Chapter 17

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.