By almost superfeminine strength she evaded purchasing anything. She went to other shops only to be haled to the expensive counters. Storekeepers simply would not discuss cheap things with the millionairess-elect.
She crept home and threw herself on her husband’s mercy. He had none and she lighted hard. It was the first of December, and in addition to his monthly rage, Mr. Budlong was working himself up to his regular pre-Christmas frenzy, when he always felt poor and talked poorer to keep the family in check.
His face was a study when he had heard his wife’s state of mind. Forthwith he delivered the annual address on Christmas folly that one hears from fathers of families all round the world at this time:
“Christmas has quit being a sign of people’s affections,” Mr. Budlong thundered. “It has become a public menace. It’s worse than Wall Street. Wall Street is supposed have started as the thermometer of the country’s business and now it’s gone and got so goldum big that the thermometer is makin’ the weather. When Wall Street feels muggy it’s got to rain and the sun don’t dare shine without takin’ a peek at the thermometer first off.
“Christmas ain’t any longer an opportunity to show good will to your neighbors. It’s a time when you got to show off before your neighbors. You women make yourselves and us men sick the way you carry on all through December. And the children!—they’re worse’n the grown-ups.
“Old-fashioned Christmas was like old-fashioned circuses—mostly meant for the young ones. Nowadays circuses have growed so big and so improper that nobody would dast take a child to one, or if you do, they get crazy notions.
“When I was a boy, if I got a drum and a tin horn I was so happy I couldn’t keep quiet. But last Christmas little Ulie Junior cried all day because he got a ’leven dollar automobile when he wanted a areaplane big enough to carry the cat over the barn.
“This Christmas trust business ought to be investigated by the gov’ment and dissolved. Talk about your tariff schedules! What we need is somebody to pare down this Christmas gouge. It’s the one kind of tax you can’t swear off.
“And as for you—why, you’re goin’ daffy. Other years I didn’t mind so much. You spent a lot of time and some money on your annual splurge, but I will say, you took in better’n you gave. But now you’re on the other side the fence. These Carthage women have got you on the run. You’ll have to give ’em twice as good as they send or you’re gone. You’re gone anyway. If you gave each one of ’em a gold platter full of diamonds they’d say you’d inherited Aunt Ida’s stinginess as well as her money.”
Mrs. Budlong went on twisting her fingers: “Oh, of course you’re right, Ule. But what’s the use of being right when it’s so hateful? All I can think of is that Everybody in town is going to give me a present! Everybody!”
“Can’t you take your last year’s presents and pass ’em along to other folks?”
“Everybody would recognize them, and I’d be the talk of the town.”
“You’re that anyway, so what difference does it make?”
“I’d rather die.”
“You’d save a lot of money and trouble if you did.”
“Just look at the list of presents I must give.”
She handed him a bundle of papers. He pushed up his spectacles and put on his reading glasses, and instantly snorted:
“Say! What is this? the town directory?”
He had not read far down the list when he missed one important name. “You’ve overlooked Mrs. Alsop.”
“Oh, her! I’ve quarreled with her. We don’t speak, thank heaven.”
“It would be money In your pocket, if you didn’t speak to anybody. Gosh!” he slapped his knee. “I have an idea. Stop speaking to everybody.”
“Don’t he silly.”
“I mean it.”
VII. FOILED
Ulysses S. G. Budlong was a man fertile in ideas and unflinching in their execution. Otherwise he would never have attained his present unquestioned supremacy, as the leading hay and feed merchant in Carthage.
“It’s as easy as falling off a log,” he urged. “You women are always spatting about something. Now’s your chance to capitalize your spats.”
“Men are such im-boo-hoo-ciles!” was Mrs. Budlong’s comment, as she began to weep. Her husband patted her with a timid awkwardness as if she were the nose of a strange horse. “There! there! we’ll fix this up fine. What did you quarrel with Mrs. Alsop about?”
“She told Sally Swezey and Sally Swezey told me—that I used my Carthage presents to send to relatives in other towns.”
“She flattered you at that,” said Mr. Budlong unconsolingly. “But don’t you dream of forgiving her till after Christmas.”
Mrs. Budlong was having such a good cry, and enjoying the optical hath so heartily, that her grief became very precious to her. It suggested what a beautiful thing grief is to those who make a fine art of it.
