THE LETTER FROM MARGUERITE.
Mr. Checkynshaw walked down to No. 3 Phillimore Court. It was very
plain that he had business there, for it was not his style to visit a
poor man who was sick. He was admitted by Maggie, who feared that his
coming related to the robbery of his safe, and that Leo might be in
some manner implicated in that affair.
"How is your father, miss?" asked the stately gentleman from State
Street, as he entered the house.
"He is more comfortable to-day, sir; but I don't know that he is really
any better," answered Maggie.
"I am very sorry he is sick. I miss him very much. He has waited upon
me at the shop for several years, and I never let any other barber
shave me, if I can have him by waiting an hour," added Mr. Checkynshaw,
with a degree of condescension which he rarely exhibited. "You are his
daughter, I believe."
"Not his own daughter; but it is just the same."
"I think I have seen you at the shop several times."
"Yes, I always carry up _mon pere's_ dinner at half past twelve. He
can't come home at noon."
"_Mon pere!_ You speak French--do you?"
"Yes, sir. I speak French and English equally well. Won't you go in and
see _mon pere_!"
Mr. Checkynshaw would be very glad to see Andre, and Maggie conducted
him to the front room.
"I am sorry you are sick, Andre," said the great man.
"Thank you, sir. It is very kind of you to call upon me," replied
Andre, amazed at the gracious mien of one who had rarely spoken to him
save in the tones of authority, addressing him as a menial and an
inferior.
"I always feel an interest in those I see every day; but the fact that
you were taken sick at my house probably brought the matter more
directly to my attention. Are you comfortably provided for, Andre?"
asked the rich man, glancing around the room.
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. I have everything I need," replied Andre,
faintly; for he was not quite so sure of what he said as he wished to
be, though his pride and independence revolted at any suggestion of
charity.
"I saw Leo up in State Street. Your boy's name is Leo--isn't it?" asked
the banker, just as though it derogated from his dignity to know the
name of a poor boy like the barber's son.
"Yes, sir; his name is Leo," replied Maggie, taking up the
conversation, so that the invalid might not be compelled to talk too
much.
"He is driving quite a trade in white mice," laughed the great man.
"Has he met with any success, sir?" asked Maggie, who felt that
everything depended upon Leo's exertions; and she hardly expected him
to accomplish anything in the mouse business.
"Yes, he has been remarkably successful, I should say."
"I am so glad!"
"I bought the house he had with him for six dollars, and he has orders
for two more just like it, at the same price. That will give him quite
a lift, I hope."
"Indeed it will!" exclaimed Maggie, delighted with the good news.
"Eighteen dollars for white mice, _mon pere_," she added, turning to
Andre.
"That is very good indeed!" said the barber. "Leo is a brave boy."
"Knowing that you had a family, Andre, and that your wages were not
very large, I thought I would inquire into the matter a little. I
should be very glad to help you."
"Thank you, Mr. Checkynshaw," replied Andre, in his feminine tones,
weakened by his sickness. "I think we do not need any help--do we,
Maggie?"
"No, _mon pere_, especially as Leo is doing so well. I think we shall
get along well enough."
"I am afraid you are too proud to be very poor," said the banker,
glancing at Maggie.
"We have always got along very well, and I think we shall in the
future. Leo says he shall do great things; and I hope he will."
"Then Leo is to support the family," added Mr. Checkynshaw, fixing his
gaze upon the fair girl, who seemed to him altogether too delicate and
refined to be a poor man's daughter.
"Perhaps I maybe able to do something by and by, when _mon pere_ gets
better."
"What can you do?"
"I can sew, and do any work that I can take home with me."
"Ah, _ma fille_, you can take in no work. I shall soon be able to go to
the shop again," interposed Andre.
"I have a great deal of spare time, _mon pere_. I am able, and O, I am
so willing to work for you!"
"Perhaps I may be of service to you," suggested Mr. Checkynshaw.
"Thank you, sir."
"You speak French, miss, I think you said," added the banker, with an
assumed indifference.
"Yes, sir."
"Can you write it correctly?"
"Yes, sir, I think I can."
"Maggie is a very good scholar, and she writes French quite as well as
she does English."
"Perhaps you will be willing to give me a specimen of your skill in
translating."
"Certainly, sir, if you desire it."
Mr. Checkynshaw took from his pocket the letter he had written in his
private office, and the French note paper he had purchased at the
stationery store, and handed them to her.
"If you will sit down in the other room, and give me a translation into
French of this letter, I can at once determine whether you would be of
any service to us. If you are, we will pay you very liberally; but most
of our work of this kind is translating French into English."
"I will try, sir," replied Maggie.
"I will stay here with your father while you do it."
Maggie went into the rear room; and in less than half an hour she
produced a translation of the letter handed to her.
"That is excellently well done, miss," said Mr. Checkynshaw, when he
had glanced at the translation. "You write a beautiful hand. It is even
better than my daughter's."
"You are very kind, sir."
"I will keep this as a specimen of your work. Here are two dollars for
the job," added Mr. Checkynshaw, as he gave her the money.
"Indeed, sir, you are too kind. I don't ask any money for that."
"Take it, Maggie; I always pay people that work for me, especially when
they do their work as well as you have done this. Take it, miss, or I
shall be offended."
