SOME people are so careless with their affections that they even forget
where they laid 'em the day before, and often go about sputtering like
an old gentleman who has lost his spectacles. My grandfather was once so
mad at a table on which he had found them lying, unexpectedly, that
he seized a poker and put a dent in it. He was like many modern
lovers--divorced and otherwise. They should remember that misplaced
affection has made more trouble than anything else.
Mrs. Mullet had been a bit careless with her affections, and especially
in taking Mr. Pike's recommendation of Colonel Wilton. What could have
been the motive of Mr. Pike?
Mrs. Mullet called to see us next morning.
“Something very strange has happened,” said she.
“If you were to tell me something that wasn't strange I wouldn't believe
it,” I answered. “Go ahead; you can't astonish me.”
“Please read this letter,” she requested, as she drew a sheet of paper
from an envelope and put it into my hands and added, “It's from Colonel
Wilton.”
“From Wilton!” I exclaimed, and began reading aloud the singular human
document. His emotion conferred rank upon her, for he had addressed Mrs.
Mullet in this baronial fashion:
_My dear Lady Maude,--I have completed the payments due to date on the
bust and the oil-painting, because I have decided that if I cannot have
you I must have them. I want to live with them, for I believe they will
help me. I tell you the God's truth, I have been a bad man, but I want
to be better and make good to every one I have wronged. I can't do it
for a little while yet, but I'm going to as sure as there's a God in
heaven. I was a fool to write that letter, but I was discouraged. You
are the only woman I ever loved. I take back all that I wrote in that
letter. I won't put any price on you. I can't. You are better than all
the money in the world. I don't blame you a bit for not having anything
more to do with me. You don't know what I have suffered; you can't know,
but I know. I shall never give you a moment's trouble. Don't be afraid
to meet me in the street. I may look at you, but I shall not speak to
you. Don't hate me; but, if you can, ask Jesus Christ to forgive me
and help me to live honest. I don't believe that He wants me to suffer
always like this. Don't hate me, because I love you, and please remember
me as Lysander Wilton._
Its script was curious. Every word was written with extreme care, and
some were embellished with little flourishes. I remembered how slowly
and carefully he had formed the letters in that signature in my office.
There were tears in the eyes of Mrs. Mullet when I folded the letter and
looked into her face.
“What do you think of it?” she asked.
“Sounds as if he meant it, but he's an able sounder,” I answered.
“He had a good case and has given up all claim upon her,” said Betsey,
in the tone of gentle protest.
“Oh, well! he wouldn't dare to bring a suit here or in America,” I
objected. “She might get the hatchet, but he would get the ax.”
“How would you explain his payments on the bust and the portrait?”
Betsey asked.
Sure enough, why was he buying the bust and the painting, and how had he
got the money to do it?
“It looks as if he had gone out of his mind,” said Betsey.
“Nobody could blame him for going out of his mind,” was my answer. “If I
had his mind I'd go out of it.”
“Perhaps she has driven him into a new and a better mind,” said Betsey.
“That's possible. There's plenty of room outside his old mental horizon.
If it's honest love I should think he would die of astonishment to find
such goods on himself.”
“Well, you see, he was not very well, and I was a kind of mother to him
here,” Mrs. Mullet answered, as she wiped her eyes. “He was kind and
thoughtful and so very handsome. I was really fond of him.”
Mrs. Mullet yielded again to her emotions. She was not a bad sort of a
woman, after all.
True, she was still afflicted with a light attack of the beauty disease.
But she had a heart in her. She was, too, “a well-fashioned, enticing
creature,” as Samuel Pepys would have said. I didn't blame Muggs for
leaping in love with her. It was as natural as for a boy to leap into a
swimming-hole.
“What shall I do?” she asked, presently.
“Study art as hard as you can,” I said. “Botticelli may help you to
forget Muggs. But don't fail to tell me what happens. I've got to know
how Muggs gets along with his new affliction.”
She agreed to keep me posted, and left us.
A note came from Mrs. Fraley that afternoon. She wished to see me on a
matter of business, and wouldn't we go and drink tea with them at five?
They were spending the day in the Capitoline Museum, where Muriel was at
work.
We couldn't drink tea with them, and so Betsey proposed that we walk to
the museum and see what they wanted. We did it.
Miss Muriel was copying a figure of Socrates on the fragment of a
frieze. The beauty disease had visibly progressed in her--hair a shade
richer, eyes more strongly underscored. Old Socrates was so different,
sitting in conversation and leaning forward on his staff. One bare
foot rested comfortably on the other. They were a good-sized pair of
industrious and reliable feet. He seemed to be addressing his argument
to the young lady who sat before him. The expression of the big toe on
his right foot indicated that it was not wholly unmoved by his words.
Mrs. Fraley beckoned me aside and whispered:
“The dear child is making wonderful progress. She is copying that for
one of the New York magazines. Muriel has made a great social success in
Rome. Mrs. Wartz has taken her up, and her name is in the Paris _Herald_
almost every day.”
In a moment she made an illuminating proposal:
“I want to borrow fifty thousand dollars on good security--the bonds of
the Great Bend & Lake Michigan Traction Company,” she said. “I would pay
you a liberal fee if you would help me.”
“It's a bad time to borrow money,” I answered. “Is it a bust or a
painting?”
“Neither; it's Miss Muriel's marriage portion. The count has proposed,
and I find that he is one of the dearest, noblest young men that ever
lived.”
There was no help for these people. An appeal to their minds was like
shooting into the sky or writing in water. You couldn't land on them.
“Oh, then it's a husband!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, and we want to take him home with us.”
“He requires cash down?”
