Part 14

The two women came in, shortly before noon. In the sunshine and freedom, Martha had cast care to the winds. Her eyes were bright. In her thin cheeks played a faint color. Lucianna had behaved beautifully. Now, she giggled at sight of Enos, and clamored for dinner.

“We’ll have some soon,” said Martha, stirring about. “Had a quiet morning, husband?” mischievously.

“I ain’t seen a bill against me,” replied Mr. Matchett, calmly. “I’ve set still till I’ll be glad to get into the air. Let’s eat, an’ I’ll be startin’.”

The eye-brows of his wife lifted in wonder. After all, she was glad of the news. It would have been too bad to have Enos upset.

He ate in silence while she chatted volubly of her outing, not remarking his lack of attention.

“Through?” he asked, as Martha rolled her napkin and sat back.

“All through,” she smiled.

“Well, _I_ ain’t,” said the man, leaning forward, his eyes stern and reproachful. “Nor you, neither. We’ve a bit of dessert to chew on, Martha Matchett. I told you I hadn’t seen a bill against _me_. I’ve seen one against you, an’ I’ve paid it! Yes, marm. Paid it! Here!” he thrust the paper at her.

“Dear God!” moaned the woman, after a lightning glimpse. “It’s come on to me at last. Oh! Enos, husband, don’t look so at me. It was for Cousin Minna’s weddin’—four years ago;—I wanted to go. I didn’t have no dress, nor fixin’s. You was away. I went to Mr. Morley’s store an’ had ’em charged. He said I could pay when I had the money. I’ve never had it. The dress I’ve never worn since. I—I hid it away till I could pay for it, Enos—oh, dear, oh, dear.”

She sobbed, piteously, staring wildly at him through her tears.

“An’—you—paid—it,” came her horrified gasps. “Every—cent—we had.”

“You can attend to the rent, Martha,” the voice of Enos was unmoved as he arose. “I’m goin’ to rake lawns.”

He went out without another word or look, leaving her weeping and rocking to and fro.

From the outside he gazed at the house. It was a pretty cottage of a cheap kind. They had lived there for three years, and Martha’s vines had grown. Her flower bed, so carefully tended, how pretty it was! On the opposite side of the road lay a great vacant lot—a pasture on the city outskirts. Trees were there—and cows. In summer, children played among the grasses. In winter, they coasted. It was just the place for Lucianna—for Martha—for Enos, too.

“Got to leave it,” groaned the man. “No use talkin’. It’s pay or get out. Plenty wants it—and old Craddock won’t wait again. Third time we’ll have moved. Confound Minna’s weddin’ an’ a deceivin’ woman. If I’d known it—oh! if I only had—but I said I’d pay an’ I did. Now, _let_ her do some payin’.”

Lucianna tapped on the window and beamed at him. His answering smile was a ghastly farce. Tears were on the round cheeks of Enos as he hurried away. Last night he had been so confident and happy. He stumbled, walking on.

No suspicious moisture showed on Martha’s cheeks, as she marched over her doorsill twenty minutes later. Her tears had dried. A hard determination glittered in the black eyes. Under her hastily arranged bonnet, Mrs. Matchett’s face, strained and set, was tense with resolve.

Lucianna did not witness her departure, else there would have been wailing and much pounding on the window. Fortunately the girl had fallen asleep. Only on occasions of great moment was she left alone. This was one of them.

Martha hastened along.

The old sign of “Morley, Cowperthwait, Rensellaer and Company” still remained over the entrance of the great department store—but the kindly old founder was gone.

Martha knew that—she had read of his death, and the passage of the business into new hands. But that old bill wouldn’t be a worry. She had a whole string of excuses and explanations for the lingering liquidation of her debt in the case of the resurrection of this buried but haunting ghost. Now, Enos had “gone and paid it,” to the ruin of them all.

Through the throng she pushed and elbowed. How changed everything was. How busy and big. Martha had not entered that growing emporium since the date of her reckless purchase.

For a second her heart failed at the enormity of her mission. Then she clenched her teeth and grabbed a passing bundle boy by the shoulder.

“Say!” she exclaimed, hoarsely. “I want to see the head of the firm, the man who is attendin’ to Mr. Morley’s work. Where is he?”

