_Mr. Mudison is Uncomfortable but Happy_
Curious! If anybody had told me a year ago that to-day I should be
living at Lexington Avenue and Seventy-ninth Street, I would have
laughed at them. Now I am laughing at myself, for while I am terribly
uncomfortable all the time--or ought to be so--I am ridiculously happy.
Gladys says things will look up with us financially after a while, as
she has a rich old aunt somewhere, and we may be able to move west a
block or two. But I don't indulge much in dreams. I try to take things
as they come, and find solace in the fact that the only time in my life
that I was ever stirred by ambition I lost a quarter of my capital. Yet
I can hardly call it ambition, but rather necessity, for, confronted
with the problem of supporting my suddenly acquired family, I bought
stocks heavily on a rising market, with the inevitable result; so
now we have only $15,000 a year. Of course Joshua pays ten thousand
annually for the children's board, but Gladys has nobly refused her
allowance from him.
There must be lots of people who get along on less than we do; but
if they are anybody, it requires scrimping. Surely, I had to give up
enough. Gastly has my car, as he sold stocks on the bulge; Duff has my
saddle-horses, and Jangle has been turned into a general man about the
house--a combination butler, footman, and furnace-tender. Doing without
Jangle is not so hard, as I have to economize on clothes, and they are
learning to take care of themselves, but I do feel the need of more
clubs than the Cholmondeley, alone. Of course no man could live without
the Cholmondeley. When I walk by the Ticktock and the Ping-pong, all
those favorite old haunts of mine, I think of Enoch Arden or Rip Van
Winkle, whoever the fellow was that stayed away from home so long.
When I see the men in the windows looking bored, how I long to join
them!
Belonging to one club is like having a port to clear from, but no
destination. There is little pleasure in strolling down the avenue
when there is no place for you to drop in, so I have been keeping
close to home, though my reading had given me the idea that it was
the last place anyone would want to be. Yet it is quite endurable. I
suppose this is because Mrs. Mudison understands me so well. There
are discomforts. I have to take breakfast much earlier, but you don't
really mind getting up at nine o'clock when you have not been out late
the night before. There are long hours when there is nothing to do,
hours when in the old days I could ride, but which now must be filled
in with pictorial papers. I do miss that daily canter, but Gladys had
to have a pair for her brougham, so I take my exercise by walking in
the park with the children. Rather amusing they are too.
The other morning I was watching Devereux and Maltravers racing around
on the grass, when along the bridle-path came Cecil Hash on his smart
piebald pony. Pulling up in front of me he shouted, "Lord! Mudison, you
are not going to throw yourself in the reservoir?"
Really, I was feeling very cheerful, but my meditative attitude misled
him.
"I am just taking the children for a walk," said I, pointing to the
small pair.
Cecil kind of stared at the boys. His expression nettled me.
"They are Mrs. Mudison's," said I, rather sharply. "Perhaps you
remember that she was Mrs. Joshua Underbunk."
"Oh, yes," cried Hash, his face clearing, "I do remember, now. Come
to think of it, I ran across Underbunk in the Ticktock Club, just
yesterday."
Up ran that confounded little Maltravers and shouted, "Come along, dad."
Now I do not object to that appellation in the privacy of our home,
for the lad is very fond of me, but I do wish he would not be so
demonstrative in public. Still, it is simply extra pay for the
amusement I have had taking him on tours of exploration through the
toy-stores. It is well for Cecil Hash that he never saw me in a
toy-store, judging from the effect of our present meeting, for he had
to push his crop down his throat to save himself from choking to death.
I wanted to wipe up the bridle-path with him, but controlled myself,
and said, in a dignified way, "Come along, children."
As I began to move away, with one in each hand, Cecil asked me to join
him at the Ping-pong Club at three, for billiards. It was hard to have
to own up that I had resigned, but there was nothing else to do. He was
astonished, tremendously astonished, but was too well-bred to show it
other than by staring at me with wide-open eyes.
"Well?" said I.
That aroused him. "We'll miss you, old man; miss you terribly,"
said he, as if he meant it. "Thank Heaven, we can still meet at the
Cholmondeley and cut each other's throats at bridge."
He quite touched me. "We can meet," said I, "but not at bridge, unless
you care to play a penny a point. I only play for a penny a point now."
Even the pony jumped, but I suppose that was because his rider gave
such a long whistle.
"Mudison," said Cecil, "you don't mean to tell me that you have stopped
playing for money?"
"Yes, Cecil," I answered frankly. "You must remember that to only a few
people in this world is it given to be happy and also have pleasure."
With that I marched away. I heard the wild clatter of the pony's hoofs
as he galloped off, so I turned for a covert look at him, not in envy,
but thinking perhaps of the days we used to canter along together.
Suddenly he drew rein and turned in the saddle. I saw him smile.
