Her Weight in Gold and others Part 34

THE TEN DOLLAR BILL

A CHRISTMAS STORY

Mr. and Mrs. Digby Trotter had been married just five years. Five years before Digby had gone to his father to tell him that he intended to marry Kate Anderson. The old gentleman grew very red in the face and observed, more forcibly than considerately:

"You must be a dod-gasted idiot! You get married? And to that brainless little fool whose father exhorts or extorts religion for $600 a year at that miserable little church over there on Queen Street--is that the girl you mean?" And then Trotter, pere, ceased speaking to look searchingly into his son's face; an embarra.s.sed smile brightened his grim old countenance and he went on, good humour growing stronger in each succeeding word: "You rascal! Why did you tell me that? Do you know, for a moment, I actually thought you were in earnest, and--well, demme! it did work me up a little. I ought to have known better, too--but, then, you did say it as if you meant it. Excuse me, boy; I guess I'm the fool, myself."

"That remains to be seen, sir," was the most polite thing that his son could say under the circ.u.mstances, taking his hands out of his pockets and putting them back again at once. "You see, it's this way, Father, you laughed too soon. It's not so devilish much of a joke as you think.

I meant it."

Mr. Trotter's smile faded away as does the suns.h.i.+ne that hides itself in the dusk of eventide. Father and son grew warm in the discussion of this most amazing determination on the part of the latter and it all came to a sharp end when both lost temper. When Digby jammed his hat down over his eyes, b.u.t.toned close his overcoat and dashed out of the bank into the street, he might have been heard to say, as a parting shot:

"I'll marry her now if I starve for two thousand years!"

And marry her he did.

Trotter, senior, did not attend the wedding, did not send the young couple a present, nor a greeting; in fact, he did nothing but ignore them completely. He had told Digby that he would never forgive him and had gone so far as to call on poor little Dr. Anderson, the unfortunate possessor of a pretty daughter and a $600 charge, expressing himself as earnestly averse to the union of their children. When he had concluded his interview with the minister the latter was extremely pale and nervous, but he was master of the situation. He stood, holding open the door to his plain, pitiful old study and Mr. Trotter, very much injured and crestfallen, was pa.s.sing out with these words stinging his ears:

"I am sorry, sir--just as sorry as you. I like Digby; he is a good, open-hearted boy, but I had hoped to see Kate better wedded!" Then he closed the door and seated himself in the old cus.h.i.+oned chair, staring at the grate until the glare seemed to hurt his eyes. At least, they grew very hot and dry, then streaming wet.

And so they were married five years ago. Since then their struggle had been a hard one; both ends would not meet, no matter how firmly Digby persevered in his efforts to bring about such a union. He would not, could not ask his father for a.s.sistance, nor would that patient, faithful little wife have permitted him to harbour such a design had he weakened in his avowed intention to "get along without a dollar from dad." Notwithstanding their feeble warfare against privation, in which defeat hovered constantly over fields where victory seemed a.s.sured, theirs had been a happy sort of misery. Digby loved Kate and Kate wors.h.i.+pped him; his pity for her was overwhelmed by the earnestness with which she pitied him. No struggle of his failed but that she shouldered and bore the failure with him, cheering him when he felt like lagging, smiling when he despaired the deepest. Between them a speck of joy grew larger, brighter each day despite the gloom that surrounded it. Their child was their one possession of worth, 4-year-old Helen--sunny-faced Helen--Helen who suffered none of the pangs because of the sacrifices made by those whose darkness she illumined.

Trotter had married Kate with a heart overrunning with the glorious ambition of untried youth, the happy confidence of strength, fully convinced that nothing was necessary toward securing success save the establishment of a purpose. And that is quite, quite the fact.

They began with a dollar and they had seen but few, since the beginning, that they could call their own. Too late did Digby learn that he knew but little and that the world was full of young men whose beginning in life had been so much worse than his that necessity had made them equal to the struggle for which he had been so illy prepared by an indulgent parent. Digby found the banks in which he had hoped to secure positions thronged with clerks and accountants who had worked slowly, painfully from the bottom upward. Grey-haired men, whose lives had been spent in the one great battle for gold, told him of their years in the patient ranks; thoughtful-faced young men told him how they had been office boys, messenger boys, even janitor boys, in the climb up the Matterhorn of success. Here he was a man of 25, strong, bright and the possessor of an unusual intelligence, a college man, a rich man's son, but poorer than the smallest clerk that had ever bent his throbbing, ambitious head over the desk in his father's bank, and who had often envied the life of his employer's son. Now that son was beneath them all because he did not know how to work!

Work--toil--slave! The definition of success.

At first the failures originating from inexperience had been of small consequence to Digby. His old-time independence resisted the harsh criticisms of his first employers and he had, on more than one occasion, thrown away fair positions because the spirit could not endure the thumb of mastery. For months he rebelled against the requirements of servitude, but gradually it dawned upon him that though the rich man was his father he was no longer the rich man's son.

