When this reached Jimmy he was nonplused. He rubbed his forehead, studied the message, reread it, and then handed it to Mary with the suggestion:
“Maybe you can make it out. I can’t.”
Mary knitted her brows and studied the message in turn. At length she handed it back.
“It is simple,” she decided. “She is a nice, sweet girl, and she wants me to meet her mama and papa. Or maybe she wants us to be chaperoned.”
So Jimmy and Mary waited in the hotel parlor until Lucy should arrive. Reminded by Mary, Jimmy went to the ’phone and told Mr. Putnam that Lucy was coming to lunch with him.
“Well, that’s all right, isn’t it, Jimmy?” Mr. Putnam asked.
“Yes. But she told me to telephone you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But won’t you join us?”
“Is that other matter arranged, Jimmy?”
“N-no. Not yet.”
“I told you I didn’t want to see you until it was. As soon as you wake up, let me know. Good-by.”
Jimmy, red, returned to the parlor, and there was confronted by a vision of white, with shining eyes and pink cheeks, who rushed up to him and kissed him and called him a dear old thing and said he was the cleverest, most unconventional man that ever was.
Limp, astounded, but delighted, James Trottingham Minton drew back a pace from Lucy Putnam, who, in her dainty white dress and her white hat and filmy white veil, was a delectable sight.
“I want you to meet Cousin Mary,” he said.
“Is she to attend?”
“Of course,” he answered.
They walked toward the end of the long parlor where Mary was sitting, but half way down the room they were stopped by Mrs. Putnam. She put both hands on Jimmy’s shoulders, gave him a motherly kiss on one cheek, and sighed: “Jimmy, you will be kind to my little girl?”
Jimmy looked from mother to daughter in dumb bewilderment. Certainly this was the most remarkable conduct he ever had dreamed of. Yet, Mrs. Putnam’s smile was so affectionate and kind, her eyes met his with such a tender look that he intuitively felt that all was right as right should be. And yet—why should they act as they did?
Into the midst of his reflections burst Lucy’s chum, Alice Jordan.
“I’ve a notion to kiss him, too!” she cried.
Jimmy stonily held himself in readiness to be kissed. If kissing went by favor he was pre-eminently a favored one. But Lucy clutched his arm with a pretty air of ownership and forbade Alice.
“Indeed, you will not. It wouldn’t be good form now. After— afterward, you may. Just once. Isn’t that right, Jimmy?”
“Perfectly,” he replied, his mind still whirling in an effort to adjust actualities to his conception of what realities should be.
The four had formed a little group to themselves in the center of the parlor, Lucy clinging to Jimmy’s arm, Mrs. Putnam eyeing them both with a happy expression, and Alice fluttering from one to the other, assuring them that they were the handsomest couple she ever had seen, that they ought to be proud of each other, and that Mrs. Putnam ought to be proud of them, and that she was sure nobody in all the world ever, ever could be as sublimely, beatifically happy as they would be, and that they must be sure to let her come to visit them.
“And,” she cried, admiringly, stopping to pat Jimmy on his unclutched arm, “I just think your idea of proposing by telegraph was the brightest thing I ever heard of!”
It is to be written to the everlasting credit of James Trottingham Minton that he restrained himself from uttering the obvious remark on hearing this. Two words from him would have wrecked the house of cards. Instead, he blushed and smiled modestly. Slowly it was filtering into his brain that by some unusual, unexpected, unprecedented freak of fortune his difficulties had been overcome; that some way or other he had proposed and had been accepted.
“I shall always cherish that telegram,” Lucy declared, leaning more affectionately toward Jimmy. “If that grimy-faced messenger boy had not gone away so quickly with my answer I should have kissed him!”
“I’ve got the telegram here, dear,” said Mrs. Putnam.
“Oh, let’s see it again,” Alice begged. “I always wanted to hear a proposal, but it is some satisfaction to see one.”
Mrs. Putnam opened her hand satchel, took out the telegram, unfolded it slowly, and they all looked at it, Jimmy gulping down a great choke of joy as he read: “Please meet me and marry at Annex at two o’clock.”
