, my wife and I, before the Bredes
appeared. We talked it over, and agreed that we were glad that we had
not been obliged to take sides upon such insufficient testimony.
[Illustration]
After breakfast, it was the custom of the male half of the Jacobus
household to go around the corner of the building and smoke their
pipes and cigars where they would not annoy the ladies. We sat under
a trellis covered with a grape–vine that had borne no grapes in the
memory of man. This vine, however, bore leaves, and these, on that
pleasant Summer morning, shielded from us two persons who were in
earnest conversation in the straggling, half–dead flower–garden at the
side of the house.
“I don’t want,” we heard Mr. Jacobus say, “to enter in no man’s
_pry_–vacy; but I do want to know who it may be, like, that I hev in my
house. Now what I ask of _you_, and I don’t want you to take it as in
no ways _personal_, is—hev you your merridge–license with you?”
[Illustration]
“No,” we heard the voice of Mr. Brede reply. “Have you yours?”
I think it was a chance shot; but it told all the same. The Major (he
was a widower), and Mr. Biggle and I looked at each other; and Mr.
Jacobus, on the other side of the grape–trellis, looked at—I don’t know
what—and was as silent as we were.
Where is _your_ marriage–license, married reader? Do you know? Four
men, not including Mr. Brede, stood or sate on one side or the other of
that grape–trellis, and not one of them knew where his marriage–license
was. Each of us had had one—the Major had had three. But where were
they? Where is _yours_? Tucked in your best–man’s pocket; deposited
in his desk—or washed to a pulp in his white waistcoat (if white
waistcoats be the fashion of the hour), washed out of existence—can you
tell where it is? Can you—unless you are one of those people who frame
that interesting document and hang it upon their drawing–room walls?
Mr. Brede’s voice arose, after an awful stillness of what seemed like
five minutes, and was, probably, thirty seconds:
“Mr. Jacobus, will you make out your bill at once, and let me pay it? I
shall leave by the six o’clock train. And will you also send the wagon
for my trunks?”
“I hain’t said I wanted to hev ye leave—” began Mr. Jacobus; but Brede
cut him short.
“Bring me your bill.”
“But,” remonstrated Jacobus, “ef ye ain’t—“
“Bring me your bill!” said Mr. Brede.
* * * * *
My wife and I went out for our morning’s walk. But it seemed to us,
when we looked at “our view,” as if we could only see those invisible
villages of which Brede had told us—that other side of the ridges
and rises of which we catch no glimpse from lofty hills or from the
heights of human self–esteem. We meant to stay out until the Bredes had
taken their departure; but we returned just in time to see Pete, the
Jacobus darkey, the blacker of boots, the brusher of coats, the general
handy–man of the house, loading the Brede trunks on the Jacobus wagon.
And, as we stepped upon the verandah, down came Mrs. Brede, leaning on
Mr. Brede’s arm, as though she were ill; and it was clear that she had
been crying. There were heavy rings about her pretty black eyes.
My wife took a step toward her.
“Look at that dress, dear,” she whispered; “she never thought any thing
like this was going to happen when she put _that_ on.”
It was a pretty, delicate, dainty dress, a graceful, narrow–striped
affair. Her hat was trimmed with a narrow–striped silk of the same
colors—maroon and white—and in her hand she held a parasol that matched
her dress.
[Illustration]
“She’s had a new dress on twice a day,” said my wife; “but that’s the
prettiest yet. Oh, somehow—I’m _awfully_ sorry they’re going!”
But going they were. They moved toward the steps. Mrs. Brede looked
toward my wife, and my wife moved toward Mrs. Brede. But the ostracised
woman, as though she felt the deep humiliation of her position, turned
sharply away, and opened her parasol to shield her eyes from the sun.
A shower of rice—a half–pound shower of rice—fell down over her pretty
hat and her pretty dress, and fell in a spattering circle on the floor,
outlining her skirts—and there it lay in a broad, uneven band, bright
in the morning sun.
