Stuart, locking up the doors, glared at his full block of shops with that swelling rich satisfaction which never failed him. During the past five years or so, he had torn down the uneven line of chaotic little shops and rebuilt them on an even height of three stories, so that they appeared one long shining establishment. Indeed, he had cut doors in the walls so that one could travel from the main shop to the last on the street, without stepping outside. One could pass from the ladies’ luxurious establishment into the boot shop, where ladies, choosing their own fine leathers, could be fitted for excellent boots by expert shoemakers and where their husbands and children could also be fitted; and from the boot shop to a fine millinery shop, a wonderful innovation for Grandeville ladies, who were accustomed to patronizing a pet dressmaker, who usually starved between hats. Stuart had employed these impecunious females, and had paid them miraculous wages, to their eternal devotion and gratitude. Now marvelous bonnets stood on stands in the windows, surrounded by lengths of gleaming velvets and heaps of artificial flowers and ribbons and feathers. Beyond these effete shops were hardware establishments, harness makers, furniture emporiums, feed shops, pantry staples, and even a meat shop. One of the larger shops was in the nature of a “general store,” where the farmer could find almost everything, and could order anything from careful catalogs compiled by Stuart and Sam Berkowitz. In short, a family could enter the first shop and come out of the last, completely surfeited and supplied, and laden with bundles.
In a conspicuous spot, framed in a thick golden frame, were excerpts from large newspapers sent Stuart from several distant metropolitan centers, all praising him for his innovations and merchandising genius. These hung on the brocaded walls of the Ladies’ Shop.
Stuart now employed twenty clerks, female as well as male, an innovation that had made Grandeville gasp. All were well-trained and elegant, and aware of their responsibilities as employees of America’s strangest and most wonderful shop. They conducted themselves with the hauteur of nobility. To work for Stuart was not only to receive wages beyond the dreams of avarice, but to have a certain exclusive social patina bestowed upon them. They were not “degraded” by their employment. Nor was their love for Stuart the result only of his wages. They found him kind and understanding, tolerant and sympathetic. When he passed through the shops, he was followed by their adoring glances. He knew them all, and their families. He was never too busy to inquire about a sick member of these families, to send regards, to listen with concerned interest.
It was natural, therefore, that Stuart should be hated, justifiably, by other employers of labor. He was a “revolutionary, a Whig,” a traitor to his class. He gave the working people, born only by the grace of a wise God to serve their masters, a false idea of their importance in the social scheme. Some ministers declared that it was sacrilegious to pay a clerk fifteen dollars a week, an incredible sum, when the usual just wage was about six or seven. He was making his employees stiff-necked, giving them strange ideas, and implanting in them sentiments unbefitting their station.
But despite these condemnations, and threatened boycotts, Stuart prospered. He had introduced another strange idea into merchandising: the Customer is Always Right. Heretofore, in Grandeville, among other merchants, and among merchants everywhere, the prevailing religion was caveat emptor—let the customer beware. But Stuart had another idea entirely. He sold sound merchandise at a sound price, and received a sound if modest profit. Should the merchandise prove faulty he exchanged it cheerfully, and with apologies, or refunded the money. The people of Grandeville, stupefied at first, came to trust him implicitly.
But Stuart was also very shrewd. He sold for cash only. No matter how high-born and wealthy the lady, she paid on the counter as did the small laborer or farmer. No credit was extended. The farmers, accustomed to running bills, might have complained ferociously had they not known that the lady in ermine, bowling along in her carriage, was compelled to open her reticule and disgorge as quickly as themselves.
“No bills, no arguments, no lost customers,” said Stuart. “Besides, as they know, a man who sells for cash can sell cheaper, taking a smaller profit, and giving better goods.”
At Sam’s suggestion he started another innovation. A farmer, after harvesting, could deposit with Stuart a certain sum which he believed would cover his purchases for the year. (This cash-account was also extended to other urban customers.) At the end of the year the accounts were settled, and any surplus moved over to the next year, or refunded.
