THE GOLD LOCKET.
Mr. Checkynshaw was astonished and disgusted at the conduct of the
Wittleworths. The block of stores did not appear even yet to be
securely in his possession. It was true he had the quitclaim deed of
the contingent heir, but this did not seem to be of much value under
the circumstances. Mr. Wittleworth, senior, had again appeared upon the
stage. He had not before considered him in making his calculations; for
he was a miserable sot, before whom, and at no great distance from him,
yawned the drunkard's grave.
John Wittleworth, in his right mind, was an able man, and his
reappearance explained the decided action of the family. He had joined
the temperance society, and he was now a stumbling-block in the path of
the banker.
Mr. Checkynshaw was indignant. He had paid ten thousand dollars for
that quitclaim deed, or rather he had given it in charity; and this
money was to pay the expenses of the suit brought against him!
He went to see Mrs. Wittleworth, and only hoped that he should not see
John or his son. Unfortunately, Fitz was at home. Fitz was airy, Fitz
was grand, Fitz was magnificent. His views and opinions had come to be
appreciated; they had risen where the froth on the beer rises, to the
top of the mug. To use his mother's homely but expressive saying, "you
couldn't touch Fitz with a ten-foot pole."
"Ellen," said Mr. Checkynshaw, solemnly, "it _did_ seem to me that I
had done my whole duty to you, when, three months ago, I placed you out
of the reach of want for the rest of your lifetime. I confess my grief
and surprise, after what I have done for you, that this suit should be
brought against me."
"If the matter had been left to me, the suit would not have been
brought against you," replied Mrs. Wittleworth, who was really much
confused and abashed at the reproaches of the great man.
"But, Ellen, I must hold you responsible for it. If you had not
consented, it could not have commenced. It is done in your name."
"Hold me responsible, Mr. Checkynshaw," interposed Fitz, placing
himself before the banker, and stroking his chin with the most elegant
assurance.
Mr. Checkynshaw utterly ignored Fitz, took no notice of him, passed him
by in silence.
"The consideration mentioned in the quitclaim deed, Ellen, was ten
thousand dollars," continued the great man. "Of course you are ready to
pay this back."
"Not at all, sir; we are not ready to pay it back," said Fitz; "but we
are ready to give you a receipt for it on account."
"It is hardly right, Ellen, that I should furnish money for you to
carry on a suit against me. I gave it to you to keep you from the
almshouse, and that you might be independent of any neglect on my part
in the future. This money is now to be wasted in idle litigation--in
paying the expenses of a lawsuit brought for the sole purpose of
annoying me."
"The suit is brought in the name of justice and humanity," shouted
Fitz, eloquently, and with a spread-eagle gesture. "The palladium of
our liberties--"
"Be still, Fitz--don't be silly!" interposed his mother.
Fitz's elegant speech was nipped in the bud.
"I don't like to do it, Ellen, but I must insist that the money be paid
back to me immediately," added the banker. "It is not right for you to
spend money given to keep you out of the poorhouse in annoying your
benefactor."
Mr. Checkynshaw looked injured.
"I am willing to pay the money back as soon as I can," added Mrs.
Wittleworth.
"We are not willing to pay the money back, mother. That would not be
proper or business-like, when Mr. Checkynshaw owes us at least fifty
thousand dollars for back rents of the block of stores," Fitz
protested.
"I shall have to sue you at once, unless the money is paid," said Mr.
Checkynshaw, mildly. "Your husband brought the suit against me without
giving me any notice. I wished to take a more Christian course with
you; but I can stay no longer to be insulted by this puppy!" And the
banker nodded his head in the direction of Fitz.
"Puppy!" yelled Mr. Wittleworth, throwing back his head. "Puppy!"
"Be still, Fitz!" said his mother.
"Be still, and be called a puppy!"
"Mr. Checkynshaw, I can only say that I meant to do right," added Mrs.
Wittleworth.
"Puppy!" howled Fitz, pacing the room violently. "Puppy!"
"You meant to do right!" exclaimed the banker.
"I did. You told me that Marguerite was alive and well, and that I
was--"
"A puppy! That's an insult!" soliloquized Mr. Wittleworth.
"That I was not the legal heir; that I had no claim upon you."
"And you have not," replied Mr. Checkynshaw.
"The blood of the Wittleworths boils!" stormed Fitz.
"But Marguerite is dead--died ten years ago."
"What nonsense is this!" said the banker, in disgust, though his face
was a shade paler than usual.
"We have the means of proving that Marguerite died at the time your
wife wrote me the letter to that effect."
"Yes, sir; we can prove it, sir!" added Fitz, forgetting for the moment
that he was a puppy. "We can prove it by good and reliable witnesses,
sir."
"Ellen, this is absurd," continued Mr. Checkynshaw "My wife did write
you a letter; but you know what Paris must have been when the cholera
was cutting down men, women, and children by the hundred daily.
Marguerite had the cholera, and my wife had it. Is it strange that they
were separated? Is it strange that the child was reported to be dead?
Is it strange that, at such a time, my wife believed the report? She
was mistaken. I found the child, and hastened to correct the false
rumors."
"We can prove, by a credible witness, that the child, called Marguerite
Chuckingham, died," foamed Fitz.
"Who is the witness?" demanded the banker, turning suddenly upon Mr.
