Books: Her Weight in Gold
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George Barr McCutcheon >> Her Weight in Gold
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The twins and their brides were occupying enormous suites at one of
the big hotels, pending the completion of a new and exclusive
apartment building in Fifth Avenue. They had been in town but a week
when Courtney and the Grand Duchess returned from Virginia Hot
Springs, where they had spent November. Old Mr. Van Winkle was just
out of the hospital after a second operation: an adhesion. He was
really unfit for the trip up town from the old Van Winkle mansion;
nevertheless, he made it rather than disappoint his new--(I use the
word provisionally)--daughter-in-law, who had set her heart upon
having the family see what she had bought. I am not quite certain that
she didn't include Corky in the exhibit.
There were introductions all around. Mr. Van Winkle, senior, was
presented to his mother-in-law and to his sisters, and, somewhat
facetiously, to his father-in-law, his brothers, his sons and his
daughters. Corky had the pleasure of meeting his three sons-in-law,
his three daughters-in-law, his two sisters, his brothers, his father
and his granddaughters-in-law. The twins--but why continue? Puzzles of
this character provide pleasure for those who choose to work them out
for themselves, and no doubt many who have followed the course of this
narrative are to be classed among them.
Of course, in his own home Corky sat at the head of the table, but it
is not to be assumed that he was the undisputed head of the family,
although he may have advanced claims to the distinction because of his
position as father-in-law to every one else of the name. Mr. Van
Winkle, pere, jocosely offered to relinquish the honour to his son,
and the twins vociferously shouted their approval.
"You are the oldest member of the family by marriage, Corky," said
Jeff, and was rewarded by a venomous stare from his joint mother-and-
sister-in-law.
"How you talk!" said the Grand Duchess, suddenly remembering her
lorgnette. The stare became intensified. "Isn't the house attractive,
Mr. Van Winkle?" she asked, turning to the old gentleman, with a
mirthless smile.
"Are you addressing me, my dear, as your son-in-law or as your father-
in-law?" enquired Mr. Van Winkle.
"Why do you ask?" she demanded.
"Because if you are speaking to me as your son, I prefer to be called
Bleecker."
"Stuff and nonsense, Mr. Van Winkle! Why, I scarcely know you."
"Won't you tell me your Christian name? I can't very well go about
calling my daughter MISSIS Van Winkle."
"Minervy--I mean Minerva. Of course, I shall expect you to call me
Minerva. I--I suppose it is only right that I should call you
Bleecker. Isn't it an odd situation?"
"I should say so," put in Rip. "I'll have to give up calling you
father, Bleecker. You are my brother now."
"I don't think we should carry a joke too far," said his father
severely.
"It's no joke," said Kip. "Is it, Father Corky?"
"See here, confound you, don't get funny," snapped Corky from the head
of the table. "You forget the servants."
"I'm not ashamed to have them hear me call you father, Corky,"
protested Rip. "I'll shout it from the house top if you think there's
any doubt about my sincerity."
"Don't tease, Ripley," said Toots. "Your poor brother is dreadfully
embarrassed."
"You must go with me to the dressmaker's tomorrow, girls," said the
Grand Duchess, effectually putting a stop to the discussion. "I shall
be there all day trying on gowns, and I want your opinions."
"Didn't you have anything made in Paris, Mother?" cried Toots and
Beppy in unison.
"She did," said Corky emphatically. "We paid duty on seventy-three
gowns, to say nothing of other things."
"But they are all out of fashion by this time," said Mrs. Corky,
joyously. "They are at least three months old. I'm getting everything
new. The season promises to be an unusually brilliant one, doesn't it,
dear?"
Every one waited for Gorky's reply. He appeared to have swallowed
something the wrong way. It was just like them to wait, CONFOUND them,
thought he resentfully.
"Yes," said he, so succinctly that the four ladies were bitterly
disappointed. For them, the topic called for the most elaborate
treatment. "I shall give a big ball right after the holidays," said
the Grand Duchess, determined to keep the subject going. "Corky and I
have been going over the list of invitations this week. We mean to
make it very select. On a rough estimate, we figure that the affair
won't cost a cent less than fifty thousand--"
"My dear!" cried Corky, rapping violently on the table with his fork
in his agitation.
"That's a pearl-handled fork," his wife reminded him, going very red
under her rouge.
At this juncture Jefferson arose and, clearing his throat, began a
toast to the brides.
