THE TWO MARGUERITES.
When Mr. Wittleworth passed out into the street, the excitement of the
argument subsided. He felt that he had thoroughly and completely
demolished Mr. Checkynshaw, and that nothing more could be said in the
banker's favor after what he had said against him. The great man need
not attempt to hold up his head again, after that.
Mr. Checkynshaw had actually paid the reward to Maggie. It was strange,
but it was true; and the saddest part of it was, Mr. Wittleworth had
received no share of the money. He had given his valuable advice to the
barber's daughter, and his late employer had received the full benefit
of it. If he, Mr. Wittleworth, had been so vicious and depraved, so
lost to the high instincts of a gentleman, as wilfully and maliciously
to have given Miss Maggimore bad advice--advice not based on his
experience and knowledge of the world; in a word, if he had told her
that the papers were good for nothing, the young lady would doubtless
have destroyed them.
Instead of this, he had been upright and conscientious; he had given
good, wholesome counsel, worthy of his knowledge and experience. Miss
Maggimore had actually asked him if the papers were good for anything;
and he had actually informed her that they were very valuable, thus
saving them from a devastating conflagration in the cooking-stove. Miss
Maggimore had actually been paid five hundred dollars for opening that
chest, and taking therefrom the package of papers; while he, who had
furnished the intelligence, supplied the brains, and even the physical
power by which the papers had been conveyed to the banker's office, had
not received a cent!
There was something wrong, in the opinion of Mr. Wittleworth. The
reward should be at least equally shared between him and her. In the
morning he had made up his mind that fifty dollars would pay her
handsomely, while the four hundred and fifty would not be an
over-adequate compensation for the brains of the transaction. His
calculations had been set at nought. He knew the value of those papers,
but he had given the banker credit for integrity he did not possess,
and had lost all. The world was always hard on Mr. Wittleworth, and at
this time it seemed to be peculiarly savage towards him, especially as
he had been out of business three months, and needed money badly.
It would be useless for him to represent his redeeming agency in the
affair to Mr. Checkynshaw. The great man refused to acknowledge his
shining abilities. Mr. Checkynshaw was prejudiced--he was. But the
barber was a singularly simple-hearted man. He would not rob a flea of
the mite of warm blood needed for its supper. Maggie was known
throughout the neighborhood as a good little girl, and Leo was a mere
tinker. These people might be brought to see the justice of his claim,
and to acknowledge that through his advice and influence the papers had
been saved from destruction, and restored to their owner; or, to put
the matter in its most direct form, that he had enabled them to obtain
the reward. They were indebted to him for it, and it would be
exceedingly stupid of them if they could not see that he was fairly
entitled to at least one half of it.
The next evening Mr. Wittleworth, to the consternation of Leo, paid
another visit to the humble domicile of the barber. The young student
was disgusted. His lessons were behind, and he could not afford to be
interrupted; and as soon as Fitz came in, Leo retreated to his
chamber--a movement which suited the visitor quite as well as the
scholar.
"Mr. Wittleworth, I am very glad you called," said Andre, "for I wished
to ask you something more about Mr. Checkynshaw's daughter."
"Any information which I possess I will most cheerfully impart to those
who need it; but I ought to say that I came on business, however,"
replied Fitz, rather anxiously.
"Very well, Mr. Wittleworth; we will attend to the business first, if
you desire."
Mr. Wittleworth did desire, and it took him about an hour to go over
the argument which had passed through his brain the night before; but
he made it appear, to his own entire satisfaction, that he had been the
sole instrumentality in enabling his auditors to obtain the princely
reward.
"But I hadn't the least intention of burning the papers," protested
Maggie. "It is true I almost wished I had burned them; but it was when
I was afraid they would get Leo into trouble."
"Exactly so; and it was through my advice, personal influence, and
personal efforts, that the papers were restored to Checkynshaw."
"What portion of the reward do you claim, Mr. Wittleworth?" asked
Andre, very mildly.
"I should be satisfied with one half of it, at this stage of the
proceedings; though, when I consider that it was entirely through my
advice and discreet action that the papers were saved, I think I should
be justified in claiming four fifths, or even nine tenths of it. As it
is, you having already received the money, I will be content with half
of it; though this is rather hard on me, considering the personal
indignity and the injury in my feelings to which I was subjected."
Maggie looked at Andre, and Andre looked at Maggie. Mr. Wittleworth
was modest in his demand, and it was plainly useless to discuss the
question.
"We understand your position, Mr. Wittleworth," said Andre. "It takes
us rather by surprise; but we will consider your demand, and return you
an answer in a day or two. We may wish to consult Mr. Checkynshaw about
it."
"No!" said Fitz, very decidedly. "After what I have said to you about
Checkynshaw, it would be absurd for you to consult him. Checkynshaw is
rich, and he is prejudiced against me--Checkynshaw is. This is a
question of abstract justice, not of personal feeling or personal
prejudice. I only ask for justice."
"We will think of it, Mr. Wittleworth, and give you an answer to-morrow
or next day," repeated Andre. "I am very much interested in what you
said about Mr. Checkynshaw's first child."
"In a question of abstract justice, Andre, it is hardly necessary for
an honest man to wait a single day before he does his duty. I prefer to
settle this little matter at once," added Fitz.
"But I have not the money in the house. I put it in the Savings Bank,"
replied the barber, anxious only to defer the final answer.
"But you can determine your duty in regard to my claim, and inform me
of your intentions."
"I have no intentions at present, and you will pardon me if I decline
to say anything more about it to-night."
Fitz began to think he was overdoing the matter. Andre appeared to be
slightly ruffled, and he deemed it prudent to proceed no further.