Mrs. Brede was in my wife’s arms, sobbing as if her young heart would
break.
“Oh, you poor, dear, silly children!” my wife cried, as Mrs. Brede
sobbed on her shoulder, “why _didn’t_ you tell us?”
“W–W–W–We didn’t want to be t–t–taken for a b–b–b–b–bridal couple,”
sobbed Mrs. Brede; “and we d–d–didn’t _dream_ what awful lies we’d have
to tell, and all the aw–aw–ful mixed–up–ness of it. Oh, dear, dear,
dear!”
* * * * *
“Pete!” commanded Mr. Jacobus, “put back them trunks. These folks stays
here’s long’s they wants ter. Mr. Brede—” he held out a large, hard
hand—“I’d orter’ve known better,” he said. And my last doubt of Mr.
Brede vanished as he shook that grimy hand in manly fashion.
The two women were walking off toward “our view,” each with an arm
about the other’s waist—touched by a sudden sisterhood of sympathy.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Brede, addressing Jacobus, Biggle, the Major and
me, “there is a hostelry down the street where they sell honest New
Jersey beer. I recognize the obligations of the situation.”
We five men filed down the street. The two women went toward the
pleasant slope where the sunlight gilded the forehead of the great
hill. On Mr. Jacobus’s verandah lay a spattered circle of shining
grains of rice. Two of Mr. Jacobus’s pigeons flew down and picked up
the shining grains, making grateful noises far down in their throats.
[Illustration]
MR. COPERNICUS AND
THE PROLETARIAT.
[Illustration: “_’Gentlemen,’ he drawled, ‘you’ll excuse my not
gig–gig–getting up.’_”]
MR. COPERNICUS AND THE PROLETARIAT.
The old publishing house of T. Copernicus & Son was just recovering
from the rush of holiday business—a rush of perhaps a dozen purchasers.
Christmas shoppers rarely sought out the dingy building just around the
corner from Astor Place, and T. C. & Son had done no great business
since young T. C., the “Son,” died, fifteen years before. The house
lived on two or three valuable copyrights; and old Mr. Copernicus kept
it alive just for occupation’s sake, now that Tom was dead. But he
liked to maintain the assumption that his queer old business, with its
publication of half–a–dozen scientific or theological works per annum,
was the same flourishing concern that it had been in his prime. That it
did not flourish was nothing to him. He was rich, thanks to himself;
his wife was rich, thanks to her aunt; his daughter was rich, thanks
to her grandmother. So he played at business, and every Christmas–time
he bought a lot of fancy stationery and gift–books that nobody called
for, and hired a couple of extra porters for whom the head–porter did
his best to find some work. Then, the week after New Year’s, he would
discharge his holiday hands, and give each of them a dollar or two
apiece out of his own pocket.
“Barney,” he said to the old porter, “you don’t need those two extra
men any longer?”
“‘Deed an’ we do not, sorr!” said Barney; “th’ wan o’ thim wint off av
himself the mornin’, an’ t’ other do be readin’ books the whole day
long.”
“Send him to me,” Mr. Copernicus ordered, and Barney yelled
unceremoniously, “Mike!”
The figure of a large and somewhat stout youth, who might have
been eighteen or twenty–eight years old, appeared, rising from the
sub–cellar. His hair was black, his face was clean–shaven, and although
he held in his hand the evidence of his guilt, a book kept partly
open with his forefinger, he had an expression of imperturbable calm,
and placid, ox–like fixity of purpose. He wore a long, seedy, black
frock–coat, buttoned up to the neck–band of his collarless shirt.
[Illustration]
“How’s this?” inquired Mr. Copernicus. “I’m told that you spend your
time reading my books.” The young man slowly opened his mouth and
answered in a deliberate drawl, agreeably diversified by a peculiar
stutter.
