CHAPTER V--PRIDE AND A FALL.
Arthur Ripley, as I have said, meant to be a lawyer. He was full ofenthusiasm for his future profession, and never tired of talking aboutit. In his room at home he had three or four big law-books, bound inyellow calf-skin, which he used to read for his pleasure, just as weother boys would read our story-books; and he seemed to know theircontents by heart. At least, we gave him the credit for knowing themby heart. He passed among us for little less than a Solomon of legalwisdom. His opinion upon a legal question had, to our thinking, theauthority of a judgment from the bench; and if one of our number hadgot into a legal difficulty of any sort, I am sure he would have gone toRipley for aid and counsel as readily and as confidently as to the mosteminent jurist at the bar.
This being premised, you will easily understand the impression made uponme by the following conversation which I had with Ripley one day in theearly summer of 1875.
We had just passed our examinations for promotion from the Introductoryto the Freshman class at college, and our consequent vacation had justbegun. I was minding the shop, while Messrs. Flisch and Finkelsteinsmoked their cigars and played their pinochle in the back room, andRipley was keeping me company. We had been talking about my grandmother;and presently Ripley queried: “Look here, Greg, she was a woman of someproperty, wasn’t she? I mean to say she lived in good style, had plentyof money, was comfortable and well-to-do, hey?”
“Why, yes,” I answered, “she was pretty well-off--why, about as well asanybody in Norwich Town, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“Because--what I should like to know is, why didn’t she leave anythingto you?”
“Why, how could she? I was only her grandchild. My Uncle Peter was herson. Don’t you see?”
“But that doesn’t make any difference. Your father being dead, you were,equally with your uncle, her legal heir and next-of-kin. And as long asshe was so fond of you, it seems kind of funny she didn’t provide foryou in any way.”
“What do you mean by her legal heir and next-of-kin?”
“Don’t you know that? Why, a legal heir and next-of-kin is a personentitled to take under the statutes of descent and distribution. Forinstance, if your grandmother had died intestate, you would have come infor half of all the property she left, your Uncle Peter taking the otherhalf. See the point?”
“Can’t say I do. You’re too high-up for me, with your legal slang. Whatdoes intestate mean?”
“Why, intestate--why, that means without having made a will. When aperson dies without leaving a will, he is said to have died intestate.”
“Well, I guess my grandmother died intestate, then. I don’t believe sheleft any will.”
“She didn’t? Why, if she didn’t leave a will--Oh! but she must have.Look here, Greg, this is serious. Are you sure she didn’t?”
“O, no! of course I’m not sure. I never thought of the matter before,and so I can’t be sure. But I don’t believe she did.”
“But, Greg, if she didn’t--if she didn’t leave a will, disinheritingyou, and bequeathing everything to Peter--man alive, what are you doinghere in old Finkelstein’s jewelry shop? Why, Greg, you’re rich. You’reabsolute owner of half of her estate.”
“O, no! I’m perfectly sure she never did that. If she made any will atall, she didn’t disinherit me, and give everything to Uncle Peter. Shecared a great deal more for me than she did for Uncle Peter. I’m sureshe never made a will favoring him above me. I always supposed thatshe had died, as you call it, intestate; and so, he being her son, theproperty had descended to him in the regular course of events.”
“But don’t I tell you that it wouldn’t have descended to him? It wouldhave descended to both of you in equal shares. Here’s the whole businessin a nut-shell: either she did leave a will, cutting you off with ashilling; or else you’re entitled to fifty cents in every dollar thatshe owned.”
“But I have never received a penny. If what you say is true, how do youaccount for that?”
“There’s just the point. If your idea about the will is correct, yourUncle Peter must be a pretty rogue indeed. He’s been playing a sharpgame, Greg, and cheating you out of your rights. And we can make it hotenough for him, I tell you. We can compel him to divide up; and insideof a month you’ll be rolling in wealth.”
“Oh! come, Rip,” I protested, “fen fooling a fellow about a thing likethis.”
“But I’m not fooling. I never was more in earnest in all my life. It’sas plain as the nose on your face. There are no two ways about it. Askanybody.”
“But--but then--but then I’m rich--rich!”
“That’s what you are, unless, by a properly executed will, yourgrandmother disinherited you.”
“But I tell you I know she never did that. It stands to reason that shedidn’t.”
“Well, sir, then it only remains for you to claim your rights at thehands of your amiable uncle, and to open a bank account.”
“O my goodness! O, Rip! Oh! it’s impossible. It’s too--too glorious tobe true,” I cried, as a realizing sense of my position rushed uponme. My heart was pounding like a hammer against my ribs; my breath wascoming short and swift; my brain was in a whirl. I felt dazzled andbewildered; and yet I felt a wondrous, thrilling joy, a great glow ofexultation, that sent me dancing around the shop like a maniac, wringingmy hands in self-congratulation.
I was rich! Only think, I was rich! I could take my proper stationnow, and cut my proper figure in the world. Good-by, patched trousers,good-by, shop, good-by all such low, humiliating things. Welcomeopulence, position, purple and fine linen. Hurrah! I would engage apassage upon the very first, the very fastest steamer, and sail away tothat brilliant, courtly country where my Uncle Florimond, resplendent inthe trappings of nobility, awaited me with open arms, there to live inthe state and fashion that would become the nephew of a marquis. I wouldburn my plebeian ships behind me. I would do this, that, and the otherwonderful thing. I saw it all in a single radiant glance.
But what you see more plainly than anything else, I did not see at all.
I did not see that I was accepting my good fortune in an altogetherwrong and selfish spirit. I did not see that my first thought in myprosperity ought to have been for those who had stood by me in myadversity. I did not see that my first impulse ought to have been now tomake up in some wise to my friend and benefactor, Mr. Finkelstein,for his great goodness and kindness to me. I did not see that I was anarrant little snob, an ungrateful little coxcomb. A mixture of falseshame and evil pride had puffed me up like so much inflammable gas,which--Ripley having unwittingly applied the spark to it--had now burstinto flame.
