Chapter 22

MR. WITTLEWORTH's WRONGS.

Maggie, fluttering with delight, had taken Mr. Checkynshaw's check to her father when she carried his dinner. The barber was astonished as well as pleased with the gift, and, having drawn the check, deposited the money in the Savings Bank, as a provision for dark days, like those through which they had passed at the beginning of Andre's illness.

After supper the family gathered around the cooking-stove in the kitchen. Never before had they been so happy as now, and never before were they so strongly attached to each other. They had passed through the storm of privation and trial--they had triumphed over adverse circumstances. Leo tried to study his lesson, while Andre and Maggie were talking about the great event of the day, and comparing their present situation with the first days of the barber's illness, when all of them were trembling for the future.

"God has been very good to us, my children, and I hope we shall always be grateful to him for his mercies," said Andre, as a tear, which he could not repress, stole down his pale cheek.

"I'm sure I never felt so good before in my life; and I know my prayers mean more to me now than ever before," replied Maggie.

"We have been faithful to each other, and God has been faithful to all of us, as he always is, even when we forsake and forget him."

"Ah, _mon pere_, how could we help being faithful to you, when you were always so kind to us!" exclaimed Maggie, as she rested her hand on Andre's arm. "And Leo--he has really been a lion! You don't know how brave he was; how he worked, and how he persevered! It was all _make_, and no _break_--wasn't it, Leo?"

"It has been, so far," replied Leo, less demonstrative, but not less delighted than the other members of the family. "I think we can do anything we make up our minds to do. I have made up my mind to take the Franklin medal this year, and, make or break, I'm going to do it."

Leo bent over his slate again, and seemed to be determined, make or break, that he would attend to his lessons, whatever happened in the room. Unfortunately, in this instance, it was at least a partial break, for a very imperative knock was heard a few moments later at the front door. Andre answered the summons, and admitted Mr. Wittleworth.

"I hope I don't intrude," said Fitz, as daintily as Paul Pry himself could have said it.

"Take a seat, Mr. Wittleworth," added Maggie, giving him a chair at the stove.

"Thank you. I don't often go out evenings, for mother is alone. My friends groan and complain because I don't visit them; but really this is the first time I have been out of the house of an evening for a month," continued Mr. Wittleworth, as he seated himself in the offered chair, expecting the barber's family to appreciate his condescension in this particular instance.

"The last time I went out of an evening," he added, "I called on my friend Choate--you know Choate? Of course you do, Mr. Maggimore."

"I have not that honor," replied the barber, modestly.

"Choate's a good fellow--Choate is. He is the most gentlemanly person I ever met, not even excepting Everett, who, by the way, was at Choate's when I called upon him. Winthrop was there, too; but Winthrop is rather stiff--Winthrop is. Of course I haven't anything to say against Winthrop. He is a great man, talented, a good speaker, and all that sort of thing; but you see he hasn't that companionable way with him that Choate has. Of course you will not mention what I say to Winthrop, for I don't want him to know but what I think as much of him as I do of Choate or Everett."

Andre very kindly promised not to mention any disparaging allusion he might make in regard to the honorable gentleman.

"In a private conversation one does not like to be held responsible for remarks dropped without much reflection," continued Fitz. "I have nothing against Winthrop, only he is not just like Choate. Choate is my idea of a perfect gentleman--Choate is. But perhaps I am prejudiced in Choate's favor. I used to be in the law business myself--in the same office with Choate. Well, really, I didn't come here to talk about Choate, or any of the rest of my friends. Isn't it singular how a light remark, casually dropped, leads us off into a conversation which occupies a whole evening?"

Andre acknowledged that it was singular how a light remark, casually dropped, leads us into a conversation which occupies a whole evening; but he hoped no light remark of Mr. Wittleworth would be expanded to that extent, for his room was better than his company, now that the family were at the high tide of happiness and prosperity.

"I suppose Miss Maggimore has informed you that she sent for me this morning, in order to obtain the benefit of my advice," continued Fitz.

"Yes, sir, she did," replied Andre.

"The case was rather a singular one; and being alone, she needed the counsel of some person of experience, and of extensive knowledge. She sent for me, and I came," added Mr. Wittleworth, rubbing his chin and pouting his lips, as was his habit when his bump of self-esteem was rubbed; though it was a notable fact that he always rubbed it himself--nobody else ever appeared to do so.

"It was kind of you to come when I sent for you," said Maggie, willing to give him all the credit she could.

"I came; I saw--" but he did not conquer. "I saw the papers, and I undertook to manage the business for Miss Maggimore. I was willing to give her the full benefit of my knowledge and experience, though my doing so came very near involving me in a painful difficulty."

"I am very sorry for that," interposed Maggie.

"It was all on account of my own excessive expenditure of good-nature. I wished to do you a good turn, and Checkynshaw a good turn. So far as Checkynshaw was concerned, it was a mistake; I am willing to confess that it was a blunder on my part. I confided in his honor. I might have known better, for Checkynshaw is a cur--Checkynshaw is."