So, when the first year of their wedded life had rolled by, Digby Trotter, still neat, still independent, yet not so defiant--wore a haggard look which could no longer be disguised. The once fas.h.i.+onable garments were beginning to look shabby; his recently purchased clothing had come from the bargain counters in cheap "ready-made"

establishments; his once constantly used evening dress suit hung in a closet, lonely and forlorn, minus the trousers. He was keeping the books in a street car office and his salary was $40 a month.

When, at the close of their first happy, miserable year, her father died and their baby was born, many changes came. They were forced to take the house for themselves and had to be accountable for the rent.

Dr. Anderson had given them the right to call his home their own so long as he should live and it was the earnings of two men that kept the little establishment crowded with happiness, if not comforts, during his lifetime. One day a blow came to them. The landlord ejected them.

Kate wept as she pa.s.sed out through the little front gate, leaving behind the dear old home with its rose bushes, its lilacs, its gravelled walks, perhaps forever. Digby b.u.t.toned his coat tightly about his thinning figure and scowled as he followed her through the gate. He scowled at that invisible fate which preceded them both. Now, at the end of five years, they were living in a tenement house, a crowded, filthy place, ruled by a miserly, relentless landlord, whose gold was his G.o.d.

The young husband had been employed by many men and in many occupations during these five years. Fate pursued him always, despite his dogged determination, his earnest efforts to surmount the obstacles which crowded his path to happiness and peace. If a reduction was necessary in a working force he was one of the first to go: if any one was to be superseded by a new and favoured applicant he was the one. On many occasions he had taken up his coat and hat, stepping to the pavement with the crushed heart of a despairing man, tears in his wistful eyes, his tired brain filling, almost bursting with the thoughts of the little woman whose brave eyes would grow large and bright when he told her of the end, and who would kiss him and bid him not to despair. He could almost hear her suppressed sob as he thought of her, her head upon his shoulder, her soft voice blaming herself for having dragged him down to this.

In this warfare of poverty they had seen many hungry days, many hards.h.i.+ps, but neither had relinquished faith in Digby's ability to baffle adversity and stem the tide. Like tennis b.a.l.l.s, they had been batted from one end of the year to the other, and now, at this time, Digby Trotter and wife had become members of New York's "floating population." Seldom did they live in one place more than three months, sometimes less than one. Frequently they moved because their surroundings were so distasteful to Kate, whose natural sense of refinement was averse, not to poverty and squalor, but to the vice with which it often is a.s.sociated in districts where an ignorant and vicious element flocks as if drawn by the magnetism of sin.

A man of strong will was Digby, and a woman of wonderful strength of purpose was his wife, or he would have lost heart, and lost her in the end. Only once had he come home to her intoxicated, driven to it through despair and by what he thought to be approaching illness. On awakening from the drunken sleep shame made him fear to meet the eyes of her who suffered with him. But she had gently said:

"Don't be ashamed, Digby; poor, dear boy! You couldn't help it, I know.

But, dear, do try to be strong, stronger than ever, for baby's sake if not for your own and mine. We shall all be happy yet, I'm sure we shall, if you--if you will but resist that one misfortune."

He never drank another drop of liquor.

Then, at last, the brave little woman took in plain sewing, greatly to Digby's anguish and mortification. Never had he felt so little like a man as when she showed so plainly that it was necessary for her to a.s.sist in the maintenance of the little household over which he presided. The few dollars that she could earn kept them supplied with food--at least part of the time. His odd jobs helped; the dollar that he earned once in a while was made to go a long way. Not once did she complain, not once did she cry out against the son who had taken his father's curse for her sake. There are but few women who would be so considerate.

When he came home at nights, climbing the wearisome steps that led to their miserable home near the roof of the vast building he knew that she would smile and kiss him, that the baby would laugh and climb gaily upon his knee, and he knew that he would not have to tell her that he had failed to find the coveted employment. His face would be the indicator, and, beneath her first smile of welcome, he could always distinguish the searching glance of anxiety; under her warm kiss he could feel the words:

"Poor boy! I am sorry; you have tried so hard!"

Their home was poor, poorer than Digby had thought any man's home could be, but there was no sign of the filth that characterised the condition of other homes in the house. Mrs. Trotter kept it clean, kept it neat, and kept it as bright as possible. While they were as poor, if not poorer than the other inhabitants of this roofed world, they were looked upon as and called "the aristocrats." No poverty could remove nor deface the indelible stamp of superiority which good blood and culture had given them as birthrights. Their apparel was cleaner than anything of its kind in the building, fairly immaculate when compared with the wretched garb of the beings who were looked upon as human but who were--well, they were unfortunate to have that distinction; something less would have been more fitting.

When occasion presented, Digby would bring home flowers, plucked from the gardens that he pa.s.sed. Kate would bedeck the room with the blossoms, her eyes glistening as she thought of the lovely spot she had known five long years ago. Once in awhile the more beautiful of his tributes would adorn her coal black hair, lending wealth to what seemed so much like waste.

They had curtains for their windows, too--muslin, of course--and, although the windows were almost paneless, they presented quite a home-like appearance, especially from the street, eight floors below.