“O, Rip!” I cried again, “it’s too glorious to be true.”
“Well, now,” cut in Ripley, “let’s be practical. What you want to do isstep into your kingdom. Well, to-day’s Saturday, isn’t it? Well, now, Ipropose that day after to-morrow, Monday, you and I go to Norwich. Therewe can make a search in the Probate Office, and find out for certainjust how the facts stand. Then we can come back here and put the casein the hands of my father, who’s a lawyer, and who will have a guardianappointed for you, and do everything else that’s necessary. See? Now,the question is, Will you go to Norwich with me Monday night?”
“Won’t I, though!” was my response.
And then Rip and I just sat there in the shop, and talked, and talked,and talked, planning out my life for the future, and wondering exactlyhow rich I was going to be. We surmised that my grandmother could notpossibly have left less than a hundred thousand dollars, in which eventI should come in for a cool fifty thousand. We employed the strongestlanguage at our command to stigmatize my Uncle Peter’s rascality inhaving for so long a time kept me out of my just rights; and we gloatedin imagination over his chagrin and his discomfiture when we shouldcompel him to render an account of his stewardship and to disgorge myportion of our inheritance. I declared it as my intention to go to myUncle Florimond in Paris as soon as the affair was finally settled;and Ripley agreed that t
hat would be the appropriate thing for me todo--“Though, of course,” he added, “I shall feel awfully cut up at ourseparation. Still, it’s undoubtedly the thing for you to do. It’s whatI would do if I were in your place. And, O, Scottie! Greg, won’t oldFinkelstein and your other Hebrew friends open their eyes?”
“Won’t they, though!” I returned, reveling in fancy over theirastonishment and their increased respect for me, after I should haveexplained to them my sudden and tremendous rise in the world. But inthis particular I was destined to disappointment; for when, as soonas Ripley had gone home, I joined Mr. Finkelstein in the parlor, andconveyed to him the joyful information, he, having heard me throughwithout any sign of especial wonder, remarked:--
“Vail, Kraikory, I suppose you vant me to conkraitulate you, hey? Vail,it’s a graind ting to be rich, Kraikory, and no mistake about it. And Ishust tell you dis, Kraikory: dere ain’t nobody in de United States ofAmerica vould be glaidder if ainy goot luck haippened to you, as I vouldbe. I’m awful fond of you, Kraikory, and dere ain’t nodings what I vantmore as to see you haippy and prosperous. De only trouble is, Kraikory,dot I ain’t so sure as dis vould be such awful goot luck, aifter all.For, to tell you de honest troot, Kraikory, I don’t like de vay youtake it. No, I aictually don’t. You’re too stuck-up and prout about it,Kraikory; and I hate to see you stuck-up and prout. It ain’t nice to beprout, Kraikory; it ain’t what you call manly; and I simply hate to seeyou do ainydings what ain’t nice and manly--I’m so fond of you, don’tyou understand? Den, ainyhow, Kraik-ory, de Bible says dot prite goesbefore destruction, and a howty spirit before a fall; and dot’s a solemnfaict, Kraikory; dey do, shust as sure as you’re alife. De Bible’s shustexaictly right, Kraikory; you can bet ten tousand tollars on it. Why, Imyself, I seen hundreds of fellers get stuck-up and prout already;and den de first ting dey knew, dey bust all to pieces like agoot-for-nodings boiler. Yes, siree, if I was as prout as you are,Kraikory, I’d feel afraid.
“No, Kraikory, I don’t like de vay you take it, and I really tink if youget dis money what you’re talking about, I really tink it’ll spoil you,Kraikory; and dot’s why I cain’t conkraitulate you de vay you vant meto. You ain’t been like yourself for a pretty long while now already,Kraikory. I ain’t said nodings about it; but I seen it all de same;and Solly seen it, and Heddie, she seen it, and Mr. Flisch seen it, andHenrietta seen it, and we all seen it, and we all felt simply fearfulabout it. And now I tink it shust needs dis money to spoil youaltogedder. I hate to say ainydings to hurt your feelings, Kraikory,but dot’s my honest opinion; and me and you, we’d oughter be goot enoughfriends to talk right out to each udder like fader and son. De faict is,Kraikory, I’ve loafed you shust exaictly de same as if we was faderand son; and dot’s de reason it makes me feel so awful to see you getstuck-up and prout. But you was a goot boy down deep, Kraikory, and Iguess you’ll turn out all right in de end, if dis here money don’t spoilyou. You got a little foolishness about you, which is necheral to yourage. When I was your age I was a big fool, too.
“Vail, and so, shust as soon as de maitter’s settled, you’re going toEurope, are you, to live mit your Uncle Florimond in Pairis? Vail, dot’sall right, Kraikory, if you like to do it. I ain’t got no pusiness tomake ainy obshections, dot’s sure. All I got to say, Kraikory, is dis:Your Unde Florimond, he may be an awful fine feller, and I guess likelyhe is; but I don’t know as he’s aifer done much of ainydings for you;and if I was in your place, I’d feel sorter sorry to stop my education,and leaf de old friends what I was certain of, and go to a new friendwhat I hadn’t naifer tried; dot’s all. Vail, if you vant to go, Isuppose you’ll go; and Solly and me and Henrietta and dot little kirlofer by Mr. Flisch, vail, we’ll have to get along mitout you de best vaywe can. I guess dot little Rosie, I guess she’ll feel pretty baid aboutit, Kraikory; but I don’t suppose dot’l make much difference to you,to shush by de vay you talk. Poor little ting! She’s awful fond of you,Kraikory, and I guess she’ll feel pretty lonesome aifter you’ve goneavay. Oh! vail, I suppose she von’t die of it. Dere are plenty udderyoung fellers in dis vorld, and I don’t suppose she’ll cry herself todead for you. All de same, I guess she’ll feel pretty baid first off;but dot’s your business, and not mine.