His bashfulness fell from him as a garment. He took the message, saying he would keep it, so that it might not be lost. Then he piloted the two girls and Mrs. Putnam to the spot where Mary had been waiting patiently and wonderingly.
“Mary,” he said boldly, without a tremor in his voice, “I want you to meet the future Mrs. Minton, and my future mother-in-law, Mrs. Putnam, and my future—what are you to me, anyhow, Alice?”
“I’m a combination flower girl, maid of honor and sixteen bridesmaids chanting the wedding march,” she laughed.
“And when,” Mary gasped, “when is this to be?”
“At two o’clock,” Lucy answered.
“Oh, Jimmy! You wretch! You never told me a word about it. But never mind. I bought the very thing for a wedding gift this morning.”
Jimmy tore himself away from the excited laughter and chatter, ran to the telephone and got Mr. Putnam on the wire.
“This is Minton,” he said.
“Who? Oh! Jimmy? Well?”
“Well, I’ve fixed that up.”
“Good. And when is it to be?”
“Right away. Here at the Annex. I want you to go and get the license for me on your way over.”
“Come, come, Jimmy. Don’t be in such precipitate haste.”
“You told me that was the only way to arrange these matters.”
“Humph! Did I? Well, I’ll get the license for you—”
“Good-by, then. I’ve got to telephone for a minister.” The minister was impressed at once with the value of haste in coming, and on his way back to the wedding party Jimmy stopped long enough to hand a five-dollar bill to the telegraph operator.
“Thank you, sir,” said the astonished man. “I have been worrying for fear I had made a mistake about your message.”
“You did. You made the greatest mistake of your life. Thank you!”
SOURCE: The Reader Magazine. Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, May 1905.
THE SET OF POE (1906)
George Ade
Ade (1866–1944) was a farmer’s son from Indiana who attended Purdue University. After graduating, he moved to Chicago, where he became famous for his “Fables in Slang” column (which became a book), and then as a popular playwright for Broadway.
MR. WATERBY REMARKED to his wife: “I’m still tempted by that set of Poe. I saw it in the window today, marked down to fifteen dollars.”
“Yes?” said Mrs. Waterby, with a sudden gasp of emotion, it seemed to him.
“Yes—I believe I’ll have to get it.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you, Alfred,” she said. “You have so many books now.”
“I know I have, my dear, but I haven’t any set of Poe, and that’s what I’ve been wanting for a long time. This edition I was telling you about is beautifully gotten up.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t buy it, Alfred,” she repeated, and there was a note of pleading earnestness in her voice. “It’s so much money to spend for a few books.”
“Well, I know, but—” and then he paused, for the lack of words to express his mortified surprise.
Mr. Waterby had tried to be an indulgent husband. He took a selfish pleasure in giving, and found it more blessed than receiving. Every salary day he turned over to Mrs. Waterby a fixed sum for household expenses. He added to this an allowance for her spending money. He set aside a small amount for his personal expenses and deposited the remainder in the bank.
He flattered himself that he approximated the model husband.
&n
bsp; Mr. Waterby had no costly habits and no prevailing appetite for anything expensive. Like every other man, he had one or two hobbies, and one of his particular hobbies was Edgar Allan Poe. He believed that Poe, of all American writers, was the one unmistakable “genius.”
The word “genius” has been bandied around the country until it has come to be applied to a longhaired man out of work or a stout lady who writes poetry for the rural press. In the case of Poe, Mr. Waterby maintained that “genius” meant one who was not governed by the common mental processes, but “who spoke from inspiration, his mind involuntarily taking superhuman flight into the realm of pure imagination,” or something of that sort. At any rate, Mr. Waterby liked Poe and he wanted a set of Poe. He allowed himself not more than one luxury a year, and he determined that this year the luxury should be a set of Poe.
Therefore, imagine the hurt to his feelings when his wife objected to his expending fifteen dollars for that which he coveted above anything else in the world.
As he went to his work that day he reflected on Mrs. Waterby’s conduct. Did she not have her allowance of spending money? Did he ever find fault with her extravagance? Was he an unreasonable husband in asking that he be allowed to spend this small sum for that which would give him many hours of pleasure, and which would belong to Mrs. Waterby as much as to him?
