REENTER MR. STANLEY G. FULTON
In the library of Mrs. Thomas Tyndall’s Chicago home Mr. Stanley G.
Fulton was impatiently awaiting the appearance of Miss Maggie Duff.
In a minute she came in, looking charmingly youthful in her new,
well-fitting frock.
The man, quickly on his feet at her entrance, gave her a lover’s ardent
kiss; but almost instantly he held her off at arms’ length.
“Why, dearest, what’s the matter?” he demanded.
“W-what do you mean?”
“You look as if—if something had happened—not exactly a bad something,
but—What is it?”
Miss Maggie laughed softly.
“That’s one of the very nicest things about you, Mr.
Stanley-G.-Fulton-John-Smith,” she sighed, nestling comfortably
into the curve of his arm, as they sat down on the divan;—“that
you _notice_ things so. And it seems so good to me to have
somebody—_notice_.”
“Poor lonely little woman! And to think of all these years I’ve wasted!”
“Oh, but I shan’t be lonely any more now. And, listen—I’ll tell you
what made me look so funny. I’ve had a letter from Flora. You know I
wrote them—about my coming marriage.”
“Yes, yes,” eagerly. “Well, what did they say?”
Miss Maggie laughed again.
“I believe—I’ll let you read the letter for yourself, Stanley. It tells
some things, toward the end that I think you’ll like to know,” she
said, a little hesitatingly, as she held out the letter she had brought
into the room with her.
“Good! I’d like to read it,” cried Fulton, whisking the closely written
sheets from the envelope.
MY DEAR MAGGIE (Flora had written): Well, mercy me, you have
given us a surprise this time, and no mistake! Yet we’re all real
glad, Maggie, and we hope you’ll be awfully happy. You deserve it,
all right. Poor Maggie! You’ve had such an awfully hard time all your
life!
Well, when your letter came, we were just going out to Jim’s for an
old-fashioned Thanksgiving dinner, so I took it along with me and
read it to them all. I kept it till we were all together, too, though
I most bursted with the news all the way out.
Well, you ought to have heard their tongues wag! They were all struck
dumb first, for a minute, all except Mellicent. She spoke up the very
first thing, and clapped her hands.
“There,” she cried. “What did I tell you? I knew Aunt Maggie was good
enough for anybody!”
To explain that I’ll have to go back a little. We were talking one
day about you—Jane and Mellicent and me—and we said you were a saint,
only not a marrying saint. But Mellicent thought you were, and it
seems she was right. Oh, of course, we’d all thought once Mr. Smith
might take a fancy to you, but we never dreamed of such a thing as
this—Mr. Stanley G. Fulton! Sakes alive—I can hardly sense it yet!
Jane, for a minute, forgot how rich he was, and spoke right up real
quick—“It’s for her money, of course. I _knew_ some one would
marry her for that fifty thousand dollars!” But she laughed then,
right off, with the rest of us, at the idea of a man worth twenty
millions marrying _anybody_ for fifty thousand dollars.
Benny says there ain’t any man alive good enough for his Aunt
Maggie, so if Mr. Fulton gets to being too high-headed sometimes, you
can tell him what Benny says.
But we’re all real pleased, honestly, Maggie, and of course we’re
terribly excited. We’re so sorry you’re going to be married out
there in Chicago. Why can’t you make him come to Hillerton? Jane
says she’d be glad to make a real nice wedding for you—and when Jane
says a thing like that, you can know how much she’s really saying,
for Jane’s feeling awfully poor these days, since they lost all that
money, you know.
And we’d all like to see Mr. Fulton, too—“Cousin Stanley,” as Hattie
always calls him. Please give him our congratulations—but there, that
sounds funny, doesn’t it? (But the etiquette editors in the magazines
say we must always give best wishes to the bride and congratulations
to the groom.) Only it seems funny here, to congratulate that rich
Mr. Fulton on marrying you. Oh, dear! I didn’t mean it that way,
Maggie. I declare, if that sentence wasn’t ’way in the middle of this
third page, and so awfully hard for me to write, anyway, I’d tear up
this sheet and begin another. But, after all, you’ll understand, I’m
sure. You _know_ we all think the world of you, Maggie, and that
I didn’t mean anything against _you_. It’s just that—that Mr.
Fulton is—is such a big man, and all—But you know what I meant.
Well, anyway, if you can’t come here to be married, we hope you’ll
bring him here soon so we can see him, and see you, too. We miss you
awfully, Maggie,—truly we do, especially since Jim’s folks went, and
with Mr. Smith gone, too, Jane and I are real lonesome.
Jim and Hattie like real well where they are. They’ve got a real
pretty home, and they’re the biggest folks in town, so Hattie
doesn’t have to worry for fear she won’t live quite so fine as her
neighbors—though really I think Hattie’s got over that now a good
deal. That awful thing of Fred’s sobered her a lot, and taught her
who her real friends were, and that money ain’t everything.
Fred is doing splendidly now, just as steady as a clock. It does my
soul good to see him and his father together. They are just like
chums. And Bessie—she isn’t near so disagreeable and airy as she was.