"Very well, Andre; if you do not see the justice of my claim, I will
not press it. You are an honest and a just man. If I had not known you
as such, I should not have troubled you. Of course my future opinion of
you must depend very much upon your decision in this matter. Not that I
care so much for the money, but I love justice. If I can afford you any
information in regard to Checkynshaw's child, I shall be glad to do
so."
"Mr. Wittleworth, I was in one of the cholera hospitals of Paris at the
time that child died--I think you said ten years ago."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed Fitz. "It was ten years ago last August."
"Do you know in what hospital the child was placed?" asked Andre, with
breathless interest.
"I do not, but my mother does. She has a letter written to her by the
present Mrs. Checkynshaw, in which she informed her that Marguerite had
died in the hospital. But Checkynshaw looked the matter up afterwards;
and he says the child did not die; that she was taken away by the
Sisters of Charity. That was all bosh."
"Could I see your mother?" asked Andre.
"Certainly; you can walk over to my house and see her if you like."
"I do not ask from an idle curiosity," added Andre. "The foreign
residents in Paris were generally taken to the same hospital, in the
Rue Lacepede. I was then the valet of an English gentleman, who died
there of cholera. While I was there--for, after the death of my
employer, I was engaged as a kind of interpreter for the English
patients who did not speak French--the _Hopital des Enfants Malades_
was full, and a portion of our establishment was devoted to foreign
children. I well remember two children of the name of Margaret; and I
have reason to remember them;" and Andre glanced tenderly at Maggie.
"One of them died, and the other is my Maggie."
"But what was the other name of the one that died?" asked Fitz,
nervously.
"Marguerite Chuckingham. I suppose there were other Marguerites there;
but I did not know them. They could not find the dead child's parents;
they were dead themselves. I would like to see your mother's letter,"
added Andre.
Accepting Fitz's invitation, the barber and his daughter walked over to
"his house," and were introduced to Mrs. Wittleworth. Andre repeated
his story about the two Marguerites, and she was quite as much
interested in it as her son had been.
"I have the letter," said she. "I thought the property was mine, and
that the letter might be of use to me; so I have carefully preserved
it."
She went to the bureau, and produced the letter. It contained a pitiful
account of the sufferings of Mrs. Checkynshaw during the cholera
season, and the announcement of little Marguerite's death at the
hospital in the Rue Lacepede.
"That's the place!" exclaimed Andre, much excited.
"What became of the child?" asked Mrs. Wittleworth, not less agitated.
"It must have been Marguerite Chuckingham, for that was as near as a
Frenchman would be likely to get the name."
"But it may have been the other Marguerite," suggested Mrs.
Wittleworth.
"No!" exclaimed Andre, with something like a shudder at the thought of
having Maggie taken from him, even to dwell in the palatial home of the
banker.
"Why may it not have been?"
"Because I traced the parents of my Maggie to their lodgings, and both
of them had died of cholera. The _concierge_ identified the clothing
and a locket I found upon her neck. Besides, Maggie spoke French then,
and the other child did not. I have no doubt the child that died was
Mr. Checkynshaw's."
"Andre, your hand!" said Fitz.
"I don't wish to harm Mr. Checkynshaw," protested the barber, taking
the hand involuntarily, rather than because he was interested in the
act.
"You love truth and justice; you have the reputation of loving truth
and justice, all over the world--you have. You are a noble-minded man,"
continued Fitz, eloquently. "Now you can see what Checkynshaw is, and
now you can see what I am."
"Don't be foolish, Fitz!" interposed Mrs. Wittleworth.
"Foolish! Mother, have I not furnished wisdom for our family? Have I
not told you from the beginning what Checkynshaw was? I told you the
child was dead. Now it is proved."
"No matter if it is. It makes no difference now."
"It is matter; it does make a difference. Mother, you know how
earnestly I protested against your signing that quitclaim deed. Now I
am justified. Now you can see that I was right, and you were wrong."
Andre and Maggie had no interest in this discussion, and they hastened
their departure as soon as the atmosphere began to look stormy. The
barber was sorry he had said anything. Simple-minded man as he was, he
had not foreseen that he was getting Mr. Checkynshaw into trouble, and
he determined to say nothing more about it.
Fitz stormed furiously when it was proved that "wisdom was justified of
her followers." He declared that Checkynshaw had cheated his mother and
himself out of their inheritance, and that justice should be done, if
the heavens fell.
"What can we do? I have signed the quitclaim deed to the block of
stores."
"No matter if you have. Checkynshaw deceived you. You signed the deed
only because he said the child was living. We shall prove that the
child is dead. The proceeding will be in equity; all that has been done
can be ripped up as easily as you can tear up a piece of paper. I know
something about law. Me and Choate have talked over cases in equity."
How long this tempestuous debate would have continued none can know,
for it was disturbed by the ringing of the door bell. The person
admitted was John Wittleworth himself, the husband and father, who came
to his family clothed and in his right mind, from the House of
Correction, where he had served a term of four months as a common
drunkard. He was cordially welcomed, for he was himself; and there, on
his bended knee, he promised, and called upon Heaven to record his vow,
that he would never again taste the intoxicating cup.
He had been discharged that afternoon, and had been endeavoring till
that late hour to find his wife and son. He had finally traced them to
their new home. In the course of the evening, after the past had been
fully discussed, Fitz brought up the matter of Mr. Checkynshaw's child,
and all the facts which had been developed were fully stated to him.
Fitz found a warm supporter of his views in his father, who declared
that the quitclaim deed was not valid, because he had not joined her in
making it. Within three days proceedings in equity were commenced
against Mr. Checkynshaw.