The startled lad pulled away, blinked and grinned.

“Guess not,” he retorted. “He’ll take yer skelp off. He won’t talk to nobody this time o’ day.”

“It’s important, I tell you,” cried the woman, fiercely. “It’s a money matter an’ I _will_ see him.”

“Gwan ter trouble, then!” said the boy, pointing a mischievous finger at a closed door marked “No admittance.” “I’ll call de ambulance. He ain’t no Mr. Morley. I see you come out a flyin’ in jest two seconds.”

But Martha was past him, her grasp on the knob, and the door closed behind her as he stared.

“Here! Here!” ejaculated a stout, bald man, turning impatiently from his desk with a twist of his revolving chair. “You’ve made a mistake, madam. Go right out, please.”

“I won’t,” said Martha. “I’m here on important business—an’ I’ll state it before I move one step. You’ve taken Mr. Morley’s place. You’re the head of things, an’ I’ve come straight to you.”

A queer smile crossed the broad face. The man took out his watch. “I’ll give you just one minute,” he said, coolly. “What’s the trouble. Talk fast, now.”

Martha talked fast.

“I got thirty-five dollars worth of stuff here most four years ago,” she began, excitedly. “Mr. Morley said I could pay when convenient. Now you’ve sent to my house when I was out, an’ my husband paid it. I want that money back.”

Her listener laughed outright.

“Why! Why!” he coughed. “My dear woman, you have a very accommodating husband; that’s evident. Four years! What were you thinking of? Madam, the account should never have run so long. You owed it. It’s been paid. The transaction is closed. We cannot give you back the money. What a ridiculous request!”

The woman drew in her breath, shudderingly.

“People must settle their obligations, you know,” pursued the man patting his fat leg. “That is the rule of business. If _I_ owed you anything I should pay it. If you owe me, you have to pay also. Such a demand as yours is absurd. Can’t you see that?”

“I can see me an’ Enos turned out of our little home.” Martha’s voice was stony. “The money for that bill of mine was every penny we had. The rent’s got to be met before night. My husband’s an honest man—too honest to have any credit. I can see him growin’ old an’ gray in some shanty. I can see a poor half-witted girl cryin’ for the room she loves. These are the things I can see. Yes, sir, that’s the worst of it. Lucianna won’t understand——”

“Eh!” interrupted the merchant sharply. “Who?”

“Lucianna, sir. Not our own daughter, but most the same, poor thing. We’ve been glad to have her, an’ make her a home, an’ never minded the cost. She was so little when she came to us for shelter, smart an’ bright as anybody with her blue eyes an’ yellow hair, winnin’ us like she was our born baby. ’Twasn’t her fault she got queer. We wouldn’t put the child where she’d be abused again, so we kep’ her. Now, to root her out from comfort into the Lord knows what—I can’t bear to think of it. Me an’ Enos might get along somehow, but there’s Lucianna. I want that money back!”

Martha’s tone became sharp as she remembered her errand. Tears had blinded her eyes during the rapid explanation, quite forgetful for the moment of all save the coming deprivations of her loved ones.

Now, she winked them away to glare at the man in the chair. His ruddy face had gone to a dreadful whiteness. His hands were working. A strange sound came from the thick throat before he stammered feebly:

“I—I—lost—a little girl. Her—this—one—do you know the last name?”

“I’ve most forgot—she’s had ours for so long.” Martha began to tremble. “Let’s see? Yes. Say, it can’t be, your name is Crowson? That’s hers, Lucianna Crowson.”

“My God!” the stout man sprang up. “It is! It is! Everything points to her being the same. It must be so.”

He seized Martha’s hands with such vehemence that she recoiled with a startled, backward step.

“Don’t act so crazy!” came her alarmed exclamation. “You let go an’ be careful. The blood’s clean to the top of your head. Set down an’ behave.”

“Yes! Yes!” cried Crowson, releasing her, to pace the small room with a broken laugh and a fierce curse. “Wait! I’ll be myself in a minute. She’s my girl—I tell you. They wrote me she was dead—the people I left her with—after the child was cured. I’m her father, my dear woman. Don’t mind me, I’ll pull up directly. Wait!”

Martha shrank against the wall, as he laughed wildly and growled imprecations.

