Mother had, after an energetic September, succeeded in putting all the
furniture to rights and in evoking curtains and linen. Anybody, even the
impractical Father, can fill a house with furniture, but it takes two
women and at least four weeks to make the furniture look as though it
had grown there. She had roamed the fields, and brought home golden-rod
and Michaelmas daisies and maple leaves. She no longer panted or felt
dizzy when she ran up the stairs. She was a far younger woman than the
discreet brown hermit of the dusty New York flat, just as the new
Father, who had responsibility and affairs, was younger than the
Pilkings clerk of old.
Always she watched for Father's home-coming. He usually came prancing
home so happily that, one evening, when Mother saw him slowly plod down
the street, his head low, his hands sagging his pockets, she ran out to
the porch and greeted him with a despairing, "What is it, Seth?"
"Oh, nothing much." Before he would go on, Father put his arm about her
ample waist and led her to the new porch-swing overlooking the raw
spaded patch of earth that would be a rose-garden some day--that
already, to their imaginations, was brilliant with blossoms and alive
with birds.
She observed him mutely, anxiously. He handed a letter to her. It was in
their daughter's handwriting:
DEAR PAPA AND MAMA:
I don't know if this letter will reach you, but have been
reading pieces in Saserkopee & N. Y. papers about your goings-on
and hear you are at a town called Lipsittsville, oh how could
you run away from the beautiful home Harris & I gave you, I am
sure if there was anything we didn't do for y'r comfort &
happiness you had only to ask & here you go and make us a
laughing stock in Saserkopee, we had told everyone you would be
at our party & suddenly you up & disappear & it has taken us
months to get in touch with you, such a wicked, untruthful lie
about friend sick in Boston & all. Harris heard from a traveling
salesman, & he agreed with Harris how thoughtless and wilful you
are, & he told Harris that you are at this place Lipsittsville,
so I will address you there & try & see if letter reaches you &
tell you that though you must be ashamed of your conduct by now,
we are willing to forgive & forget, I was never one to hold a
grudge. I am sure if you had just stopped and thought you would
have realized to what worry and inconvenience you have put us,
& if this does reach you, by now I guess you will have had
enough of being bums or pedestrians or whatever fancy name you
call yourself, and be glad to come back to a good home and see
if you can't show a little sense as you ought to at your time of
life, & just think of what the effect must be on Harry when his
very own grand-parents acts this way! If you will telegraph me,
or write me if you have not got enough money for telegraphing,
Harris will come for you, & we will see what can be done for
you. We think and hope that a place can be found for you in the
Cyrus K. Ginn Old People's Home, where you can spend your last
days, I guess this time you will want to behave yourselves, and
Harris & I will be glad to have you at our home from time to
time. After all my love & thoughtfulness for you--but I guess I
need not say anything more, by this time you will have learned
your lesson.
Your loving daughter,
LULU.
Father and Mother had sat proudly on their porch the night before, and
they had greeted passers-by chattily, like people of substance, people
healthy and happy and responsible. Now they shrank on the swing; they
saw nothing but Lulu's determined disdain for their youthful
naughtiness; heard nothing but her voice, hard, unceasing, commenting,
complaining; and the obese and humorless humor of Mr. Harris Hartwig.
"She can't make us go back--confine us in this here home for old folks,
can she, legally?" It was Mother who turned to Father for reassurance.
"No, no. Certainly not.... I don't _think_ so." They sat still. They
seemed old again.
Just before dinner he started up from the swing, craftily laid his
finger beside his nose, and whispered something very exciting and
mysterious to Mother, who kept saying: "Yes, yes. Yes, yes. Yes, I'd be
willing to. Though it would be hard." Immediately after dinner they
walked sedately down the village street, while blackbirds whistled from
the pond and children sang ancient chants of play under the arc-lights
at corners, and neighbors cried "'Evenin'" to them, from chairs on
porches. They called upon the town newspaperman, old Lyman Ford, and
there was a conference with much laughter and pounding of knees--also a
pitcher of lemonade conjointly prepared by Mrs. S. Appleby and Mrs. L.
