'Charge It': Keeping Up With Harry

  VI

  IN WHICH BETSEY COMMITS AN INDISCRETION

  "Christmas was approaching, and Betsey said to me one day that she hadbeen guilty of a great extravagance.

  "'I know you will forgive me just this once,' she went on. 'My lovefor you is so extravagant that I had to keep pace with it. You'vesimply got to accept something very grand.'

  "'I can't think of anything that I need unless it's a new jack-knife,'I said.

  "'Nonsense!' she exclaimed. 'You've got to let me spend some money foryou. I've been held down in the expression of my affections as long asI can stand it. I've doubled my charities since we were married, as atoken of my gratitude, and now I've a right to do something to pleasemyself.'

  "'All right! We'll lift the lid,' I said. 'We can lie about it, Isuppose, and cover up our folly.'

  "'Well, of course we don't have to tell what it cost,' said Betsey;'and, Socrates, you can't expect to reform me in a year. It's takenhalf a lifetime to acquire my follies.'

  "That's one trouble with the whole problem. You can't tear down astructure which has been slowly rising for half a century in a day, orin many days.

  "Christmas arrived, and Betsey went down-stairs with me and covered myeyes in the hall and led me to the grand piano. Then I was permittedto look, and there was the most gorgeous set of books that my eyesever beheld--a set of Smollett, in lovely brown calf, decorated withmagnificent gold tooling! Yes, I love such things--who doesn't?--andI gave Betsey a great hug, and we sat down with tears in our eyes tolook at the pages of vellum and the wonderful etchings which adornedso many of them. They were charming. I knew that the books had cost atleast a thousand dollars. Grandpa Smead looked awfully stern in hisgold frame on the wall.

  "'Now don't think too badly of me,' she urged. 'Every poor familywithin twenty miles is eating dinner at my expense this ChristmasDay.'

  "'You are the dearest girl in all the land!' I said. 'There's nobodylike you.'

  "'I knew that you were fond of the classics,' said Betsey, 'so Iconsulted Harry Delance, and he suggested that I should give you a setof Smollett; said it would renew your youth. You know he's devoted toSmollett.'

  "'And why shouldn't we keep up with Harry?' I said.

  "'Well, you know he took the first prize in literature, and ought tohave excellent taste. Then the young man who sold the set to me isworking his way through Yale. I was glad to help him, too; herecommended these books--said they were moral and uplifting--not atall like the modern trash. He knew that we enjoyed home reading. Marywill read them aloud to us, and we'll enjoy them together.'

  "This father of romance was not unknown to me, and I did not share herconfidence in the joys ahead of us, but said nothing.

  "After a fine dinner Betsey wanted to start in at once. We sat down bythe fireside while her secretary began to read aloud from one of thetreasured volumes. I had not read the story, and chose it as being theleast likely to make trouble. In a short time we came to rough goingand the young woman began to falter.

  "'That will do,' said Betsey, suddenly, as I tried to conceal myemotions.

  "She took the book from the hands of her secretary and read on insilence for a minute or so.

  "'My land!' she exclaimed, with a look of horror. 'That book wouldcorrupt the morals of John Bunyan.'

  "'Never mind; John never lived in Pointview,' I argued. 'He didn'thave a chance to get hardened.'

  "Betsey had a determined look in her face, and rang for the coachman.

  "'I'll have them stored in the stable,' said she, firmly.

  "'If you don't keep it locked, all the women in the neighborhood'll bein there,' I warned her, knowing that she couldn't help telling herfriends of what had happened.

  "'That's no reason why the men should be unduly exposed,' said Betsey.'Poor things! It's my duty to protect _you_ as long as I can,Socrates.'

  "I promised to get rid of the books somehow, and persuaded her to letthem stay where they were until I had had time to think about it. Thenshe said:

  "'Socrates, forgive me. I didn't mean it, and I wanted to be so niceto you. I guess it's a just punishment for my extravagance. I thoughtthe modern novels were bad enough. What can I do for you now?'

  "'Always, when you're in doubt, do nothing,' I suggested.

  "'Oh, I know what I'll do!' she exclaimed, joyfully. 'I'll knit you apair of socks with my own hands.'

  "'Eureka!' I shouted. 'Those socks shall make footprints on the sandsof time.'"