Wittleworth, and for the first time, apparently, conscious of his
presence.
"By Andre Maggimore, a good man and true, who was employed in the Hotel
de Saltpetre, in the Ruee Saleratus," replied Mr. Wittleworth,
triumphantly.
He had been reading a book on Paris, where mention was made of the
_Salpetriere_, a great almshouse; but the street he named was doubtless
his own corruption of the _Rue Lacepede_, of which he had only heard
in Andre's narrative.
Mr. Checkynshaw was really troubled now. Another of the recipients of
his bounty had proved faithless; one renegade beneficiary had played
into the hands of another. Andre had shaved him for years, but had
never said a word about the hospitals of Paris to him; indeed, Andre
had never said anything to him, except in answer to his own questions.
In reply to his inquiries, Mrs. Wittleworth stated that the barber had
called upon her, and repeated what he had said, in evidence of the
truth of her assertion that Marguerite was dead.
"Perhaps Andre means to be truthful, and to assert only what he
believes to be true; but he is mistaken," said Mr. Checkynshaw,
nervously. "Do you think I should not know my own child when I saw
her?"
"Of course you would; but Andre is very positive your child was the
Marguerite Chuckingham that died," added Mrs. Wittleworth.
"This matter is too ridiculous to take up my time for a moment. I am
ready to abide the decision of the court," continued the banker, taking
his hat and moving towards the door. "I hope you are equally ready to
do so, Ellen."
"I wish to do only what is right," replied she. "Will you see my
husband?"
"No; I will not," answered Mr. Checkynshaw. "If he wished to see me
before he commenced this suit, it would have been proper for him to do
so. I shall not run after him."
"And he will not run after you," interposed Fitz. "Justice and
humanity--"
"Be still, Fitz."
"We shall retain Choate in this case. Me and Choate have talked the
matter over, and--"
Mr. Checkynshaw bowed stiffly, and left the room before Fitz had time
to say what terrible things "me and Choate" intended to do. The banker
was evidently in the most uncomfortable frame of mind. He was nervous
and uneasy. His step in the street was quick and sharp, as he walked to
Phillimore Court. He did not expect to find Andre there, and he did
not. But Maggie was a remarkably intelligent girl, open and truthful,
and she would be less likely to veil any designs from him than one who
had seen more of the world.
The banker tried to think what motive the barber could have for
arraying himself against one who had done so much for him--one who had
voluntarily paid his family the reward of five hundred dollars. It was
possible that the Wittleworths had been at work upon Andre; that they
had induced him to give evidence in support of their assertion that
Marguerite was dead. Mr. Checkynshaw was a shrewd and deep man, in his
own estimation, and he was confident, if any such scheme had been
devised, he could fathom it. He rather preferred, therefore, to see the
members of the family separately, and Maggie was the best one to begin
with.
Mr. Checkynshaw was admitted to the parlor of the barber's home, and
Maggie was the only person in the house with him; for Leo was at
school, still determined, make or break, to obtain the medal. The fair
girl blushed when she recognized the visitor, and, having heard that
the Wittleworths had instituted the suit, she trembled with fear; for
she suspected that the great man's coming related to that event.
"Maggie, I am sorry you and your father have been giving bad counsels
to those Wittleworths," the banker began, in solemn tones, but
apparently more in grief than in anger.
"Why, sir! Bad counsels?" exclaimed Maggie.
"I have given the Wittleworths money enough to keep them comfortable
for the rest of their lives; but they are ungrateful, and are now
seeking to annoy me as much as possible."
"I am very sorry."
"I thought I had done enough for your family to make you all my
friends; but it seems I was mistaken," added the great man, sadly
reproachful in his manner.
"I am sure, sir, we are very grateful to you, and would not willingly
do anything to injure you," protested Maggie, warmly.
"Why did your father tell the Wittleworths, then, that he was employed
in the cholera hospital in Paris?"
"Because he was employed there," replied Maggie, who deemed this a
sufficient reason for saying so.
"Was he, indeed?" asked the banker, who had been sceptical even on this
point.
Maggie told the whole story of the two Marguerites, as she had heard it
from her father.
"One Marguerite died, and you were the other," said Mr. Checkynshaw,
musing.
"Yes, sir; and I don't know to this day who my father and mother were;
but I suppose they died of cholera. I was told they did. _Mon pere_
traced them to their lodgings, and identified the clothing and a locket
I wore."
"A locket?" asked the banker, curiously.
"Yes, sir."
"What was the locket?"
"It was a gold one, with the miniature of a gentleman on one side, and
a lady on the other, with locks of hair. I suppose they were my father
and mother."
"Where is the locket now?"
"_Mon pere_ has it. I don't know where he keeps it. He tried to find my
parents before he came to America, but without success. I saw the
locket once, when I was a little girl; but _mon pere_ don't like to
talk about these things. He loves me, and he only fears that I may be
taken from him."
"But he talked with the Wittleworths about them."
"He couldn't help it then," pleaded Maggie, "when he heard the story of
your child from Fitz."
Mr. Checkynshaw abruptly left the house, and hastened to the shop of
Cutts & Stropmore. He had a long conversation with Andre, and finally
they went to Phillimore Court together.
The banker insisted upon seeing the locket, and Andre showed it to him.