Presently he steadied, tightening his muscles and breathing deep.

“I’m all right,” said he, huskily. “You must excuse this, Mrs.—Mrs.—”

“Matchett,” answered his caller. “Certainly! ’Tain’t no wonder you felt shook up, if you’re really Lucianna’s father.”

“There is no doubt about it;” the man sat heavily in his chair. “Listen! She was eleven years old when she fell off her pony and injured her head. I was a comparatively poor man then, but I got the best surgeons. For months my little one lay in a hospital. We had no settled home. My wife died long before. Business called me away. When I returned Lucianna was pronounced cured. At least it was deemed safe to place her with some family where she would have every care, and no excitement. Should the trouble recur, an operation would be necessary.

“I found a home for her. Matters were arranged. Again I went West. Letters reached me regularly for many months. All seemed to be going well, in fact so satisfactorily that I, immersed in the starting of a business, ceased to worry. Yes, it must have been two years before I stopped my remittances, although those crafty letters had grown infrequent.

“I wrote the Harpinsons that I would be East soon and intended to take the child back with me.

“Then I received the shocking news of her death. Diphtheria, they said, and very sudden. A malignant case, and—well—the burial had been at night. Everything was done as if she belonged to them. As soon as quarantine was over they were going to move and would inform me of their location.”

Martha stood with her mouth open.

“Did they?” she hissed. “We must have had Lucianna for a good while before those critters said she was dead.”

“Yes,” said Crowson, frowning. “They bled me as long as possible. I received one more letter, postmarked Boston—a few details of no importance, but I had no suspicions. Since then, my letters have come back stamped, ‘no such party at address.’”

“But—” broke in Martha.

He held up an appealing hand.

“I know, I know,” he interrupted. “I should have gone on at once. Yet what could be done? The quarantine—the detention from business—the added grief. My child was gone. All was over. Nothing seemed left to me save strenuous work and the making of money. I own three stores like this, the result of losing Lucianna. Now I have found her, I’ll not work so hard.”

“She won’t know you from Adam,” said Martha, jealously.

“Perhaps—in—time,” replied Crowson, stroking his forehead. “Thank God! I’ve the means to find out.”

“Have we got to give up Lucianna?” quavered the woman. “If—if it’s for her good, I s’pose I could stand it, but what will Enos say? She won’t want to go, neither.”

The man turned his head suddenly, and coughed.

“We will fix everything right,” he said, gently. “I’ll take no step without your consent. Let’s see! To get back to business—” he smiled, whimsically. “You mustn’t think a personal matter can influence our regulations. That bill of yours must be settled.”

Martha jumped. In her excitement she had quite forgotten the landlord, the house and the gravity of the Matchett situation.

Speechless, she drew herself up. Could this hard-headed man be so devoid of humanity, after what had happened, as to refuse her assistance?

“Still,” he went on in his matter-of-fact tone, “I’ll give you a little more time on it. Till next week, say. Here is the money, but say nothing about it. Quite against rules, you know.”

He pulled out a wallet and handed her four bank notes, three tens and a five.

“Thanks!” said Martha, counting them mechanically. “I s’pose you want this;” she held out the receipted bill.

“Oh yes—I must have that.” He put it carefully in a pigeon-hole.

“I’m ever so much obliged,” murmured the woman, “an’ I’ll try to scrape up something by next week. I s’pose you’ll be ’round to see Lucianna—an’ talk with Mr. Matchett.”

“Very soon.” Crowson’s mouth trembled at the corners. “How long have you had Lucianna?”

“Twelve years come Saturday. Enos was sayin’ so night before last. We call it her birthday, an’ most always give her something. Not this year, though. Can’t afford it.”

The merchant figured on a pad. “Twelve. Six hundred and twenty-four,” he whispered. Then aloud. “The Harpinsons charged me ten dollars a week for Lucianna’s keep. It was none too much.”

“They skinned you,” said Martha, adjusting her bonnet. She felt dazed and tired; quite bewildered at the prospect of losing Lucianna, uneasy regarding Enos, yet thankful for the temporary financial respite.

“I’ve got to hurry home,” she announced. “There’s nothing more to say except that I’ll do my best to settle my bill and I’m obliged to you. I’m mighty glad for you, sir, but the thought of what we’re losing makes me fairly sick. It ain’t right to say so, but I most wish I hadn’t come.” She turned with a choke.