“Vail, let me see. To-day’s Saturday; and you’re going to Nawvich Mondaynight. Vail, dot’s all right. I ain’t got nodings to say against dot. Ishust give you vun little piece of advice, dough, Kraikory, and dot isdis: If I was in your place, I vouldn’t feel too awful sure of dishere money, until I’d aictually got hold of it, for fear I might bedisappointed. Dere’s a proverp which goes, ‘Dere’s a great mainy slipsbetween de cup and de lips,’ Kraikory; and dot’s a solemn faict, which Iadvice you to remember.”
This sermon of Mr. Finkelstein’s made me feel very sore indeed; but Ifelt sorer still next day, when Rosalind--whom I was calling upon, andto whom I had just communicated the momentous news--when Rosalind, withflushed cheeks and flashing eyes, assailed me thus:--
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“O, Gregory Brace! Oh! shame on you. Oh! I don’t know you. I can’tbelieve it’s you. I can’t believe it’s the same boy at all. Suchselfishness! Such ingratitude! Such a proud hard heart! It’s been asmuch as anyone could do to put up with you for ever and ever so long,you’ve been so vain and so conceited and everything; but this just capsthe climax. Oh! think of poor Mr. Finkelstein. He’s been so good andgenerous to you, and so fond of you; and he’s sent you to school andcollege, and given you every advantage he possibly could; and you owehim so much, and you’re under such great obligations to him, for he tookyou right out of the streets, and gave you a home, and made a son ofyou, instead of a servant--yes, he did--and now the very first thingthat you propose to do, as soon as you’re able to, is to leave him, toabandon him--oh! you ungrateful thing--and go to your horrid old Frenchuncle, who, I don’t believe cares the snap of his finger for you. He ishorrid, too; and I hope he’ll just treat you horribly, just to punishyou. And I hope that Arthur Ripley is mistaken, and that you won’t get asingle penny from your Uncle Peter, but just a good whipping to take youdown; and I hope you’ll have to come back to Mr. Finkelstein, and humblybeg his pardon; yes, I do, with all my heart and soul. I’d just like tosee you have to come down from your high horse and eat humble pie fora while; yes, I would. The idea! Desert Mr. Finkelstein! You, who mighthave been begging in the streets, except for him! I should think you’dbe ashamed to look me in the face. Oh! you mean to give him a good roundsum of money, do you, to pay him for what he’s done for you? Why, howvery liberal and noble you are, to be sure! As though money could payfor what Mr. Finkelstein has done for you! As though money were what hewants from you, and not love and affection! O, Gregory! you’ve changedso that I don’t know you, and I don’t like you at all any more, and Idon’t care to be friends with you any more, and you needn’t come to seeme any more. There!”
Yes, I felt very sore and very angry. What Rosalind said only served toexasperate and embitter me, and to make me grit my teeth, and pursue allthe more doggedly my own selfish purpose.
Well, on Monday night, according to our agreement, Ripley and I setout for Norwich, passengers aboard the very same steamboat, the City ofLawrence, that I had come to New York by, three years before; and brightand early Tuesday morning we reached our destination.
I only wish I could spare a page to tell you something of the emotionsthat I felt as we came in sight of the dingy old town. It had notchanged the least bit in the world; it was like the face of an oldfamiliar friend; it called up before me my own self of former years; itbrought a thousand memories surging upon me, and filled my heart with astrong, unutterable melancholy, that was yet somehow indescribably sweetand tender.
But Ripley and I had no time for the indulgence of sentiment. “Now,then, where’s the Court House? Where’s the Probate Office?” he demandedas soon as we had set foot upon the dry land. “We must pitch right in,without losing a moment.”
So I led him to the Probate Court; and th
ere he “pitched right in” with a vengeance, examining the indices to lots of big written books ofrecords, while I stood by to hand them to him, and to put them back intheir places when he had finished with them--until, after an hour or so,he announced, “Well, Greg, you’re right. She left no will.”
Then he continued: “Now we must find out the date upon which Petertook out his Letters of Administration, and also whether he had himselfconstituted your guardian, as he most likely did; and then we’llhave all the facts we need to establish your claims, and put you inpossession.”
Thereupon he attacked another set of big written volumes, and with thesehe was busy as long as two hours more. In the end, “By Jingo, Greg,” he cried, “here’s a state of things! He didn’t take out any Letters ofAdministration at all.”
“Well,” I queried, not understanding the meaning of this circumstance,“what of that? What does that signify?”
“Why, that signifies an even darker and more systematic piece of fraudthan I had suspected. In order to cheat you out of your share, he failedto comply with the law. He didn’t go through the proper formalities toget control of her property, but simply took possession of it withoutauthority. And now we’ve got him completely at our mercy. We couldprosecute him criminally, if we liked. We could send him to StatePrison. Oh! won’t we make him hop? I say, Greg, do you want to have somefun?”
“How? What way?”
“Well, sir, if you want to have some fun, I’ll tell you what let’s do.Let’s go call on your Uncle Peter, and confront him with this littlepiece of villainy, and politely ask him to explain it: and then see himsquirm. It’ll sort of square accounts with him for the number of timeshe’s given you a flogging.”
“O, no! I--I guess we’d better not,” I demurred, faltering at theprospect of a personal encounter with my redoubtable relative.
“But, man alive, you have nothing to fear. We’ve got the whip-hand ofhim. Just think, we can threaten him with criminal prosecution. Oh! comeon. It’ll be the jolliest kind of a lark.”
