Books: Her Weight in Gold
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George Barr McCutcheon >> Her Weight in Gold
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Delapere stepped to the edge of the sidewalk and hailed a cab, a
sudden and increasing flurry of snow changing his desire to walk into
the necessity of riding. Cabby came dashing up and Joe pulled forth
his well filled purse.
"Get me to No. -- Morton avenue in five minutes and another dollar is
yours. Be brisk, now!" Selecting a bill, he handed it to the driver
and sprang into the cab. To his box climbed the well-urged driver,
crack went his whip and once more the boon companions went their
different ways--in different fashion.
But as Delapere thrust his purse back into his coat pocket something
fluttered to the gutter. Digby's hungry eyes saw at a glance that it
was a bank note, and, calling to the cabman, he rushed to curbing and
fished the bill from the slush.
A ten dollar bill! And the cabman had not heard his shout! Putting his
cold fingers to his lips he gave vent to that shrill whistle which
always attracts the attention of Jehu, but the cabby was earning his
extra dollar and heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing but the big
flakes that struck his tingling face Digby stopped at the corner and
saw the cab disappear down the street.
"I'll take it to him tomorrow," he resolved. As he started to put the
bill into his pocket the thought came to him that Kate and the baby
were suffering. All the way home he battled with his conscience,
striving to convince himself that Delapere had not dropped the note,
that it belonged to him by virtue of discovery, and that he deserved
it if any one in the world did. At last there came a solution. He
would explain it all to Kate and take her advice. He knew she would
insist that he take it to the owner at once, and his conscience was
temporarily eased. But, he would have to confess that he had failed to
find work! Ah, that was the rub!
Another thought! Why should he tell her he had failed! Why not deceive
her? He had the amount of a week's wages in his pocket and he had but
to absent himself from the house during the days to carry out the
deception. Conscience was gone--everything was gone except the desire
to shield the ones at home.
At 5 o'clock he climbed the stairs, feeling like a joint thief and
millionaire, possessing the sort of conscience that both ignore. Kate
met him at the door of their room and he smiled gaily as he kissed her
then snatched the baby from between his feet where she had planted
herself precipitously. Kate was looking at him when he took his seat
near the stove in which burned the remnants of store boxes that he had
found that morning. His eyes could not meet hers when she asked:
"Is it all that you thought it would be, Digby?"
"Yes; I am pleased with the place. I only hope it will be permanent."
"Didn't they give you any satisfaction about the time that they will
need you?"
"Not over a week, they said, but there is chance for a permanent
place, of course."
"What--er--what are they to pay you, dear?"
"Ten dollars a week--it will be a great help, won't it? The rent can
be paid and you can have something warm to wear and--and--" then he
interrupted himself to stir up the fire, a wave of guilt causing him
to withdraw from the ordeal imposed by her trusting blue eyes. "By the
way, Kate, we must be quite merry tonight--isn't that so, Nell? Pop's
got a job!" And with forced gaiety he juggled the laughing child
toward the ceiling. "We ought to eat, drink and be merry. But--
"(lugubriously)--"what have we to eat and drink, not counting the
merriment, Kate?"
"Bread, liver and water--a feast, isn't it? But, oh, Digby, how many
there are who have not even that. And tomorrow is Christmas, too. What
shall we have for our grand dinner?"
"We'll have to have a change, to be sure--you can warm over the water,
liver and bread."
"I have a few cents left, dear--I could have sent with you for a few
little extras for tonight, too. I wish I had; it would be so jolly,
wouldn't it?"
"I haven't had a cent for so long that I--I don't know how it would
feel. Keep your money, Kate; I'll have some tomorrow. I have made
arrangements to draw my pay every day." He felt like a murderer as he
sat there with that fortune in his trousers pocket. Then he danced and
romped with Helen as only he could romp. In the midst of one of the
wildest figures Kate suddenly seized his arm and cried.
"Digby Trotter! Stoop over, this instant! Why, what kind of a wife am
I? Good gracious, but you need a patch there--it's positively
disgraceful. How long have you been going around with that hole
there?"
"I don't know--in fact, I had not observed it," he answered, like a
shame-faced boy.
"And your coat is so short, too. Take them off at once and I'll put a
patch there before I do another thing."
"I'll have to go to bed, my dear. Can't you patch 'em with 'em on me?"
"Of course not! I'd certainly sew them fast to your person. Go to bed,
if you please, then. I'll promise not to be long."
And so the head of the house had to go to bed while its mistress
repaired the garment.