The great expansion of the Grandeville Supreme Emporium had, in the main, come from the one hundred thousand dollars which Mrs. Coleman had inherited on her twenty first birthday.
Stuart was now a rich man. And, in proportion to his income, his expenses increased inordinately. As a result, he very seldom had a large sum of ready cash. The profits went back into the shops, and a considerable proportion was spent in his own peculiar fashion.
The railroad had been built to Grandeville, and Stuart used it at least twice a year to visit New York, there to arrange for shipments of new goods, to tour the shops for new ideas, and to amuse himself. The latter activity often cost him a small fortune. He was much esteemed by the lighter and more luxurious ladies of New York. Chicago, that great fulminating city on the Lakes, also knew him, as did Saratoga and the horses, of which he was very fond. New Orleans had seen him, too, and other Southern cities. One summer, not accompanied by Mrs. Coleman, he had gone to Paris.
He lived lavishly, with his wife and his one child, little Mary Rose, almost five years old now, whom he adored. He spared himself nothing. Therefore at thirty-four his girth had considerably thickened, his full ruddy face had become florid, his liver had shown angry indications of its outraged existence, and he had had one or two bouts of gout. Always a “fine figure of a man,” he was now very imposing in his new weight and extremely flamboyant wardrobe, and the splendor of manner and appearance which had always distinguished him had now become lavish and overemphasized, much to the amusement of his enemies, of whom he had very many. Also, his generosity, his magnanimity, his reckless extravagance, did nothing to endear him to the conservative and the pious.
Stuart had built the compact and comfortable little convent behind the church of Our Lady of Hope, and had established a parochial school adjoining the convent. Here the children of the poor could be adequately educated, taught trades and needle-work, other revolutionary ideas which shocked the community for a long time. Stuart had offered to build a similar school for the Protestant poor children, and it was only after three long angry years that his offer was accepted, and then only after exhausting pleas on the part of Mayor Cummings. “He’ll be opening schools for niggers, next,” said many of the people, bitterly.
He had ideas for a public hospital, but this innovation had aroused so much opposition and horror that he had temporarily refrained. However, he discussed it often with Father Houlihan, who was enthusiastic. The nuns would nurse in the hospital, the priest had promised him, and Stuart had doubtfully considered the idea. Nevertheless, he studied plans for the hospital, and his determination grew.
No one but Father Houlihan and Sam Berkowitz understood this wild and contradictory man, this man of large and colorful inconsistencies and rages and blasphemies, of mercies and kindnesses and furies, of selfishnesses and obtusenesses and brutalities. They knew that his huge faults came from the excess of his virtues, that he could not endure to see suffering, so that for his own peace of mind he must alleviate it.
With it all, he was an eternal child. It was this childlikeness that made him stand, as he did now, this November evening, and stare smugly and joyously at his shops, never tiring in his admiration for his own accomplishments.
He had momentarily forgotten Angus. But when he saw his carriage waiting, he swore under his breath, and moved towards it, viciously striking the walk with his gold-headed cane. His temper was not soothed by the fact that he was having difficulty in fastening the middle button of his many-
caped coat. Damn it, he had refrained from much drinking, and too much food, lately, yet his girth was not decreasing. He felt, with apprehension, the heat under his stock, and the wave of heat that ran down his back. It was that copious whiskey he had just taken, of course, and it was all that cursed young puppy’s fault. His face, as he passed under a street-lamp, was very florid and sullen. In the folds of his cheeks the crimson was almost purple, as was the thickened roll of flesh under his chin. It was an over-full and dissipated face, reckless and violent. Fast living and indulgence made it a little difficult for him to spring with the old lightness into his carriage, and his anger against himself and Angus increased.
There had been an ominous throbbing in his right, and gouty, foot. Now it was subsiding. As the carriage rolled through the empty streets he became conscious of a healthy hunger. He must really begin to walk a few miles every night, as his doctor had ordered. He would begin tomorrow. He would drink nothing more tonight. He would have but one helping of good roast beef at dinner. He felt very virtuous, all at once. It was a villainous way for a full-blooded man to live, he meditated gloomily, especially that prohibition against too much dallying with the ladies. However, after leading the life of a monk for about six months, his doctor had assured him, he might resume a more normal way of living.