Well, I allowed myself to be persuaded; and we set forth for UnclePeter’s office, Ripley all agog for excitement, and I trying not toappear afraid. But Uncle Peter wasn’t in. An oldish man, who seemedto be in charge, informed us that the Jedge had got a touch of therheumatiz, and was stayin’ hum.
“Never mind,” said Ripley to me; “we’ll visit him at his home, we’llbeard him in his den. Come along!”
I tried to beg off, but Rip insisted; and I weakly gave in.
If I had been stirred by strong emotions at the sight of Norwich City,conceive how much more deeply I was stirred when we reached NorwichTown--when I saw our old house peeping out from among the greatelm-trees that embosomed it--when I actually stood upon its doorstep,with my hand upon the old brass knocker! A strange servant girl openedthe door, and to my request to see Judge Brace, replied, “The Jedge issick in his room.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I explained. “You know, I am his nephew. Tell himhis nephew Gregory wants to see him.” And I marched boldly through thehall--where the same tall eight-day clock, with its silver face thatshowed the phases of the moon, was ticking just as it had used to tickas long ago as I could remember--and into the parlor, Ripley following.I say I marched in boldly, yet I was really frightened half to death,as the moment of a face-to-face meeting with my terrible uncle became soimminent. There in the parlor stood the piano upon which my grandmotherhad labored so patiently to teach me to play. There hung the oilportrait of her, in her robe of cream-colored silk, taken when she wasa beautiful young girl, and there, opposite it, above the fireplace, thecompanion-picture of my Uncle Florimond, in his lieutenant’s uniform,with his sword and his crimson sash. Ripley started back a little whenhe saw this painting, and cried, “For mercy’s sake, Greg, who is it?I never saw anything like it. The same eyes, nose, mouth, chin,everything. It’s you all over”--thus confirming what my grandmother usedto tell me: “Gregory, thou art his living image.” The room was hauntedby a myriad dear associations. I forgot the errand that had broughtme there; I forgot my fear of meeting Uncle Peter; I forgot all of therecent past, and was carried back to the happiest days of my childhood;and my heart just swelled, and thrilled, and ached. But next instantit gave a great spasmodic leap, and stood still for a second, and thenbegan to gallop ahead like mad, while a perspiration broke out over myforehead; for the maid-servant entered, and said “Please walk upstairsto the Jedge’s room.” I really thought I should faint. It was as much asI could do to get my breath. My knees knocked together. My hands shooklike those of an aged palsy-stricken man. However, there was no suchthing as backing out at this late date; so I screwed my courage to thesticking place, and led Ripley upstairs to Uncle Peter’s room.
Uncle Peter was seated in an arm-chair, with his legs, wrapped in acomforter, stretched out on another chair in front of him. He never somuch as said how-d’-ye-do? or anything; but at once, scowling at us,asked in his gruffest voice, “Well, what do you want?”
I was so afraid and so abashed that I could hardly speak; but I didcontrive to point at Ripley, and gasp, “He--he’ll tell you.”
“Well,” snapped Uncle Peter, turning to my spokesman, “go on. State yourbusiness.”
“Well, sir,” began Rip--and O, me! as I listened to him, didn’t mywonder at his wisdom, and my admiration of his eloquence, mount up apeg?--“well, sir, our business is very simple, and can be stated ina very few words. The amount of it is simply this. My friend GregoryBrace, being the only child of Edward Brace, deceased, who was a son ofyour mother, Aurore Brace, deceased, is, equally with yourself, the heirand next-of-kin of the said decedent, and would, in the event of herhaving died intestate, divide share and share alike with you whateverproperty she left. Now, sir, we have caused a search to be made in therecords of the Probate Court of this County, and we find that the saiddecedent did in fact die intestate. It, therefore, became your duty topetition for Letters of Administration upon her estate; to cite GregoryBrace to show cause why such Letters should not be issued; to cause aguardian _ad litem_ to be appointed to act for him in the proceedings;to cause a permanent guardian to be appointed for him after the issuanceof said Letters; and then to apply the rents, profits, and income ofone undivided half of the estate of said decedent to his support,maintenance and education, allowing what excess there might be to accrueto his benefit. Well, sir, examination proves that you have performednone of these duties; that you have illegally and without warrantor authority possessed yourself of the whole of said estate, therebycommitting a fraud upon the said Gregory Brace, and violating thestatutes in such case made and provided. And now, sir, we have come hereto give you notice that it is our intention to put this matter at onceinto the hands of an attorney, with directions that he proceed againstyou, both criminally and civilly.” Uncle Peter heard Ripley throughwithout interrupting, though an ugly smile flickered about his lips.When Rip had done, he lay back in his chair, and gave a loud harshlaugh. Then he drew a long, mock-respectful face, and in a very dry,sarcastic manner spoke as follows:--
“Why, my young friend, you talk like a book. And what profound andvaried knowledge of the law you do possess, to be sure! Why, I mustcongratulate my nephew upon having found such an able and sagaciousadvocate. And really, I cannot see the necessity of your calling inthe services of an attorney, for a person of your distinguished calibreought certainly to be equal to conducting this dual prosecution, bothcivil and criminal, single-handed. My sakes alive!” he cried, with asudden change of tone and bearing. “Do you know what I’ve a great mindto do with you and your client, my fine young fellow? I’ve a great mindto cane you both within an inch of your precious lives, and send youskulking away, with your tails between your legs, like two whippedpuppies. But, bless me, no! You’re neither of you worth the trouble. SoI’ll spare my rod, and spoil your fancy, by giving you a small measureof information. Now, then, pray tell me, Mr. Advocate, what is yourvaluation of the property which the ‘said decedent’ left?”
“At least a hundred thousand dollars,” repeated Uncle Peter; “well,that’s a pretty sum. Well, now, what would you say, my learned friend,if I should tell you that she didn’t leave a penny?”