She smiled wet-liddedly. “There is nothing in your idea, Ulie, but it has suggested a good one to me. I’ll announce that I can’t celebrate Christmas because of our great grief for Aunt Ida.”
“Great grief!” Mr. Budlong echoed. “Why, you couldn’t have celebrated Aunt Ida’s finish more joyous without you’d serenaded her in Woodlawn with a brass band.”
“Ulysses Budlong! you ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying such a thing!” But she suddenly heard, in fancy, the laugh that would go up if she sprung such an excuse. She gave in:
“We’ll have to quarrel with somebody then. But what excuse is there?”
“Women don’t need any real excuse. You simply telephone Sally Swezey that a certain person told you—and you won’t name any names—that she had been making fun of you and you’d be much obliged if she never spoke to you again for you’d certainly never speak to her again.”
“But how do I know Sally Swezey has been making fun of me?”
“Oh, there ain’t any doubt but what everybody in town is doing that.”
“Ulysses Budlong! how can you talk so!”
“If people without money couldn’t make fun of people with—what consolation would they have? Anyway, it’s not me but the other folks you’re supposed to quarrel with. You spend an hour at that telephone and you can get the whole town by the ears.”
“But I can’t use the same excuse for everybody.”
“You’ll think up plenty once you put your mind to it.” And with that another excuse came in pat. Came in howling and flagrant.
Ulysses Junior burst into the room, as if he had forgotten the presence of the door. He was yelping like a coyote and from his tiny nose an astonishing amount of blood was spouting.
“What on earth is the matter!” the startled mother gasped. “Come here to me, you poor child—and be careful not to bleed on the new rug.”
Ulysses’ articulation was impeded with sobs and the oscillations of three semi-detached teeth, that waved in the breeze as he screamed: “Little Clarence Detwiller licked me! so he did! and I on’y p-pushed him off his sled into a puddle of ice wa-wa-water and he attackted me and kicked my f-f-Face-ace off.”
Mr. and Mrs. Budlong were so elated with the same idea that they forgot to console their heart-broken offspring with more than Mr. Budlong’s curt, “First teeth anyway; saves you a trip to the dentist.” He nodded to his wife.
“Just the excuse we were looking for.”
“Sent direct from heaven,” nodded Mrs. Budlong. “You call up Roscoe Detwiller this minute and tell him his son has criminal tendencies and ought to be in jail and will undoubtedly die on the gallows. Then he won’t speak to you tomorrow.”
“You bet he won’t. He’ll just quietly do to me what his boy did to Ulie. No, my dear, you tell all that to Mrs. Detwiller yourself.”
Mrs. Budlong tossed her head with fine contempt. “What cowards men are! always shielding themselves behind women’s skirts. Well, if you’re afraid, I’m not. I’ll give her the biggest talking to she ever had in her born days.”
She
rose with fortitude and started to the telephone, sneered at it and glared at it. Her husband stood by her to support her in the hour of need. He watched her ask for the number, and snap ferociously at the central. Then she fell panicky again and held the transmitter to him appealingly. He waved her away scornfully.
She set her teeth hard and there was grimness in her eye and tone as she said: “Is this you, Mrs. Detwiller!— Oh, yes, thank you, I’m very well. I wanted to tell you-m—oh, yes, he’s well, too. But what I started to say was— Yes, so Ulie says!— Yes, right in the face— Oh, of course— Naturally— Boys will be— Oh, I’m sorry you punished him. He’s such a sweet child — Oh, don’t think of it. I’m sure it was all Ulie’s fault. It will teach him better next time. He’s so rough!— Oh, really, how awfully sweet of you. Good night, dear.”
She stuck the receiver on the hook and looked for a hook to hang herself on. Her eyes were shifty with shame as she mumbled:
“I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. She apologized.”
“She apologized!” Mr. Budlong roared. “Why, you ate out of her hand. And you were going to show me what a coward I— Butter wouldn’t have melted—say, why didn’t you kiss her?”
Mrs. Budlong was suffering a greater dismay than remorse. “What d’you suppose that cat of a Clara Detwiller’s going to do?” she moaned. “She’s going to make her boy send Ulie a nice Christmas present! And now we’ll have to buy one for Ulie to give to him!”