He had a visit to make before going home. The carriage turned down one modest street after another, in the south side of the city. After about half an hour, it reached the pretty white cottage of Father Houlihan.
The priest had been ill recently of an intestinal complaint, which had much exhausted him. There had been considerable typhoid fever in the city that summer. The priest was convalescent now, but his duties for some time had been taken over by his young assistant, one Father Billingsley, who also lived in the cottage. Stuart did not like Father Billingsley, who was young, intolerant, bigoted, overly zealous in making converts, and very severe and pious. In his turn, Father Billingsley did not like Stuart, though he was overawed by him, and afraid of him.
“A damned budding Jesuit if there ever was one!” Stuart had called him, and in his presence. He rarely addressed the young priest directly, but always referred to him in the third person and with rudeness and brutality. Father Billingsley was tall and emaciated in his black robes, with a long thin white face burning with religious ardor, and too-brilliant black eyes as fiery and restless as Stuart’s own.
When Stuart entered the cottage tonight, not at all in a happy frame of mind, he took no pains to hide his black scowl of annoyance at seeing Father Billingsley beside Father Houlihan, before the parlor fire. The older priest, in dressing gown, shawl and slippers, was still very pale and flabby, and revealed, in his tired but still strenuous blue eyes, the effects of his recent illness. He was apparently weary. He greeted Stuart with simple pleasure, holding out both his hands. Father Billingsley, with a censorious expression on his white young face, silently testified that he had been “annoying” his senior, to use Stuart’s expression. Stuart never understood the nature of the “annoying.” He only knew that when he came Father Houlihan would sometimes appear weary and exhausted, but patient and sweet as always. Now Stuart scowled at the younger priest, ignored his formal greeting, and angrily demanded why his friend should resemble a damned skinned turnip again.
“My dear Stuart,” said the older priest, fondly, pressing his friend’s hand in both of his own hot palms. “I am really doing excellently. I gain strength every day. Perhaps I did too much reading this afternoon,” and he rubbed his eyes apologetically.
“You look,” said the rude Stuart, with a darkling glance at Father Billingsley, “like the underside of a flounder dead for a week. Hasn’t Dr. Malone been in to see you again, as I ordered? He promised to be here every day, the cut-belly!”
“Now, Stuart, you know that’s no name to call Dr. Malone, just because he insists that surgery can be extended to the abdomen, in defiance of medical opinion,” said the priest, with an irrepressible smile. “Cut-belly, indeed! And it’s you that was the lad that suggested that Dr. Malone shall head your hospital.”
“He’ll head nothing but the workhouse if he doesn’t take better care of you!” exclaimed Stuart. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone neglect you, or annoy you, or harass you in any way, whoever he is!” And again, his ireful eye glittered on Father Billingsley, who, frightened, drew himself up to his tall thin height and looked dignified and severe.
In gentle pity, Father Houlihan touched his junior’s hand, and smiled at him. “No one can annoy me, as you say, Stuart, or neglect me, with this lad about.”
Stuart, shrugging rudely, glared at the fire. The whole attitude of his big body suggested that he would prefer Father Billingsley’s absence just now. But the younger priest, who for his conscience’s sake could never forego an opportunity to sway Stuart’s soul, would not leave, despite his own passionate desire to do so. He seated himself slowly, and his youth was suddenly revealed in his look of uncertain distress and melancholy. But his pale mouth set severely, and with dedication.
In an effort to restore the precarious peace, Father Houlihan said: “Dr. Malone has agreed to allow me to use your carriage, beginning tomorrow, if it is no imposition, Stuart.”
“It shall be here promptly at two,” Stuart replied, pleased at the verdict. He sat down, and suddenly beamed on his friend. “God bless you, you old pirate! It’ll be good to see you about again. And the Sunday and Wednesday games, too.”
As Father Billingsley most decidedly did not approve of the Sunday card games, and had been horrified at them, Father Houlihan peeped at him apologetically.