“I should say it was very extraordinary, and that I couldn’t believe it.She was the widow of a wealthy man. She lived in good style. It standsto reason that she couldn’t have died penniless.”
“And so it does; it stands to reason, as you say; and yet penniless shewas when she died, and penniless she had been for ten years before; andif she lived in good style, it was because I paid the bills; and if thisyoung cub, my nephew, wore good clothes and ate good dinners, it wasmy charity he had to thank. Little by little, stick by stick, my motherdisposed of all the property her husband left her, selling the bulk ofit to me, and sending the proceeds to France, to help to reconstruct thefortunes of her family there, who were ruined by the revolution. Shewas a pauper when she died; and that’s why I took out no Letters ofAdministration--because there was nothing to administrate upon.There, now I’ve told you more than I was under any obligation to; andnow, both of you, get out!”
“Come, Greg,” said Rip, “let’s go.”
We went. Out of doors, I began, “Well, Rip”--
“Well, Greg,” Rip interrupted, “we’ve been on a fool’s errand, awild-goose chase, and the less said about it the better.”
“And I--I’m not rich, after all?”
“That’s what’s the matter, Greg. If she didn’t leave any property--yousee, we took it for granted that she did--why, there’s nothing for youto inherit. It’s too bad, old fellow; but then, you’re no worse offthan you were in the beginning. Anyhow, there’s no use crying over spiltmilk. Come on; let’s take the afternoon train to New York.”
So my fine castle in the air had fallen to pieces like a house of cards.I tell you, it was a mighty crest-fallen young gentleman, in a veryhumble frame of mind, who sat next to Arthur Ripley that afternoon inthe train that was speeding to New York.
CHAPTER VI--MY UNCLE FLORIMOND.
Yes, indeed, it was a very crest-fallen youth who accompanied ArthurRipley back to New York that bright summer afternoon, and who towardbed-time that evening stole quietly into Mr. Finkelstein’s shop. It washard work under the circumstances to return to Mr. Finkelstein’s. Ihad to swallow my pride in doing so, and it proved to be an exceedinglyunpalatable dose. I had expected to return a young prince, in princelystyle, to dazzle my plebeian friends with my magnificence, and overwhelmthem with my bounteous generosity; and now, in point of fact, I cameback poorer than I had gone away, a beggar and a dependent, one whowould be homeless and penniless if they should refuse to take him in. Itwas a dreadful come-down. I think, if there had been anywhere else forme to go, I should never have returned to Mr. Finkelstein’s at all,it mortified my vanity so cruelly to have to do it. I felt as thoughI should like to seek out some obscure hiding-place in the remotestquarter of the world, and bury myself there forever from the sight ofmen. “O, Rip!” I cried, “I should just like to bag my head.”
Of course, as I opened the shop door, the bell above it must needstinkle; and in response to this summons Mr. Finkelstein himself issuedfrom the parlor.
“What, Kraikory!” he exclaimed at sight of me. “Back so soon? Ach! Itought it was a customer. Vail, it’s you yourself, and no mistake aboutit.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, “we came back on the train this afternoon.”
“Ach, so? You came back on de train dis aifternoon? Vail, vail, valk in,set down, make yourself to home. Vail, Kraik-ory, I’m real glaid to seeyou. Vail, it’s all right, I suppose? You got de money, hey? Vail, wasit more or less as you expected? Was it fifty tousand, or a hundred, ormaybe only terventy-fife? Vail, set down and tell me all about it.”
“N-no, sir,” I began, rather tremulously; “it--we--there--there was amistake. She--I mean to say my grandmother--she didn’t leave any money,after all. She didn’t have any to leave. She was quite poor, instead ofrich, and--and my Uncle Peter, he supported her. He owned the house andeverything. He had bought it from her, and she had sent the money toFrance. So--I--that is--you see”--I broke down. I could get no further.
“Ach, dere, dere, Kraikory,” cried Mr. Finkelstein, as my emotionbetrayed itself, and he laid his hand caressingly upon my shoulder;“dere, dere, don’t you go feel baid about it, my dear little poy.” Thenhe caught himself up. “Excuse me, Kraikory; I didn’t mean to call you alittle poy; I forgot. But don’t you go feel baid about it, all desame. You ain’t no vorse off as you was before already. Put it down toexperience, Kraikory, sharsh it to experience. It’s allright. You gota comfortable home here by me. You needn’t feel so awful about it. Come,sheer up, Kraikory. Don’t tink about it no more. Come along inside mitme, and Henrietta will get you somedings to eat. We ain’t got no faittedcaif to kill in your honor, Kraikory, but we got some of de finest liversowsage in de United States of America; and ainyhow, Kraikory, veal isa fearful dry meat. Ach, dere, dere, for mercy’s sake, don’t you feelbaid. I get off a shoke shust on purpose to make you laif, and you don’tnaifer notice it. Ach, Kraikory, don’t feel baid. I simply hate to seeyou feel baid, Kraikory; I simply cain’t staind it. I give ten tousandtollars right out of my own pocket sooner as see you feel baid,Kraikory; I’m so fond of you, don’t you understand?”
My heart melted all at once like ice in sunshine. Tears sprang to myeyes. “Oh! my dear, dear Mr. Finkelstein,” I sobbed, “you are so goodto me. Oh! can--can you ever--for--forgive the--the way I’ve acted?I--I’m--I’m so sorry for it.”
