CHAPTER IX.
MR. CHECKYNSHAW AND FAMILY.
We left Mr. Checkynshaw entering the house of Mrs. Wittleworth, in Atkinson Street; and, as he was a gentleman of eminent dignity and gravity, we feel compelled to beg his pardon for leaving him so long out in the cold of a winter night. Having made the barber as comfortable as the circumstances would permit, we are entirely willing to let the banker in, though the abode at which he sought admission was hardly worthy of the distinguished honor thus conferred upon it.
Mrs. Wittleworth cautiously opened the door, for those who have the least to steal are often the most afraid of robbers; but, recognizing the lofty personage at the door, she invited him to enter, much wondering what had driven him from his comfortable abode in Pemberton Square to seek out her obscure residence at that hour in the evening. Mr. Checkynshaw was conducted to an apartment which served as kitchen, parlor, and bed-room for the poor woman, her son having a chamber up stairs. A seat was handed to the great man, and he sat down by the cooking-stove, after bestowing a glance of apparent disgust at the room and its furnishings.
The banker rubbed his hands, and looked as though he meant business; and Mrs. Wittleworth actually trembled with fear lest some new calamity was about to be heaped upon the pile of misfortunes that already weighed her down. Mr. Checkynshaw had never before darkened her doors. Though she had once been a welcome guest within his drawing-rooms, she had long since been discarded, and cast out, and forgotten. When the poor woman, worse than a widow, pleaded before him for the means of living, he had given her son a place in his office, at a salary of five dollars a week. If she had gone to him again, doubtless he would have done more for her; but, as long as she could keep soul and body together by her ill-paid drudgery, she could not endure the humiliation of displaying her poverty to him.
Mrs. Wittleworth had once lived in affluence. She had been brought up in ease and luxury, and her present lot was all the harder for the contrast. Her father, James Osborne, was an enterprising merchant, who had accumulated a fortune of a hundred thousand dollars, on which he had the good sense to retire from active business. Of his four children, the two sons died, leaving the two daughters to inherit his wealth.
John Wittleworth, the father of Fitz, was a clerk in the counting-room of Mr. Osborne, and finally became the partner of his employer, whose confidence he obtained to such a degree that the merchant was willing to trust him with all he had. He married Ellen Osborne; and when her father retired from business, his son-in-law carried it on alone. At this time, doubtless, John Wittleworth was worthy of all the confidence reposed in him, for the terrible habit, which eventually beggared him, had not developed itself to an extent which seemed perilous even to the eye of affection.
A few years after the marriage of Ellen, Mr. Checkynshaw, then aspiring to no higher title than that of a simple broker, presented himself as the suitor of Mary, the younger daughter of the retired merchant. Mr. Osborne did not like him very well; but Mary did, and their affair was permitted to take its course. Only a few months after this alliance of the Checkynshaw and the Osborne, the merchant was taken sick. When it was evident that his days were drawing to a close, he made his will.
His property consisted of about one hundred thousand dollars. One half of it was invested in a block of stores, which paid a heavy rental, and the other half was in money, stocks, and debts. In settling the affairs of the firm he had taken John Wittleworth's notes for thirty thousand dollars, secured by a mortgage on the stock. In making his will, Mr. Osborne gave to Ellen or—what was the same thing in those days, when a woman did not own her own property—to her husband, all the money, stocks, and debts due from Wittleworth. He did this because his late partner wanted more capital to increase his business.