“I haven’t been reading _your_ b–b–books, sir; I’ve been reading my
own. All I had to do was to hand up boxes of fuf–fuf–fancy stationery,
and—“
“I see,” interposed Mr. Copernicus, hurriedly, “there hasn’t been any
very great call for fancy stationery this year.”
“And when there wasn’t any c–c–call for it, I read. I ain’t going to be
a pip–pip–porter all my life. Would _you_?”
“Why, of course, my boy,” said Mr. Copernicus, “if you are reading to
improve your mind, in your leisure time—let’s see your book.”
The young man handed him a tattered duodecimo.
“Why, it’s Virgil!” exclaimed his employer. “You can’t read this.”
“Some of it I kik–kik–can,” returned the employee, “and some of it I
kik–kik–can’t.”
Mr. Copernicus sought out “Arma virumque” and “Tityre, tu patulæ,” and
one or two other passages he was sure of, and the studious young porter
read them in the artless accent which the English attribute to the
ancient Romans, and translated them with sufficient accuracy.
“Where did you learn to read Latin?”
“I p–p–picked it up in odd hours.”
“What else have you studied?”
“A little Gig–Gig–Greek.”
“Any thing else?”
“Some algebra and some Fif–Fif–French.”
“Where do you come from?”
“From Baltimore,” drawled the prodigy, utterly unmoved by his
employer’s manifest astonishment. “I was janitor of a school there, and
the principal lent me his bib–bib–books.”
“What is your name?”
“M–M–Michael Quinlan.”
“And what was your father’s business?”
“He was a bib–bib–bricklayer,” the young man replied calmly, adding,
reflectively, “when he wasn’t did–did–drunk.”
“Bless my old soul!” said Mr. Copernicus to himself, “this is most
extraordinary! I’ll see you again, young man. Barney!” he called to the
head porter, “this young man will remain with us for the present.”
[Illustration]
A couple of days later, Mr. Copernicus sent for Michael Quinlan, and
invited him to call at the Copernican residence on Washington Square,
that evening.
“I want to have Professor Barcalow talk with you,” he explained.
At the hour appointed, Mr. M. Quinlan presented himself at the basement
door of the old house, and was promptly translated to the library,
where Professor Barcalow, once President of Clear Creek University,
Indiana, rubbed his bald head and examined the young man at length.
Quinlan underwent an hour’s ordeal without the shadow of discomposure.
He drawled and stuttered with a placid face, whether his answers were
right or wrong. At the end of the hour, the Professor gave his verdict.
“Our young friend,” he said, “has certainly done wonders for himself
in the way of self–tuition. He is _almost_ able—mind, I say _almost_—to
pass a good Freshman examination. Of course, he is not thorough. There
is just the same difference, Mr. Copernicus, between the tuition you
do for yourself and the tuition that you receive from a competent
teacher as there is between the carpentering you do for yourself and
the carpentering a regular carpenter does for you. I can see the marks
of self–tuition all over this young man’s conversation. He has never
met a competent instructor in his life. But he has done very well
for himself—wonderfully well. He in entitled to great credit. Try
to remember, Quinlan, what I told you about the use of the ablative
absolute.”
[Illustration]
Quinlan said he would, and made his exit by the basement door.
“If he works hard,” remarked the Professor, “he will be able to enter
Clear Creek by June, and work his way through.”
“And as it happens,” said Mr. Copernicus, “I’m going to lose my
night–watchman next week, and I think I’ll put Quinlan in. And then
I’ve been thinking—there are all poor Tom’s books that he had when he
went to Columbia. I’ll let the boy come here and borrow them, and I can
keep an eye on him and see how he’s getting along.”
“H’m! yes, of course,” the Professor assented hesitatingly, dubious of
Mr. Copernicus’s classics.
* * * * *
“Well, Barney,” Mr. Copernicus hailed his head–porter a month or two
later, “how does our new night–watchman do?”
“Faith, I’ve seen worse than him,” said Barney. “He’s a willing lad.”