“Well, of all the—oh, you’re a great manager, you are! You call up a woman to get rid of giving one Christmas present, and now you’ve got to give two. Here! where you going?”
“I’m going to that phone and tell Mrs. Detwiller what I think of her.”
“You keep away from that phone. Before you could ring off again her husband would have a Christmas present wished onto me!”
VIII. FOILED AGAIN
The next morning Mrs. Budlong arose from dreams of finding bargains after all. She felt a spirit in her feet that led her, who knows how, to the Christmas-window street. But the crowds and the prices and the servility of the salesfolk drove her out again.
On her laggard way home she saw Sally Swezey, lean and lanky and somehow reminding her of a flamingo. Sally espied her from afar and stepped a little higher. Mrs. Budlong remembered her husband’s suggestion. She made a quick resolution to do or die. Her cheek was cold and white and her heart beat loud and fast, but she tried to set her double chin into a square jaw, and she passed Sally Swezey as if Sally Swezey were a lamp-post by the curb—a common lamp-post by the curb, and nothing more.
She heard Sally’s gush of greeting stop short as if someone had turned a faucet in her throat; she heard a gulp; then she heard a strangled silence. Then she heard Sally call her name tentatively, tenderly, reproachfully. Then she heard no more. And she knew no more till her feet somehow carried her home. But she had hardly time to flop into a rocker and utter a prayer of gratitude and pride for having been vouchsafed the courage to snub a Carthaginian before Br-r-rr!—the relentless telephone was on her trail. She knew just who it was and she braced herself to meet one of Sally’s sharp-tongued assaults. But Sally said—in part:
“Oh, you poor darling dear, is that you? and how are you now? I was So alarmed for you. You looked So ill and worn and—aren’t the Christmas crowds awful this year? and nothing fit to buy and such prices! and—you must be just worn out. You really must spare yourself, for do you Know what you Did, dearest. You went right By me without Seeing me, or Answering me! Yes, you did! I was so startled that I didn’t have brains enough to run after you and assist you home. I’m so glad you got there alive and I Do hope you’re feeling better and I’m so aShamed of myself for letting you go all that way aLone in that pitiful conDition. Can you ever forGive me?”
When Mr. Budlong came home for luncheon, Mrs. Budlong told him the whole story. He glared at her with an I-give-you-up expression and growled:
“And when she said all that, what did you say?”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Budlong faltered. “All I know is that she’s coming over this afternoon with a lot of that wine jelly I gave her the receipt for.”
“And what do you intend to do this time?” Mr. Budlong demanded. The skeptic in his tone stung her to revolt. She could usually be strong in the presence of her husband. She looked at least like Mrs. Boadicea as she said:
“I intend to tell Sally Swezey what you told me to. And I will accept no apologies, none whatever.”
When Mr. Budlong came home to dinner she avoided his gaze. She confessed that she had changed her program. She hadn’t the heart to insult poor Sally, and she had admitted that she was a hit dizzy and qualmish and she had—well, she—she—
Mr. Budlong finished for her fiercely:
“I know! You ate a lot of her wine jelly, and you told her she was a love and you kissed her good-by, and would she excuse you from coming to the door because you were still a little wobbly.”
Mrs. Budlong looked at him in surprise: “She told you!”
“Nah! I haven’t seen her.”
“Then how on earth did you ever guess?” she babbled.
“It was my womanly intuition!” he snarled, and that evening he went down town and sat in the hotel lobby for a couple of hours. He usually did this anyway—in summer he sat on the sidewalk—but this evening, he did it with a certain implication of escape. He expressed renunciation in the mere shutting of the door.
On the way home Mr. Budlong was busy with schemes. His mind turned again to his son.
In a smallish town, a growing boy is an unfailing source of casus belli.
As an inciter of feuds there was something almost Balkan or Moroccan about Ulysses Budlong Junior. Nearly every day he had come charging into the house with bad news in some form or other. Some rock or snowball he had cast with the most innocent of intentions had gone through a window or a milk wagon or somebody’s silk hat. Or he had pulled a small girl’s hair, or taken the skates away from a helpless urchin. He had bad luck too in picking victims with belligerent big brothers.
