“Fuzzy thing!” said Mr. Chidden, in a tone of deep contempt. Then he turned around with a hasty glance at the kitchen window. No one was in sight.
“Disgustin’ animal!” said Mr. Chidden, and gave a vicious poke with the broom handle. The cat leaped aside with a snarl, and disappeared up the side of the fence. Mr. Chidden allowed himself a momentary grin of appreciation, then sighed and resumed the melancholy stare at the toes of his boots. Five minutes passed.
“Robert!” came a sudden voice, harsh and authoritative, from the kitchen door.
Mr. Chidden rose to his feet and faced about. In the doorway appeared the form of a woman, angular, red-faced, something above fifty. She had the appearance of that class of females who manage somehow to exist in a perpetual state of agitation; and at this moment her emotion was apparent in every feature of her forbidding countenance.
“Well?” said Mr. Chidden.
The lady snorted. “Didn’t you hear the bell ring?”
“I did not.”
“Well, it did. Answer it. I’m too busy.”
Mr. Chidden proceeded through the kitchen and lower hall, up a flight of stairs, and down another hall to the front door. There he found a boy from the tailor shop at the corner, who announced, in a squeaky voice, that he had come for Mr. Stubbs’ suit. Mr. Chidden mounted two flights of stairs to the third-floor front and returned with a heap of gray material hanging over his arm.
“Be ready in half an hour,” said the boy, taking the suit. “Tell Mr. Stubbs he’ll have to send for it. I got to go to school.”
Mr. Chidden nodded and closed the door. As he did so, a voice floated up from the kitchen:
“Robert!”
Mr. Chidden halted abruptly, while the settled melancholy of his face deepened to an expression of despair.
“It’s too much!” he muttered aloud. “I’ll revolt, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll revolt!” Then he sighed, thrust his hands deep in his trousers pockets, and descended to the kitchen.
“Have you removed that coal?” demanded the red-faced woman, as he entered.
“What coal?” inquired Mr. Chidden.
“Lord save us!” granted the lady. “The coal! Are you without brains, Robert Chidden? If ever woman were hangin’ on the neck of a worthless brother, you’re it. Go and move that coal!”
“You ain’t hangin’ on my neck,” protested Mr. Chidden, with some energy. “You ain’t hangin’ on my neck, Maria Chidden.”
“I’m not, perhaps, in a way,” agreed Miss Chidden. “As a figure of speech, which you don’t understand, I am, and have been for twenty years. But I’ve got no time for argument. Go and move that coal!”
For a single moment Mr. Chidden’s brain entertained a giddy and audacious thought. The words, “I won’t move coal,” were formed in his throat. But, alas! they stuck there. He turned without a word, took the key to the cellar door from a nail on the wall, and made his way to the regions below. There, at the end toward the street, he found a large pile of coal which had been dumped in through the sidewalk, and which it was his painful duty to move with a shovel and basket to the vicinity of the furnace, some forty feet away. Mr. Chidden set about the unpleasant task with a dogged and gloomy air. It was easy to see that his heart was not in the work.
Little wonder, for even his sister Maria would have admitted, if absolutely pushed, that Mr. Chidden was not born to move coal. Indeed, at one time in their lives — when, on the death of their father, they had found themselves in undisputed possession of an inheritance of six thousand dollars — she had regarded him as an equal. But when he had taken his half and gone up to New Rochelle to open a haberdasher shop, she had allowed herself certain dark observations concerning the state of his intellect; and when the haberdasher shop had failed and left its enterprising founder penniless, the observations had become painful convictions, declared with painful directness.
Twenty long years had passed since Mr. Chidden, finding his inheritance gone and with it all his youthful ardor, had come to live with his sister in the rooming house she had established with a portion of her share of the patrimony. At first he had intended to make it merely a temporary visit, to recuperate his powers; but time had drifted on. At the end of a year he had become a fixed institution, and had remained so ever since. Several times he had made a desperate and spasmodic attempt to break away by getting a job of one sort or another, but the difficulties and disappointments encountered in each instance had filled him with the settled conviction that fate had marked him for the victim of a cruel and remorseless tyranny. He gave up altogether, and became a furnace tender and handyman around the house.
Now and then, during the twenty years of horror, Mr. Chidden had lashed his sinking spirit to the point of rebellion. Once he had openly and fearlessly run away, only to be driven back by stern necessity in less than a fortnight. On another occasion he had conceived a bold and brilliant plan; and, after cogitating on it for two weeks and — more specifically — having fortified himself with a glass of blackberry cordial surreptitiously procured from a bottle in the sideboard, he had advanced a certain proposition to his sister Maria.
“My money!” Miss Chidden had exclaimed, after gazing at her brother for two minutes in dazed stupefaction at his unspeakable temerity. “Give you my money to throw away, Robert Chidden! I’m not crazy, thank you.”
“But it’s a chance,” Mr. Chidden had argued desperately. “I tell you it’s a real chance, Maria. Fine little shop — Seventh Avenue — has to sell — forty percent — can’t lose. It wouldn’t cost more than a thousand — fifteen hundred at the outside. You wouldn’t miss it. You must have ten thousand by this time. Where is it? Railroads, I suppose. Six percent. Is it railroads?”
“No, it ain’t. And if you think—”
“It don’t matter,” said Mr. Chidden, actually interrupting her in the excitement of his feelings. “I’m your own brother, Maria. I’d pay you back in a year. Eight percent. Wouldn’t you take eight percent from your own brother? You wouldn’t miss it out of ten thousand.”
“You’re right,” said Miss Chidden grimly. “I won’t miss it, Robert. I won’t miss it at all. It may be ten thousand, and it may be more, and it may be less, but whatever it is, I’ll keep it. It ain’t in railroads, and it pays some better than six per cent. When I invest money, I don’t put it where them Wall Street robbers can peck at it. Neither do I give it to a lummox like you to throw away. Now you go out and clean off the sidewalk.”
“But, Maria—” Mr. Chidden began, almost tearfully.
“Robert! There’s the broom.”
That had been the last eruption of the spirit of revolt in Mr. Chidden’s bosom. The fire still smoldered, but it gave off nothing but smoke — mutterings and moody thoughts. The chief pity of this proceeded from the fact that he was constitutionally a cheerful man. For two weeks following the unpleasant episode related above, he had endeavored to drown his discontent by frequent sippings of the blackberry cordial; then his sister, actuated by a mean suspicion, had put a lock on the sideboard door, and he had been denied even that medicinal solace.
The amazing part of it was that Mr. Chidden was able to preserve the faintest trace of individuality under such trying conditions. But his was a spirit not easily conquered, even by twenty years passed under a galling yoke. We have seen him descend meekly to the cellar, resigned to the dirty task of moving coal. But it must not be supposed that he did so with any sense of appropriateness or true humility. He lacked the coal-moving instinct. As he inserted the blade of the shovel, with a vicious push, into the pile of hard black lumps, his imagination was no less active than his arms.