“My kracious, Kraikory, don’t talk like dot. If you talk like dot, youmake me aict so foolish I be ashamed to show my face. You make me crylike a raikular old voman, Kraikory; you aictually vill. Ach, dere I go.Ach, my kracious! Ach! I cain’t help it. Ach, what--what an old fool Iam.... Kraikory--my boy--my son--come here, Kraikory--come here tome. O, Kraikory! I loaf you like a fader. O, Kraikory! you know whatI tought? I tought I loast you foraifer, Kraikory. O, Kraikory! I’m soglaid to haif you back. Ach, Kraikory, God is good.” The tears rolleddownward from his dear old eyes, and pattered like rain-drops upon mycheeks. He had clasped me in his arms.
From that hour I took up my old place at Mr. Finkelstein’s, in ahumbler, healthier, and, on the whole, happier frame of mind than Ihad known for many a long day before. My heart had been touched, and myconscience smitten, by his loving kindness.
I was sincerely remorseful for the ungrateful manner in which Ihad behaved toward him, and for the unworthy sentiments that I hadcherished. I strove honestly, by amending my conduct, to do what I couldin the way’ of atonement.
Incidentally, moreover, my little adventure had brought me face to facewith some of the naked facts of life. In a grim and vivid tableau it hadshown me what a helpless and dependent creature I was; how for the sheernecessities of food, shelter and clothing I must rely upon the charityof other people. I tried now to make myself of real value to my patron,of real use in the shop and about the house, and thus in some measureto render an equivalent for what he did for me. Instead of going offafternoons to amuse myself with Ripley, I would remain at home toimprove such chances as I had to be of service to Mr. Finkelstein. Iwould play the hand-organ for him, or read aloud to him, or take chargeof the shop, while he slept, or enjoyed his game of pinochle withMr. Flisch. And in my moments of leisure I would study a dog-earedfourth-hand copy of Munson’s _Complete Phonographer_ that I had bought;for I had long thought that I should like to learn short-hand, and hadeven devoted a good deal of time to mastering the rudiments of thatart; and I fancied that, by much diligent practice now, I might hastenforward the day when I should be able to earn my own livelihood, andthus cease to be a burden upon my friends. Indeed, I could already writeas many as sixty words a minute with perfect ease.
Mr. Finkelstein did not altogether approve of my assiduous industry, andused to warn me, “Look out, Kraikor
y! It don’t naifer pay to run a tinginto de ground; it aictually don’t. You study so hart, your head’ll getmore knowledge inside of it as it can hold, and den, de first tingyou know, all of a sudden vun day, it’ll svell up and bust. Ainy-how,Kraikory, dere’s a proverp which goes, ‘All vork and no play makes Shacka dull poy’; and dot’s as true as you’re alife, Kraikory; it aictuallydoes. You better knock off dis aifternoon, Kraikory, and go haif somefun. It’s Saiturday, ain’t it? And dere’s a maitinee, hey? Vail, whydon’t you go to de teayter?... How? You study so hart becoase you vantto get able to earn your living? Now look at here, Kraikory; don’t youtalk foolish. I got plenty money, ain’t I? And I got a right to spendmy money so as to get saitisfaiction out of it, hey? Vail, now look athere; dere ain’t no vay of spending my money what’ll give me so muchsaitisfaiction as to spend it to make you haippy and contented; dot’s asolemn faict. You needn’t vorry about earning your living. You ain’tgot to earn it for a great mainy years yet already--not till you get alldone mit your education. And ainyhow, Kraikory, you do earn it. You mindde store, and you read out lout to me, and you keep me company; and, mykracious, you’re such a shenu-wine musician, Kraikory, you got such agraind tailent for de haind-organ, I don’t know how I’d get along midoutyou. I guess I haif to raise your sailary next New Years.”
This was-only of a piece with Mr. Fin-kelstein’s usual kindness. But Ifelt that I had abused his kindness in the past, and I was determined toabuse it no longer.
I say I was happier than I had been for a long while before, and so Iwas. I was happier because I was more contented. My disappointment aboutthe inheritance, though keen enough at the moment, did not last long. AsMr. Finkelstein had remarked, I was no worse off than I had been inthe first place; and then, I derived a good deal of consolation fromremembering what Uncle Peter had told me--that the money had gone toreconstruct the splendor of our house in France. My disappointmentat seeing my meeting with Uncle Florimond again become a thing of theindefinite future, was deeper and more enduring. “Alas,” I sighed, witha heart sick for hope deferred, “it seems as though I was never goingto be able to go to him at all.” And I gulped down a big lump that hadgathered in my throat.
Against Rosalind Earle I still nursed some foolish resentment. She hadwished that I might have to eat humble pie. Well, her wish had come topass; and I felt almost as though it were her fault that it had doneso. She had said she didn’t like me any more, and didn’t care to haveme call upon her any more. I took her at her word, and staid away,regarding myself in the light of a much-abused and injured person. Sothree or four weeks elapsed, and she and I never met. Then... Toward sixo’clock one evening I was seated in the parlor, poring over my _CompletePhonogacipher_, when the door from the shop opened with a creak, and alight footstep became audible behind my chair. The next instant I heardRosalind’s voice, low and gentle, call my name.
My heart began to flutter. I got up and turned around, and saw the dearlittle girl standing a yard distant from me, with her hand extended forme to take, and with her beautiful dark eyes fixed appealingly upon myface. I didn’t speak; and I pretended not to see her hand; and Ijust stood still there, mute and pouting, like the sulky coxcomb andsimpleton that I was.
Rosalind allowed her hand to drop to her side, and a very pained lookcame over her face; and there was a frog in her voice, as she said, “O,Gregory! you--you are still angry with me.”
“O, no! I’m not angry with you,” I answered, but in an offish tone; andthat was true; I really wasn’t angry with her the least bit any more.All my anger had evaporated at the sight of her face and the sound ofher voice. But I didn’t know how to unbend gracefully and without lossof dignity.
“Then--then why haven’t you been to see me?” she asked.
“You said you didn’t want me to come to see you any more.”
“But I didn’t mean it. You must have known I didn’t mean it.”