Mr. Budlong recognized these desperado traits and he fully expected Ulysses Junior to make him the father of a convict. Suddenly now despair became hope. Let Mrs. Budlong capitalize her spats; he would promote Ulie’s. The affair Detwiller had turned out badly, but Mr. Budlong would not yield to one defeat. He watched eagerly for the next misdemeanor of his young hopeless. He relied on him to embroil, as it were, all Europe in an international conflict.
But the dove of peace seemed to have alighted on Ulysses’ shoulder. He even began to go to Sunday School—the Methodist this year because they had given the largest cornucopias in town the Christmas before. And he talked nothing but Golden Texts till Mr. Budlong began to fear that he would one day be the father of a parson.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Budlong grew bellicose again. She snubbed people right and left, but they generously imputed it to absent-mindedness. She failed to go to the dinner party the Teeples gave in her honor, and she sent no excuse. This was the unpardonable sin in Carthage and the Budlong chairs sat vacant through the dinner.
But Mrs. Teeple graciously assumed that she was ill and sent over the cut flowers off the table. And she hoped the poor dear would feel better soon.
A few days later Mrs. Budlong’s pet Maltese kitten was done to nine deaths at once by the Disney’s fox terrier. Mrs. Budlong mourned the kitten, but there was consolation in the thought that she could now cut the Disneys off her list.
Before she could get the kitten decently interred in the back yard, Mrs. Disney was at the front door. She flung her arms round Mrs. Budlong and wept, declaring that she had resolved to give the murderous terrier away to a farmer, and had already sent to Chicago for a pedigreed Angora to replace the Maltese. It would arrive the day before Christmas.
IX. WORSE, AND MORE OF IT
As if that were not enough for one day, in the afternoon Johnetta Ackerley called. She saw Mrs. Budlong at an upper window and waved to her
as she came along the walk. When the cook arrived upstairs like a grand piano moving in, Mrs. Budlong said in an icy tone:
“Not at home.”
“But I told her you was. And she seen you at the windy.”
“Not!—at!—home!”
“But I’m after telling her—”
Mrs. Budlong could be as stern as steel with her husband or her servants. She cowed Brigida into lumbering downstairs with the message. Mrs. Budlong went to the window to triumph over her victim’s retreat in a panic of confusion.
Instead, she heard a light patter of footsteps and Johnetta Ackerley hurried into the room.
“Oh, my dear, are you ill? Pardon my coming right up, but the cook takes so long and I was so worried for fear you were—but you aren’t, are you?”
Mrs. Budlong was at bay. She glared at the intruder and threw up her chin. Johnetta stared at her aghast.
“Why, my dear! you aren’t mad at me, are you?”
Mrs. Budlong smiled bitterly, and said nothing. Johnetta shrilled:
“Why, what have I done?”
As a matter of fact, what had she done? All that Mrs. Budlong could think of was her husband’s unused suggestion for a war with Sally Swezey. She spoke through locked teeth:
“It’s not what you’ve done but what you’ve said.”
“Why, what have I said?”
“You know well enough what you’ve been saying behind my back, and you needn’t think that people don’t come and tell me. I name no names, but I know! Oh, I know!”
Now, of course, everybody says things behind everybody else’s back that nobody would care to have repeated to anybody. Through Johnetta Ackerley’s memory dashed a hundred caustic comments she had made on Mrs. Budlong. She blushed and sighed, turned away and closed the door after her, like the last line of an elegy.
A surge of triumph swept over Mrs. Budlong. Success at last.
Then the door opened and Johnetta reappeared on the sill with a look of angelic contrition.
“I hardly know what to say,” she said. “Of course, I must admit I did rather forget myself. It was at the last meeting of the Progressive Euchre Club and everybody was criticizing you for having solid gold prizes when they were at your house. They said it was vulgar ostentation. I didn’t say anything for the longest time, but finally when they all said your money had gone to your head, hadn’t it, I admit I did mumble, ‘It seems so.’ But it is only what everybody else says all the time, and I assure you I didn’t really mean it. Of course nobody can behave just the same after they are a millionaire as they did before. But I am awfully fond of you and—and—”
The Second Christmas Megapack Page 41