For that moment, that smile put me all out of gear, and I sat down on a
bench to think things over. In a little while the piebald pony flashed
by again, and I summed up the situation thus:
There goes Cecil Hash, bachelor. He has everything to make a single
life worth living. He thinks he is happy because he has an airy,
roomy apartment, an ammonia refrigerator, a full sideboard, and a
man; because he belongs to a half-dozen clubs, keeps a car, and a few
hunters and polo ponies; because he need not worry about money-matters
so long as he adheres to his simple life and limits his wants; because
he does not have to learn anything, as he is already smart. He
thinks he is happy. He pities me. Let him smile. Really, he is only
comfortable, thoroughly comfortable.
"Come boys!" said I, rising. "Mamma says we must be home in time for
luncheon to-day."
"What are you laughing at, dad?" Devereux inquired.
And, hang it! I could not have told him whether it was Cecil Hash or J.
Madison Mudison.
Somehow my meeting with Cecil made me a little discontented for the
time being. It did seem that so long as I had not enough millions
to be a really smart married man, I should do something to save the
name of Mudison from social oblivion in the next generation, become a
captain of industry and buy back what I had lost when I ceased to be a
well-known bachelor and became just a well-to-do husband. My suggestion
almost killed Gladys at luncheon that day.
"But, my dear Muddy," she said kindly, when she had recovered her
breath, "you are absolutely unqualified to earn a living in any way."
"Are you sure?" I returned, a trifle put out.
"Of course you are a Harvard man," she went on, "but I should not say
that you were very well educated."
"Simply because I had to play in the team," I snapped.
"And Muddy," said she, as sweetly as only Gladys can, "while you have
a certain peculiar kind of intelligence, I should hardly say that you
had brains."
"I know all that," said I. "And for that very reason I am thinking of
becoming a stock broker."
"Oh, you might do that," said she pensively.
My wife was quite taken with the idea until she heard that I should
have to be downtown at ten o'clock every morning and stand around on
my feet till three, yelling continually. Down went her little foot, as
only Gladys Mudison's can, and she declared that it was not a dignified
business at all.
"You would only be a respectable auctioneer," she declared.
"But I should make a lot of money," I pleaded.
"I would rather have you do without a few things," she retorted, "than
send you down to that bear-garden every day."
So my dreams of great wealth have fled me, and I cannot say that I am
wholly sorry. I did suggest becoming a corporation lawyer, but Gladys
has the European idea of being satisfied with what you have, and she
does not realize that in this city you must keep on piling up more and
more or you will become a Knickerbocker. She told me she would think it
over a while, and she has been thinking ever since, very quietly.
Meantime I am finding consolation in chickens, and am looking forward
to good sport next summer at the little box we have just bought down
on the Wheatley Hills. The study of incubators alone is a life-task,
and my mind is not quite made up as to what kind we shall get, but all
my other plans have been secretly laid. Only Devereux, the eldest boy,
knows about it, and we slipped down to the country day before yesterday
on a prospecting tour. We were standing at the stable with the local
carpenter, making estimates on the lumber needed for the hennery, when
in rode Gastly and Timpey Duff, the latter on my old roan hunter, the
homeliest and fastest brute that ever followed a big pack of hounds and
a diminutive fox over Hempstead Plain. The sight of a red coat did
stir my blood, and though I cannot say that I looked at them with envy,
yet it occurred to me that it would be mighty pleasant to be astride
old Christopher again, bound for the meet, as they were. Surely there
is no sight so inspiring as a company of daring fellows, with the pack
in full cry, running a ferocious animal from Dan to Beersheba. A noble
sport!
"Saw you in here," said Gastly, in that jerky way of his. "Thought you
might be coming over for the fun."
Now, of course, I did not intend to tell them my real business, that my
fun in the future would be found in the humble and ignoble occupation
of incubating Plymouth Rocks, but Devereux had to speak up and give it
all away.
"Huh!" said Gastly.
"Ye gods!" said Timpey Duff.
So they rode away, and as they turned through the gate Horatio leaned
over and slapped his companion on the back. It seemed they would both
roll out of their saddles.
So I am getting accustomed to being regarded as one dead. But there
is one consoling thing in this unfortunately fortunate situation.
Gladys seems confoundedly satisfied. When I see her happy I feel that
I should not growl because I have had to give up comfort and pleasure
for her sake. She says she was thoroughly tired of being the late
Mrs. Underbunk, and having people, who did not know, condole with her
as though she were a widow; as long as she can have two comfortable
houses, her carriage, plenty of clothes, and a husband who does not
drink too much, she thinks she should consider herself a lucky woman. I
suppose I should consider myself a lucky man, if all my old friends did
not treat me as though I were a bore.