"On your feet, gentlemen! Here's to the four Mrs. Van Winkles, the
fourest of the fair--I mean the fairest of the four--ouch!--the
fairest--of--the--fair. May they never know an hour of remorse! May
their hearts always beat time to the tune of love we shall sing into
their lovely ears, and may they be kind enough to forgive us our
transgressions while they listen to our eternal and everlasting song!
Drink, gentlemen!"
As the four gentlemen drained their glasses, the four ladies applauded
the eloquent Jeff.
"You must write that out for Corky, Jefferson," cried his mother-in-
law. "He may have an opportunity to spring it--"
"Ahem!" barked Corky, quite viciously.
"I am sure we shall all love one another and be happy to the end of
our days," cried Mrs. Bleecker Van Winkle, an extremely handsome woman
of thirty-three.
"Good for you, Mother!" shouted Rip, with enthusiasm and every one
laughed, Corky the loudest of all.
Beppy rose half way out of her seat and peered down the table in the
direction of her sister Mary.
"Stop holding hands, you silly things!" she cried, shaking her finger
at Bleecker Van Winkle and his wife.
"I'm not holding hands," cried Mary.
"She was feeling my pulse," explained the old gentleman hastily.
As a matter of fact, when Mary undertook to bestow upon her husband
the caress known as "holding hands" she invariably took his wrist
between her thumb and forefinger and absent-mindedly counted ten or
twelve before realising her mistake.
The father of the three young men took this particular moment to
revoke, in a very diplomatic way, the sentence he had declared a few
months earlier in the year. Without saying it in so many words, he
gave them to understand that he considered their fortunes made and
warmly congratulated them upon the successful issue of their
endeavours. He made so bold as to state that he took upon his own
shoulders all of the trivial mistakes they may have made during years
of adolescence, and gave to them the glory of achieving success when
failure might have been their lot because of the foolish adoration of
a doting parent. It was a very pretty speech, but the boys noticed
that he carefully refrained from acknowledging that they had made men
of themselves.
"And now," said he, in conclusion, "permit me to paraphrase the toast
of that amiable ancestor whom fiction has given to us, the ancient Rip
whose days will be longer than ours, whose life will run smoothly
through centuries to come: 'May we all live long--and prosper'!"
They drank it standing.
The Grand Duchess beamed. "So that dear old gentleman WAS your
ancestor after all. How glad I am to know it!"
"Yes, my dear daughter," said her venerable son-in-law, running his
fingers through his niveous thatch, "he was the first of the time-
wasting Van Winkles."
THE LATE MR. TAYLOR
Hawkins was not a drinking man. To be sure, he took a glass of
something occasionally, but he thoroughly understood himself at the
time. He took it to be companionable, that was all. Therefore, in view
of what happened to him on one unforgetable night, it is well to know
that Hawkins bore an impeccable reputation for sobriety. Likewise, his
veracity never had been seriously questioned.
The night was bitterly cold--so cold, in fact, that Hawkins relished
the prospect of remaining in-doors. There was a blizzard blowing fifty
knots an hour. Hawkins rarely used the word "mile," it may be said; he
was of a decidedly nautical turn ever since the memorable trip to
Europe and back. He was middle-aged and a bachelor. This explains the
fact that he was a man of habits if not of parts. For years he had
lived in cosy apartments on the fifth floor, surrounded by
unmistakable signs of connubial joy, but utterly oblivious to these
pertinent manifestations. Away back--I should say abaft--in the dim
past he had given some little thought to matrimony but she was now
almost beyond memory.
Each day after Hawkins had balanced the books at the bank--and they
always balanced, so methodical was Hawkins--he went for his stroll in
the park. Then came dinner, then a half hour or so of conversation
with the other boarders, and then the club or the theatre. Usually he
went home early in the night as he always went to town early in the
morning. The occasions were not infrequent when he could smile grimly
and pityingly upon one or more of his companions of the night before
as they passed him on their belated way home long after dawn. It was
then that Hawkins drew himself a trifle more erect, added a bit of
elasticity to his notably springy stride, and congratulated himself
warmly on being what he was.
Soon after eight o'clock on the night of the great blizzard, Hawkins
forsook the companionship of the disgruntled coterie downstairs and
retired to his library on the fifth floor. His suite consisted of
three rooms--and a bath, as they say when they talk of letting them to
you. There was a library, a bed chamber and a parlour with broad
couches against two of the walls. Sometimes Hawkins had friends to
stay all night with him. They slept on the couches because it did not
make any difference to them and because Hawkins was of a philanthropic
turn of mind when occasion demanded.