“One moment,” said Crowson. “I want your address. What is your full name, Mrs. Matchett?”

“Martha.”

“Any middle name?”

“Hum! Lupkins,” returned Martha reluctantly. “We live at 462 Goodland Avenue—used to be Squash Street. You’ll find us easy enough—good day.”

“One thing more. It will take only a minute. You have arranged your old account. There’s another you seem to have overlooked.” He touched a button on his desk.

“There ain’t another!” declared Martha, defiantly. “I don’t owe a cent here besides this.”

The door opened quickly. A young man bustled in.

“Hinkley,” ordered Mr. Crowson, and his eyes twinkled, “draw a check at once to the order of Martha L. Matchett for six thousand two hundred and forty dollars.”

When Enos crawled into supper, he was a weary, conscience-smitten person. His anger had dissipated. What should come he knew not, but Martha’s feelings must be considered, first of all. He pictured her in the depths of despair—forlorn, distracted, possibly “packing.”

An appetizing odor filled the house. Enos sniffed.

“Beefsteak an’ onions an’ coffee,” he commented, gratefully. “Jest my likin’s. She wants to make up. Where did she get the meat?”

Drawing his chair to the table, Mr. Matchett gazed at his spouse with a dismayed visage.

Surely there was something wrong here. The display of luxuries, Martha’s unnaturally bright eyes, her compressed lips, the new black dress, her air of superiority.

“What’s the matter?” said Martha. “Pitch in. I’ve got a nice supper an’ dressed up to show you how smart I can be under afflictions.”

Enos took a mouthful.

“I—I guess Craddock didn’t come for the rent,” he essayed. “Never knew him to skip us before.”

“He come,” replied Martha, loftily.

“An’ you—” the man’s fork shook against his plate.

“Paid him, of course,” said Martha, airily. “You told me to attend to it.”

Her husband half rose from his seat. “You ain’t right, my dear,” he said, soothingly—“what’s affected you?”

“Set down!” commanded the woman, laughing. “We’ve found a friend, an’ our girl’s found a father. It’s all straight, Enos. In case you want a bit of spendin’ money, I’ve endorsed this over to you.”

Mr. Matchett did sit down. His countenance underwent many changes as he fingered the check. “Wh—what’s it for?” he stuttered.

“Lucianna’s keep,” said Martha.

On the pleasant days, when the roads are fine, an automobile stops before the Matchett’s door. Presently it rolls slowly away. Martha sits very erect by the side of a golden-haired companion, and an Angora kitten nestles between them. There is a good deal of laughing and talking, and sometimes passers stare, but no one in the big car minds. The stout man in front with the chauffeur turns, smiling at the women.

“Pretty distressing for us all, the removal of that lesion,” he says, “but she’s reading little books, now.”

And when Enos asks a question with his eyes, upon Martha’s return from these trips, he gets the same old words: “She’s gettin’ better.”

_Who Pays the Taxes?_

BY WILLIAM H. TILTON

The residents of a small New Jersey village were recently called together for the purpose of considering the advisability of incorporating the village into a borough; and the Philadelphia newspapers reported that an application for incorporation had been signed by a large number of “taxpayers and citizens.” What is meant by this dividing of the people into two distinct classes? This question becomes of more than passing importance in view of the fact that the case cited is not an isolated one. For instance, during the political campaign of 1905, in New York City, a prominent newspaper spoke editorially of the candidacy of William R. Hearst for Mayor on a municipal ownership platform as an “appeal to the _untaxed_ and an attack upon the _taxpayers_.”

The Secretary of the National Reciprocity League, in an address at Chicago, is reported to have said that “Municipal ownership and operation of street railways had become a craze; that people who do _not pay_ taxes are the most enthusiastic supporters of the craze, as those who _pay_ taxes are opposed to the idea.”

