Books: Her Weight in Gold
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George Barr McCutcheon >> Her Weight in Gold
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"Sure. Say, dey're wonders, ain't dey, dese society girls? I don't
blame people for sendin' 'em violets."
Mr. Hamshaw could have slain No. 329 for his familiarity, but lost the
opportunity in wondering what the young ladies would think if they
received 10,000 violets from an unnamed sender. For days, be it said
in all solemnity, Mr. Hamshaw waited and watched for glimpses of the
young ladies--princesses he was calling them down in the neighbourhood
of his rejuvenated heart. He neglected his business, ate at the most
irregular hours, and finally gave himself up to the astonishing habit
of walking up and down five flights of stairs. Sago and Ellen, united
in worrying over these idiosyncrasies, were troubled deep down in
their consciences.
The master took to standing out in front of the main entrance on
bitterly cold days, smoking cigar after cigar. He said, in
explanation, that it was unhealthy to smoke indoors. Twice in as many
weeks he had glimpses of the young ladies. On both occasions they
walked briskly past him with their pretty noses in the air. It was
evident that they disdained carriages and street cars, for they struck
off downtown with the stride of athletes.
"By Jove, they're fine specimens!" murmured Mr. Hamshaw, admiring
their bonny figures from the doorway.
It is quite natural that he should have kept his secret from Sago and
Ellen. Sooner would he have died than permit these staunch guardians
to grasp the whole truth concerning his--he even felt guilty enough to
call it "foolish"--infatuation. If the Misses Frost received frequent
offerings of rare violets from an unmentioned source they were not so
puzzled that they could find no one to thank even though it surprised
the innocent young man in the extreme. If they took notice of the
stout, bald old gentleman who shuffled his feet and looked conscious
when they strode past it was not for him to know at that stage of the
game. He felt so small after the weary weeks of watching that he went
and had himself weighed, devoutly certain that he shrunk respectably.
He even went in for a savage system of training, calculated to reduce
his avoirdupois.
One day, while he was swinging along through the park, a mile and a
half from home, trying to take off a few of the pounds that made him
impossible to the willowy Misses Frost, he unexpectedly came upon his
dual affinity. In his agitation he narrowly escaped being run down by
a base and unsympathetic cab operated by a profane person who seldom
shaved. As it was, he lost his hat. The wind whirled it over the
ground much faster than he could sprint, with all his training, and
brought it up against a bush in front of the young women. One of them
sprang forward and snatched it up before it could resume its flight.
Mr. Hamshaw came up puffing and confused, but radiant.
"Thank you, thank you, ever so much!" he panted. "Never mind the dust.
It's been dusty before. Besides, it's an old one. I have a better one
at home, and a silk--"
He brought himself up with a jerk, realising that he was jabbering
like a fool. The young women were polite and respectful. Not a sign of
derision appeared in their faces.
"Fierce wind, isn't it?" asked one of them, and it dawned instantly
upon him that she was the one he loved. He jammed his hat far down
upon his head, glancing, as he did so, at the other girl. She was
smiling genially, her face rosy from the wind her sister condemned,
and, with ruthless inconstancy, Mr. Hamshaw at once changed his mind.
She was the one.
"Pardon me for the liberty," he said, "but I am Mr. Hamshaw. We are
neighbours, you know. Live in the same building."
"Oh, is that so?" asked the taller of the two, and, to his dismay, he
saw that her surprise was genuine.
"Yes; you are on the second--I am on the sixth."
"Where the Jap is?" asked the shorter one.
"He's my valet."
"Funny little thing, isn't it?"
"An excellent servant, Miss--"
"Look out, there goes your lid again! I'll get it--my legs are swifter
than yours!" cried the tall athlete in petticoats, and off she sailed
in pursuit.
"You need some one to chase your hat for you, Mr. Hamshaw," said the
short one airily.
"Are you going our way?" asked the other, with a smile that could have
led him to perdition.
"To the end of the earth," he murmured gallantly.
For the next ten minutes he walked on air. His heart was so light that
it bobbed up and down like a fisherman's cork. He was not long in
discovering that the tall one was Mame and the short one Lou--short
for Marie and Louise, they explained on request!
"I see a good many boxes of flowers going up to your apartment,"
ventured Mr. Hamshaw, quite out of breath.
"Every day, and sometimes in between," said Marie.
"Ah, it's so nice to be popular!" he chirped. "And--and you can't
blame the men, either, you know."
"You can't thank them, either, if they don't enclose their cards.
Nearly every day there is a guessing match in the back parlour. It's
poor form to send flowers without a card."