“But you said it, anyhow. I don’t care to go where I’m not wanted. Whenpeople say a thing, how am I to know they don’t mean it?”
“But I said it when I was vexed. And what people say when they’revexed--other people ought not to count it. It isn’t fair. And really andtruly, Gregory, I didn’t mean it; and I’m sorry I said it; and I’msorry I spoke to you the way I did; and--and that’s why I’ve come here,Gregory; I’ve come to ask your pardon.”
“Oh! certainly; don’t mention it; no apology’s necessary,” I said. Iwould have given anything to have taken her in my arms, and kissed her,and begged her pardon; but I was too stiff-necked and self-conscious.
“And then,” she went on, “after you came back from Norwich, and Mr.Flisch told me what Mr. Finkelstein had told him--about how disappointedyou had been, and everything--I--I felt so sorry for you, Gregory, andso sorry that I had spoken to you that way; and I wanted to come rightover, and tell you I didn’t mean it, and beg your pardon, and ask you tomake up with me; but I thought maybe you mightn’t like it, and that youmight be angry with me, and--and not--not--I don’t know; but anyway, Ididn’t come. And then I just hoped and hoped all the time that maybeyou would come to see me; but you never did. And then at last I justcouldn’t wait any longer, I felt so guilty and sorry and everything;and--and so I stopped in on my way home to day; and, O, Gregory! Ireally didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, and I hope you’ll forgive me,Gregory, and not be angry with me any more.”
By this time I had gone up, and taken her in my arms; and, “O,Rosalind!” I cried, “don’t talk like that. You--you make me feel soashamed. You--you humiliate me so. What you said to me that day--it wasjust right. You were just right, and I was wrong. And I deserved tohave you talk to me ten times worse, I was so horrid and stuck-up andeverything. And I--I’m awfully sorry. And I’ve wanted--I’ve wanted to goand see you all the time, and tell you I was sorry; only--only I don’tknow--I suppose I was too proud. And I just hope that you’ll forgiveme, and forgive the way I acted here to-day a little while ago, and--O,Rosalind! I’m so glad to be friends with you again.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Finkelstein, entering from the shop. “Hugging andkissing each udder! Vail, my kracious! Vail, if I aifer! Vail, dot beatsde deck! Oh! you needn’t take no notice of me. You needn’t stop on myaccount. I don’t mind it. I been dere myself already, when I was yourage. You needn’t bloosh like dot, Rosie; dough it’s mighty becoming toyou, dot’s a faict. And, Kraikory, you needn’t look so sheebish. Youain’t done nodings to be ashamed of. And I’m awful sorry I came in shustwhen I did, and inderrubded you; only I didn’t know what you was doing,as you haidn’t notified me, and I vanted to speak to Kraikory abouta little maitter of business. Dere’s an old feller outside dere in destore what cain’t talk no English; and I guess he was a Frenchman; so Itought I’d get Kraikory to come along and aisk him what he vants, if youcould spare him, Rosie--hey?” So Rosalind and I followed Mr. Finkelsteininto the shop.
A tall, thin, and very poor-looking old man stood before the counter,resting his hands upon it--small and well-shaped hands, but so fleshlessthat you could have counted the bones in them, and across which theblue, distended veins stretched like wires. His stove-pipe hat was wornand lustreless; his black frock coat was threadbare, and whitish alongthe seams. His old-fashioned standing collar was frayed at the edge; anda red mark on each side of his neck, beneath his ears, showed that thefrayed edge had chafed his skin. His face was colorless and emaciated;his eyes, sunken deep under his brows, had a weary, sad, half-frightenedlook in them that compelled your pity. His moustache and imperialwere as white as snow. A very forlorn, pathetic, poor-looking oldman, indeed. Yet there was also something refined, dignified, and evencourtly in his appearance; and I thought to myself that he had seenbetter days; and my heart ached for him. It was with an unwontedgentleness that I inquired: “You are French, Monsieur? I put myself atyour service.”
His sad old eyes fixed themselves eagerly upon mine, and in a quaveringold voice he answered, “_Je cherche un jeune homme qui s’appelleGrégo
ire Brace_”--I seek a young man named Gregory Brace. “_C’est ici queil demeure?_”--It is here that he lives?
“_Mais oui, monsieur: c’est moi_” “--it is I,” I said; and wondering whatin the world he could want with me, I waited for him to go on.
His eyes opened a little wider, and a light flashed in them. He seemedto be struggling with an emotion that made it impossible for him tospeak. His throat, I could see, gave two or three convulsive swallows.Then his lips parted, his eyes grew dim with tears, and very huskily,bending forward, he demanded, “_Et--et vous ne me connaissez pas?_”--Andyou do not know me?
I scanned his face carefully. I could not recognize it. I shook my head.“_Mais non, monsieur_--I do not think that I have ever seen you before.
“No, that is true. But I hoped that you might know me, nevertheless....Gregory, it is I; it is thy uncle--de la Bourbonnaye.” And he stretchedout his two arms, to embrace me.
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“What!... Thou!... My--my Uncle--Florimond!... Oh!” I gasped. My heartbounded terribly. My head swam. The objects round about began to dancebewilderingly to and fro. The floor under my feet rocked like the deckof a ship. There was a loud continuous ringing in my ears.... But stillI saw the figure of that sad old man standing there motionless, witharms outstretched toward me, waiting. A thousand unutterable emotionswere battling in my heart; a thousand incoherent thoughts were racingthrough my brain. This poor old man my Uncle Florimond! This poor oldman--in threadbare cloth and tattered linen.... Then suddenly animpulse mastered me. I rushed forward, and threw myself upon his breast,and--like a schoolgirl--fell to weeping.