Ford. Finally the Applebys paraded to the telegraph-office, and to Mr.
Harris Hartwig, at Saserkopee, they sent this message:
Come see us when can. Wire at once what day and train. Will
meet.
A sodden and pathetic figure, in his notorious blue-flannel shirt, and
the suit, or the unsuit, which he had worn into Lipsittsville in the
days when he had been a hobo, Father waited for the evening train and
for Mr. Harris Hartwig.
Mr. Hartwig descended the car steps like a general entering a conquered
province. Father nervously concealed his greasy shirt-front with his
left hand, and held out his right hand deprecatingly. Mr. Hartwig took
it into his strong, virile, but slightly damp, clasp, and held it (a
thing which Father devoutly hated) while he gazed magnanimously into
Father's shy eyes and, in a confidential growl which could scarce have
been heard farther away than Indianapolis, condescended: "Well, here we
are. I'm glad there's an end to all this wickedness and foolishness at
last. Where's Mother Appleby?"
"She wasn't feeling jus' like coming," Father mumbled. "I'll take you to
her."
"How the devil are you earning a living?"
"Why, the gent that owns the biggest shoe-store here was so kind as to
give me sort of work round the store like."
"Yuh, as porter, I'll venture! You might just as well be sensible, for
once in your life, Father, and learn that you're past the age where you
can insist and demand and get any kind of work, or any kind of a place
to live in, that just suits your own sweet-fancy. Business ain't
charity, you know, and all these working people that think a business is
run just to suit _them_--! And that's why you ought to have been more
appreciative of all Lulu did for you--and then running away and bringing
her just about to the verge of nervous prostration worrying over you!"
They had left the station, now, and were passing along Maple Avenue,
with its glory of trees and shining lawns, the new Presbyterian church
and the Carnegie Library. Mr. Hartwig of Saserkopee was getting far too
much satisfaction out of his role as sage and counselor to notice Maple
Avenue. He never had the chance to play that role when the wife of his
bosom was about.
"Another thing," Mr. Hartwig was booming, as they approached the row of
bungalows where the Applebys lived, "you ought to have understood the
hardship you were bringing on Mother by taking her away from our
care--and you always pretending to be so fond of her and all. I don't
want to rub it in or nothing, but I always did say that I was suspicious
of these fellows that are always petting and stewing over their wives in
public--you can be dead sure that in private they ain't got any more
real consideration 'n' thoughtfulness for 'em than--than anything. And
you can see for yourself now-- Here you are. Why, just one look at you
is enough to show you're a failure! Why, my garbage-man wears a
better-looking suit than that!"
Though Father felt an acute desire to climb upon a convenient
carriage-block and punch the noble Roman head of Mr. Harris Hartwig, he
kept silent and looked as meek as he could and encouraged his dear
son-in-law to go on.
"We'll try to find some decent, respectable work for you," said Mr.
Hartwig. "You'll be at liberty to be away from the Old People's Home for
several hours a day, perfect freedom, and perhaps now and then you can
help at a sale at a shoe-store. Saserkopee is, as you probably know, the
best town of its size in New York, and if you did feel you had to keep
in touch with business, I can't for the life of me see why you came
clear out here to the West--little dinky town with no prospects or
nothing. Why even you, at your age, could turn a few dollars in
Saserkopee. 'Course with my influence there I could throw things your
way." Then, bitterly, "Though of course I wouldn't expect any thanks!"
They turned a corner, came to a row of new bungalows.
The whole block was filled with motor-cars, small black village ones,
but very comfortable and dependable. In a bungalow at the end of the
block a phonograph was being loud and cheery.
"Somebody giving a party," Mr. Hartwig oracularly informed Father.
"Why! Sure enough! So somebody is! Yes, yes! It must be my boss. That's
where I live. Boss lets us bunk in the dust-bin."