"By George, they're fine girls!" reflected Mr. Hamshaw. "Healthy,
vigorous, full of life, and not a bit spoiled. Hang it all, I'm an ass
to act like this! But I can't help it. A man is never too old to learn
or to love. I'll play hob with some of these young dandies before I
get through. Hamshaw, you've got to win one of these girls. But which
one? There's the rub! It's awfully annoying!"
But it grew to be quite romantic. Mr. Hamshaw came to look upon
himself as an up-to-date Romeo. The young ladies did not offer him any
inducement to call upon them in their own home, but they frequently
walked with him in the park of afternoons, and were astonishingly
agreeable about candy, soda-water and matinees. Their reluctance to
lunch or dine with him downtown stamped them in his mind as something
most admirable. He quite understood. And their devotion to their sick
friend was truly beautiful. He never saw them but they were going to
visit her. Miss Louise naively informed him that they gave her some of
the violets he sent to them, but that she knew he wouldn't mind.
"Do you think she'd like it if I sent her some good books to read?"
asked he, quite delighted.
"Sure," replied Miss Marie.
"How very unconventional," beamed Mr. Hamshaw to himself. "Hang it
all, I wish I could decide between them! I think I'd look better with
the short one, but--"
One day his nephew, young Jimmy Sprang, met him on the street and
proceeded to twit him about his second childhood.
"What do you mean, sir?" demanded Mr. Hamshaw with great dignity and a
sinking heart.
"Who are the fairies you're trotting--"
"Stop, sir!" thundered Mr. Hamshaw. "Not another word, sir! They are
ladies, and not to be discussed by such a bounder as you."
At last Mr. Hamshaw decided to take Louise. "I'll tell her tomorrow,"
he said to himself, quite sure that it was only necessary to tell and
not to ask. But that evening, just after returning from the club, he
saw something that troubled and harassed him not a little. He saw and
heard Sago talking to the Misses Frost--not only talking but in a
manner so familiar that it must have been extremely nauseating to the
cultured young women. The three were standing under the electric light
at the corner, and the young women instead of appearing annoyed at the
heathen's twaddle, seemed to be highly amused. Only the greatest
exercise of self-restraint kept Mr. Hamshaw from kicking Sago into the
middle of the next block.
Mr. Hamshaw was on the point of intervening when, to his utter
consternation, the two young women started off up the street with
Sago. To add to his misery, Sago did not come in at all that night. In
response to Mr. Hamshaw's savage inquiry, Ellen, who attended him the
next morning, said that Sago had gone to a dance on the West Side and
had not turned up. Mr. Hamshaw sat bolt upright in bed and then
collapsed.
The next afternoon he went home early, haggard and with a headache.
His confidence was not gone, however. After arranging himself
carefully--he refused to call for Sago--he boldly descended to the
second floor. Then he lost his nerve. Instead of ringing the Gladding
door-bell he walked on downstairs and out into the open air. At the
corner he came plump upon Mr. Gladding himself, the step-father of the
two girls.
"How are you, Mr. Hamshaw? Fine weather we're having," greeted the man
from the second floor.
"I've just been to your flat," said Mr. Hamshaw.
"Indeed! Any one at home?"
"I don't know--that is, I didn't go in. You see--are you going home
now, Gladding, or downtown?"
"Home, of course. I've been downtown all day. Anything you wanted to
see me about, Mr. Hamshaw?"
"Oh, no--nothing important."
"Well, won't you come up with me now? By the way, I'd like you to meet
my wife and her daughters."
"I know your daughters, I believe."
"Ah!"
"It is about one of them that I wish to speak with you, sir." They
were on the second-floor landing by this time. "May I come in?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Gladding.
Mr. Hamshaw sat stiff and uncomfortable on the divan while Mr.
Gladding rang for a maid. He also called down the hall to ask Mrs.
Gladding and the young ladies to come in and greet Mr. Hamshaw.
"Before they come," began the latter, fidgeting nervously, "I want to
say that I expect to marry Miss Frost. It's been hard work to choose
between them--"
"What are you talking about?" gasped the father.
"I know I've done a most reprehensible thing in courting them--I mean
her--in this manner, but, you see--"
At this juncture Mrs. Gladding entered the room, followed by two
strange young women--sleepy, tired, scrawny young women, who looked at
Mr. Hamshaw as if he were a sofa-cushion and nothing more.
"My wife--er--Mr. Hamshaw, and the Misses Frost," mumbled Mr.
Gladding, bowled over completely.
