MR. CHECKYNSHAW AND FAMILY.
We left Mr. Checkynshaw entering the house of Mrs. Wittleworth, in
Atkinson Street; and, as he was a gentleman of eminent dignity and
gravity, we feel compelled to beg his pardon for leaving him so long
out in the cold of a winter night. Having made the barber as
comfortable as the circumstances would permit, we are entirely willing
to let the banker in, though the abode at which he sought admission was
hardly worthy of the distinguished honor thus conferred upon it.
Mrs. Wittleworth cautiously opened the door, for those who have the
least to steal are often the most afraid of robbers; but, recognizing
the lofty personage at the door, she invited him to enter, much
wondering what had driven him from his comfortable abode in Pemberton
Square to seek out her obscure residence at that hour in the evening.
Mr. Checkynshaw was conducted to an apartment which served as kitchen,
parlor, and bed-room for the poor woman, her son having a chamber up
stairs. A seat was handed to the great man, and he sat down by the
cooking-stove, after bestowing a glance of apparent disgust at the room
and its furnishings.
The banker rubbed his hands, and looked as though he meant business;
and Mrs. Wittleworth actually trembled with fear lest some new calamity
was about to be heaped upon the pile of misfortunes that already
weighed her down. Mr. Checkynshaw had never before darkened her doors.
Though she had once been a welcome guest within his drawing-rooms, she
had long since been discarded, and cast out, and forgotten. When the
poor woman, worse than a widow, pleaded before him for the means of
living, he had given her son a place in his office, at a salary of five
dollars a week. If she had gone to him again, doubtless he would have
done more for her; but, as long as she could keep soul and body
together by her ill-paid drudgery, she could not endure the humiliation
of displaying her poverty to him.
Mrs. Wittleworth had once lived in affluence. She had been brought up
in ease and luxury, and her present lot was all the harder for the
contrast. Her father, James Osborne, was an enterprising merchant, who
had accumulated a fortune of a hundred thousand dollars, on which he
had the good sense to retire from active business. Of his four
children, the two sons died, leaving the two daughters to inherit his
wealth.
John Wittleworth, the father of Fitz, was a clerk in the counting-room
of Mr. Osborne, and finally became the partner of his employer, whose
confidence he obtained to such a degree that the merchant was willing
to trust him with all he had. He married Ellen Osborne; and when her
father retired from business, his son-in-law carried it on alone. At
this time, doubtless, John Wittleworth was worthy of all the confidence
reposed in him, for the terrible habit, which eventually beggared him,
had not developed itself to an extent which seemed perilous even to the
eye of affection.
A few years after the marriage of Ellen, Mr. Checkynshaw, then aspiring
to no higher title than that of a simple broker, presented himself as
the suitor of Mary, the younger daughter of the retired merchant. Mr.
Osborne did not like him very well; but Mary did, and their affair was
permitted to take its course. Only a few months after this alliance of
the Checkynshaw and the Osborne, the merchant was taken sick. When it
was evident that his days were drawing to a close, he made his will.
His property consisted of about one hundred thousand dollars. One half
of it was invested in a block of stores, which paid a heavy rental, and
the other half was in money, stocks, and debts. In settling the affairs
of the firm he had taken John Wittleworth's notes for thirty thousand
dollars, secured by a mortgage on the stock. In making his will, Mr.
Osborne gave to Ellen or--what was the same thing in those days, when a
woman did not own her own property--to her husband, all the money,
stocks, and debts due from Wittleworth. He did this because his late
partner wanted more capital to increase his business.
To Mary, the wife of Mr. Checkynshaw, he gave the block of stores; but,
not having so much confidence in Mary's husband as in Ellen's, he gave
her the property with certain restrictions. The income of the estate
was to be hers--or her husband's--during her life. At her death the
estate was to pass to her children. If she died without children, the
property was to be her sister's, or her sister's children's. But Mr.
Osborne did not wish to exhibit any want of confidence in Mary's
husband; so he made Mr. Checkynshaw the trustee, to hold the block of
stores for his wife and for her children. He had the power to collect
the rents, and as long as his wife lived, or as long as her children
lived, the money was practically his own.
Mary, the first Mrs. Checkynshaw, was in rather feeble health, and the
doctors advised her to spend the winter in the south of France. Her
husband complied with this advice; and her child, Marguerite, was born
in Perpignan, and had a French name because she was born in France. The
family returned home in the following spring; but Mrs. Checkynshaw died
during the succeeding winter. Marguerite was a fine, healthy child; and
to her now belonged the block of stores bequeathed by her grandfather,
her father holding it in trust for her.
In another year Mr. Checkynshaw married his second wife, who treated
little Marguerite well enough, though she felt no deep and motherly
interest in her, especially after Elinora, her own daughter, was born.
Mr. Checkynshaw called himself a banker now. He had taken Mr. Hart and
another gentleman into the concern as partners, and the banking-house
of Checkynshaw, Hart, & Co. was a rising establishment.
The second Mrs. Checkynshaw was an ambitious woman, vain and
pretentious. Her friends had been to London, Paris, Naples, and Rome.
She had never been in Europe, and it galled her to be out of the
fashion. When Elinora was only two years old, she insisted upon going
abroad. Her husband did not like the idea of travelling with two
children, one five and the other two years old. But he was
over-persuaded, and finally consented to go. They arrived in Paris in
July, and intended to remain there two months; but, before this period
elapsed, the banker received a letter from Mr. Hart informing him of
the sudden death of the third partner in their house. This event
compelled him to return immediately; but Mrs. Checkynshaw was so well
pleased with Parisian life, that she was unwilling to leave the city so
soon. The voyage to her was terrible, and she had seen little or
nothing of Europe. The family had taken apartments, and she was loath
to leave them.