Heavy wads of cloth served as gla.s.s in most of the vacant places, but they did not serve well as light filterers. Besides all these valuables they owned a bedstead, a stove, some chairs, a table, a sewing machine and a mirror. Not another family in the house owned a mirror.

But they were lovers ever--the same, sweet comrades in love. The baby was their Cupid at whose shrine they wors.h.i.+pped. She ruled their affections and there was no kingdom wider than her domain. Digby, covered with shame, despair and bitterness against the world, turned himself loose into the pasture of joy when she cooed her authority; romped like a boy whose heart had never felt as heavy as a chunk of lead; talked to her, sang to her with a voice that had never felt the quiver of dismay. Upon these sad pleasantries Mrs. Trotter smiled her wors.h.i.+p. Better than all, Digby had never been compelled to walk with her for two or three hours in the middle of the night. It is said that she was the only child on earth that never had the colic.

On the 23d of December in the year of our story, Digby had gone, bright and early, to the big queensware store of Balling and Peet, word having reached him that they needed extra help during the holidays. When he neared his old haunts, the prominent downtown streets, instead of going boldly along the sidewalks as of yore, he slunk through alleys and across corners avoiding all possible chance of meeting the acquaintances of bygone days, the men about town, the women he had known, none of whom would know him now. It was not that he feared their recognition, but that they would refuse to look at him at all.

The morning was bright and crisp, cold and prophetic of still greater chill. Men in great overcoats pa.s.sed him, m.u.f.fled to the chin, their whiskers frosty with the whitened air of life that came from tingling noses; ruddy cheeks abounded on this typical winter day. Mr. Trotter possessed no overcoat, but presumably following the fas.h.i.+on set out by other wintry pedestrians, his thin sack coat was b.u.t.toned tightly and the collar turned up defiantly. His well-brushed though seedy Derby looked chilly as it topped off his s.h.i.+vering features. His face was blue, not ruddy. Here and there he pa.s.sed companions in poverty, but their rags were worse than his, their faces more haggard. Never did he feel more like the gentleman than when he saw what he could be if he were not one.

Something jaunty beneath his brow-beaten spirits told him that he was to have work, that his mission would be productive of the result so long desired. In three months he had earned but ten days' wages and he had found it rather difficult, not to say annoying to be a gentleman with nothing on which to keep up outward appearances.

With an exultant feeling he approached the big store, but as he entered it the old trepidation returned, the old anxiety, the old shudder at the thought of failure. Being directed to the manager of the busy establishment, he accosted him in the office, something like meekness underlying the apparent straightforwardness to which his manly exterior seemed so well acquainted.

The manager was different from others of his ilk. He greeted the applicant kindly and told him to come back the next day at noon and he would be set to work in the express department. If he proved satisfactory he would be retained during the whole week, perhaps permanently. They were looking for good men there, he said. Digby's whole being seemed lighter than it had been for months when he left the place and hurried homeward.

Kate's heart thumped strangely when she heard him coming down the long hall with great rapid strides, so unlike the usual slow, deliberate tread. She opened the door to admit him and when he clasped her in his arms and rained kisses upon her face she knew that she was but receiving the proofs of her sudden guess. Their frugal meal was dispatched slowly, the diners allowing their tongues to display greater diligence than their teeth. They were all very happy.

The great rush of business was at its height when Digby strode between the counters of Balling and Peet's store the next day noon, on his way to the office. Hundreds of people thronged the place, and he could not help thinking of the days when he, a lad, had accompanied his mother to this same great store where purchases were made that now seemed like dreams to him. The smallest priced article that stood on the counters was now beyond his power of possession. Mr. Sampson, the manager, was in the office when Digby entered.

"Ah, you are here, I see," he said, but his voice was not so friendly as it had been on the day before. "I am sorry, Mr.--Mr.--"

"Trotter," volunteered Digby, forgetting to add the servile "sir." His heart was cold with apprehension.

"We were forced by rush of business this morning to put extra men to work much earlier than I had expected. Not knowing your address I could not notify you, and we have filled the places with men who came in early. We did not expect the rush quite so early, you see. I am sorry, sir. Perhaps we can do something for you later on."

Digby's eyes were misty, but there was a gleam of proud resentment beneath the mist. His first thought was: "How can I go home and tell her of this?"

"Have you nothing else, sir, that I can do?" he asked, from the depths of his disappointment. He actually hated the man who had failed to remember him--unreasonably, he knew, but he hated him.

"Nothing, I believe, Mr.--Mr. Potter--no, there is nothing at all. Good day." The manager turned to his desk and Digby, smarting to the very centre of his heart, shot a glance of insulted pride toward him, while beneath his breath there welled the unhappy threat: "I'll some day make you remember me! I'll not always be at the bottom."

Defiantly he strode from the office, banging the door after him indignantly. The manager looked around in mild surprise and muttered:

"Poor devil! I suppose he hasn't had a drink all day."

When Digby reached the sidewalk the bright sunlight sent him tumbling back into the reality of his position. Hardly knowing what he did, he turned the corner, meeting the cutting wind from the west. The moisture that came into his tired eyes as he walked dejectedly along, however, was not caused by the wind. It came from the cells of shame, disconsolation and despair.