"What's that?" shouted Mr. Hamshaw, coming to his feet and toppling
over backward again. The others stared at him as if he were mad. "How
--how many have you--I mean, how many daughters are there?"
"Two!" exclaimed Mrs. Gladding, freezing up immediately. The society
young women relaxed into a giggle.
"Then--who--is this a joke?" gasped Mr. Hamshaw, perspiration starting
in torrents.
"What do you mean, sir?" demanded Mr. Gladding.
"Where are Marie and Louise?" murmured Mr. Hamshaw.
Just then a trim maid appeared in the doorway--white-capped and
aproned.
"Did you ring, Ma'am?--Good Heavens!"
It was Marie!
Mr. Hamshaw fainted without more ado, and the apartment was in an
uproar. Everybody thought he was dead, and the Misses Frost promptly
duplicated his swooning act.
When Mr. Hamshaw opened his eyes, Marie was standing near by with
ammonia and wet towels.
"Where is Louise?" he asked weakly.
"She's went and married that awful little Jap of yours last night.
Here, take another sniff at this. Go on; don't be afraid of it. I've
give it to the young ladies regular for the last five years. What's
that, sir?"
"Nothing--nothing," he whispered.
"You said something, sir."
"And you're not Miss Frost?"
"One of them scrawny--I beg pardon, sir! Did you think I was--"
"Well, if that's the case, I can tell you what I said a moment ago. I
said 'D--n it all!' Where am I?"
"At Mr. Gladding's, sir."
"Is Sago upstairs?"
"No, sir; they've gone to the matinee on their wedding trip, Mr.
Hamshaw."
"Oh!"
It was not what Mr. Hamshaw said but the way he said it.
THE GREEN RUBY
He was a very good-looking chap--this Cannable who lived in the
civilised city of New Orleans. It is quite true that he came from an
island in the sea, but as that island is known to geographers, great
and small, as England, it is scarcely worth while to mention his
migration as an achievement of civilisation. Moreover, it was known
that he had eaten of human flesh, but it was not with the gusto of
those ancient Fijis who banqueted on salubrious sailors and munchable
ministers whenever they had the simultaneous chance and appetite.
He was one of three survivors of the ill-fated Graceby polar
expedition, and as such he had been obliged to subsist for some days
on whatsoever was set before him by the cook, a discreet but
overpowering person who certainly would have been the sole survivor if
the relief expedition had been delayed a few days longer. But that
portion of Mr. Cannable's history sounds much better in whispers and
it does not look pretty in print. He never repeated it of his own
accord. The newspapers told it for him when he was too weak and
exhausted to deny or affirm.
His uncle, Sir John Bolingbroke, sent him out from London soon after
his return from the frozen North to represent great financial
interests on the Cotton Exchange at New Orleans. For two years the
young man stuck manfully to his post in the southern city, but it was
an irksome restraint to one whose heart was turbulent with the love of
travel and adventure. Just at the time when he was ready to resign his
position and hie himself into the jungles of the Amazon on an
exploring expedition two things happened, either of which was in
itself sufficient to stay him for the while. In the first place, his
uncle died and left him two hundred thousand pounds in good English
money, and in the second place he met Agatha Holmes.
The two hundred thousand pounds, it is but just to say, might not have
kept him from the equator, but it is doubtful if all, much less any
specific portion of the globe, could have induced him to leave Agatha
Holmes. And so it was that Mr. James Cannable--for short "Jimmy"--
remained in New Orleans for many months, estimably employed in the
business of evolving a plan that might permit him to journey to the
world's end with two hundred thousand pounds in one hand and a certain
girl's future in the other.
The months and the plans were profitable, it seems, for one splendid
evening saw him at the altar-rail beside the fairest girl in all the
Southland, the queen of a thousand hearts. Agatha Holmes became Mrs.
Cannable, and thereby hangs a tale. It would appear, from all the
current but unpublished records of social Louisiana, that Agatha had
gone about shattering hearts in a most unintentional but effective
fashion up to the time Mr. Jimmy Cannable refused to be routed.
Certainly it is no blot upon this fair young coquette's fame to admit
that she had plighted herself to at least four ardent suitors in days
gone by, and it was equally her own affair if she took every woman's
privilege of shifting her fancy before she was ready to marry.
Unluckily for Agatha, however, she neglected to disengage herself
properly from the most recent suitor next before Mr. Cannable. So far
as that worthy was concerned the engagement still obtained, for he,
poor chap, was down in Patagonia somewhere surveying for railroads and
did not have the slightest means of ascertaining her change of
affection. How was he to know that she had married Jimmy Cannable, and
how was he to know that she had forgotten his very existence without a
single pang of remorse? He only knew that he had starved himself to
give her a diamond ring, to say nothing of the wonderful old ruby
heirloom that had been in the family for centuries.
