The Duplicity of Hargraves Page #4

"The Duplicity of Hargraves" is a short story by O. Henry that explores themes of deception, social class, and the cleverness of human nature. The narrative follows the character of Hargraves, a seemingly unassuming and impoverished man who engages in a series of clever schemes to outwit those around him. Set against a backdrop of urban life, the story highlights O. Henry's trademark wit and irony, culminating in a twist that reveals the true nature of both Hargraves and the society that judges him. Through humor and keen observation, the tale delves into the complexities of identity and the sometimes duplicitous nature of appearances.

• Short story

								

you took the name of—don’t prompt me—Mitchell, and went to the West—to
Nebraska.”

“Yassir, yassir,”—the old man’s face stretched with a delighted
grin—“dat’s him, dat’s it. Newbraska. Dat’s me—Mose Mitchell. Old Uncle
Mose Mitchell, dey calls me now. Old mars’, your pa, gimme a pah of dem
mule colts when I lef’ fur to staht me goin’ with. You ’member dem
colts, Mars’ Pendleton?”

“I don’t seem to recall the colts,” said the major. “You know I was
married the first year of the war and living at the old Follinsbee
place. But sit down, sit down, Uncle Mose. I’m glad to see you. I hope
you have prospered.”

Uncle Mose took a chair and laid his hat carefully on the floor beside
it.

“Yassir; of late I done mouty famous. When I first got to Newbraska,
dey folks come all roun’ me to see dem mule colts. Dey ain’t see no
mules like dem in Newbraska. I sold dem mules for three hundred
dollars. Yassir—three hundred.

“Den I open a blacksmith shop, suh, and made some money and bought some
lan’. Me and my old ’oman done raised up seb’m chillun, and all doin’
well ’cept two of ’em what died. Fo’ year ago a railroad come along and
staht a town slam ag’inst my lan’, and, suh, Mars’ Pendleton, Uncle
Mose am worth leb’m thousand dollars in money, property, and lan’.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said the major heartily. “Glad to hear it.”

“And dat little baby of yo’n, Mars’ Pendleton—one what you name Miss
Lyddy—I be bound dat little tad done growed up tell nobody wouldn’t
know her.”

The major stepped to the door and called: “Lydia, dear, will you come?”

Miss Lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in from
her room.

“Dar, now! What’d I tell you? I knowed dat baby done be plum growed up.
You don’t ’member Uncle Mose, child?”

“This is Aunt Cindy’s Mose, Lydia,” explained the major. “He left
Sunnymead for the West when you were two years old.”

“Well,” said Miss Lydia, “I can hardly be expected to remember you,
Uncle Mose, at that age. And, as you say, I’m ‘plum growed up,’ and was
a blessed long time ago. But I’m glad to see you, even if I can’t
remember you.”

And she was. And so was the major. Something alive and tangible had
come to link them with the happy past. The three sat and talked over
the olden times, the major and Uncle Mose correcting or prompting each
other as they reviewed the plantation scenes and days.

The major inquired what the old man was doing so far from his home.

“Uncle Mose am a delicate,” he explained, “to de grand Baptis’
convention in dis city. I never preached none, but bein’ a residin’
elder in de church, and able fur to pay my own expenses, dey sent me
along.”

“And how did you know we were in Washington?” inquired Miss Lydia.

“Dey’s a cullud man works in de hotel whar I stops, what comes from
Mobile. He told me he seen Mars’ Pendleton comin’ outen dish here house
one mawnin’.

“What I come fur,” continued Uncle Mose, reaching into his
pocket—“besides de sight of home folks—was to pay Mars’ Pendleton what
I owes him.”

“Owe me?” said the major, in surprise.

“Yassir—three hundred dollars.” He handed the major a roll of bills.
“When I lef’ old mars’ says: ‘Take dem mule colts, Mose, and, if it be
so you gits able, pay fur ’em’. Yassir—dem was his words. De war had
done lef’ old mars’ po’ hisself. Old mars’ bein’ ’long ago dead, de
debt descends to Mars’ Pendleton. Three hundred dollars. Uncle Mose is
plenty able to pay now. When dat railroad buy my lan’ I laid off to pay
fur dem mules. Count de money, Mars’ Pendleton. Dat’s what I sold dem
mules fur. Yassir.”

Tears were in Major Talbot’s eyes. He took Uncle Mose’s hand and laid
his other upon his shoulder.

“Dear, faithful, old servitor,” he said in an unsteady voice, “I don’t
mind saying to you that ‘Mars’ Pendleton’ spent his last dollar in the
world a week ago. We will accept this money, Uncle Mose, since, in a
way, it is a sort of payment, as well as a token of the loyalty and
devotion of the old regime. Lydia, my dear, take the money. You are
better fitted than I to manage its expenditure.”

“Take it, honey,” said Uncle Mose. “Hit belongs to you. Hit’s Talbot
money.”

After Uncle Mose had gone, Miss Lydia had a good cry—for joy; and the
major turned his face to a corner, and smoked his clay pipe
volcanically.

The succeeding days saw the Talbots restored to peace and ease. Miss
Lydia’s face lost its worried look. The major appeared in a new frock
coat, in which he looked like a wax figure personifying the memory of
his golden age. Another publisher who read the manuscript of the
“Anecdotes and Reminiscences” thought that, with a little retouching
and toning down of the high lights, he could make a really bright and
salable volume of it. Altogether, the situation was comfortable, and
not without the touch of hope that is often sweeter than arrived
blessings.

One day, about a week after their piece of good luck, a maid brought a
letter for Miss Lydia to her room. The postmark showed that it was from
New York. Not knowing any one there, Miss Lydia, in a mild flutter of
wonder, sat down by her table and opened the letter with her scissors.
This was what she read:

Dear Miss Talbot:

    I thought you might be glad to learn of my good fortune. I have
    received and accepted an offer of two hundred dollars per week by a
    New York stock company to play Colonel Calhoun in “A Magnolia
    Flower.”
    There is something else I wanted you to know. I guess you’d better
    not tell Major Talbot. I was anxious to make him some amends for
    the great help he was to me in studying the part, and for the bad
    humour he was in about it. He refused to let me, so I did it
    anyhow. I could easily spare the three hundred.

Sincerely yours,
    H. Hopkins Hargraves,

P.S. How did I play Uncle Mose?

Major Talbot, passing through the hall, saw Miss Lydia’s door open and
stopped.

“Any mail for us this morning, Lydia, dear?” he asked.

Miss Lydia slid the letter beneath a fold of her dress.

“The Mobile Chronicle came,” she said promptly. “It’s on the table in
your study.”
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