From the Improvement Era, January 1934 –

The Blood of Kings

By Florence H. Townsend

William Alexander Sprague, Jr. was acutely conscious that his office door was opening, therefore he frowned more intently than ever at the papers in front of him. It was out of his range of vision, but he knew, too, that Miss Callender’s golden head was in the opening and that Miss Callender’s blue eyes were regarding him questioningly. He went into a perfect agony of frowns and lip-biting and tracings with his finger so she would know that he didn’t know that she was there. It was a sort of game.

The door closed noiselessly behind her and she stood leaning against it, still regarding Mr. Sprague across the luxurious office space. She did not move for so long that he grew nervous and looked around in spite of himself. And there she stood laughing at him. They both laughed. He rose, holding out his arms.

“Etta, you rogue!”

“Bill, you fraud!”

But she went to his arms without the slightest reluctance. He lifted her presently to a seat on the desk.

“Well?” she inquired.

“It’s all right. We’ll just be married anyway.”

“So mama said no.”

“Mama said ‘no.’ To be exact she said it three times, ‘no, no, no,’ just like that.”

They thought it terribly funny.

“And another white man bit the dust, eh?”

“He did not. There’s just one person in this world who can make me bite dust and that’s you, precious. You won’t give me a dusty answer will you, Etta? You will marry me in spite of mother?”

Etta shook her smooth golden head. “What did she say about me, exactly? It’s so easy to condemn people we don’t know.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters a lot. I mean to get her viewpoint if I can. Maybe there are obstacles to remove. And how can I remove them if I don’t know what they are? What are her prejudices?”

“For one thing she said you were a mere stenographer. It was useless for me to tell her you couldn’t be mere if you tried. Then she says you are socially and historically a nobody. The Callenders, it seems, are not on Philadelphia’s social roster. She does not recognize the name as having any financial, political, professional, military or marine significance, whereas the Spragues, you know — .”

“Yes, I know.”

They sat staring a moment in silence.

“I’m just a nobody; that’s it, isn’t it? And Spragues cannot marry nobodies. I don’t suppose my own personal accomplishments would interest her? The fact, for instance, that I passed my bar examination last week with the highest average of any student in night school. No. That’s only me. I need some ancestors. That right, Bill?”

“In my opinion you don’t need anything but me. Drat ancestors! I don’t care whether I had any or not. All I want is my little golden girl.”

“But that’s not getting her viewpoint, Bill. All the ancestor-worship isn’t confined to the far east. There’s gobs of it right here in Philly; people who spend thousands of dollars having their ancestry traced. Who — .”

“I know it. Mother’s at it now. She has already had the paternal skeletons dragged out and she’s going to the capitol Wednesday to see a Miss McCarr or somebody about her mother’s people, the Kings. What difference it makes I can’t see. They’re all dead, but darn it, I’m alive and I want to live now,” he said fiercely. “But I don’t matter because I’m not dead — and I’m not an ancestor!”

Etta laughed a silvery little laugh and rumpled his hair.

“You are somebody’s bad little boy.”

He caught her hand and nibbled the pink fingers.

“You say your mother’s going to Washington Wednesday?”

“Yes.”

Etta was making notes on her pad. “And the genealogist is Miss McCarr?”

“Something like that.”

“Thanks, Billy boy. Now, any letters?”

She slid off the desk and sat down to take his dictation. The letters had accumulated. They worked for an hour. There were briefs to fill out and a dozen legal documents to go over. When they had finished Etta rose and faced him. She put her hands on his shoulders.

“Bill, I love you. I love you in spite of your ancestors. But this can’t go on. I can’t go into a family that would look down on me. Tell your mother that for me.” She slipped a modest diamond ring off her finger and laid it on his palm.

“Etta! You’re not — giving me up?

“Giving you up? No! I’m going to fight for you as nobody ever fought before. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do, but it’s going to be something. You need not mention this to your mother. My resignation will be on your father’s desk within an hour. I’m leaving, Sprague, Sprague and Sprague today.”

“But, Etta — .”

“Goodbye, Bill.”