He told her at parting that no power on earth could keep him from some
day reclaiming the heirloom and with it the hand of the girl who was
to wear it all her life.
One day, out of the past and up from the wilds, came the word that
Harry Green was on his way home after an absence of three years.
Agatha Holmes had been Mrs. Cannable for three months and she had
forgotten young Mr. Green as completely as if he never had been a part
of her memory. A cablegram addressed to Agatha Holmes one day was
delivered to Agatha Cannable. It simply said: "Am coming back at last
for the ruby. Harry," and it was sent from London. She found herself
wondering what he was doing in England and how long it would be before
he could reach New Orleans, but it did not dawn upon her for three
full days that he still imagined himself to be her tardy but accepted
fiance. Then in the fulness of her joy she sat down and laughed over
his amazement--perhaps his chagrin--when he learned that she was
another man's wife.
At first thought she decided to tell Jimmy the news, permitting him to
enjoy the fun as well, but the discretion which shapes woman's ends
forestalled the impulse. There was much she could not explain in
justice to herself, to say nothing of the other man who had gone away
with her in his heart. True, it may not have been difficult to hold
her immaculate in a heart surrounded by Patagonians, but there was
something disturbing in the fact that he had been constant, after all.
She recalled, with a slight shiver (which grew with time, by the way),
that she had sworn to kill herself rather than to marry any one but
Harry Green. It also came back to her memory that the hot-blooded
Harry had promised faithfully, though fiercely, that he would
accomplish that end for her in case she violated her oath.
It is sufficient to say that she was the most wretched young woman in
New Orleans by the time Harry Green landed in New York. He telegraphed
to her, announcing his arrival and his hasty departure for the
Southern metropolis. Somehow the slip of paper read like a death-
warrant to her peace of mind.
"How annoying it is to have an old affair revived like this," she
wailed to herself. "Why couldn't he, too, have married some one else?
How, in Heaven's name, will it end?" She thought of a thousand
subterfuges through which she might avoid seeing him, but put them all
aside with the recollection of his indomitable will. He would see her
sooner or later; the inevitable could not be avoided.
She finally took to her bed with daily headaches, distractedly but
stealthily studying a railroad time-table.
"He's leaving New York by this time. Good Heaven, he'll be in Mobile
by one o'clock tomorrow, Pass Christian a few minutes later--oh, dear,
I wonder if he will be terribly violent! Jimmy is noticing, too. He
says I'm ill. He wants to take me to California, but I don't dare--I
don't dare! Harry Green would be sure to follow. I know him--oh, how
well I know him! He would--"
A servant came in to announce that Miss Carrithers was down stairs.
"Ask her to come up," sighed Agatha. "I'll tell her myself that I
don't want to see her, but it won't mean anything to Betty. She'll
stay all morning."
"Yes, ma'am," agreed the maid as she hurried away. A moment later Miss
Carrithers fairly bounded into the darkened bed-chamber, her face full
of excitement.
"Have you heard?" she gasped, dropping upon the side of the bed.
"Harry Green's coming home. He's in New York now. Joe Pierce had a
telegram."
"Yes, I know," said Agatha drearily.
"Have you heard from him--you?" demanded Miss Betty in amazement--and
some little concern.
"Of course, Betty; why shouldn't I?" irritably.
"Oh, I suppose it's all right," said the other dubiously. "I was only
thinking of the--of the old days."
"Betty," said Mrs. Cannable, sitting up suddenly and grasping her
friend's hand, "I'm the most wretched creature on earth. I don't know
what I'm to do."
"Is it about--about Harry Green?" "Yes. You see, dear, he--he doesn't
know I'm married."
"Goodness, Agatha! You don't mean he--he still thinks you are engaged
to marry him?"
"That's just it, Betty. I didn't tell him--in fact, I had forgotten
all about him, away down there in Patagonia, wherever it is. He--"
"And, oh, he was so terribly in love with you--and you with him, too!"
"No, no; don't say that. It was so foolish. Besides, he's been gone
nearly three years. How could he expect me to wait all that time? I
haven't had a letter from him for more than a year. I counted it up
today."
"Does Jimmy Cannable know about--him?"
"I don't know and I'm afraid to ask."
"Harry's a frightfully determined person," mused Betty Carrithers
reflectively.
"He swore I should be his wife if we waited a thousand years."