"Say, Kate," called out Digby from the bed, where he was playing with
the baby, "that's a positive proof that I've been compelled to sit
around a good deal this year, isn't it?"
"The evidence is certainly damaging," she replied, laughingly, her
fingers busy with the repairs.
"Do the knees require patching, deary?"
"Not in the least; they are the soundest part of the pants," said his
wife.
Just then something slipped from one of the pockets and fell
noiselessly to the floor, Kate's eyes catching sight of it as it
fluttered before them.
A ten dollar bill!
And he had told her that he had no money! Poor bewildered Kate picked
up the bill and sat staring at it with wide-spread eyes, her thoughts
chaos. Had he been lying to her all along? Was there money in his
pockets all these months through which she had slaved to help him keep
their little home together? Deep into her unwilling heart sank a shaft
of distrust, the first it had ever felt. Then for shame she tried to
withdraw the shaft, to ease the pain it had caused, but with all her
tugging the thought went deeper, beyond control, becoming rooted,
settled in that long unblemished home of fidelity, love and
trustfulness.
A hundred excuses came to his defence, but her bewildered brain could
not complete them; they became chaotic conflicts between devotion and
suspicion. No sooner did she see her way clear than it was blocked
again. There was the bill! It had fallen from his pocket--more money
than she had known him to possess in months. And with that bill in his
pocket he had wilfully told her that he had no money, not even a cent.
Distrust grew stronger, faith faded away, resentment flooded the heart
of the loving little woman, and the years of happy misery she had
spent with him became the memory of deception and neglect. Tears
welled up in the glittering eyes; then her teeth came firmly together
as if to suppress the emotion with which she found herself struggling.
The bitterness of reproach came to her as she turned toward the bed on
which frolicked the husband and the child. The child! He played, toyed
with the little one, whose every want he had forgotten, with money in
his selfish pockets. His wife found herself beginning to hate, to
despise him.
But words refused to come, the reproach was unuttered, for a sudden
thought intervened. The thought was mother to a resolution and Digby
Trotter was spared.
"I guess I'll go down town," said Digby when he stood clothed as he
had been before Kate discovered the necessity for a patch. "Perhaps I
can get a chance to help some one of the store-keepers this evening
and earn enough to get up a little dinner for tomorrow." He was
buttoning his little coat tightly around his neck as he made this
declaration, and he noticed that Kate did not respond. "Come, kiss
popper good-bye," he cried to the child and the response was ready,
eager. Then he looked at Kate's quiet figure bending over the sewing
near the candle flame. A cold chill shot over him, piercing deeper
than the chills of the night without. Something like fear, suspense,
grew in his heart as he bent his eyes upon the form of one who had
never allowed him to leave her presence without a kiss, a cheery word.
For an instant the thought came to him that she had at last ceased to
love the useless beggar, the robber of her joys, the man who had
dragged her from comfort to this life of squalor. With inconsiderate
swiftness came the memory of the days when he and the same Joe
Delapere had been rivals for her love, both rich and influential. She
had chosen the one who bore her down; perhaps now she was regretting
the choice in a heart that longed for the other. She had spoken of Joe
frequently during the past two weeks and had told him of numerous
accidental meetings with his old-time rival. But, in an instant more,
his heart had revolted against this gross suspicion, hardly formed,
and he almost cursed himself for the moment of doubt. Dear, dear
little Kate!
"Kate," he said, "aren't you going to kiss me?" He was astonished by
the flushed face she turned toward him and at the wavering eyes which
met his in a fashion so strange that he felt a second chill go through
his being.
"Certainly, dear," she said, coming to his side. "Baby shall not undo
me in politeness."
"Affection would sound better," he said, taking her cold, almost
lifeless hands in his. He stooped to kiss the lips upturned to his,
but drew back, a dismal uncertainty taking possession of him. "What is
the matter, Kate? Tell me, dear. Don't you want to kiss me?" He could
not prevent the moisture from dimming his eyes, drawn by the pride
which felt itself put to shame.
"I'll kiss you whether I want to or not," she said, smiling vaguely,
and their lips met--both cold, fearful.
As Digby hurried down the long, narrow stairways and out in the biting
air his fear and apprehension grew. Wonder, even dismay, charged upon
him, and his excited imagination recalled the many little short-
comings he had observed in Kate's behaviour of late, all of which
began to assume startling proportions, convincing him beyond all doubt
that something was wrong, woefully wrong. Could it be possible that he
had lost her love, her respect? Had she at last ceased to love the
unfortunate being who had battled so feebly in her behalf? Ah, his
heart waxed sore; he felt not the frost without, but the chill within.