* * * *

When Hallie Wethered let herself into the apartment she shared with Etta Callender she found the latter sitting in the middle of the floor, packing.

“Etta!”

“Hello, Hal. Do call and see about the next train to Washington, there’s a dear.”

“To Washington?”

‘The capital of your country, lovely, located in the District of Columbia, a lady of much renown, in the state of Maryland, pronounced M-e-r-r-y-1-a-n-d.”

“Now I know it’s serious. Etta Callender, tell me exactly what’s the matter!”

“Nothing. At least, nearly nothing. A haughty old ancestor merely toed me out of the triple-antennaed firm of Sprague, and I’m going down to Washington to tell Uncle Sam about it. I’ve licked enough of his postage stamps that he ought to be willing to lick something for me, especially anything as lifeless as an ancestor.”

Hallie, still hatted and cloaked, walked with determined tread the narrow space that separated them and lifted Etta’s chin with her hand.

“I knew it! You’ve been crying! Who’s been mean to you, darling? Tell Hallie.”

Her friend was on her knees beside her, stroking her hair.

“Oh, shut up! You know I never cry!” blowing her nose vigorously on a handkerchief she had fished from Hallie’s pocket. “I always take cold this kind of weather. Every time you see my nose running you think you’re on the trail of a sob story for your precious newspaper. You’re hipped on the subject. Now get in that call.”

A few days later Hallie received a hasty communication from her friend. It read, “Have the most thrilling job. It pays but a pittance in the coin of the realm, but in fun — ! I’m working for a genealogist, Miss McCarr. Write me in care of Miss Henrietta Call, 906 Street. More later.”

It had not been a miracle that had secured for Etta the job with Miss McCarr. It had been a mixture of sound sense, audacity, personality and pluck. Miss McCarr hadn’t really needed another assistant, but Etta had gone to Washington to get that job. She had given the name of Henrietta Call — her real name — so far as it went. She had become thoroughly established by Wednesday.

She was glad Mrs. Sprague did not know her at sight. It would simplify matters immensely should they come in contact with each other now. Back at the office it had smarted a little to have Mrs. Sprague sweep through the outer offices with never a glance at the poor ancestorless girls who pounded typewriter keys for a living. Now, well, it was something to thank Providence for.

Miss McCarr personally took the facts of Mrs. Sprague’s King ancestry as far as Mrs. Sprague knew it, which wasn’t far, only to her grandfather, who had a mercantile establishment in Madisonville, N.J. She wanted to know all about er people. She had a feeling, Mrs. Sprague did, that the noted Commodore King was her great grandfather. Or perhaps Elkanah King, the noted biographer of England, was her great grandfather, and Elizabeth King, who had married the Duke of Pomeroy, her great aunt. At any rate, she was pretty positive that she was directly descended from the nobility on her mother’s side. And with an air that dared Miss McCarr to find it otherwise, Mrs. Sprague departed.

It did not take Etta long to learn the technique of tracing. And never was ancestry traced so assiduously as was the same Mrs. Sprague’s maternal ancestry. The musty tomes that gave up their secrets! The legal documents that told all they knew! The city, county and state records that, relentlessly black and white, bore evidence of the deeds of men!

Miss McCarr went to New Jersey. She returned a little blue, more than slightly ashen. She sat down heavily in the office and faced her new stenographer. She wasted neither time nor words.

“Mrs. Sprague’s great grandfather was a beach comber. Her grandfather’s sister kept a grog shop at Bayville. From all accounts it wasn’t a pretty place. She was known as Sawdust Sue. The grandfather’s mercantile establishment was a fish market. He had a brother who was a cooper. Records show him sued in the county courts for fraud.” She paused. “And — I’ve got to tell her that!”

“I don’t envy you.”

Miss McCarr laughed. She could appreciate a joke on herself.

“I may put it off on you,” she threatened.

“If the news were good news that would work. As it is, I imagine she would consider it a breach of confidence if she knew you told me.

The older woman nodded. “I guess you’re right. Well, what have you been doing in my absence?”

