XV.—-SOMETHING HAPPENS TO THE MAN MUGGS
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.
I returned to Mrs. Mullet, full of sober thought.
“Those letters are the voice of his soul,” I said. “It really wants to pay up and be honest.”
She saw my meaning and wept, and said, as soon as she could speak:
“Perhaps, in the sight of God, he has already paid his debts.”
“An honorable delirium isn't quite enough,” I said, “but it does show that his soul is acquiring good habits.”
“I'm so happy that you think so,” she answered.
“Yes, I'd rather have him now with all his past than any count I have seen in Italy. There are all kinds of pasts, but Muggs is ashamed of his—that's something! Of course it isn't safe to jump at conclusions, but it looks as if the love of a decent woman had done a good deal for him.”
I left her with a happy smile on her face, and way down in me I could hear my soul laughing at the wise old country lawyer who had got Muggs so securely placed in his rogue's gallery. He had been reading law in a better book than any on his shelves. I had once smiled when I had read in one of Mr. Chesterton's essays that “Christianity looks for the honest man inside the thief.” I said to myself that I had never seen the honest man aforementioned. But here he was at last. I described him to Betsey.
“The love of that woman has done it,” said she.
“The love of a good woman is a big thing,” I answered, as I put my arm around her. “Kind o' like the finger o' Jesus touching the eyes o' the blind—that's the way it looks to me.”
Next day we drove to Naples. Good-by, Rome, city of lovely shapes and jeweled walls and golden ceilings, graveyard of races and empires, paradise of saints and industrious marryers! How's that for a valedictory? Well, you see, I bought a guitar, and it's time I began to practise.
Naples is different. It's a kind of theater. There the very poor play the part of the starving mendicant as soon as they are able to walk; the cheap tradesman plays the self-sacrificing saint; the fairly well-to-do man plays the part of a millionaire with his trap and horses on the Via Roma, and every driver plays the tyrant. The song of the lash, which had its part in the ancient music of Persia, fills the air of the old city.
It worried us, and we went to Sicily and spent a month at Taormina—a place of which I do not dare to speak for fear of dropping into poetry, and when I drop into poetry I make a good deal of a splash, as you may have observed, and it takes me a week to get dry. Norris fell in love with it, and so did the ladies. I wondered how I was going to get them to move, but not for long.
Gwendolyn and I, sitting alone in the old Greek theater one lovely afternoon, had the talk for which I had been watching my chance.
We sat looking out between the time-worn columns at Ætna and the sea.
“I'm tired of ancient history!” said she, closing her guide-book.
“Let's try modern history,” I suggested. “If you will let me be your Baedeker for a minute I should like to point out to you a noble structure in America which is 'clothed in majestic simplicity.'”
“What is it?” she asked, eagerly.
“The character of Richard Forbes,” I answered. “There's one fact in his history of supreme importance to you and me.”
“Only one!” she exclaimed.
“At least one,” I answered. “It is this: for years he has known every unpleasant fact in the story of your father's life.”
“Uncle Soc,” she interrupted, with a look of joy in her face, “is it—is it really true, or are you just saying it to please me?”
“It's really true,” I said. “When I can't help it I tell the truth. I'm never reckless or immoderate in the use of it, for there's no sense in giving it out in chunks so big that they excite suspicion. I'm kind o' careful with the truth when I tell ye that Richard Forbes is better than all the statues and paintings and domes and golden ceilings in Italy.”
“Uncle Soc, do you think that you could get rooms for us on the next steamer,” she asked.
“Oh, what's your hurry?” I demanded.
She rose and said, with a proud, imperious gesture:
“Me for the United States!”
“I've already engaged the rooms, for I knew what would happen after we had had our talk,” I said.
We were waiting to take our steamer in Naples. The day after we reached there Mrs. Fraley called to see us. She had read in a Roman newspaper that we were at Bertolini's, and she had come over to talk with me “about a dreadful occurrence.” She had raised the spondoolix, and Miss Muriel had achieved the count. They had lived in paradise for three weeks and four days when the count got mad at Muriel and actually beat her over the shoulders with his riding-whip. It was all because the dear child had turkey-trotted with a young Englishman at a ball. She had meant no harm—poor thing!—all the girls were learning these new-fangled dances. Mrs. Fraley had naturally objected to the count's use of the whip, whereupon he had shown her the door and bade her leave his apartments. So she with the beautiful feet had been compelled to walk out of the place which her bounty had provided and go back to the dear old boarding-house. Muriel had followed her. They knew not what to do. Would I please advise her?
“You've done the right thing,” I said. “Keep away from him. He'll be using his cane next. The whip is a good thing, but not if it comes too late in life.”
“But how about my money?” she asked. “I can't afford to lose that.”
“My dear madame, you have already lost it. You may as well charge that to the educational fund. To some people knowledge comes high. I had a good reason for advising you against this marriage. In our land every home is a little republic that plays its part in the larger republics of the town and the county, and the affairs of each home and the welfare of its inhabitants are the concern of all. Here every home is a little independent kingdom. Its master is its king. His will is mostly its law. When he gets mad his whip or his cane may fall upon the transgressor. It's the old feudal spirit—the ancient habit of thought and hand. Of course in most countries wife-beating is forbidden, but generally the woman knows better than to complain, for she finds that it doesn't pay. So she cringes and obeys and holds her tongue. In America that sort of thing doesn't go. If a man tries it, the republic of the town gets hold of him right away. Really, I'd about as soon have the rights of a goat as the rights of a woman in Europe. In spite of that she's often well treated.”