What was he to do? What was left to do? He had started from home
intending to purchase a turkey, some toys for Helen, some sweet little
remembrance for the wife he had thought so loving, but his happy
designs had been frustrated. The chilling heart refused to return to
the warmth of expected joy, to recognise the feelings of anticipation.
"Ah, well," he sighed, almost aloud, to the hurrying wind, "what else
can I expect? I have done all I could; no man could do more and no
woman could have borne more than she. Truly she has borne too much--I
cannot blame her--but, oh, how can she--how can she turn against me
now. After all--after all!"
For blocks he rambled on in this manner, seeing no one as he passed,
observing nothing. At last his face grew brighter and a momentary
shadow of joy overspread it.
"I'll take home the turkey, the toys and the shawl to them. They shall
have them if Delapere never sees his money again--if Kate never kisses
me again in her life. I'll tell her the truth about the money!"
Nevertheless it was with a guilty feeling that he ran his hand into
his trousers pocket to fondle the bill. The fingers wriggled around in
the depths, poking into every corner, searching most anxiously. Then
the other dived into the opposite pocket and the fingers found no
bill. With a startled exclamation he came to a standstill on the
sidewalk and a vigorous investigation was begun, his expression
growing more bewildered and alarmed as the search grew more hopeless.
The bill was gone! Lost!
Passers-by noticed the abstracted man fumbling in his pockets,
muttering to himself, and one man asked, cheerfully:
"Lost something, pardner?"
Digby Trotter did not answer. He walked slowly down the street, his
cold hands reposing listlessly in his empty pockets, his heart in his
boots, his eyes looking vacantly toward his heart.
"It wasn't mine; I had no right to it," he murmured, time and again.
Aimlessly about the streets he wandered, turning homeward at last,
depressed, despising himself, ready to give up in spirit. He was going
home to Kate, expecting no love to greet him, feeling in his heart
that he deserved none.
As he passed the crowded stores he saw the turkeys, the chickens, the
oysters, the apples--all of which he might have bought with the lost
bill. "What use is there to be honest?" he asked of himself. Without
knowing what he did, nor from whence came the resolution, he
discovered that he determined to steal a turkey! And he did not feel
guilty; it seemed as if he had no conscience. Something stilled that
hitherto relentless foe to vice which virtue calls conscience and his
whole being throbbed with the delights of the sin that is condemned in
the ten commandments. Stealing? "Thou shalt not steal." But he did not
feel that he was stealing, so where was the sin? Despising only the
level to which his fortunes had fallen he saw without a conscience,
without a moral fear. It all seemed so natural that he should take
home a turkey, the cranberries and all the little "goodies" that his
spare table required to make it strain with surprise on the glad day-
tomorrow.
Digby forgot that he had lost the bill, forgot that Kate had treated
him so strangely, forgot that but an hour ago he had been lamenting
the wrong he was doing Joe Delapere in spending his money. Approaching
a big grocery and general provision store he calmly stepped inside,
passing along the counters with the air of a man who lived solely on
turkey and wine sauce. Scores of purchasers thronged the big
establishment and dozens of clerks were kept busy, providing for them.
As Mr. Trotter walked through the store he viewed the baskets which
stood along the counters, laden with the belongings of customers,
ready for the delivery wagons or for their owners who had left them
while they visited other stores. Nearly every basket contained a bird
of some sort--a Christmas dinner, in fact. Each had a slip of paper on
which the name of the owner was written. As he passed the second
counter he observed a well-filled basket and he stopped to examine the
name. "Mrs. John P. Matthews," was written on the slip. This was his
basket, thought he, calmly and without compunction. Then he began to
price the articles on the shelves near by. This was his style of
bargaining:
"What is your cocoa worth a pound? Sure it's fresh?"
"Certainly, sir; it's Baker's best."
"Baker's? We never use it. Let me look at that chocolate. I guess I'll
take some of it"--and his hand went slowly into his pocket--"but, hold
on! We've got chocolate! Confound my forgetfulness; I'll buy out your
store directly. Do you keep mince meat?"
"Yes, sir--over at that counter. Just step over there, please. Mr.
Carew will wait on you."
Digby felt that he had established an identity at the counter on which
stood the Matthews basket, so he walked over to the other counter,
priced sweet potatoes, and was immediately directed to the provision
department in the rear. He found the potatoes too high, the apples too
sweet, the macaroni too old and the buckwheat not the brand he used--
all of which was quite true.