“I’ve collected the data on the Perryton and Wainright families, complete, I believe. And — ” she paused, flushing. ‘And’ what?”

“I’ve been tracing my own family, Miss McCarr. I wonder if you’d mind looking over this when you have time, and verifying it for me?”

“I’ll do it right now.” She held out her hand.

There were a good many pages, for Etta had done no halfway job, and the tracing had gone back a very long way.

Miss McCarr looked up a time or two in evident surprise, but she did not speak until she had finished. Then it was with the pleased air of the true genealogist.

“To Henry III of England without a break! Marvelous! My dear, I congratulate you!” She held out her hand. “You’ve the blood of Kings in your veins!”

Etta laughed and shrugged. “So has Mrs. Sprague.”

“Beachcomber Kings ! Yes. Ah, Mrs. Sprague ! And she was going to be so pleased to have descended from the nobility. Poor thing!”

She got up, chuckling, and removed her coat and hat.

“I’m resigning, Miss McCarr.”

Miss McCarr was arrested in the act of fluffing her old-fashioned pompadour. Dismay spread over her tired, plump features.

“But — why — you’re just becoming valuable to me. My heavens, don’t tell me your ancestry has gone to your head!”

“No, to my feet. It’s sending me home. Listen.” They sat down side by side and Etta told her a story. It was a true story. When she had finished Miss McCarr was laughing gleefully. She slapped her thick thigh with a plump hand, she shook Etta in a frenzy of delight.

“And I was dreading telling Mrs. Sprague the evil news! My dear, it’s going to be a positive joy! I shall leave out nothing. Hee! genealogy has its compensations. Good luck, my child, good luck!”

The next evening when Hallie arrived home she found Etta calmly stirring a pan of fudge. She flew to embrace her, to ask a dozen questions.

“Hallie, I’ve a sob story for your feature section at last. Get your pencil.”

They sat down and Etta told all — about Bill and Bill’s mother, about the ancestors, about everything. About the beachcomber King and Sawdust Sue — and about her own ancestry that began with Henry III.

Hallie was squealing with delight when she finished.

“My dear, what a story! It will set the town on fire! The snooty Spragues humbled! And what sweet revenge for you. Etta, it’s immense!”

“Now,” Etta, said calmly, “tear the story up.”

“Etta!” It was a wail. “Why, it’s a scoop — for me, and revenge for you. What — ”

“I don’t want revenge. I only want Bill — on my own terms. Bill thinks he would be happy with me regardless. He probably wouldn’t. He would be thrown out of the firm — everything in his world would be lopsided. As I said, I want Bill more than I want anything on earth, but on my own terms, and those terms are his mother’s approval; my acceptance into the family. Not for myself, Hal, for Bill.”

“I see, dear.”

They were silent a moment, then Hallie spoke. “I’ve a plan, Etta. Let Mrs. Sprague know that you know about her King ancestry. That will bring her around. She would be afraid you might tell. Think of the power that would give you.”

“It is not power I want, Hallie. but approval.”

“Don’t be squeamish, darling. It’s exactly the way she would treat you under similar circumstances.”

“And,” Etta said quietly, “might not that be, after all, the greatest difference between having in one’s veins the blood of royalty and the blood of Kings?”

“I’m properly rebuked, but unless you can make her fear you — ”

“We always hate the thing we fear. No, I want her to love me, if possible.”

“It isn’t. She couldn’t love anybody.”

“Now I’ll reveal my plan. Today Mrs. Sprague received the evil news of her ancestry. If ever she is going to eat humble pie it is now. Listen, and write what I tell you.”

Hallie wrote.

The next day Etta went to see Bill. He looked haggard, but one look at his sweetheart transformed him.

“Bill, I’m playing my trump card Sunday. See to it that your mother reads the Sunday Post. If possible get it into her hands without seeming to do so. Understand?”

“Perfectly. And then—?”

“Don’t read it beforehand yourself. It might cramp your style. After you’re sure she’s read it be very glum. Take her aside. Tell her ancestors don’t count and all that old spiel. Is all clear?”

“As clear as that brick wall, but I’ll do anything you say, Etta.”