Mr. Wittleworth slipped lightly over the "painful difficulty" in which he was so nearly involved. He was willing to give Maggie the benefit of his knowledge and experience in negotiating the strictly business matter in relation to the reward; but Checkynshaw basely calumniated him, and bit the hand that was extended to serve him.

"Mr. Checkynshaw came here, with the constable, and inquired into all the circumstances attending the finding of the papers," said Maggie, tired of Mr. Wittleworth's tedious exordium. "He was entirely satisfied with what we had done."

Maggie then explained the manner in which the papers had come into Leo's chest; that they were concealed there by "Pilky Wayne."

"Mr. Checkynshaw was very good and very kind," she added, with enthusiasm.

"Checkynshaw?" exclaimed Fitz, incredulously.

"He was, indeed."

"Checkynshaw don't know how to be good and kind--Checkynshaw don't. It isn't in him."

"Indeed, he does!" protested Maggie.

"So he does!" chimed in Leo, who was very grateful to Mr. Checkynshaw for buying his merchandise and recommending it to his friends. "I blow for Checkynshaw!"

"Mr. Checkynshaw has been very kind to us, and we feel grateful to him for his goodness," added Andre, in his mild, silky-toned voice.

"I know Checkynshaw. I've summered him and wintered him; and you have to summer and winter a man like Checkynshaw before you know him. My friend Choate knows him. Me and Choate both know him. Checkynshaw is mean; Checkynshaw has a small soul. You could set up two such souls as Checkynshaw's on the point of a cambric needle, and they could wander about till the end of time without coming within hailing distance of each other."

"Mr. Checkynshaw is not mean," replied Maggie, her pretty face red with excitement and indignation.

"Excuse me, Miss Maggimore, but you don't know him."

"I think I do know him. He gave me the reward of five hundred dollars for returning the papers to him," said Maggie, warmly; and the banker might have rejoiced to be defended by so fair and spirited an advocate.

"Checkynshaw!" ejaculated Mr. Wittleworth, springing out of his chair.

About the same instant Leo closed his book savagely, and sprang to his feet, his manly face wearing a decidedly belligerent look.

"See here, Fitz; you have said just about enough," Leo began, both fists clinched. "Mr. Checkynshaw is a friend of ours, and we are not going to sit here and have him abused."

"Don't be angry, Leo; he isn't worth minding," whispered Maggie in his ear.

"Then he gave you the reward?" added Fitz, sitting down again.

"He did," replied Maggie.

"Well, that is the only white spot on the general blackness of his character."

"No, 'tisn't!" protested Leo.

"You will excuse me, Miss Maggimore, if you think I speak too plainly; but candor is one of the attributes of a gentleman."

"It's not necessary for you to be so very candid," suggested Maggie.

"I know the man," said Fitz, pompously. "Did I ever tell you how he treated me and my mother? I never did. Well, I will."

"Nobody cares how he treated you and your mother," interposed Leo.

"Allow me to contradict you, Leo. I care; my mother cares; and every person who loves justice and fairness cares."

In spite of several very pointed hints from Andre, Maggie, and Leo, that they did not care to bear the story, Fitz persisted in telling it, and did tell it. He declared it was his solemn conviction that Mr. Checkynshaw had wronged his mother out of the block of stores, and ten years' income of the same, for which he had paid her the petty consideration of ten thousand dollars. Fitz had heard from his mother the narrative of the second Mrs. Checkynshaw's sickness, and of the sickness of little Marguerite, who had been taken to the cholera hospital; and he related it all in the most painfully minute manner.

"That child was the heir of my grandfather's property," continued Fitz, eloquently; for he was still burning under the sense of his own wrongs. "If that child died, the block of stores, according to my grandfather's will, was to come to my mother. That child did die, in my opinion."

"What makes you think so?" asked Andre, interested, in spite of himself, in the story.

"What makes me think so?" repeated Mr. Wittleworth, magnificently. "Am I a man of ordinary common sense? Have I lived to attain my present stature without growing wiser with every day of life I lived? Of what avail are my judgment, my knowledge, and my experience, if I cannot penetrate a sham so transparent as this? What makes me think so? Does a man of wealth and influence leave his own child among strangers, in a foreign land, for ten years? No! I repeat it, no!"

"You say the child was sent to the cholera hospital?" asked Andre, nervously.

"She was; but in my opinion she died there."

"O, she died there--did she?" said Andre, with apparent relief.

"Checkynshaw says she did not die; I say she did."

"Why should he say she didn't die, if she did die?" inquired Maggie, very innocently.

"Why should he? Why, indeed?" repeated Fitz, amazed at her obtuseness. "Don't you see that, if the child died, the block of stores belongs to my mother? But it makes no difference now," sighed Mr. Wittleworth, "for my mother, contrary to my advice, contrary to my solemn protest, sold out all her right in the premises for a mere song."

"But where is the child now?"

"Dead!" replied Fitz, in a sepulchral tone.

"Mr. Checkynshaw does not say so," persisted Andre. "What does he say about the child?"

"He says the child was taken by the Sisters of Charity, and that he found her in one of their nunneries or schools; but of course that is all bosh."

Mr. Wittleworth had told his story, and having done so, he tore himself away, leaving Andre very thoughtful.