He got into his dressing gown and slippers, pulled the big leather
chair up to the blazing grate, and prepared for a long and enjoyable
visit with one Charles Dickens. A young woman of charm and persistence
had induced him, only the week before to purchase a full set of
Dickens with original Cruikshank engravings--although Hawkins secretly
confessed that he was sceptical--and it was not like him to spend
money without getting its full value in return. It was with some show
of gratitude then that he looked upon the blizzard which kept him
indoors for the night. Years ago he had read "Oliver Twist" and "David
Copperfield," but that was the extent of his acquaintance with
Dickens. Now that he had the full set on his shelves, it behooved him
to read the great Englishman from beginning to end.
"This is a terrible night," he mused, as he ran his eye along the row
of green and gilt books, and "Bleak House" seems especially fit for
the hour. "We'll begin with that."
Outside the wind howled like mad, shrieking around the corners as if
bent on destroying every bit of harmony in the world. It whistled and
screamed and gnashed its way through the helpless night, the biting
sleet so small that it could penetrate the very marrow of man. Hawkins
serenely tucked his heels into the cushions of the footstool and
laughed at the storm.
"I sha'n't be disturbed tonight, that's sure," he thought,
complacently. "No one but a drivelling idiot would venture out in such
a blizzard as this unless absolutely driven to it. 'Gad, that wind is
something awful! I haven't heard anything like it since last February
and that was when we had the coldest night in forty years, if one can
believe the weather bureau." Here Hawkins allowed "Bleak House" to
drop listlessly into his lap while he indulged in a moment or two of
retrospection. "Let's see; that was said to have been the deadliest
cold snap Chicago has ever known. Scores of people were frozen to
death on the streets and many of them in their homes. I hope there is
no one so luckless as to be homeless tonight. The hardiest man would
be helpless. Think of the poor cab-drivers and--oh, well, it doesn't
help matters to speculate on what may be happening outside. I shudder
to think, though, of what the papers will tell in the morning."
The midnight hour was close at hand before Hawkins reluctantly and
tenderly laid "Bleak House" on the library table, stretched himself
and prepared for bed. The blizzard had not lost any of its fury.
Indeed, it seemed to have grown more vicious, more merciless. Hawkins,
in his pajamas, lifted the curtain and sought a glimpse of the night
and its terrors. The window panes were white with frost. He scraped
away the thick layer and peered forth into the swirling storm.
"Worse than ever," he thought, a troubled look in his eyes. "Poor
devils, who ever you are, I feel for you if you're out in all this."
He turned off the lights, banked the fire on the grate and was soon
shivering between the icy sheets of his bed. It seemed to him they
never would get warm and cosy, as he had so confidently expected.
Hawkins, being a bank clerk, was a patient and enduring man. Years of
training had made him tolerant even to placidity. As he cuddled in the
bed, his head almost buried in the covers, he resignedly convinced
himself that warmth would come sooner or later and even as the chills
ran up and down his back he was philosophic. So much for system and a
clear conscience.
Gradually the chill wore away and Hawkins slumbered, warm and serene
despite the wrath of the winds which battered against the walls of his
habitation. At just what minute sleep came he did not know. He heard
the clock striking the hour of twelve. Of that he was sure, because he
counted the strokes up to nine before they ran into a confused jangle.
He remembered wondering dimly if any one had been able to distinguish
the precise instant when sleep succeeds wakefulness. At any rate, he
slept.
The same little clock struck twice a few minutes after a sudden chill
aroused him to consciousness. For a moment or two he lay there
wondering how he came to be out-of-doors. He was so cold and damp that
some minutes of wakefulness were required to establish the fact that
he was still in his own room and bed. It struck Hawkins as strange
that the bedclothes, tucked about his head, seemed wet and heavy and
mouldy. He pulled them tightly about his shivering body, curled his
legs up until the knees almost touched the chin and--yes, Hawkins said
damn twice or thrice. It was not long until he was sufficiently awake
to realise that he was very much out of patience.
Presently he found himself sniffing the air, his nostrils dilating
with amazement. There was a distinct odour of earth, such as one
scents only in caverns or in mossy places where the sun is forever a
stranger. It was sickening, overpowering. Hawkins began to feel that
the chill did not come from the wintry winds outside but from some
cool, aguish influence in the room itself. Half asleep, he impatiently
strove to banish the cold, damp smell by pulling the coverlet over his
head. His feet felt moist and his knees were icy cold. The thick
blanket seemed plastered to his black, wet and rank with the smell of
stagnant water.