Ten minutes later he drifted back to the second counter, smiled
cheerfully at the clerk, picked up the basket and started for the
door, stopping beside a barrel of dried apples to run his fingers
through the contents and to nibble one of the gritty chunks. He was
squeezing his way hastily through the crowd, nearing the door, when a
hand was laid firmly on his left shoulder. Turning quickly he found
himself gazing into the face of a stranger, fairly well dressed and
not overly intelligent in appearance.
"Is that your basket, sir?" asked the stranger, calmly.
"Of course, it is," exclaimed Digby, hastily, a red flush flying to
his now guilty cheek, fading away, as the snow goes before the sun, an
instant later. Caught!
"I think this basket belongs to a lady, sir."
"My wife," interjected the culprit. "She was with me and went on to
another store. Why, what do you mean!" he suddenly demanded, realising
that it was high time to appear injured. "Do you think I'm a thief!"
"No, sir; but will you tell me your name--or your wife's name? Merely
to satisfy me, you see; I'm a watchman here."
"Matthews is my name, sir--and so's my wife's--John P. Matthews. Is
that satisfactory?"
The man slowly turned over the slip in the basket and read the name.
"Are you quite sure that it is your name?" he asked, deliberately,
looking keenly at Digby.
"Certainly! Do you think I don't know my own name?" demanded Digby
with an excellent show of asperity.
"Then this is not your basket, sir, and I am sorry to say that you
will have to be detained until you can give a satisfactory
explanation."
Digby's eyes fairly stuck from his head and his face was as white as
the proverbial sheet.
"Not my--not Mrs. Matthews' basket!" he stammered, clutching the slip
in his trembling fingers. His eyes grew blurred with amazement an
instant later. He passed his hand before them and when he took it away
there was a wild, half insane stare in them. He looked again at the
slip and read: "Mrs. Digby Trotter, Voxburgh building."
His nerveless arm relinquished the basket to the hand of the stranger
and his puzzled eyes sought the floor in a long stare, broken
presently by the voice in his ear:
"Come along. Step back here with me."
Digby shook the man's hand from his arm and, as he turned to follow
him, asked hoarsely:
"Where is she now?"
"Who?"
"My wife of course--Mrs. Trotter."
"Well, you're a bird!" exclaimed his guardian. "How about Mrs.
Matthews?"
"Good Heavens, what have I done--I--I--look here, man. It's a mistake--"
"No, you don't--mistakes don't go. A man ought to know his own name."
Digby saw no one, heard no one but the man beside him as he stumbled
along, pleading with his eyes, his mouth, his every expression. He did
not observe the lady against whom he roughly jostled, but the lady
turned in time to hear him say in piteous accents:
"Man, for God's sake, don't be too hasty--; I---"
"Oh, let up; we're onto you! This ain't your basket and you took it,
that's all there is about it. Come on!" gruffly jerked out the man at
his elbow.
"But where is Mrs. Trotter? I want to--I must see her."
"Here I am, Digby. What is the matter?" cried a well known voice in
his ear. That voice had never sounded so sweet to him, nor had its
sweetness ever sounded so much like condemnation to his wretched soul.
"Kate!" he gasped.
"What is it?" she demanded hurriedly. "What does this man want?" The
man was staring blankly at the pair, stock still with amazement.
"He says I--I have been trying to steal this basket. It's our--yours,
I mean, isn't it? Tell him so, Kate--quick!" cried the miserable man
with the plaintive coat collar turned up about his neck.
"This is our basket, sir," indignantly exclaimed Mrs. Trotter.
"I know it is yours, Mrs. Trotter; I saw you buying the stuff, but--"
"Don't haggle here any longer!" exclaimed Mr. Trotter, boldly now.
"Let go of my arm!"
"I beg your pardon, sir. If the lady says it's all right, why, it is--
but you know you said your name was--"
"You lie, sir!" said Digby, sternly. "I never said anything of the
kind. Mrs. Trotter have you paid for this stuff?"
"No--I was not through ordering, but what does all this mean, Digby?"
whispered the mystified saviour, feeling herself the shame-faced
centre of a group of wondering people.
"Never mind now," said her husband, with dignity. "And you, sir,
unpack this basket. We don't want a cent's worth of your goods."
"Oh, Digby--" began Kate.
"My dear Mr. Trotter,"--began the luckless attache, but Digby silenced
them both by suddenly grasping his wife's arm and striding toward the
door, he defiantly, conscience stricken, she bewildered beyond all
hope of description.