"That's the one thing in your favour. When they swear such things as
that they can't possibly mean all they say," said Miss Betty sagely.
She was the prettiest and most popular girl in town, but she was a
wise body for all that. Her trim little figure was surcharged with a
magnetism that thrilled one to the very core; her brown eyes danced
ruthlessly through one's most stubborn defences; her smile and her
frown were the thermometers by which masculine emotions could be
gauged at a glance. "It will be rather difficult to face him, won't
it?"
"Betty, it's simply impossible! Think of Harry Green waiting all these
years, believing in me, as constant as the sun--and then to find I've
married some one else. You know I love Jimmy Cannable with all my
heart. I can't bear the thought of what might happen if he and Harry
quarrelled about--about those old days."
"Don't cry--don't be a goose! It's the commonest thing in the world.
Every girl has had dozens of affairs."
"I know, but not just like this one. My husband wants to take me to
California. I wish--oh, how I wish I could go! But Harry would follow
--I know he'll be merciless."
Miss Carrithers was thoughtful for several minutes, paying slight heed
to the doleful sobs from the bed.
"I'll tell you what, Agatha," she said at last; "I believe this affair
can be managed easily enough if you will just leave town."
"Oh, Betty!" sitting up and looking at her friend hopefully.
"Of course, I never had a chance at Harry Green. You monopolised him.
I liked him immensely--from a distance. You go away, and let me
explain the situation to him."
It was the straw that the drowning person grasps, and Mrs. Cannable
clutched it with a shriek of delight. She poured her story into the
ears of her too loyal friend, who smiled confidently in response to
her apprehensions.
Miss Carrithers did not exchange confidences, however; she merely gave
promises to do her best. She was shrewd enough to know that if she
confessed to Agatha that she had cared for Harry Green--from a
distance--that capricious and perverse young person would have
declined to retire from the field of strife. After all, Betty admitted
to herself, it was not wholly a service of sacrifice she was granting
her friend. There was something of a selfish motive in her loyalty.
"I'll love you forever if you will explain everything and send him
away," said Agatha in the end.
"At least, I shall explain everything," agreed Betty complacently.
Agatha blushed consciously as she drew a small diamond from among
those on her fingers.
"I didn't know his address, so you see I couldn't send it back to
him," she explained. "And, Betty, if you'll hand me my jewel box I'll
ask you to return that--er--you remember my old ruby pendant!"
"Was--that--did he give it to you?"
"Yes. You don't know how I hate to give it up. Isn't it beautiful?"
She reluctantly let the ruby slip from her fingers into those of her
friend.
"Perfectly gorgeous," said Betty, fastening it about her neck and
surveying herself in the cheval glass. "I'd give anything if it
belonged to me."
"Now, excuse me a minute, dear. I'll telephone to Jimmy and tell him
we'll start for California tonight. Harry gets here tomorrow at 4:45
on the limited."
"You can be well out of the way by that time," said pretty Miss
Carrithers with a smile.
"And now, Betty, you will send him back to Patagonia, won't you?"
"I'll keep him away from California, my dear, that's all."
Miss Carrithers sat in her carriage outside the railroad station,
waiting for the train that was to bring Harry Green into New Orleans.
Outwardly she was cool, placid; inwardly she was a fever of emotions.
He had telegraphed the time of his arrival to Agatha; Betty received
and read the message. Mr. and Mrs. Cannable were miles westward,
hurrying to California. It was one thing to say she would take certain
responsibilities off the hands of the bride; it was altogether another
proposition to sit there and wait for the man she had admired for four
or five years with a constancy that surprised even herself. Her
reflections at this specific hour were scarcely definable. Chief among
them was a doubt--this doubt: Would Harry Green remember her? It
seemed such an absurd doubt that she laughed at it--and yet cultivated
it with distracting persistency.
The train was ten minutes late. A newsboy had made two trips to the
train-board in quest of information. When the big locomotive finally
thundered and hissed its way to a stand-still near the gates, Canal
Street seemed to have become a maze of indefinite avenues, so dizzy
had she grown of a sudden. Her eyes searched the throng that swept
through the .gates; at last she saw him approaching.
She had expected a tired, worn man, unfashionably dressed, eager-eyed
and wistful. Instead, the tall fellow who came forth was attired in
the most modern English garments; he was brown, fresh-faced, keen-eyed
and prosperous looking. The same old Harry Green grown stronger,
handsomer, more polished. His black eyes were sweeping the street
anxiously as if in search of some one. He did not see Betty
Carrithers, and her heart sank.
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