"What in thunder is the matter with me?" growled he, to himself. "I
never felt this way before. It's like sleeping in a fog or worse. A
big slug of whiskey is what I need, but it's too infernal cold to get
out of bed after it. How the dickens is it that typhoid fever starts
in on a fellow? Chilly back and all that, I believe,--but I can't
recall anything clammy about it."
The more he thought of it the more worried he became; more earnest
became his efforts to shut out the chilly dampness. It occurred to him
that it would be wise to crawl out and poke up the fire in the next
room. Then he remembered that there was a gas grate in his bedroom,
behind the bureau. Of course, it would be quite a task to move the
bureau and even then he might find that the gas pipe was not connected
with the burner. The most sensible proceeding, he finally resolved,
would be to get up and rebuild the fire and afterward add an overcoat
and the cherished steamer rug to the bed coverings. Damper and damper
grew the atmosphere in the room. Everything seemed to reek with the
odour of rotting wood and mouldy earth; his nostrils drank the smell
of decaying vegetation and there seemed to be no diminution. Instead,
the horrible condition appeared to grow with each succeeding breath of
wakefulness.
The palms of his hands were wet, his face was saturated. Hawkins was
conscious of a dreadful fear that he was covered with mildew. Once,
when he was a small boy, he had gone into a vault in the cemetery with
some relatives. Somehow, the same sensations he felt on that far-off
day were now creeping over him. The room seemed stifled with the smell
of dead air, cold and gruesome. He tried to convince himself that he
was dreaming, but it was too easy to believe the other way. Suddenly
his heart stopped beating and his blood turned to ice, for there shot
into his being the fear that some dreadful thing was about to clutch
him from behind, with cold, slimy hands. In his terror he could almost
feel the touch of ghastly fingers against his flesh.
With rigid, pulseless hands he threw the soggy covers from his face
and looked forth with wide startled eyes. His face was to the wall,
his back--(his cringing back)--to the open room. Hawkins was positive
that he had heard the clock strike two and he knew that no hour of the
winter's night was darker. And yet his eyes told him that his ears had
lied to him.
It was not inky darkness that met his gaze. The room was draped in the
grey of dawn, cold, harsh, lifeless. Every object on the wall was
plainly visible in this drear light. The light green stripes in the
wall paper were leaden in colour, the darker border above was almost
blue in its greyness. For many minutes Hawkins remained motionless in
his bed, seeking a solution of the mystery. Gradually the conviction
grew upon him that he was not alone in the room. There was no sound,
no visible proof that any one was present, but something supernatural
told him that an object--human or otherwise--was not far from his
side. The most horrible feeling came over him. He was ready to shriek
with terror, so positive was his belief that the room was occupied by
some dreadful thing.
Even as he prepared to turn his face toward the open room, there came
to his ears the most terrifying sound. Distinctly, plainly he heard a
chuckle, almost at the bedside. A chuckle, hollow, sepulchral,
mirthless. The hair on Hawkins's head stood straight on end. The
impulse to hide beneath the covers was conquered by the irresistible
desire to know the worst.
He whirled in the bed, rising to his elbow, his eyes as big as
dollars. Something indescribable had told him that the visitor was no
robber midnight marauder. He did not fear physical injury, strange as
it may seem.
There, in the awful grey light, sitting bolt upright in the Morris
chair, was the most appalling visitor that man ever had. For what
seemed hours to Hawkins, he gazed into the face of this ghastly being
--the grey, livid, puffy face of a man who had been dead for weeks.
Fascination is a better word than fright in describing the emotion of
the man who glared at this uncanny object. Unbelief was supreme in his
mind for a short time only. After the first tremendous shock, his
rigid figure relaxed and he trembled like a leaf. Horror seemed to be
turning his blood to ice, his hair to the whiteness of snow. Slowly
the natural curiosity of the human mind asserted itself. His eyes left
the face of the dread figure in the chair and took brief excursions
about the room in search of the person who had laughed an age before.
Horror increased when he became thoroughly convinced that he was alone
with the cadaver.
Whence came that chuckle?
Surely not from the lips of this pallid thing near the window. His
brain reeled. His stiff lips parted as if to cry out but no sound
issued forth.