A moment later they were on the pavement and Digby was racking his
brain for an explanation. How was he to account to her for his
possession of that basket, even though it was hers? It did not occur
to him to wonder how she came to be the owner of the coveted basket--
his penniless Kate.
"Digby, what did that man mean?" asked Kate, finally pulling her wits
together. There was something like sternness in her voice, something
like resentment, something like tears. He tried to look into her eyes;
eyes which were upturned to his so anxiously, but he could not. There
was something creeping up in his throat that compelled him to gulp
suddenly. A rush of shamed degradation flashed over him, overwhelming
him completely, and before he could prevent it his honest, contrite
heart had spoken.
"Little girl--God forgive me--I was trying to steal that--that
basket."
He felt her start and gasp and he could distinguish the horror, the
shock in her eyes, although he did not see them. Her hand relaxed its
clasp upon his arm and her trembling voice murmured:
"Oh, Digby! Oh, Digby!"
"Don't--Don't, for heaven's sake, don't, Kate! Don't blame me! I did
it for you, for the baby--I--I couldn't see you hungry on Christmas"--
and here the tears rolled down his cheeks and the words came thick and
choking. "Kate, I don't think I committed a crime--do you? Say you
don't think so, darling!"
"You were stealing," she whispered, numbly.
"For you, darling--please--please forget it--I--I--Oh, I can't say
anything more." Her clasp tightened again on his arm and he felt the
warm spirit of forgiveness, of love communicating with his own
miserable self. No word came to either as they faced the cutting wind,
bound they knew not whither, so distraught were they with the
importance of the moment.
Suddenly he stopped as if struck by a great blow. A glare came to his
eyes and his brain fairly reeled. Pushing her away at arm's length
from him he gave expression to the sudden thought which had so
strangely affected him.
"Where did you get the money to buy that stuff with?" he demanded, and
there was anger, suspicion, almost terror in his voice. His ready
brain had resumed the thoughts of an hour ago. He saw but one solution
and it came rushing along with the reawakened thoughts, firing his
soul with jealousy. Joe Delapere had been providing his wife with
money--he could not be mistaken. Horrible! Horrible!
But back came her answer, equally severe, and if as from a sudden
recollection, also:
"Where did you get it?"
"Get what? he demanded, harshly. Joe Delapere! Joe Delapere! Joe
Delapere--that lover of old filled his brain like a raging fire.
"You know what I mean, Digby Trotter--what is it that you mean? Where
did you get that ten dollars you had in your pocket today?"
"Oh, heaven!" gasped Digby, almost falling over. Then he burst into
rapturous laughter, and, right there on the sidewalk, embraced her
vigorously. Not all the riches in the world could have purchased the
one moment of relief.
"What ten?" he cried. "Was that the ten! Oh, you dear, dear little
Kate--did you do it? I thought I had lost it on the street. Oh, this
is rich!" and he laughed heartier than ever.
"Stop!" she cried, her face flaming. "Where did you get it? Why did
you tell me that you had no money? Have you been doing this all along
--all these bitter years?"
He sobered up in an instant, for he saw the situation as she had seen
it.
"Why, Kate, I--now, listen a minute! You probably won't believe me,
but I swear to you I found that bill--"
"Found it!" she sneered. "That's very likely, isn't it?"
"I knew you'd say that--but I found it, just the same," he went on
patiently. "Joe Delapere dropped it as he was getting into a carriage
--yes, he did, now--and he drove off before I could pick it up and
return it to him. I kept the money, intending to give it back to him.
That's true, dear--so help me God. Don't you believe me?" He was very,
very much in earnest, but she was woman enough to question further.
"Why didn't you tell me of this before?"
"Because I--well, I didn't get that place at Balling and Feet's and I
didn't have the heart to tell you I had failed again. I kept the hill
just to deceive you. Heaven is my witness that I intended to pay it
back to Joe, but the temptation was too great--I couldn't resist.
Don't you understand now, dear? I wanted it for you and Helen; you
don't know how I prized it. It meant so much. Why, when I started down
town to buy the little dinner that I afterwards tried to steal--"
"From me," she interrupted.
"Yes, from you--I felt so happy in that I was sinning gently for you.
Then I missed the bill and--well, the other followed; you know what I
mean. You don't think I'm a real thief, do you, Kate?"
"No, no, dear; forgive me!" she cried, with true wifely penitence. "I
see it all and I love you for it, better than ever before." She
squeezed his arm tightly and squeezed her eyelids vainly. "But you
must never do it again," she cautioned, tenderly. He laughed again,
that unwilling thief and pauper.
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