Barney’s heart had been won. He came down to the store each morning and
found that Quinlan had saved him the trouble of taking off the long
sheets of cotton cloth that protected the books on the counters from
the dust.
* * * * *
Every week thereafter, Quinlan presented himself at the basement door,
shabby, but no longer collarless, was admitted to the library, by way
of the back–stairs, and received from Mrs. Copernicus the books that
Mr. Copernicus had set aside for him. But one day Mr. Copernicus
forgot the books, and Mrs. Copernicus asked the young man into the
parlor to explain to him how it had happened. When she had explained,
being a kindly soul, she made a little further conversation, and asked
Quinlan some questions about his studies. Greek was Greek indeed to
her; but when he spoke of French, she felt as though she had a sort of
second–hand acquaintance with the language.
“Floretta,” she said to her daughter, “talk to Mr. Quinlan in French,
and find out how much he knows.”
Floretta blushed. She was a wren–like little thing, with soft brown
hair, rather pretty, and yet the sort of girl whom men never notice.
To address this male stranger was an agony to her. But she knew that
her French had been bought at a fashionable boarding–school, and bought
for show, and her mother had a right to demand its exhibition. She
asked M. Quinlan how he portrayed himself, and M. Quinlan, with no more
expression on his face than a Chinese idol, but with a fluency checked
only by his drawl and his stutter, poured forth what sounded to Mrs.
Copernicus like a small oration.
“What did he say then, Floretta?” she demanded.
“He said how grateful he was to Papa for giving him such a chance, and
how he wants to be a teacher when he knows enough. And, oh, Mama, he
speaks _ever_ so much better than _I_ do.”
“Where did you learn to speak so well?” inquired Mrs. Copernicus,
incredulously.
“I lived for some years in a French house, Ma’am. At least, the lady
of the house was French, and she never spoke any thing else.”
[Illustration]
Beneficence is quick to develop into an insidious habit. When Mr.
Copernicus heard this new thing of his prodigy and protegé, a new idea
came to him.
“Old Haverhill, down at the office, speaks French like a native. I’ll
let him feel Quinlan’s teeth, and if he is as good as you say he is,
he’d better come once a week and talk French to Floretta for an hour.
You can sit in the room. She ought to keep up her French.”
And every Wednesday, from four to five, Mr. Quinlan and Miss Floretta
conversed, Floretta blushing ever, Quinlan retaining his idol–like
stolidity. Sometimes the dull monotony of his drawl, broken only by his
regular and rhythmic stutter, lulled Mrs. Copernicus into a brief nap
over her book or her fancy work.
* * * * *
Spring had come. The trees had brought out their pale and gauzy green
veils, the beds of tulips and Alpine daisies made glad spots in the
parks, and Quinlan, at his employer’s suggestion, had purchased a ready
made Spring suit, in which he looked so presentable that Mr. Copernicus
was half minded to ask him to dinner.
For Mrs. Copernicus had said something to Mr. Copernicus that had set
him to thinking of many things. The Chinese idol had abated no jot of
his stolidity, and yet—perhaps—he had found a worshiper. Floretta began
blushing of Wednesdays, a full hour before the lesson.
What was to come of it? On the face of it, it seemed impossible. A
Quinlan and a Copernicus! And yet—great–grandfather Copernicus, who
founded the family in America—was not he a carpenter? And did not
his descendants point with pride to his self–made solidity? And here
was native worth; high ambition; achievement that promised more. And
Floretta was twenty–four, and had never had an offer. “What,” inquired
Mr. Copernicus of himself, “is my duty toward the proletariat?”
One thing was certain. If the question was not settled in the negative
at once, Quinlan must be educated. So, instead of inviting Quinlan
to dinner, he invited Mr. Joseph Mitts, the traveling agent of the
Hopkinsonian Higher Education Association, who, by a rare chance, was
in town.