He told himself that many a husband would have bought the books without consulting his wife. But he (Waterby) had deferred to his wife in all matters touching family finances, and he said to himself, with a tincture of bitterness in his thoughts, that probably he had put himself into the attitude of a mere dependent.
For had she not forbidden him to buy a few books for himself ? Well, no, she had not forbidden him, but it amounted to the same thing. She had declared that she was firmly opposed to the purchase of Poe.
Mr. Waterby wondered if it were possible that he was just beginning to know his wife. Was she a selfish woman at heart? Was she complacent and good-natured and kind only while she was having her own way? Wouldn’t she prove to be an entirely different sort of woman if he should do as many husbands do—spend his income on clubs and cigars and private amusement, and gave her the pickings of small change?
Nothing in Mr. Waterby’s whole experience as a married man had so wrenched his sensibilities and disturbed his faith as Mrs. Waterby’s objection to the purchase of the set of Poe. There was but one way to account for it. She wanted all the money for herself, or else she wanted him to put it into the bank so that she could come into it after he—but this was too monstrous.
However, Mrs. Waterby’s conduct helped to give strength to Mr. Waterby’s meanest suspicions.
Two or three days after the first conversation she asked: “You didn’t buy that set of Poe, did you, Alfred?”
“No, I didn’t buy it,” he answered, as coldly and with as much hauteur as possible.
He hoped to hear her say: “Well, why don’t you go and get it? I’m sure that you want it, and I’d like to see you buy something for yourself once in a while.”
That would have shown the spirit of a loving and unselfish wife.
But she merely said, “That’s right; don’t buy it,” and he was utterly unhappy, for he realized that he had married a woman who did not love him and who simply desired to use him as a pack-horse for all household burdens.
As soon as Mr. Waterby had learned the horrible truth about his wife he began to recall little episodes dating back years, and now he pieced them together to convince himself that he was a deeply wronged person.
Small at the time and almost unnoticed, they now accumulated to prove that Mrs. Waterby had no real anxiety for her husband’s happiness. Also, Mr. Waterby began to observe her more closely, and he believed that he found new evidences of her unworthiness. For one thing, while he was in gloom over his discovery and harassed by doubts of what the future might reveal to him, she was content and even-tempered.
The holiday season approached and Mr. Waterby made a resolution. He decided that if she would not permit him to spend a little money on himself he would not buy the customary Christmas present for her.
“Selfishness is a game at which two can play,” he said.
Furthermore, he determined that if she asked him for any extra money for Christmas he would say: “I’m sorry, my dear, but I can’t spare any. I am so hard up that I can’t even afford to buy a few books I’ve been wanting a long time. Don’t you remember that you told me that I couldn’t afford to buy that set of Poe?”
Could anything be more biting as to sarcasm or more crushing as to logic?
He rehearsed this speech and had it all ready for her, and he pictured to himself her humiliation and surprise at discovering that he had some spirit after all and a considerable say-so whenever money was involved.
Unfortunately for his plan, she did not ask for any extra spending money, and so he had to rely on the other mode of punishment. He would withhold the expected Christmas present. In order that she might fully understand his purpose, he would give presents to both of the children.
It was a harsh measure, he admitted, but perhaps it would teach her to have some consideration for the wishes of others.
It must be said that Mr. Waterby was not wholly proud of his revenge when he arose on Christmas morning. He felt that he had accomplished his purpose, and he told himself that his motives had been good and pure, but still he was not satisfied with himself.
He went to the dining-room, and there on the table in front of his plate was a long paper box, containing ten books, each marked “Poe.” It was the edition he had coveted.
“What’s this?” he asked, winking slowly, for his mind could not grasp in one moment the fact of his awful shame.
“I should think you ought to know, Alfred,” said Mrs. Waterby, flushed, and giggling like a schoolgirl.
“Oh, it was you.”
“My goodness, you’ve had me so frightened! That first day, when you spoke of buying them and I told you not to, I was just sure that you suspected something. I bought them a week before that.”
“Yes—yes,” said Mr. Waterby, feeling the saltwater in his eyes. At that moment he had the soul of a wretch being whipped at the stake.