Well, as the French proverb says, everything comes at last to him whoknows how to wait. To me at last had come the moment for which I hadwaited so many years; and I stood face to face with my Uncle Florimond,with the hero of my imagination, the Marquis de la Bourbonnaye. Butin place of the rich and powerful nobleman whom I had dreamed of, thedashing soldier, the brilliant courtier, I found the poor decrepit agedman whom you have seen. “Thou knowest, my Gregory,” he explained to me.by and by, “since the overthrow of the legitimate monarchy by the firstrevolution, our family has never been rich. In 1792, upon the eve of theTerror, my father emigrated from the beautiful France, and sought refugein Sweden, where I and my sister were born, and where he remaineduntil 1815. Upon the restoration we returned to our fatherland; but ourchateaux of which we counted no fewer than three, had been burned, ourhôtel in Paris sacked, our wealth confiscated and dissipated, by thosebarbarians, those assassins, those incendiaries, and we possessedscarcely even the wherewithal to live. It was for that that we consentedto the misalliance made by our Aurore in espousing thy grandfather,Philip Brace. American and bourgeois that he was, in admitting him toour connection, our family suffered the first disgrace of its history.Yet without dowry, my sister could never have married her equal inFrance, and would most likely have become a nun. But that excellentBrace, he loved her so much, her station was so high, his own so low,he was happy to obtain her hand at any terms. She, too, reciprocatedhis affection; he was indeed a fine fellow; and the marriage wasaccomplished.... It is now some ten years since, by the goodness of mybeloved sister, I was enabled to amass a sufficient sum to purchase formyself an annuity of six thousand francs as a provision for my age.But behold, the other day--it is now about two months ago, perhaps--theannuity company goes into bankruptcy; and I am left absolutely withouta _sou_. So I am come to America to seek an asylum with my sister’sson, Peter. I am arrived to-day even, aboard the steamship La Touraine.Figure to thyself that, fault of money, I have been forced to make thepassage second class! To-morrow I shall proceed to Norr-veesh.”
“Have you written to Uncle Peter to expect you?” I inquired.
“_Mais non!_ I have not thought it necessary.”
“It is a man altogether singular, my Uncle Peter,” I went on, “and trulyI think that you will do better to rest here at New York a few days, inattending a response to the letter which I counsel you to send him. Heloves not the surprises, my Uncle Peter.”
“I shall do all as thou desirest, my good Gregory,” said UncleFlorimond; and he dispatched a letter to his nephew, Peter Brace, thatvery evening, setting forth the state of his affairs, and declaring hisintention to go to Norwich.
That night and the next he slept in Mr. Finkelstein’s spare bedroom. Onthe evening of the third day an answer came from Uncle Peter, professinghis inability to do anything to assist his mother’s brother, andemphatically discouraging his proposed visit to Norwich. Uncle Florimondcould hardly believe his senses. “Ah! such cruelty, such lack of heart,” he cried, “it is impossible.”
“Vail, Kraikory,” said Mr. Finkelstein, “de only ting is, he’ll haif tosettle down here, and live mit me and you. He can keep dot spare room,and we’ll make him as comfortable as we know how. Tell him I be prout tohaif him for my guest as long as he’ll stay.”
“No,” I answered, “I can’t let you go to work and saddle yourself withmy relatives as well as with me. I must pitch in and support him.”
“But, my kracious, Kraikory, what can you do? You’re only fifteen yearsold. You couldn’t earn more as tree or four tollars a veek if you vorkedall de time.”
“Oh! yes, I could. You forget that I’ve been studying short-hand; and Ican write sixty words a minute; and Mr. Marx will get me a position as ashort-hand writer in some office down-town; and then I could earn eightdollars a week at least.”
“Vail, my kracious, dot’s a faict. Vail, dot’s simply immense. Vail, I’mmighty glaid now you kept on studying and didn’t take my advice. Vail,ainyhow, Kraikory, you and him can go on living here by me, and den whenyou’re able you can pay boart--hey? And say, Kraikory, I always hada sort of an idea dot I like to learn Frainch; and maybe he’d give melessons, hey? Aisk him what he’d sharsh.”
“Ah, my Gregory,” sighed Uncle Florimond, “I am desolated. To become aburden upon thy young shoulders--it is terrible.”
“I beseech you, my dearest uncle, do not say such things. I love youwith all my heart. It is my greatest happiness to have you near me. Andhold, you are going to gain your own livelihood. Mr. Finkelstein herewishes to know what you will charge to give him French lessons.”
“Well, I guess I join de class,” said Mr. Marx, when he heard of hisfather-in-law’s studies.
“So will I,” said Mrs. Marx.
“Well, I guess I come in too,” said Mr. Flisch.
“And I want to learn French ever so much,” said Rosalind.
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So a class was formed; and a Marquis de la Bourbonnaye, for the firsttime, no doubt, in the history of that ancient family, ate bread that hehad earned by the sweat of his brow. It was a funny and yet a patheticsight to see him laboring with his pupils. He was very gentle and verypatient; but by the melancholy expression of his eyes, I knew that theoutrages they committed upon his native language sank deep into his ownsoul. He and Mr. Finkelstein became great friends. I think they usedto play cards together quite six hours every day. Uncle Florimond hadstudied English as a lad at school; and by and by he screwed his courageto the sticking place, and began to talk that tongue. It was as good asa play to hear him and Mr. Finkelstein converse together.
In due time, surely enough, Mr. Marx procured a situation for me asstenographer in a banking-house down-town. My salary, to start with, wasseven dollars a week. Joining that to what Uncle Florimond earned, wehad enough to support us in comparative comfort and without loss ofself-respect.
And now Mrs. Gregory Brace, who is looking over my shoulder, and whosefirst name is Rosalind, and whose maiden-name was Earle, warns me thatthe point is reached where I must write
THE END.
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My Uncle Florimond Page 5