Hattie took her out of that school and put her into another where
she’s getting some real learning and less society and frills and
dancing. Jim is doing well, and I think Hattie’s real happy. Oh, of
course, when we first heard that Mr. Fulton had got back, I think
she was kind of disappointed. You know she always did insist we were
going to have the rest of that money if he didn’t show up. But she
told me just Thanksgiving Day that she didn’t know but ’twas just as
well, after all, that they didn’t have the money, for maybe Fred’d
go wrong again, or it would strike Benny this time. Anyhow, however
much money she had, she said, she’d never let her children spend so
much again, and she’d found out money didn’t bring happiness, always,
anyway.
Mellicent and Donald are going to be married next summer. Donald
don’t get a very big salary yet, but Mellicent says she won’t mind a
bit going back to economizing again, now that for once she’s had all
the chocolates and pink dresses she wanted. What a funny girl she
is—but she’s a dear girl, just the same, and she’s settled down real
sensible now. She and Donald are as happy as can be, and even Jane
likes Donald real well now.
Jane’s gone back to her tidies and aprons and skimping on everything.
She says she’s got to, to make up that forty thousand dollars. But
she enjoys it, I believe. Honestly, she acts ’most as happy trying
to save five cents as Frank does earning it in his old place behind
the counter. And that’s saying a whole lot, as you know. Jane knows
very well she doesn’t have to pinch that way. They’ve got lots of the
money left, and Frank’s business is better than ever. But she just
likes to.
You complain because I don’t tell you anything about myself in my
letters, but there isn’t anything to tell. I am well and happy, and
I’ve just thought up the nicest thing to do. Mary Hicks came home
from Boston sick last September, and she’s been here at my house ever
since. Her own home ain’t no place for a sick person, you know, with
all those children, and they’re awfully poor, too. So I took her here
with me. She’s a real nice girl. She works in a department store and
was all played out, but she’s picked up wonderfully here and is going
back next week.
Well, she was telling me about a girl that works with her at the same
counter, and saying how she wished she had a place like this to go to
for a rest and change, so I’m going to do it—give them one, I mean,
she and the other girls. Mary says there are a dozen girls that she
knows right there that are half-sick, but would get well in a minute
if they only had a few weeks of rest and quiet and good food. So I’m
going to take them, two at a time, so they’ll be company for each
other. Mary is going to fix it up for me down there, and pick out
the girls, and she says she knows the man who owns the store will
be glad to let them off, for they are all good help, and he’s been
afraid he’d lose them. He’d offered them a month off, besides their
vacation, but they couldn’t take it, because they didn’t have any
place to go or money to pay. Of course, that part will be all right
now. And I’m so glad and excited I don’t know what to do. Oh, I do
hope you’ll tell Mr. Fulton some time how happy he’s made me, and how
perfectly splendid that money’s been for me.
Well, Maggie, this is a long letter, and I must close. Tell me all
about the new clothes you are getting, and I hope you will get a lot.
Lovingly yours,
FLORA.
P.S. Does Mr. Fulton look like his pictures? You know I’ve got one. F.
P.S. again. Maggie Duff, for pity’s sake, never, never tell that man
that I ever went into mourning for him and put flowers before his
picture. I’d be mortified to death!
“Bless her heart!” With a smile Mr. Fulton folded the letter and handed
it back to Miss Maggie.
“I didn’t feel that I was betraying confidences—under the
circumstances,” murmured Miss Maggie.
“Hardly!”
“And there was a good deal in the letter that I _did_ want you to
see,” added Miss Maggie.
“Hm-m; the congratulations, for one thing, of course,” twinkled the
man. “Poor Maggie!”
“I wanted you to see how really, in the end, that money was not doing
so much harm, after all,” asserted Miss Maggie, with some dignity,
shaking her head at him reprovingly. “I thought you’d be _glad_,
sir!”
“I am glad. I’m so glad that, when I come to make my will now, I
shouldn’t wonder if I remembered them all again—a little—that is, if I
have anything left to will,” he teased shamelessly. “Oh, by the way,
that makes me think. I’ve just been putting up a monument to John
Smith.”
“Stanley!” Miss Maggie’s voice carried genuine shocked distress.
“But, my dear Maggie, something was due the man,” maintained Fulton,
reaching for a small flat parcel near him and placing it in Miss
Maggie’s hands.
“But—oh, Stanley, how could you?” she shivered, her eyes on the words
the millionaire had penciled on the brown paper covering of the parcel.
Sacred to the memory of John Smith.
“Open it,” directed the man.
With obvious reluctance Miss Maggie loosened the paper covers and
peered within. The next moment she gave a glad cry.
In her hands lay a handsome brown leather volume with gold letters,
reading:—
The Blaisdell Family
By
John Smith
“And you—did that?” she asked, her eyes luminous.
“Yes. I shall send a copy each to Frank and Jim and Miss Flora, of
course. That’s the monument. I thought it due—Mr. John Smith. Poor man,
it’s the least I can do for him—and the most—unless—” He hesitated with
an unmistakable look of embarrassment.
“Yes,” prompted Miss Maggie eagerly. “Yes!”
“Well, unless—I let you take me to Hillerton one of these days and
see if—if Stanley G. Fulton, with your gracious help, can make peace
for John Smith with those—er—cousins of mine. You see, I still feel
confoundedly like that small boy at the keyhole, and I’d like—to open
that door! Could we do it, do you think?”
“Do it? Of course we could! And, oh, Stanley, it’s the one thing needed
to make me perfectly happy,” she sighed blissfully.
THE END