“I was determined not to ask you for any money to pay for your own presents,” Mrs. Waterby continued. “Do you know I had to save for you and the children out of my regular allowance. Why, last week I nearly starved you, and you never noticed it at all. I was afraid you would.”
“No, I—didn’t notice it,” said Mr. Waterby, brokenly, for he was confused and giddy.
This self-sacrificing angel—and he had bought no Christmas present for her!
It was a fearful situation, and he lied his way out of it.
“How did you like your present?” he asked.
“Why, I haven’t seen it yet,” she said, looking across at him in surprise.
“You haven’t? I told them to send it up yesterday.”
The children were shouting and laughing over their gifts in the next room, and he felt it his duty to lie for their sake.
“Well, don’t tell me what it is,” interrupted Mrs. Waterby. “Wait until it comes.”
“I’ll go after it.”
He did go after it, although he had to drag a jeweller away from his home on Christmas-day and have him open his great safe. The ring which he selected was beyond his means, it is true, but when a man has to buy back his self-respect, the price is never too high.
SOURCE: George Ade. In Babel: Stories of Chicago. New York: A. Wessels Company, 1906.
OUR VERY WISHES (1909)
Harriet Prescott Spofford
Spofford (1835–1921) was born in Maine, and, to make money for her struggling family, began writing stories in her twenties for Boston newspapers. She went on to publish hundreds of short stories as well as poems, plays, and novels.
IT WAS NATURAL that it should be quiet for Mrs. Cairnes in her empty house. Once there had been such a family of brothers and
sisters there! But one by one they had married, or died, and at any rate had drifted out of the house, so that she was quite alone with her work, and her memories, and the echoes in her vacant rooms. She hadn’t a great deal of work; her memories were not pleasant; and the echoes were no pleasanter. Her house was as comfortable otherwise as one could wish; in the very center of the village it was, too, so that no one could go to church, or to shop, or to call, unless Mrs. Cairnes was aware of the fact, if she chose; and the only thing that protected the neighbors from this supervision was Mrs. Cairnes’s mortal dread of the sun on her carpet; for the sun lay in that bay-windowed corner nearly all the day, and even though she filled the window full of geraniums and vines and calla-lilies she could not quite shut it out, till she resorted to sweeping inner curtains.
Mrs. Cairnes did her own work, because, as she said, then she knew it was done. She had refused the company of various individuals, because, as she said again, she wouldn’t give them house-room. Perhaps it was for the same reason that she had refused several offers of marriage; although the only reason that she gave was that one was quite enough, and she didn’t want any boots bringing in mud for her to wipe up. But the fact was that Captain Cairnes had been a mistake; and his relict never allowed herself to dwell upon the fact of her loss, but she felt herself obliged to say with too much feeling that all was for the best; and she dared not risk the experiment again.
Mrs. Cairnes, however, might have been lonelier if she had been very much at home; but she was President of the First Charitable, and Secretary of the Second, and belonged to a reading-club, and a sewing-circle, and a bible-class, and had every case of illness in town more or less to oversee, and the circulation of the news to attend to, and so she was away from home a good deal, and took many teas out. Some people thought that if she hadn’t to feed her cat she never would go home. But the cat was all she had, she used to say, and nobody knew the comfort it was to her. Yet, for all this, there were hours and seasons when, obliged to stay in the house, it was intolerably dreary there, and she longed for companionship. “Someone with an interest,” she said. “Someone who loves the same things that I do, who cares for me, and for my pursuits. Someone like Sophia Maybury. Oh! how I should have liked to spend my last days with Sophia! What keeps Dr. Maybury alive so, I can’t imagine. If he had only—gone to his rest,” said the good woman, “Sophia and I could join our forces and live together in clover. And how we should enjoy it! We could talk together, read together, sew together. No more long, dull evenings and lonely nights listening to the mice. But a friend, a dear sister, constantly at hand! Sophia was the gentlest young woman, the prettiest,—oh, how I loved her in those days! She was a part of my youth. I love her just as much now. I wish she could come and live here. She might, if there weren’t any Dr. Maybury. I can’t stand this solitude. Why did fate make me such a social old body, and then set me here all alone?”
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