Father's voice was excited, slightly hysterical. Mr. Hartwig looked at
him wonderingly. "What do you mean, 'in the dust-bin'?" he asked, in a
puzzled way.
"I'll show you," said Father, and in a low, poisonous voice he added
certain words which could not be made out, but which sounded curiously
like "you great big fat weevily ham!"
"We can't butt into this party," protested Mr. Hartwig, suddenly feeling
himself in a strange town, among strangers, as Father took his arm in
front of the bungalow where the party was being fearlessly enacted.
"I never knew you to hesitate about butting in before," said Father.
"Some day I hope you butt into the Cyrus K. Ginn Home for Old Fossils,
but now--"
While Mr. Hartwig followed him in alarm, Father skipped up the steps,
jabbed at the push-button. The door opened on the living-room--and on a
tableau.
In the center of a group of expensive-looking people stood Mother,
gorgeous in a gown like a herald's cloth-of-gold tabard. She was as
magnificent as one of the larger chairs in a New York hotel lobby. Her
hair was waved. She was coldly staring at Harris through a platinum
lorgnon. Round her were the elite of Lipsittsville--the set that wore
dinner coats and drove cars. A slim and pretty girl in saffron-colored
silk bowed elaborately. A tall man with an imperial chuckled.
"Why, Harris, this is ver', ver' pleasant. I had almost forgotten you
were coming," Mother said, languidly.... Harris could not know that the
distinguished pedestrian, actor, impresario, and capitalist, Mr. Seth
Appleby, had spent two hours and seventeen minutes in training the
unwilling Mother to deliver this speech. If Mother stumbled somewhat as
she went on, that merely enhanced her manner of delicate languor: "So
pleasant to see you. Just a few of our friends dropped in for a little
informal gathering. Would you like to wash up and join us? Seth dear,
will you ring for Lena and have her take dear Harris's bag to his room?
Did you bring your evening clothes, Harris?"
One time in his life, Harris had rented evening clothes, but otherwise--
They didn't give Harris a chance to ask for explanations. When, still in
his dusty bulbous gray sack suit, he hesitated out of his pleasant room,
he found that Father had changed to dinner coat and a stock, which he
was old enough to wear with distinction. Harris was firmly introduced to
Mr. Lyman Ford, sole owner and proprietor of the Lipsittsville _Ozone_.
He was backed into a corner, and filled with tidings about the glories
of Mr. and Mrs. Seth Appleby, their social position and athletic prowess
and financial solidity, and the general surpassing greatness of
Lipsittsville. In fact, Mr. Ford overdid it a little, and Mr. Hartwig
began to look suspicious--like a man about to sneeze, or one who fears
that you are going to try to borrow money from him.
But with an awkward wonder which expressed itself in his growing
shyness, his splay-footed awkwardness, his rapidly increasing deference
to Father, Mr. Hartwig saw Lena, the maid, spread forth tables for the
social and intellectual game of progressive euchre; saw Father combat
mightily with that king of euchre-players, Squire Trowbridge; saw the
winners presented with expensive-looking prizes. And there were
refreshments. The Lipsittsville _Ozone_ would, in next Thursday's issue,
be able to say, "Dainty refreshments, consisting of angel's-food,
ice-cream, coffee, macaroons, and several kinds of pleasing sandwiches,
were served."
Miss Mattie Ford, the society editor of the _Ozone_, was at her wittiest
during the food-consumption, and a discussion of Roosevelt and the
co-operative creamery engaged some of the brightest minds in
Lipsittsville. Father, listening entranced, whispered to Mother, as he
passed her with his tray of ice-cream, "I guess Harris don't hear any
bright talk like this in Saserkopee. Look at him. Goggle-eyed. I always
said he looked like a frog. Except that he looks more like a hog."
"I won't have you carrying on and being rude," Mother said, most
convincingly.
