in which the honorable socrates potter catches up with lizzie
early in june i was invited to the wedding of miss betsey smead and the honorable socrates potter. miss betsey had inherited a large estate, and lived handsomely in the smead homestead, built by her grandfather. she was a woman of taste and refinement, but, in deference to socrates, no doubt, the invitations had been printed in the office of the local newspaper. there could have been no better example of honest simplicity. the good news sent me in quest of my friend the lawyer. i found him in miss betsey's library. he was in high spirits and surrounded by treasures of art.
"yes, i'm in luck," he began. "miss betsey is a dear soul. we're bound to be happy in spite of all this polished brass an' plate an' mahogany. there's nothin' here that i can put my feet on, except the rugs or the slippery floor or the fender. everything has the appearance o' bein' more valuable than i am. if it was mine i'd take an axe an' bring things down to my level. i'm kind o' scairt for fear i'll sp'ile suthin' er other. sometimes i feel as if i'd like to crawl under the grand pyano an' git out o' danger. now look at old gran'pa smead in his gold frame on the wall. he's got me buffaloed. watches every move i make. betsey laughs an' tells me i can sp'ile anything i want to, but gran'pa is ever remindin' me o' the ancient law o' the smeads an' the persians."
"mr. potter, i owe so much to you," i said. "i want to make you a present—something that you and your wife will value. i've thought about it for weeks. can you—"
he interrupted me with a smile and these gently spoken words:
"friends who wish to express their good-will in gifts are requested to consider the large an' elegant stock o' goods in the local ninety-nine-cent store. everything from socks to sunbursts may be found there. necklaces an' tiaras are not prohibited if guaranteed to be real ninety-nine-centers. these days nobody has cheap things. that makes them rare an' desirable. all diamonds should weigh at least half a pound. smaller stones are too common. everybody has them, you know. why, the wife of the butcher's clerk is payin' fifty cents a week on a solitaire. gold, silver, an' automobiles will be politely but firmly refused—too common, far too common! nothin' is desired likely to increase envy or bank loans or other forms of contemporaneous crime in pointview. we would especially avoid increasin' the risk an' toil of overworked an' industrious burglars. they have enough to do as it is—poor fellows—they hardly get a night's rest. miss betsey's home has already given 'em a lot o' trouble."
his humor had relieved its pressure in the deep, good-natured chuckle of the yankee, as he strode up an' down the floor with both hands in his trousers pockets.
"look at that ol' duffer," he went on, as he pointed at the stern features of grandpa smead. "wouldn't ye think he'd smile now an' then. maybe he'll cheer up after i've lived here awhile."
he moved a couple of chairs to give him more room, an' went on:
"now, there's bill warburton. i supposed he was a friend o' mine, but we had a fight in school, years ago, an' i guess he's never got over it. anyhow, i caught him tryin' to slip an automobile on me—just caught him in time. there he was tryin' to rob me o' the use o' my legs an' about fifteen hundred a year for expenses an' build me up into a fat man with indigestion an' liver-complaint. i served an injunction on him.
"another man has tried to make me the lifelong slave of a silver service. he'd gone down to fifth avenue an' ordered it, an' i suppose it would 'a' cost thousands. tried to sneak it on me. can ye think o' anything meaner? it would 'a' cost me a pretty penny for insurance an' storage the rest o' my life, an' then think of our—ahem—our poor children! why, it would be as bad as a mortgage debt. every time i left home i would have worried about that silver service; every time the dog barked at night i would have trembled in my bed for the safety o' the silver service; every time we had company i would have been afraid that somebody was goin' to scratch the silver service; an' when i saw a stranger in town, i would have said to myself: 'ah, ha! it may be that he has heard of our silver service an' has come to steal it.' i would have begun to regard my servants an' many other people with dread an' suspicion. why, once i knew a man who had a silver service, an' they carried it up three nights to the attic every night for fifty years. they figured that they'd walked eleven hundred miles up an' down stairs with the silver service in their hands. the thought that they couldn't take it with 'em hastened an' embittered their last days. then the heirs learned that it wasn't genuine after all.
"of course, i put another injunction upon that man. 'if we've ever done anything to you, forgive us,' i said, 'but please do not cripple us with gold or silver.'"
he stopped and put his hand upon my shoulder and continued:
"my young friend, if you would make us a gift, i wish it might be something that will give us pleasure an' not trouble, something that money cannot buy an' thieves cannot steal—your love an' good wishes to be ours as long as you live an' we live—at least. we shall need no token o' that but your word an' conduct."
i assured him of all he asked for with a full heart.
"should i come dressed?" was my query.
"dressed, yes, but not dressed up," he answered. "neither white neckties nor rubber boots will be required."
"how are mr. and mrs. bill?"
"happier than ever," said he. "incidentally they've learned that life isn't all a joke, for one of those little brownies led them to the gate of the great mystery an' they've begun to look through it an' are' wiser folks. two other women are building orphan lodges on their grounds, an' there's no tellin' where the good work will end."
we were interrupted by the entrance of miss betsey smead. she was a comely, bustling, cheerful little woman of about forty-five, with a playful spirit like that of socrates himself.
"this is my financee," said socrates. "she has waited for me twenty-five years."
"and he kept me waiting—the wretch!—just because my grandfather left me his money," said miss betsey.
"i shall never forgive that man," said socrates, as he shook his fist at the portrait. "an' she was his only grandchild, too."
"and think how comfortable he might have been here, and how i've worried about him." miss betsey went on: "here, soc., put your feet on this piano seat. now you look at home."
"when i achieve the reformation of betsey i shall have a kitchen table to put my feet on!" said soc., as i left them.
then i decided that i would send him a kitchen table.