“The poor box could be filled again,” he suggested, “and with benefit.”
There are men who can insult delicately. Stuart was not of this exalted class. His way of insulting Father Billingsley was to ignore him entirely, to speak over and about and around him. He did so now. He glared again at the fire.
“Well, it might soothe you to know you’ve given me the gout again, and set my blasted liver to doing capers, Grundy.”
“I?” Father Houlihan was deeply concerned. He sat up in his chair, dislodging his shawl, which Father Billingsley, who really deeply loved him, adjusted with a sigh. “What have I done, my dear Stuart?”
“Oh, don’t look like a startled corpse,” said Stuart, with a short laugh. He reached over, took Father Houlihan’s knee in his hand, and shook it gently. “I shouldn’t have said that, you innocent. I only mean that I took your advice, and spoke to that puppy of an Angus.”
“Yes?” said the priest eagerly, dropping the shawl again, and giving his junior another opportunity to readjust it. “And what did he say?”
Stuart began to laugh unpleasantly. “He practically consigned me to hell. Oh, I gave him all the arguments you had so carefully rehearsed to me. It did no good. I was a ‘bad and godless’ man. I had no ‘faith.’ I was leading the lamb astray, in suggesting he disobey his darling mama, God damn the bitch! He’s as proud as Lucifer, the insolent popinjay, and as dull and dead as ditch-water. I tell you, he’s done with all of us, and it’s that strumpet’s doing. She hates me like sin, though we’ve had an armed truce for the past few years, and everything is sweet and affable between us again. She had to do that, of course, or she’d never have had one invitation to dinner in the city again, or been accepted among my friends.”
Father Houlihan lifted his hand with a pleading and painful gesture. Father Billingsley looked aghast at this coarseness and vulgarity and sinful talk.
“Stuart, please tell me all about Angus.”
So Stuart told the whole disagreeable story, with gestures and profanity. Father Houlihan watched him. And then the priest knew that Stuart was deeply hurt, much more hurt than he would ever confess, even to himself.
“Curse it, I liked the lad! Grundy, you know I did. He and that poor darling little Laurie. I loved the little lass. I saw her with her mama in the shops’, a week ago, a love of a child. Ah, what a beauty she wi
ll be, what a belle, what a heartbreaker! It’s no use, Grundy. Janie’s poisoned the children against me. I can’t help them again.”
“The children in the gate,” murmured the priest, with deep sorrow. He wrung his hand in the shawl.
“Eh?”
“Never mind, my boy. It—it is very sad. You cannot keep after him, then?”
“No. I’m convinced that if I try it he will leave the shops, in spite of the increase in wages. He’s that sort. Proud, stiffnecked, stupid and righteous. I’m afraid his soul’s gone to damnation, Grundy.” He grinned, wryly. “You should see him around the tills! With the devil’s own look of gloating.”
Father Billingsley cleared his throat timidly. “One mustn’t desist in the saving of souls,” he muttered, looking at Stuart. But Stuart looked only at the older priest, and said with brutal sarcasm: “I think, Grundy, the saving of souls should be left to those competent to do it.”
Father Billingsley flushed. He dropped his eyes; his mouth drooped. Father Houlihan said, pleadingly: “I wish you could do more for the lad, Stuart. I know I’m not competent enough to tell you how to do it. You know all the circumstances better than I. I can only pray. And some day, I feel, my prayer will be answered. In the meantime, do what you can, if it is only a little.”
Stuart stood up. He said, with brutal insinuation: “I’m no busybody. Let a man save or lose his soul in his own good time, and by his own choice, and be damned to him. That’s his own affair. Any man who tries to interfere is a—in skirts. In skirts,” he repeated, with heavy emphasis.
Father Houlihan saw, with compassion, that his junior’s pale young lip was actually quivering, that he was trembling. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Ah, well,” he sighed. “We shall see what prayer can do. In spite of what you say, Stuart, I know you won’t neglect the lad.
“And now, Stuart, that other matter. Have you found out anything about this organization which calls itself the ‘Know-Nothings’?”
The Wide House Page 26