I was interrupted by the porter's clerk, who came with a telegram. It was from Muriel, and it said:
Please tell my aunt to return immediately.
We have made up, and are very, very happy, and we shall both be delighted to see her.
I read it aloud, and she rose and said:
“I'm so glad. Please pardon me for troubling you again.”
I pardoned her, and she went away, and so another American girl had begun to toughen her skin and adjust her spirit to the feudal plan.
The day we sailed a curious thing came to pass in a letter to Norris from Muggs in the handwriting of Mrs. Mullet. It said:
I hope you will be glad to learn that good luck has come to me. I thank God that I am able to return the last sum of money you gave me, with interest to date. My check for it is inclosed herewith. An old investment of mine, long supposed to be worthless, has turned out well. I have sold a part of my stock in it, and with the rest I hope to square accounts with you before long. My health is better, and within a week or so I expect to be married to the noblest woman in the world.
The man's dream had come to pass. His check was in the letter, and there was good money behind it.
“I congratulate you,” I said to Norris when he showed me the letter. “You've really found an honest man inside a thief.”
“Without your help it would have been impossible,” said he. “It's worth ten years of any man's life to have done it. I suppose there's an honest man inside every thief if we could only get at him.”
“And no man is as bad as he seems, and, therefore, if you ever feel like shooting me—don't,” was my answer.
“What luck that she didn't get hold of a count!” Betsey exclaimed. “She was one of the most willing marryers that ever crossed the sea.”
“But she didn't know how to advertise,” I said. “Nobody knew that she had money. One personal in the London Mail or the Paris Herald would have crowded the Excelsior Hotel with impoverished noblemen.”
“And yet I would have supposed that the worst of them would have been better than Muggs.”
“Not I,” was my answer. “Both Muggs and the counts have been mere adventurers—trying to get something for nothing. Muggs knew that he was doing wrong. His offense was so bad that he couldn't doubt its badness. But the consciences of the counts never get any exercise. They don't know that idleness is a crime, that a bought husband is baser than a poodle-dog. They are absolutely convinced of their own respectability. For that reason the average thief has a far better chance of being faced about.”
We sailed. Mrs. Sampf, with a chestful of knockers, and the lumber king, with his bust and portrait, were among our shipmates. The latter had had a stroke of hard luck. Two gamblers at his hotel had won his confidence and taken a hank of his fleece at bridge whist. He had made up his mind that American playmates were more to his liking, that Grant was greater than Alexander, and that universal peace was a dream. This he confided to me one evening as we were lying off Gibraltar in the glare of the searchlights.
Brooms of light were sweeping the waters for fear some sneaking nation would steal in upon them like a thief in the night.
“These Europeans know better than to trust one another,” said I. “Billions for ships an' forts an' armies, an' every dollar of it testifies to the fact that not one of these powers can trust another. 'Yes, you're a good talker,' they seem to say, 'but I know you of old. I'll eat with ye, and drink with ye, and buy with ye, and sell with ye, but dinged if I'll trust ye!”'
“They're a lot of scamps over here,” was the conclusion of Mr. Pike.
“And especially unreliable in bridge whist,” I said.
“But I've made money on the trip,” said the lumber king. “I bought some shares in a copper-mine for fifteen thousand dollars, and they're worth at least ten times that. I happened to know the mine, and he needed the money.”
“If I were you I'd have the details of that transaction engraved on my bust and set it up in my bedroom,” I said, with a laugh.
“Why so?”
“It would give you a chance to get acquainted with yourself.”
“Oh, I was honest with him!” said he. “I told him I'd give him thirty days to redeem the stock.”
“Was it Wilton?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I know him, and if the stock is as good as you say it will be redeemed.”
And it was, and I began to understand why Pike had been hand in glove with Wilton. He had been trying to get hold of his property.
We wept for joy at the sight of our native land—who doesn't?—and Norris, who looked as strong as ever, said that he longed to get back to his task.
Richard met us at the dock, and the young people fell into each other's arms.
“Gwendolyn!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed. “Look here,” said I. “This pair of marryers is not to be interfered with any more.” Muggs and his new wife sailed on the Titanic, and he met his death on the stricken ship like a gentleman; but the bride was saved, and came to see us in Pointview and told us the story of that night.
The ship was a part of the machinery of the great thought trust, which has the world in its grip. The power behind her engines was thinking in terms of dollars and cents—to be gained through the advertisement of a swift voyage—and down she went in a thousand fathoms of icy water.
I said to Norris when we were speaking of this tragedy as we sat by his fireside:
“The greatest of all commandments is this: 'Thou shalt have no other Gods before me.'”
“Neither money nor titles, nor pride nor fear, nor power, nor church nor state,” he added.
“Amen!” was my answer.
Then there fell a long silence, and well down in the depths of it is the end of my story.