“Atta boy. Now bye.”

Sunday morning Bill woke with a sense of something pending. It was early, he was sleepy. He turned over, then it stabbed him. He fell out of bed, grabbed a dressing gown and dashed into the hall, down the bare polished treads, in his bare feet, to the lower floor. He ran smack into Hobbs in the pantry, preparing a breakfast tray.

“Is that mother’s tray?”

“It is, sir.

“What papers are those?”

“The Commercial and the Bulletin, sir.”

“I think she prefers the Post. Where is the Post, Hobbs?”

“She doesn’t care for the Post, sir.

“Oh, yes she does. She loves the Post, she adores the Post. There. Now listen, Hobbs. I’m sound asleep upstairs and have been all morning. You don’t know what became of the other papers. You don’t, do you? No. They probably weren’t delivered. And if this charming little episode is ever mentioned Hobbs, your body will be found floating down the Delaware in your winter underwear. Now get that tray sent up pronto.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill crept back upstairs, stuffed the newspapers under the mattress and warmed his toes at the radiator. What in the world had Etta done?

Mrs. Sprague looked her tray over and unfolded a paper. The Post. She tossed it aside. There was no Commercial, no Bulletin. She rang vigorously. Nellie answered. No, ma’am, she could find nothing but the Post. She was sorry ma’am.

She turned grumpily to the Post. Scanned it rather hastily. She’d never cared for the Post. And then —

FORMER STENOGRAPHER FOR SPRAGUE, SPRAGUE AND

SPRAGUE FINDS HERSELF OF ROYAL DESCENT

Mrs. Sprague held the paper a trifle closer and read again.

“Miss Henrietta Callender, Etta to her friends,” it said, “late of the famous law firm of Sprague, Sprague and Sprague, but more recently of Miss McCarr’s Genealogical Service, Washington, D. C, has discovered that she is a direct descendent of Henry III of England. Not only was her ancestry traced to royalty, but Miss Callender modestly admitted to the Posf reporter her kinship to Lord Rollater, present surgeon to His Majesty, King George of England; to Admiral Sir Herbert Eversole, of His Majesty’s service, as well as acknowledging as her cousin the Hon. Everette G. Knight, ex-Governor of Texas. Considering her regal bearing, her unusual beauty, her graciousness and sparkling wit, one is not surprised to learn that the blood of kings runs in her veins.”

There was more, but Mrs. Sprague had stopped to gaze at the portrait of the subject of the sketch. She did not eat her breakfast. She got up and dressed instead. She went downstairs with a scowl on her brow.

William Alexander Sprague, Jr. was in the library. He looked rather low. He got up as his mother entered and drew her a chair. He kissed her and pushed her into it, sitting on a hassock at her feet and fondling her hand.

“Mother, I’m so miserable. Can’t you forget this ancestor business and let me marry Etta? Can’t you?

She did not answer. “Mother, honest, you’ve over-estimated the value of ancestry; it’s the present generation that counts, mother. Don’t you see?”

Mrs. Sprague was considering. To have a daughter-in-law of royal descent was no mean distinction. It could be played upon. But — and this gave her pause — what did that girl know about the King ancestryi’ She had just come from Miss McCarr’s — she had seen her there. If she refused her her son what might she not do? Besides, the girl made a nice appearance. She patted Bill’s hand.

“Perhaps you’re right, son. I withdraw all objections.”

Bill gave a shout that rattled the windows, bounded to his feet, lifted his mother, chair and all, and kissed her heartily, set them down none too gently and dashed from the house. He broke all the traffic regulations and dented a fender getting to Etta’s.

“And it worked?” Etta asked when she could recover her breath.

“It worked. But what was it that worked? I haven’t seen the Post, you know.”

Etta showed him the paper. He read.

“And you knew this all the time?”

“Certainly not. I traced it all down while I was at Miss McCarr’s.”

“But, darling, what if you had found your ancestors to be junk men and cattle thieves?”

“Then, dearest, I’m afraid you’d have had to marry me anyhow. I never had any notion of giving you up.”