Mrs. Detwiller met her at church and said:
"Yesterday morning at eleven I had the most curious presentiment, my dear. I remember the hour so exactly because I"ve been making it a rule to begin work on your Christmas present every morning at-- Oh, but I didn"t inTend to let you know. No, dearie, I won"t tell you what it is. But I can"t help believing it"s Just what you"ll need in New York."
Myra Eppley, with whom Mrs. Budlong had never exchanged Christmas presents, at all, but with whom an intimacy had sprung up since Mrs.
Budlong came into the reputation of her money--Myra Eppley had the effrontery to call up on the telephone and say:
"Would you mind telling me, my dear, the shade of wall paper you"re going to have in your New York parlor, because I"m making you the daintiest little--well, no matter, but will you tell me?"
Poor Mrs. Budlong almost swooned from the telephone. She did not know what the color of her wall paper would be in New York. She did not know that she would ever have wall paper in New York. She only knew that Myra Eppley, too, was calling her "my dear." Myra Eppley also was going to give her a Christmas present. And would have to be given one.
Mrs. Budlong had received fair warning, but she felt about as grateful as a wayfarer feels to the rattlesnake that whizzes "Make r-r-r-ready for the corrroner-r-r."
Next, young Mrs. Chur (Editha Cinnamon as was, for she had finally landed Mr. Chur in spite of the accident--or because of it) called up to say:
"Oh, my dear, my husband wants to know what brand of cigars your husband smokes; and would you tell me, dearie--it"s rather personal, but--what size bath-slippers you wear?"
When Sally Swezey came to the Progressive Euchre skirmish at Mrs.
Budlong"s she noted with joy that her hint had borne fruit. The prizes were indeed of solid gold. Mr. Budlong did not learn it till the first of the following month when the bill came in from Jim Henderson"s jewelry store.
As if she had not done enough in forcing solid gold prizes on Mr.
Budlong, Sally had to say:
"I"m just dying to see your back parlor, my dear, this next Christmas afternoon. It has always been a sight for sore eyes; but this Christmas it will be a perfect wonder, for I do declare everybody in town is going to send you something nice."
This conviction was already chilling Mrs. Budlong"s marrow. Of old she would have rejoiced at the golden triumph, but now she could only realize that if everybody in Carthage sent her something nice, it was because everybody in Carthage expected something nicer. And her Christmas crops were hopelessly backward. At a time when she should be half done, she could not even begin. She had not tatted or smeared or hammered a thing.
VI
DESPAIR AND AN IDEA
Days and days went by in a stupor of dull hopelessness. Thanksgiving came and the Budlong turkey might as well have been a crow. In desperation she decided to make a tentative exploration of the shops now burgeoning with Christmas splendor; every window a spasm of gewgaws. Since she had no time to make, she must buy.
The length of her list sent her to the cheaper counters, but she was not permitted to browse among them. At Strouther and Streckfuss"s, Mr.
Strouther came up and said with reeking unctuousness:
"Vat is Mees Bootlonk doink down here amonkst all this tresh? Come see our importet novelties."
And he led her to a region where the minimum price was MBBA-BDJA, which meant that it cost 12.25 and could be safely marked down to 23.75.
She eluded him and got back to the 25-cent realm only to be apprehended by Mr. Streckfuss, who beamed:
"Ah, nothink is here for a lady like you are. Only fine kvality suits such a taste you got."
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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.s "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 gla.s.ses, 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."