A friend of the banker, who with his wife occupied rooms in the same
house, suggested that Mrs. Checkynshaw and her children should remain
until her husband could return, two or three months later. An
arrangement to this effect was made, and the banker hastened home to
settle his business affairs. He had hardly departed before the cholera
broke out with fearful violence in Paris. One of its first victims was
the gentleman who had charge of Mr. Checkynshaw's family. His wife
followed him, only a day later, to the cholera hospital.
Of course the banker's wife was terribly frightened, and instantly made
her preparations to leave the infected city. Poor little Marguerite was
the first of the family to take the disease, and she was hurried off to
the hospital by the landlord of the house, who was very polite, but
very heartless. This event would not have delayed the departure of Mrs.
Checkynshaw, but she was stricken down herself before she could leave.
The fearful malady raged with awful violence; hospitals were crowded
with patients, and the dead were hurried to their last resting-place
without a prayer or a dirge.
Little Elinora was taken by her nurse to the Sisters of Charity, and
escaped the disease. Mrs. Checkynshaw recovered, and as soon as she was
able, reclaimed her child, and fled to the interior of Switzerland, to
a small town which the plague had not yet visited. When the panic had
subsided, she returned to Paris. She bad been informed, before her
departure, that little Marguerite had died of the disease; but, on her
return, she visited the hospital, and made more careful inquiry in
regard to the little patient. She was told that the child answering to
her description had died, and been buried with a dozen others. It was
then impossible to identify the remains of the child.
Mr. Checkynshaw returned to Paris in September. His wife had written to
him and to Mrs. Wittleworth as soon as she was able, and her husband
had received her letter before his departure from Boston. Poor little
Marguerite! She was his own child, and he was sorely grieved at her
death. He was not quite satisfied with his wife's investigations, and
he determined to inquire further. With Mrs. Checkynshaw he went to the
hospital.
"The child died the day after it was brought here," replied the
director. "Here is the name;" and he pointed to the record.
The name indicated certainly was not "Checkynshaw," though it was as
near it as a Frenchman could be expected to write it. The letters
spelled "Chuckingham."
"Allow me to look at the book," said Mr. Checkynshaw.
"Certainly, sir; but I remember the case well. She was a little English
girl," added the director.
"This child was American," interposed the anxious father.
"We cannot tell the difference. She spoke only English."
"What is this?" asked Mr. Checkynshaw, pointing to another name.
"Marguerite Poulebah."
"That patient was discharged, cured."
"Do you translate English proper names?"
"Never!"
"What became of this patient?" asked Mr. Checkynshaw, deeply
interested.
"I don't know."
The banker was satisfied that "Marguerite Poulebah" was his daughter;
that the persons who had brought her to the hospital understood a
little English, and had translated his surname literally from "chicken"
and "pshaw." He investigated the matter for a week. The concierge of
the lodgings where he had resided assured him he had not given the name
as "Poulebah." At the end of the week he informed his wife that he had
obtained a clew to the child. She had been taken from the hospital by
the Sisters of Charity, and sent to Strasburg, that she might not have
a relapse. Mr. Checkynshaw went to Strasburg alone.
On his return he assured his wife that he had found Marguerite; that
she was happy with the Sisters, and cried when he spoke of taking her
away. The devoted ladies were very much attached to her, he said; and
he had concluded that it would be best to leave her there, at least
until they were ready to embark for home. Mrs. Checkynshaw did not
object. She had no love for the child, and though she had treated her
well from a sense of duty, was rather glad to get rid of her.
The family remained in Europe till the next spring. Mr. Checkynshaw
went to see his daughter again. The Sisters were educating her, and he
declared that Marguerite was so very happy with them, and begged so
hard not to be taken from them, that he had consented to let her remain
at their school. Mrs. Checkynshaw did not care; she thought it was
strange; but if the child's father deemed it best for her to remain
with the Sisters, it was not for her to say anything. She did not say
anything--Marguerite was not her own child.
When they returned to Boston, the friends of the Osbornes wished to
know what had become of the child. Mr. Checkynshaw had not informed any
one of the death of Marguerite when the intelligence came to him in his
wife's letter, though Mrs. Wittleworth had received it direct from the
same source. He had grieved deeply at the loss of the child. Yet his
sorrow was not alone for poor Marguerite; the block of stores, every
year increasing in value, must not pass out of his hands.
"The poor child had the cholera in Paris, and was sent to the
hospital," was his reply. "When she recovered, Mrs. Checkynshaw was
down with the disease, and the Sisters of Charity took her in charge.
They treated her as a mother treats her own child, and Marguerite loves
them better than she does my wife. I don't like to say anything about
it, and will not, except to most intimate friends; but Marguerite was
not Mrs. Checkynshaw's own daughter. They were not very fond of each
other, and--well, I think you ought to be able to understand the matter
without my saying anything more. The poor child is very happy where she
is, and I had not the heart to separate her from such dear friends."
Everybody inferred that Mrs. Checkynshaw did not treat the child well,
and no more questions were asked. The banking-house of Checkynshaw,
Hart, & Co. increased in wealth and importance, and had extensive
foreign connections in England. Every year or two the head of the house
crossed the ocean, partly, as he declared, to transact his business in
London, and partly to visit his child in France.