For instance, we dined at the Garishes last night, a formal affair of
twenty-four covers, and instead of my taking in Evelyn, as of old, she
had Cecil Hash on one side, and on the other, Winthrop Jumpkin, 7th,
whom I made. Gladys was at the other end with a jolly crowd--Gastly,
Garish, and the Countess of Less, who was Evangeline Very, and has just
returned alone to this country from England for a prolonged stay. As
for me, I took in old Mrs. Handy, somebody's poor relative, and had
on my left Timpey Duff's deaf-and-dumb sister--I think she was deaf
and dumb, for she only spoke once all evening. It was positively the
only night in my life that I have eaten anything at a formal dinner,
and the single time I attracted the slightest attention was when I
almost choked to death on a lot of terrapin bone that got crosswise in
my throat. Afterward, in the smoking-room, Garish, Gastly, Hash, and
Jumpkin, the only interesting men there, got off in a corner and talked
nothing but stocks. Since my last flyer, that has been a delicate
subject with me, and I sought peace basking in the benign smile of
old Bishop Bumble, who, over his cognac, discoursed, at great length,
on his new scheme for a church race-track. He argued that as long as
people had to have racing, it would be best to place the control of
the sport in proper hands. The present odds were manifestly unfair,
he declared, and with upright bookies in the ring, the public could
have an honest run for its money, which would make the track immensely
popular and insure its success as a business proposition. He would
allow only ten-per-cent. dividends on the stock of the operating
company, and all over that would be set aside as a fund with which
to start new church tracks in different parts of the country. An
interesting idea, indeed. There were one or two points about which I
wanted to take issue with the distinguished divine, but Garish began to
lead the way to the drawing-room.
So I was mighty glad, after I had stood around for ten minutes, looking
at the women, to feel Gladys tugging at my sleeve; to be able to tell
our hostess what a charming evening I had had; to be able to go home.
As Shakespeare or Milton, or whoever it was, said, "There is no place
like home."
From this period of his life on, Mr. Mudison seems to devote much less
of his time than formerly to writing down his experiences, impressions,
and thoughts. His diary, if such it could be called, becomes more
fragmentary than ever. Particularly is he silent regarding the summer
at Wheatley Hills. There is one mention of his having purchased an
incubator, and a few thoughts on the annual nuisance of moving from
town to country. When he picks up his life-narrative again, he is back
on Lexington Avenue, and beyond a hint that he is looking forward to
breeding Irish terriers next year, there is no clew to the events of
his rural life.
The latest papers are rather disjointed. Mr. Mudison seems to have
settled down to the placid existence of a well-to-do married man with
no vocation. He has ceased either to act or to think. We do learn in
one place, however, that Julius Hogginson Fairfield wed an actress,
settled in Sioux City, and is writing two historical novels, yearly.
We read in another place that Winthrop Jumpkin, 7th, has married the
youngest Twitter girl, and become president of one of the Twitter
railroads. There is a touch of romance in the disappearance of Cecil
Hash, who in an evil moment fell in love with a poor beauty, married,
and moved to Morristown, so is known no more in the world. Again,
there is pathos in this note, almost lost in a page of argument with
Gladys on the foreign-mission question: "I see by the morning paper
that Horatio Gastly led the cotillon at Mrs. Twitter's small dance
last night--a spirited cotillon--dancing with the beautiful Miss
Constance Twitter." It calls to mind the poor rector, but our momentary
sympathy for him disappears when we learn later that he has gone to a
broader field, and is comfortably settled in the Garish chair of moral
philosophy at Hale University. With these facts we have taken the grain
from a considerable mass of chaff, so it is hardly worth while to
continue working over Mr. Mudison's papers unless some upheaval occurs
to shake him out of the groove down which he seems to be comfortably
sliding to actual as well as social oblivion. Some day we shall see
the flag of the Cholmondeley Club flying at half-mast; some day we
shall miss the familiar figure, the dingy old man with a rusty silk
hat, asleep in his window, the third window from the corner. Then
perhaps we shall agree with him that, after all, it is just as well to
be smart as it is to be famous.
By NELSON Lloyd
THE SOLDIER OF THE VALLEY
ILLUSTRATED BY A.B. FROST
12mo, $1.50
"A story full of artistic quality, a story of genuine feeling and quiet
humor, pervaded by that repose which is so painfully lacking in current
fiction, and written in a style the ease and charm of which tempts one,
when he has finished the tale, to-read it for sheer pleasure in its
form."--_Hamilton W. Mabie._
"A wholly delightful book that leaves one full of pleasant thoughts
and that everyone must feel the better for having read. The characters
are full of genuine charm and humor. A book not only to read, but to
keep."--_London Literary World._
"It would be difficult to find anywhere in recent fiction a novel that
is so vivid and graphic a picture of life. It is vital and vigorous, a
human picture, where men and women of flesh and blood and not manikins
move and have their being."--_Brooklyn Eagle._
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, New York
By NELSON Lloyd
THE SOLDIER OF THE VALLEY
ILLUSTRATED BY A.B. FROST
12mo, $1.50
"Abounding in humor and pathos."--_Pittsburg Chronicle._
"It is safe to say that 'The Soldier of the Valley' will find a host of
admirers. Some will like it as a story. The more critical will be glad
to make the acquaintance in its pages of a lot of very live people with
very marked characteristics."--_New York Evening Sun._
"A story charming in its quaint and simple representation of life in a
village community shut away from the outer world among the mountains,
is this by Nelson Lloyd."--_Toledo (Ohio) Blade._
"A story of unusual power and charm."--_New York Times Review._
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CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, New York