In a jumbled, distorted way his reason began to question the reality
of the vision, and then to speculate on how the object came to be in
his room. To his certain knowledge, the doors and windows were locked.
No one could have brought the ghastly thing to his room for the
purpose of playing a joke on him. No, he almost shrieked in revulsion,
no one could have handled the terrible thing, even had it been
possible to place it there while he slept. And yet it had been brought
to his bedroom; it could not have come by means of its own.
He tried to arise, but his muscles seemed bound in fetters of steel.
In all his after life he was not to forget the picture of that hideous
figure, sitting there in the tomb-like grey. The face was bloated and
soft and flabby, beardless and putty-like; the lips thick and
colourless; the eyes wide, sightless and glassy. The black hair was
matted and plastered close to the skull, as if it had just come from
the water. The clothes that covered the corpse were wet, slimy and
reeking with the odour of stagnant water. Huge, stiff, puffy hands
extended over the ends of the chair's arms, the fingers twice the
natural size and absolutely shapeless. Truly, it was a most repulsive
object. There was no relief in the thought that the man might have
entered the room alive, in some mysterious manner, for every sign
revealed the fact that he had been dead for a long time.
Hawkins, in his horror, found himself thinking that if he were to poke
his finger suddenly into the cheek of the object, it would leave an
impression that hours might not obliterate.
It was dead, horribly dead, and--the chuckle? His ears must have
deceived him. No sound could have come from those pallid lips--
But the thing was speaking!
"It is so nice and warm here," came plainly and distinctly from the
Morris chair, the voice harsh and grating. Something rattled in each
tone. Hawkins felt his blood freeze within him and he knew his eyes
were bulging with terror. They were glued upon the frightful thing
across the room, but they saw no movement of the thick lips.
"Wha--What?" gasped Hawkins, involuntarily. His own voice sounded high
and squeaky.
"I've been so cursed cold," responded the corpse, and there were
indications of comfort in the weird tones. "Say, I've had a devil of a
time. It's good to find a warm spot again. The Lord knows I've been
looking for it long enough."
"Good Lord! Am I crazy? Is it actually talking?" murmured Hawkins,
clutching the bedclothes frantically.
"Of course, I'm talking. Say, I'm sorry to have disturbed you at this
time of night, but you wouldn't mind if you knew how much I've
suffered from this terrible cold. Don't throw me out, for God's sake.
Let me stay here till I thaw out, please do. You won't put me out,
will you?" The appeal in those racking tones was too grotesque for
description.
"I wouldn't--wouldn't touch you for a million dollars," gasped
Hawkins. "Good Heavens, you're dead!"
"Certainly. Any fool could tell that," answered the dead man,
scornfully.
"Then--then how do you come to be here?" cried the owner of the room.
"How can you be dead and still able to talk? Who placed you in that
chair?"
"You'll have to excuse me, but my brain is a trifle dull just now. It
hasn't had time to thaw out, I fancy. In the first place, I think I
came up the fire escape and into that window. Don't get up, please; I
closed it after me. "What was the next question? Oh, yes--I remember.
It isn't an easy matter to talk, I'll confess. One's throat gets so
cold and stiff, you know. I kept mine in pretty good condition by
calling out for help all the time I was in the water."
"In the--water?"
"Yes. That's how I happen to be so wet and disagreeable. You see, I've
been out there in the lake for almost a year!"
Hawkins fell back in the bed, speechless. He started with fresh terror
when he passed his hand over his wet forehead. The hand was like ice.
"There's a lot of them out there, you may be sure. I stumbled over
them two or three times a day. No matter where you walk or float,
you're always seeing dead people out there. They're awful sights,
too,--give one the shivers. The trouble with most people who go to the
bottom is that they give up and are content to lie there forever,
washed around in the mud and sand in a most disgusting way. I couldn't
bear the thought of staying down there for ages, so I kept on trying
to get out. Shows what perseverance will do, doesn't it?"
"You don't mean to say that--that--Good Lord, I must have brain
fever!" cried poor Hawkins hoarsely.
"Do I annoy you? I'll be going presently, although I hate to leave
this warm corner. But you can rest assured of one thing: I'll never go
near that lake again. All the weight in the world couldn't drag me to
the bottom after what I've gone through. It's not right, I know, to
trespass like this. It's a rank shame. But don't be hard on me, Mr.--
Mr.--?"
"I don't know it," groaned Hawkins, who could not have told his name
if his life was at stake. He had forgotten everything except the
terrible thing in the Morris chair.
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