[Illustration]
Cynical folk said that the Hopkinsonian Association existed only to
sell certain textbooks and curious forms of stationery which were
necessary to the Hopkinsonian system. But no such idea had ever entered
the head of Mr. Mitts. He roamed about the land, introducing the
System wherever he could, and a brisk business agent followed him and
sold the Hopkinsonian Blackboards and the Hopkinsonian Ink and the
Hopkinsonian Teachers’ Self–Examination Blanks, on commission.
As they smoked their cigars in the Library after dinner, Mr. Copernicus
told Mr. Mitts about Quinlan. Mr. Mitts was interested. He knew a
Professor at a fresh–water college who would put Quinlan through his
studies during the vacation.
“Well, that’s settled,” Mr. Copernicus said, and he beamed with
satisfaction. “I knew you’d help me out, Mitts. Only it’s so hard ever
to get a sight of you—you are always traveling about.”
“We don’t often meet,” Mr. Mitts assented. “And it is curious that this
visit should have been the means of giving me sight of a man in whom I
want to interest _you_. His name is Chester—Dudley Winthrop Chester. He
is the son of my old clergyman, and he has given his parents a deal of
trouble. I don’t know that Dud ever was vicious or dissolute. But he
was the most confirmed idler and spendthrift I ever knew. He couldn’t
even get through college, and he never would do a stroke of work. He
made his father pay his debts half a dozen times, and when that was
stopped, he drifted away, and his family quite lost sight of him. I met
him in Baltimore last year, and lent him money to come to New York. He
said he was going to work. And just as I came in your front door, I
saw him going out of your basement door with a package under his arm,
so I infer he is employed by one of your trades–people—your grocer,
perhaps.”
“Just as you came in? Why—a large, dark–haired young man?”
“Yes; clean–shaven.”
“Why, that was Quinlan!”
“No,” said Mr. Mitts, with the smile of superior knowledge. “It was
Chester, and if I’m not mistaken, he was kissing the cook.”
“Then you _are_ mistaken!” cried Mr. Copernicus; “my cook is as black
as the ace of spades. There isn’t a white servant in the house.”
“Why, that’s so!” Mr. Mitts was staggered for the moment. “But—wait a
minute—does your man Quinlan speak with a drawl, and just one stutter
to the sentence?”
“I think he does,” replied his host; “but—“
“Dudley Chester!” said Mr. Mitts.
“But, my dear Mitts, where did he get the Latin and Greek?”
“He had to learn _something_ at Yale.”
“And the French?”
“His mother was a French Canadian. That’s where he gets his French—and
his laziness.”
Mr. Copernicus made one last struggle.
“But he has been most industrious and faithful in my employ.”
“What is he?”
“My—my night–watchman.”
“Mr. Copernicus,” inquired Mr. Mitts, “have you a watchman’s clock in
your building?”
“No, sir,” said Mr. Copernicus, indignantly. “I have none of those
degrading new–fangled machines. I prefer to trust my employees.”
“Then Dudley Chester is asleep in your store at this minute.”
* * * * *
A soft, moist breeze, with something of the sea in it, blew gently in
at an open window of the second floor of the business establishment
of T. Copernicus & Son. Near the window a gas–jet flickered. Under
the gas–jet, on, or rather in, a bed ingeniously constructed of the
heaped–up covering–cloths from the long counters, lay Mr. Michael
Quinlan, half–supported on his left elbow. In his other hand he held,
half–open, a yellow–covered French novel. Between his lips was a
cigarette. A faint shade of something like amusement lent expression
to his placid features as he listened to Mr. Copernicus puffing his
way up the stairs, followed by Mr. Mitts and Barney. The hands on the
clock pointed to eleven. Mr. Quinlan’s attire was appropriate to the
hour. He wore only a frayed cotton night–shirt. His other clothes were
carelessly disposed about his couch.
He waited calmly until his visitors had appeared before him, and then
he greeted them with a gracious wave of his hand—an easy gesture that
seemed to dismiss Quinlan and announce Chester.