The party did not end till clear after eleven. When the street was loud
with the noise of cars starting, and quantities of ladies in silk wraps
laughingly took their departure, Mr. Harris Hartwig stood deserted by
the fireplace. When the door had closed on the last of the revelers
Father returned, glanced once at him, coldly stopped to pick up a chair
which had been upset, then stalked up to Harris and faced him, boring
him with an accusing glance.
"Well," said Harris, uneasily, "you sure got-- Say, I certainly got to
hand it to you, Father Appleby." Like a big, blubbery, smear-faced
school-boy he complained, "Gee! I don't think it's fair, making a goat
of me this way, when I came to do you a service and take you home and
all."
He was so meek that Father took pity on him.
"We'll call it square," he said. "I guess maybe you and Lulu will quit
worrying, now, at last."
"Yes, I guess we'll have to.... Say, Father, this seems to be a fine,
live, prosperous town. Say, I wonder what's the chances for opening a
drug-store here? Competition is getting pretty severe in Saserkopee."
For the first time since he had married the lovely Lulu Harris Hartwig
seemed to care for his father-in-law's opinion.
Father took one horrified glance at Mother. The prospect of the
Hartwigs planted here in Eden, like a whole family of the most highly
irritating serpents, seemed to have paralyzed her. It was Father who
turned Harris's flank. Said he:
"Well, I'm afraid I can't encourage you. There's three good stores here,
and the proprietors of all of them are friends of mine, and I'm afraid I
couldn't do a thing about introducing you. In fact, I'd feel like a
traitor to them if I was responsible for any competition with them. So--
But some time, perhaps, we can have Lulu and Harry here for a visit."
"Thank you, Father. Well--"
"Well, I guess we all better be saying good night."
Father ostentatiously wound up the clock and locked the doors. Harris
watched him, his Adam's apple prettily rising and falling as he prepared
to speak and hesitated, again and again. Finally, as Father yawned and
extended his hand, Harris burst out: "Say, how--the--deuce--did you get
this house and all? What's the idea, anyway?"
For this Father had been waiting. He had nineteen large batteries
concealed in ambush. And he fired them. He fixed Harris with a glance
that was the condensed essence of all the fathers-in-law in the world.
"Young man," he snorted, "I don't discuss my business affairs. But I
don't mind saying that I am partner in one of the most flourishing
mercantile concerns in the State. I knew that Lulu and you would never
believe that the poor old folks could actually run their own business
unless you came and saw for yourself. I stand ready to refund the
railroad fare you spent in coming here. Now are you satisfied?"
"Why--why, yes--"
"Well, then, I guess we'll say good night."
"Good night," said Harris, forlornly.
* * * * *
It was a proof of their complete recovery from Harris-Hartwigism that,
while they were undressing, the Applebys discussed Mr. Hartwig only for
a moment, and that Father volunteered: "I actually do hope that Lulu and
Harry will come to pay us a visit now. Maybe we can impress her, too. I
hope so. I really would like a chance to love our daughter a little.
Don't seem natural we should always have to be scared of her. Well,
let's forget the Hartwigs. They'll come around now. Catch them not
knowing where their bread is buttered. Why, think, maybe Lulu will let
me kiss her, some day, without criticizing my necktie while I'm doing
it!"
The Innocents, the conquering babes in the wood, put out all the lights
except the bedside lamp on the table between their twin beds. These
aristocratic beds were close enough together so that they could lie with
their out-stretched hands clasped. They had left the door into the
living-room open, and the low lights from the coals in the fireplace
made a path across the polished floor and the new rugs--a vista of
spaciousness and content.
"It's our first real home," murmured Father. "My old honey, we've come
home! We'll have the Tubbses here from the Cape, come Christmas-time.
Yes, and Crook McKusick, if we ever hear from him! And we'll play
cribbage. I bet I can beat Joe Tubbs four games out of five. Say, look
here, young woman, don't you go to sleep yet. I'm a hard-working man,
and it's Doc Schergan's orders that I got to be played with and hold
your hand like this for fourteen minutes every night, before I go to
sleep.... My old honey!"
"How you do run on!" said Mother, drowsily.
THE END