THE QUITCLAIM DEED.
"Mother, you are determined to be imposed upon," said Fitz, as he
rushed into the house with the astounding intelligence he had obtained
in Phillimore Court.
"Perhaps you can afford to refuse a gift of ten thousand dollars--I
cannot," replied Mrs. Wittleworth. "I did not ask or beg anything of
Mr. Checkynshaw. He volunteered to give it to me, rather for my
sister's sake than my own, perhaps; but I feel that I ought to take
it."
"Don't touch it, mother!" protested Fitz. "It will be the ruin of you
if you do. Mother, you have no confidence in me. You are willing to
trust almost any one rather than me."
"I judge for myself. It is better to take Mr. Checkynshaw's gift than
to starve."
"O, nonsense, mother! Why will you be so absurd?" groaned Fitz. "Why
will you persist in talking about starving?"
"Why will I, Fitz? Because we have hardly five dollars in the world,
and both of us are out of work."
"But I shall get something to do in a few days. Will you let me bring
the suit against Checkynshaw for the block of stores?"
"No, I will not, Fitz."
"I told you Checkynshaw was imposing upon you, and now I have proved
it."
"What have you proved?"
"I have proved that this letter is a forgery, as I believed it was. It
was translated into French this very day by the barber's daughter. It
was not written by Marguerite, and I knew it was not!" replied Fitz,
triumphantly; and he proceeded to describe in detail the result of his
application to Maggie to translate the letter.
"It doesn't make much difference whether it is a forgery or not," added
the poor woman, in whose mind ten thousand dollars overshadowed every
other consideration.
"Doesn't it!" sneered Fitz, out of patience with his mother.
"Not much. Mr. Checkynshaw says Marguerite is living; and, whether he
means to do right or wrong, he is a man of great wealth and influence,
and we could make nothing by going to law with him. We haven't money
enough to keep us out of the almshouse more than a fortnight longer."
"But don't I say we need no money to carry on the suit? All we have to
do is to attach the property. Checkynshaw won't stand trial. He'll
settle it; he'll give up the block of stores."
"You don't know him," sighed Mrs. Wittleworth.
"If I don't know him, I'd like to know who does. Haven't I been in the
office with him for years? Choate couldn't attend to this business
himself; but he recommended a lawyer, a friend of his, and I have been
to see him. I am to call again to-morrow."
"I am willing to hear all that can be said, Fitz, on both sides,"
replied the poor woman, tired of the controversy, but still believing
that "a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush." "I will go with
you, and hear what your lawyer has to say."
"Go with me!" sneered Fitz. "Do you think I can't do the business
alone?"
"You don't know as much as you think you do, Fitz."
"Perhaps I don't; but if I don't understand this case, then nobody
does."
Mrs. Wittleworth was disgusted, and Fitz was disgusted; and both were
silent, rather because there was no prospect of making any progress in
the business than because either was satisfied. Fitz had been to see
the attorney recommended by the distinguished orator--a young fellow,
whose practice was mostly confined to the police court, and who was so
weak and silly as to be an object of ridicule to his professional
brethren. This gentleman was willing to look into the case. He went to
the registry of probate, and read the will. So far Fitz was justified.
The next morning the lawyer called on Mr. Checkynshaw. It was very
unprofessional, but it was very prudent. He did not wish to annoy a
gentleman in his position if there were no just grounds for a suit.
The banker was much obliged to him for calling. The banker was
plausible, and the banker finally gave him a retaining fee of fifty
dollars to act for the defence, in case a suit was brought against him.
He had discharged Fitz for impudence, and he was merely seeking some
way to annoy him. The lawyer was satisfied, and so was the banker.
In the course of the forenoon, Fitz, attended by his mother, called
upon the attorney. He had looked into the case; he was satisfied there
was no ground for an action, and he declined to undertake the suit.
Fitz was confounded by this reply.
"I hope you are satisfied now, Fitz," said Mrs. Wittleworth, when they
were in the street.
"I am sure I am not. That man has been tampered with! I'll speak to
Choate about that. Does that man mean to tell me that we have no
grounds for a suit?" replied Fitz, indignantly. "I shall find another
lawyer, who will undertake the case."
"You needn't do anything more about it. I am going to Mr. Checkynshaw's
now."
"Are you going to accept his offer?" almost gasped Fitz.
"I am."
"This is madness, mother."
"It would be madness not to accept it; and I will not let the sun go
down again before I close the business, if Mr. Checkynshaw is still of
the same mind."
"Will you give up a hundred thousand dollars for ten thousand?" groaned
Fitz. "We can live in Beacon Street, and ride in our carriage, if you
will only take my advice."
"I shall be more likely to ride in the Black Maria over to the
almshouse, if I take your advice. My mind is made up, Fitz," replied
his mother, very decidedly.
"I will go with you, mother," said Fitz, desperately.
"You needn't."
"I must be a witness of the transaction, for, in my opinion, it will be
a swindle on the part of Checkynshaw; and if I can pick him up on it I
mean to do so."
"Fitz, if you are impudent to Mr. Checkynshaw, he will put you out of
his office."
"I will not be impudent to him unless he is impudent to me."