“Gentlemen,” he drawled, “you’ll excuse my not gig–gig–getting up to
welcome you. Ah, Joseph! I saw you this evening, and I supposed the
j–j–jig was up.”
Mr. Copernicus was purple and speechless for the better part of a
minute. Then he demanded, in a husky whisper:
“_Who are you?_”
Mr. Chester, with nothing of the Quinlan left about him, waved his hand
once more.
“Mr. Joseph Mitts is a gentleman of irre–pip–pip–proachable veracity,”
he said. “I can kik–kik–confidently confirm any statements he has made
about me.”
“And why—” Mr. Copernicus had found his voice—“why have you humbugged
me in this iniquitous—infamous way?”
The late Quinlan gazed at him with blank surprise.
“My dear sir, did–did–don’t you see? If I’d told you who I was, you’d
have thought I was a did–did–damn fool not to know more than I did.
Whereas, don’t you see? you thought I was a did–did–devil of a fellow.”
“Get up and dress yourself and get out of here!” said his employer.
“The jig, then,” inquired Mr. Dudley Chester, slowly rising, “is
did–did–definitely up? No more Fif–Fif–French lessons? No? Well,”
he continued, as he leisurely pulled on his trousers, “that’s the
kik–kik–cussèd inconsistency. The j–j–jig is up for the gentleman;
but when you thought I was a did–did–damn Mick, I was right in the
bib–bib–bosom of the blooming family.”
“Here are your week’s wages,” said Mr. Copernicus, trembling with rage.
“Now, get out!”
“Not exactly,” responded the unperturbed sinner: “a ticket to Chicago!”
“I’m afraid you had best yield,” whispered Mr. Mitts. “Your family, you
know. It wouldn’t do to have this get out.”
Mr. Copernicus had a minute of purple rage. Then he handed the money to
Mr. Mitts.
“Put him on the train,” he said. “There’s one at twelve.”
“We can make it if we hurry,” said the obliging Mr. Mitts. “Where’s
your lodging–house, Chester?”
Chester opened his eyes inquiringly. “Why, this is all I’ve got,” he
said; “what’s the mim–mim–matter with this?”
“But your—your luggage?” inquired Mr. Mitts.
Mr. Chester waved a much–worn tooth–brush in the air.
“Man wants but lil–lil–little here below,” he remarked.
* * * * *
“You see,” explained Mr. Dudley Winthrop Chester, formerly Quinlan,
as he stepped out into the night air with Mr. Mitts, “the scheme is
bib–bib–busted here, but I’ve got confidence in it. It’s good—it’ll
gig–gig–go. Chicago’s the pip–pip–place for me. I suppose if you flash
up ‘amo, amas’ to a Chicago man, he thinks you’re Elihu Burritt, the
learned bib–bib–blacksmith.”
[Illustration]
“Aren’t you tired of this life of false pretences?” asked Mr. Mitts,
sternly.
“You can bib–bib–bet I am,” responded Chester, frankly; “I haven’t
said a cuss–word in six months. Did–did–did–damn—damn—damn—damn!” he
vociferated into the calm air of night, by way of relieving his pent–up
feelings. “How long is it, Dudley,” pursued the patient Mitts, “since
your parents heard from you?”
[Illustration]
“Two years, I gig–gig–guess,” said Chester. “By Jove,” he added, as his
eye fell on the blue sign of a telegraph office, “did–did–damn if I
don’t telegraph them right now.”
Mr. Mitts was deeply gratified. “That’s a good idea,” he said.
“Lend me a kik–kik–quarter,” said Dudley Chester.
* * * * *
At midnight sharp, Mr. Mitts saw his charge ascend the rear platform
of the Chicago train just as it moved out of the gloomy Jersey City
station of the Pennsylvania Railroad.
A young woman of slight figure, with a veil about her face, emerged
from the interior of the car and threw her arms around the neck of Mr.
Chester, late Quinlan.
“I thought I wasn’t mistaken,” said Mr. Mitts to himself.