“I believe it is usual.”
“Are you sure that Muriel could manage him? He's pretty coltish and has
never been halter-broke. He might rare up an' pull away an' run off with
the money.”
“He loves her to distraction, he worships and adores her, and she is
very, very fond of him.”
“You are far from your friends here,” I said. “Suppose you ask the count
to call on me and talk it over. It may be that I could arrange easy
terms. Possibly we could even get him on the instalment plan, with a
small payment down.”
“I would not dare suggest it,” said Mrs. Fraley.
“Cable to your banker, and if the bonds are good he ought to be able to
get the money for you.”
“I thought of that, but to save time I hoped that you would be willing
to let me have it.”
“I wouldn't assist you to commit a folly which you are sure to regret,”
I answered. “In my opinion he would be dear at ten dollars. It looks to
me like taking over a liability instead of an asset.”
“We didn't ask for your opinion,” said Miss Muriel, as she blushed with
indignation.
“My opinions are as easy to get as counts in Italy,” I said. “You
don't have to ask for them. I give you one thing more--my best wishes.
Good-by!”
With that we left them. Things began to move fast. Norris came down to
dinner, and we all sat together in the dining-room with the new count.
It was the last despairing effort of mama to grasp the persimmon.
She had boosted her daughter within easy reach of said persimmon, but
Gwendolyn refused to pull it down. Her attitude was polite but firm.
“It doesn't look good to me,” she seemed to be saying.
The count told thrilling tales of royal friends and palaces, and they
all rang like good metal, for this count was a real aristocrat. Still,
“No, thanks” was in the voice and manner of Gwendolyn. He twanged airy
compliments on his little guitar.
“No, thanks!”
Gwendolyn gave me a sly wink and suggested that I should tell a story.
I saw what was expected of me and got the floor and kept it. Finally
the count played his best trump. They would be invited to a fête in the
palace of a certain noted prince.
“No, thanks!” said Gwendolyn, before her mother could answer. “It is
very kind of you, but we shall be so busy getting ready to sail.”
The count took his medicine like a thoroughbred.
“And you--you must not be astonished to see me in America before much
time, I should say,” he answered.
“What a joy to welcome you there!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed.
Then followed a little duet in Fifth Avenue and Roman dialect with
monocle and minuet accompaniment by the great artists Norris and
Raspagnetti based on these allegations:
_First: She was so glad to have had the great pleasure of meeting him._
_Second: He was so glad to have had the honor of meeting her and her
daughter._
_Third: She was so sorry to say good-by._
_Fourth: She was a dear lady, and could never know how much pain it
“afflicted upon him” to say good-by; but fortunately she was not leaving
him hopeless._
The climax had passed.
Gwendolyn got her hand kissed, and so did her mother--there was no
dodging that--but it was our last experience with the hand-smackers of
Italy.
We had a happy American evening together in the Norris apartments, and
Mrs. Norris seemed to enjoy my imitation of her parting with the count.
The first occurrence of note in the morning was Mrs. Mullet. She
was getting to be a perennial, but she grew a foot that day in our
estimation. She had brought with her a note from Muggs. He was very ill
in his room and begged her to come and see him as a last favor. What
should she do?
“Let's go and see him--you and I and Mrs. Potter,” was my suggestion.
“This has all the ear-marks of a case of true love. My professional
advice has never been sought in a case of that kind; but come on, let's
see what there is to it.”
We went and found Muggs abed, with a high fever. No more nonsense now!
I've got to be decently serious for a few minutes. We were amazed to see
how the sight of Mrs. Mullet affected him, and how tenderly he clung to
her hands, and begged her to forget the man he had been. She turned to
me with wet eyes and said:
“I cannot leave him like this. I shall send for a nurse and doctor, and
take care of him. He has no friends here.”
“Bully for you!” I said. “If he's out of money I'll help you pay the
bills.”
We went away a little mystified by this behavior on the part of Muggs.
We were leaving next day for the south, and Mrs. Mullet came to say
good-by to us. “How is your patient?” I asked.
“He was delirious all night, and dictated letters to me as if I had been
his stenographer. I took them down with a pencil. I have brought two of
them for you to read. I do not understand them; perhaps you will know
what they mean.”
The first was addressed to a man in Mexico, and it said:
_Dear Mack,--At last my ship has come in, and I am doing what I have
longed to do for many years, and what I have dreamed of doing a thousand
times. I inclose a check for all that I owe you, with interest. Forgive
me. Please forgive me. I didn't know what I was doing. I expected to
return it within a week, but I lost it all. I want you to tell every one
that knows me that I am an honest man._
The second letter was to the Honorable Whitfield Norris, and it said:
_Dear Sir,--At last I am able to do what I have wanted to do for years.
I inclose a check for all the money you have given me, with interest to
date. Please send me a receipt for the same. I always intended to make
good and live honest, and I want you to think well of me, for I think
that you are the greatest man I ever met._
All this puzzled me at first, and I went at once with Mrs. Mullet to
Muggs's room. The sick man's fever had abated, and his head was clear.
“You have been dictating a letter to Norris,” I said.
“What letter?” he asked.
“Didn't you dictate a letter to Norris last night?”
“No,” he answered, sadly.
“Have you any money?” I asked.
“I have made a little money out of an old investment in a copper-mine,”
he answered, in a faint voice. “It has begun to pay, and they have sent
me eighteen hundred dollars. There's eleven hundred left. It's in the
Banca d'Italia. In my book you'll find a check for that two hundred
dollars. It's on the bureau there.”
“You gave me that,” I said.
“Did I?” he whispered, and was sound asleep in a few seconds.