It was not safe to offend such a munificent patron, and Maggie took the
money, blushing as she did so.
Mr. Checkynshaw folded up the translation, and put it into his pocket;
and, promising to send her some more letters in a few days, he took his
leave. The banker went back to his private office. After ransacking his
papers for a long time, he found an old letter directed to him, in the
care of the firm, postmarked at Paris, with a French postage stamp upon
it. Into the envelope of this letter he thrust the translation which
Maggie had made.
The banker seated himself in his arm-chair, put his feet on the desk,
and lighted a cigar. Mr. Checkynshaw held to the pernicious belief that
smoking soothed the nerves of an excited man. He smoked and thought for
a while, till his meditations were disturbed by the entrance of Mrs.
Wittleworth and Fitz.
"I hope you will excuse me for coming again so soon, Mr. Checkynshaw,"
said Mrs. Wittleworth, timidly.
"I hope you'll excuse _me_ too," added Fitz, thrusting his thumbs into
the arm-holes of his vest, and pursing up his under lip, as he had a
habit of doing when he particularly realized his own importance.
He stood with his hat on his head--a narrow-brimmed "stove-pipe," which
young men were more in the habit of wearing at that period than at the
present time. He was the impersonation of impudence and self-conceit,
and the banker looked angry enough to annihilate him.
"I thought I would come and see if you had anything to show me from
Marguerite," continued Mrs. Wittleworth, after the banker had bestowed
a look of supreme contempt upon Fitz.
"I have something to show you," replied Mr. Checkynshaw, taking the old
envelope which contained Maggie's translation from his pocket, and
handing it to her.
Fitz was rather taken aback by this ready reply, and by the sight of
the musty envelope. His nether lip actually returned to its normal
position under the shock.
"This is from Marguerite--is it?" asked Mrs. "Wittleworth.
"It is from Marguerite," replied Mr. Checkynshaw.
"What is it, mother? Open it. Don't be humbugged," said Fitz.
The poor woman opened the letter, and looked blankly at its contents.
"It is in French," she added.
"Marguerite always writes her letters in French," added the banker.
"Because she knows you can't read a word of French," sneered Fitz.
"No impudence, young man!"
"Don't, Fitz!" pleaded Mrs. Wittleworth.
"Mr. Checkynshaw, this business must be settled between me and you. You
will not be permitted to take advantage of a woman's weakness to impose
upon her," added Fitz, magnificently.
"If you use any impudence in this office, young man, I shall kick you
out to-day as I did yesterday."
"Mr. Checkynshaw, I have my own views and opinions on this subject, and
I claim the privilege of expressing them as a gentleman should. I have
been to see Choate on this business; and me and Choate will see that
justice is done to the unfortunate."
"Be still, Fitz!" said his mother.
"I will not be still, mother," protested Mr. Wittleworth. "I will not
stand still and have you imposed upon."
The banker sprang out of his chair, and his late clerk retreated a pace
or two.
"Mr. Checkynshaw, I have only one word to say," he added, placing
himself near enough to the door to effect a hasty retreat in case of
necessity. "My mother is disposed to accept your offer of ten thousand
dollars for a quitclaim deed of the block of stores. I don't intend
that she shall do anything of the kind. I've been to my lawyer, sir--a
gentleman recommended by Choate; for Choate is so busy that he can't
attend to the case personally; and my lawyer says that none but a _non
compos_ would give a quitclaim deed to the property. If my mother sees
fit to sign any such paper, my lawyer will take steps to restrain her,
sir. Those are my views. I've nothing more to say, Mr. Checkynshaw."
Mr. Wittleworth tipped his hat over on one side, thrust his thumbs into
his arm-holes, and pursed up his lips again, as though he had already
set the river on fire. His mother was angry and disgusted with him, as
she often had occasion to be.
"Is the quitclaim deed ready, Mr. Checkynshaw?" asked the poor woman.
"No; but it shall be ready, and the check with it to-morrow."
"Mother," exclaimed Fitz, in warning tones,--and he evidently did not
place much dependence upon the restraining power of his lawyer,--"you
promised not to sign any paper to-day."
"And you promised to behave yourself, Fitz, if I permitted you to come
with me. I can't depend upon you, and I am going to accept Mr.
Checkynshaw's offer," retorted his mother, sharply.
"You are?" gasped Fitz.
"I am; and if the paper was ready, I would sign it this moment. Will
you let me take this letter home with me, Mr. Checkynshaw?"
"Certainly, Ellen," replied the banker, graciously.
"I used to read French a little when I was a girl, and I may be able to
study out some of it."
"As you like; but when you come again, don't bring that boy with you."
Mrs. Wittleworth and her son retired. On their way home, an angry
discussion ensued. Fitz raved at the weakness of women in general, and
of his mother in particular; but she firmly declared, even if she was
satisfied that Marguerite was not living, she would sign the deed. In
the house, both of them examined the letter. Fitz did not know a word
of French, and his mother could only make out "_Mon cher pere_," and an
occasional word in the letter.
"I will tell you what we can do, mother. Andre Maggimore, round in
Phillimore Court, is a Frenchman, and can talk French like a Dutchman."
"But he is very sick, you said."
"So he is. Well, his daughter Maggie can read it. I will take it to her
this evening."
After supper, Fitz, with the letter in his pocket, started for the
barber's house.