The late Charles T. Yerkes, in reference to the election of Judge Dunne as Mayor of Chicago on a municipal ownership platform, said: “The city will run heavily in debt. Will the poor man suffer? No; because the poor man does not pay taxes. Men with property pay taxes; these will suffer.” Mr. Yerkes did not say just what kind of _property_ was meant; but as the returns of personal property in Chicago are said to be less today than they were twenty years ago (although the city is three times as large, with six times the wealth), it is evident that the owners of that kind of property—stock-owners of that kind of property—stocks, bonds, mortgages, paintings, jewelry, silver services, etc.—are not going to suffer to any great extent if they can help it. Then it must be the real estate owner, again, who is expected to do the suffering, because of the increase of taxes, should there be any such increase.

Day after day we read in the newspapers communications in reference to public questions which are signed “Taxpayer,” or “Property Owner,” as if that fact should give more weight or influence to their opinions or suggestions. Others go still further. A Pittsburg preacher in a recent sermon denounced universal suffrage, saying, “Only property owners should vote and all others should be disfranchised.” Numerous other instances could be cited which tend to show a growing tendency to consider the real estate owner as the only person who pays taxes.

Now the great majority of our people have probably not looked upon these signs of the times with any apprehension as yet; but “great oaks from little acorns grow,” and this increasing disregard for the rights of men, as men, this creating of class distinctions with a tax-bill as a line of demarcation, on the theory that one small class pays all the taxes and is, therefore, entitled to rights and privileges that are denied to others, is dangerous and contrary to all principles of Democracy.

Owing to the inherent defects of human nature, no doubt there will always be those among us who will expect and demand more than they are entitled to, but the average American is satisfied with a square deal. When deprived of what he considers his just rights, however, he is, like most other people, inclined to become indifferent to the rights of others. Sooner or later he helps to swell the large army of the discontented; and history teaches that discontent is not only the mother of progress, but the mother of trouble. “On the contentment of the poor rests the safety of the rich.”

It is not intended to discuss in this article the justice or injustice of any particular tax, but simply to consider the question of taxes—how they are paid and who pays them—in the hope that we may thereby the more intelligently render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s.

Let us consider first the tax on real estate, one of the most important illustrations of the so-called “direct” taxation which Mill has defined as “that which is demanded from the very person who, it is intended or desired, should pay it.” Now it is, of course, true that this tax is levied against the property and the tax-bill is rendered in the name of the nominal owner, who is, naturally, expected to pay it; but whence comes the money with which he discharges this debt against his property? If the premises are rented or leased, are not the taxes, insurance, cost of repairs, interest on investment, etc., all added to the rental which is asked of and paid by the tenant? There are leases drawn today which contain a clause providing “that any increase in the taxes shall be added to the rental.” And yet, during the late struggle in Philadelphia over the attempted lease of the gas works to a private corporation for seventy-five years, a gentleman appeared before the committee of councils on behalf, as he said, of the taxpayers _and_ rent-payers.

During the passage of the mortgage bill through the 1905 session of the New York Legislature, a member of the committee appointed by the real-estate owners to oppose the measure said: “The result, should the bill pass, will be for the real-estate owners to raise the rents. It is the public who will have to bear the burden, not the real-estate owners.” So we appear to have very relevant testimony to the effect that the man who receives the tax-bill, the man “on whom the tax is levied and who is expected to pay it” really acts as an agent, collecting the tax from his tenant and passing it on to the authorities. Is the tenant then a _taxpayer_ or a _citizen_? As more than eighty per cent. of the people of the United States occupy rented houses, the sooner this question is satisfactorily answered and each of us understands his own individual responsibility, the better for all concerned.

Would not the rent-payer hesitate to cast his ballot for corrupt municipal government—with its accompanying reckless and dishonest expenditures of the public money—would he not hesitate to strike or riot, if he knew that the expenses (the teamsters’ strike in Chicago, in 1905, is said to have cost the city $100,000 a month for special policemen) and losses would eventually have to be paid by increased taxes _added to his rent_?

The United States Steel Company is said to have done much to eliminate strikes at its different plants by selling a portion of the capital stock of the company to its employes. Every man who owns even one share now feels that he is a part of the organization, that its interests are his interests, its losses his losses; and he is not inclined to do anything that will injuriously affect himself. When property owners understand and admit it, and rent-payers realize that they are a part of the municipal corporation, of the state and of the republic, that the public interests are their interests, the public losses their losses, that we must all rise or fall together, a great deal will have been accomplished toward the creation of better feeling and a consequent improvement in existing conditions.