Oh, Money! Money! a Novel
Copyright© 2024 by Eleanor H. Porter
Chapter 19: STILL OTHER FLIES
It was when his duties of secretaryship to Miss Flora had dwindled to almost infinitesimal proportions that Mr. Smith wished suddenly that he were serving Miss Maggie in that capacity, so concerned was he over a letter that had come to Miss Maggie in that morning’s mail.
He himself had taken it from the letter-carrier’s hand and had placed it on Miss Maggie’s little desk. Casually, as he did so, he had noticed that it bore a name he recognized as that of a Boston law firm; but he had given it no further thought until later, when, as he sat at his work in the living-room, he had heard Miss Maggie give a low cry and had looked up to find her staring at the letter in her hand, her face going from red to white and back to red again.
“Why, Miss Maggie, what is it?” he cried, springing to his feet.
As she turned toward him he saw that her eyes were full of tears.
“Why, it—it’s a letter telling me—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes on his face.
“Yes, yes, tell me,” he begged. “Why, you are—crying, dear!” Mr. Smith, plainly quite unaware of the caressing word he had used, came nearer, his face aglow with sympathy, his eyes very tender.
The red surged once more over Miss Maggie’s face. She drew back a little, though manifestly with embarrassment, not displeasure.
“It’s—nothing, really it’s nothing,” she stammered. “It’s just a letter that—that surprised me.”
“But it made you cry!”
“Oh, well, I—I cry easily sometimes.” With hands that shook visibly, she folded the letter and tucked it into its envelope. Then with a carelessness that was a little too elaborate, she tossed it into her open desk. Very plainly, whatever she had meant to do in the first place, she did not now intend to disclose to Mr. Smith the contents of that letter.
“Miss Maggie, please tell me—was it bad news?”
“Bad? Why, of course not!” She laughed gayly.
Mr. Smith thought he detected a break very like a sob in the laugh.
“But maybe I could—help you,” he pleaded.
She shook her head.
“You couldn’t—indeed, you couldn’t!”
“Miss Maggie, was it—money matters?”
He had his answer in the telltale color that flamed instantly into her face—but her lips said:—
“It was—nothing—I mean, it was nothing that need concern you.” She hurried away then to the kitchen, and Mr. Smith was left alone to fume up and down the room and frown savagely at the offending envelope tip-tilted against the ink bottle in Miss Maggie’s desk, just as Miss Maggie’s carefully careless hand had thrown it.
Miss Maggie had several more letters from the Boston law firm, and Mr. Smith knew it—though he never heard Miss Maggie cry out at any of the other ones. That they affected her deeply, however, he was certain. Her very evident efforts to lead him to think that they were of no consequence would convince him of their real importance to her if nothing else had done so. He watched her, therefore, covertly, fearfully, longing to help her, but not daring to offer his services.
That the affair had something to do with money matters he was sure. That she would not deny this naturally strengthened him in this belief. He came in time, therefore, to formulate his own opinion: she had lost money—perhaps a good deal (for her), and she was too proud to let him or any one else know it.
He watched then all the more carefully to see if he could detect any new economies or new deprivations in her daily living. Then, because he could not discover any such, he worried all the more: if she had lost that money, she ought to economize, certainly. Could she be so foolish as to carry her desire for secrecy to so absurd a length as to live just exactly as before when she really could not afford it?
It was at about this time that Mr. Smith requested to have hot water brought to his room morning and night, for which service he insisted, in spite of Miss Maggie’s remonstrances, on paying three dollars a week extra.
There came a strange man to call one day. He was a member of the Boston law firm. Mr. Smith found out that much, but no more. Miss Maggie was almost hysterical after his visit. She talked very fast and laughed a good deal at supper that night; yet her eyes were full of tears nearly all the time, as Mr. Smith did not fail to perceive.
“And I suppose she thinks she’s hiding it from me—that her heart is breaking!” muttered Mr. Smith savagely to himself, as he watched Miss Maggie’s nervous efforts to avoid meeting his eyes. “I vow I’ll have it out of her. I’ll have it out—to-morrow!”
Mr. Smith did not “have it out” with Miss Maggie the following day, however. Something entirely outside of himself sent his thoughts into a new channel.
He was alone in the Duff living-room, and was idling over his work, at his table in the corner, when Mrs. Hattie Blaisdell opened the door and hurried in, wringing her hands. Her face was red and swollen from tears.
“Where’s Maggie? I want Maggie! Isn’t Maggie here?” she implored.
Mr. Smith sprang to his feet and hastened toward her.
“Why, Mrs. Blaisdell, what is it? No, she isn’t here. I’m so sorry! Can’t I do—anything?”
“Oh, I don’t know—I don’t know,” moaned the woman, flinging herself into a chair. “There can’t anybody do anything, I s’pose; but I’ve got to have somebody. I can’t stay there in that house—I can’t—I can’t—I can’t!”
“No, no, of course not. And you shan’t,” soothed the man. “And she’ll be here soon, I’m sure—Miss Maggie will. But just let me help you off with your things,” he urged, somewhat awkwardly trying to unfasten her heavy wraps. “You’ll be so warm here.”
“Yes, I know, I know.” Impatiently she jerked off the rich fur coat and tossed it into his arms; then she dropped into the chair again and fell to wringing her hands. “Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?”
“But what is it?” stammered Mr. Smith helplessly. “Can’t I do—something? Can’t I send for—for your husband?”
At the mention of her husband, Mrs. Blaisdell fell to weeping afresh.
“No, no! He’s gone—to Fred, you know.”
“To—Fred?”
“Yes, yes, that’s what’s the matter. Oh, Fred, Fred, my boy!”
“Fred! Oh, Mrs. Blaisdell, I’m so sorry! But what—is it?”
The woman dropped her hands from her face and looked up wildly, half defiantly.
“Mr. Smith, you know Fred. You liked him, didn’t you? He isn’t bad and wicked, is he? And they can’t shut him up if—if we pay it back—all of it that he took? They won’t take my boy—to prison?”
“To prison—Fred!”
At the look of horror on Mr. Smith’s face, she began to wring her hands again.
“You don’t know, of course. I’ll have to tell you—I’ll have to,” she moaned.
“But, my dear woman, —not unless you want to.”
“I do want to—I do want to! I’ve got to talk—to somebody. It’s this way.” With a visible effort she calmed herself a little and forced herself to talk more coherently. “We got a letter from Fred. It came this morning. He wanted, some money—quick. He wanted seven hundred dollars and forty-two cents. He said he’d got to have it—if he didn’t, he’d go and kill himself. He said he’d spent all of his allowance, every cent, and that’s what made him take it—this other money, in the first place.”
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