Mrs. Wittleworth led the way now, and Fitz reluctantly followed her. He
was in despair. He actually believed his mother was selling out her
inheritance, a princely fortune, for a mere song; that she was
sacrificing the brightest hopes a person ever had. Indeed, he went a
point beyond this, and believed she was selling out his hopes and
expectations; that she was wronging him out of a brilliant future. But
Fitz might have comforted himself with the reflection that he had
vigorously opposed the sacrifice, and that it had been made on account
of no want of judgment and forethought on his part.
Fitz followed his mother into the banker's private office. Mrs.
Wittleworth herself was not entirely satisfied with the situation. She
was not at all sure that Marguerite had not died of cholera ten years
before. Mr. Checkynshaw's course rather indicated that he was playing a
deep game. Why did he want a quitclaim deed, if his rights were clear?
Why had he forged a letter from Marguerite, when he must have real
ones, if the daughter was still living? And it was not like him to give
ten thousand dollars to a person who had no claim upon him.
The poor woman's circumstances were desperate. Want or the almshouse
stared her in the face. It was possible, nay, it was probable, that Mr.
Checkynshaw was deceiving her; that Marguerite was dead, and that the
block of stores rightfully belonged to her; but she had no chances of
success in fighting a battle with wealth and influence. If she brought
the suit, the ten thousand dollars would certainly be lost, and the
chances of obtaining the block of stores were all against her. The
money the banker would pay her would keep her from want for the rest of
her lifetime. The income of it would support her little family
comfortably.
"I will sign the deed, Mr. Checkynshaw," said she, walking up to the
desk where the banker sat.
"Why did you bring that boy with you?" asked the great man, with a look
of contempt at his late clerk.
"He insisted upon coming."
"I think I have an interest in this business," replied Fitz, loftily.
"I will be civil, Mr. Checkynshaw, but I should like to ask you one or
two questions."
"You needn't."
"But I will. Why do you give my mother a letter purporting to come from
your daughter Marguerite, which was written by Miss Maggimore? That's
the first question I want to ask," said Fitz, with the air of a
conqueror.
The banker was a little startled; but he did not lose his
self-possession--he seldom did in merely business transactions.
"The letter I gave you was a true copy, Ellen," said he.
"It makes but little difference to me whether it was a true copy or
not," she added.
"The originals of Marguerite's letters were in my safe, and were stolen
with other papers. If your son knows Pilky Wayne, he may be able to
recover them."
"I scorn the insinuation, Mr. Checkynshaw," replied Fitz, indignantly.
"I speak a little French, Ellen, but I do not read it very readily; and
I had translations made of Marguerite's letters," continued Mr.
Checkynshaw, without noticing the irate young man. "One of these
translations I had rendered back into the French rather to give
employment to the barber's daughter than for any other reason."
Mrs. Wittleworth felt no interest in the translation. Probably the
banker was imposing upon her credulity, but she did not care if he was.
"Are the papers ready, Mr. Checkynshaw?" she asked, timidly, fearful
that he had altered his mind in regard to the money.
"They are."
"I am ready to sign the deed."
The banker produced the document, and the check, and laid them upon the
desk.
"Will you witness your mother's signature, Fitz?" asked Mr.
Checkynshaw.
"No, sir. I will have no part in this transaction," replied he, sourly.
"It will become my duty, at no distant day, to rip up the whole thing."
"Burnet!" called the banker, opening the window.
The taciturn cashier appeared.
"Witness this signature," added Mr. Checkynshaw.
Mrs. Wittleworth signed the quitclaim deed, and took the check. The
cashier saw the act, and wrote his name in the proper place on the
deed.
"Take the acknowledgment," said Mr. Checkynshaw to the cashier, who was
a justice of the peace.
"You acknowledge this to be your free act and deed, Mrs. Wittleworth?"
added Burnet.
"I do," replied the poor woman, or rather the rich one now, in the most
decided manner.
"Have it recorded," continued the banker; and the cashier left the room
with the deed in his hand.
"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Checkynshaw," said Mrs.
Wittleworth. "You have been very kind and very liberal to me."
"Liberal!" sneered Fitz. "He has given you ten thousand dollars for a
hundred thousand. It's the best trade he ever made."
"Ellen, I am glad you are satisfied with what you have done. I give you
the ten thousand dollars for the reason I stated yesterday--not because
you had any claim upon me."
"I know you did, sir; and I am very grateful to you," replied Mrs.
Wittleworth.
"After what I have done, it is not right that I should be annoyed by
your son," added the banker.
"He shall not annoy you if I can help it."
"That's enough, Ellen. I forbid his coming here again on any pretence
whatever."
"You needn't trouble yourself," replied Fitz. "I shall not come near
you again if I can help it. I am rather particular about my
associates."
Mrs. Wittleworth left the office, followed by Fitz. The fact that his
mother had ten thousand dollars in her pocket did not seem to comfort
him. He offered to draw the check for her, but his mother preferred to
transact her own business. She presented the check at the bank upon
which it was drawn, and deposited the money at another. She went home
with a light heart, feeling that the wolf was slain, and that she was
secured against grim want for the rest of her life.
Mr. Checkynshaw smiled when Mrs. Wittleworth had gone. Perhaps, as Fitz
suggested, he felt that he had made a good trade. Apparently he had
disposed of the only person who had the power to annoy him.
No one did annoy him. Constable Clapp came back from New York; but He
brought no tidings of Pilky Wayne. The banker offered a reward of five
hundred dollars for his valuable papers; but week after week passed
away, and nothing was heard of them. The banker concluded that the
rogue had burned them, so that no clew should be had to him.