The Booming of Acre Hill And Other Reminiscences of Urban and Suburban Life

THE RESOLVE

  “For when two
  Join in the same adventure, one perceives
  Before the other how they ought to act.”

  —­BRYANT.

Mrs. Upton had made up her mind that it must be, and that was the beginning of the end.  The charming match-maker had not indulged her passion for making others happy, willy-nilly, for some time—­not, in fact, since she had arranged the match between Marie Willoughby and Jack Hearst, which, as the world knows, resulted first in a marriage, and then, as the good lady had not foreseen, in a South Dakota divorce.  This unfortunate termination to her well-meant efforts in behalf of the unhappy pair was a severe blow to Mrs. Upton.  She had been for many years the busiest of match-makers, and seldom had she failed to bring about desirable results.  In the homes of a large number of happy pairs her name was blessed for all that she had done, and until this no unhappy marriage had ever come from her efforts.  One or two engagements of her designing had failed to eventuate, owing to complications over which she had no control, and with which she was in no way concerned; but that was merely one of the risks of the business in which she was engaged.  The most expert artisan sometimes finds that he has made a failure of some cherished bit of work, but he does not cease to pursue his vocation because of that.  So it was with Mrs. Upton, and when some of her plans went askew, and two young persons whom she had designed for each other chose to take two other young people into their hearts instead, she accepted the situation with a merely negative feeling of regret.  But when she realized that it was she who had brought Marie Willoughby and Jack Hearst together, and had, beyond all question, made the match which resulted so unhappily, then was Mrs. Upton’s regret and sorrow of so positive a nature that she practically renounced her chief occupation in life.

“I’ll never, never, never, so long as I live, have anything more to do with bringing about marriages!” she cried, tearfully, to her husband, when that worthy gentleman showed her a despatch in the evening paper to the effect that Mr. and Mrs. Jack had invoked the Western courts to free them from a contract which had grown irksome to both.  “I shall not even help the most despairing lover over a misunderstanding which may result in two broken hearts.  I’m through.  The very idea of Marie Willoughby and Johnny Hearst not being able to get along together is preposterous.  Why, they were made for each other.”

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” returned Upton, with whom it was a settled principle of life always to agree with his better half.  “But sometimes there’s a flaw in the workmanship, my dear, and while Marie may have been made for Jack, and Jack for Marie, it is just possible that the materials were not up to the specifications.”

“Well, it’s a burning shame, anyhow,” said Mrs. Upton, “and I’ll never make another match.”

“That’s good,” said Upton.  “I wouldn’t—­or, if I did, I’d see to it that it was a safety, instead of a fusee that burns fiercely for a minute and then goes out altogether.  Stick to vestas.”

“I don’t know what you mean by vestas, but I’m through just the same,” retorted Mrs. Upton; and she really was—­for five years.

“Vestas are nice quiet matches that don’t splurge and splutter.  They give satisfaction to everybody.  They burn evenly, and are altogether the swell thing in matches—­and their heads don’t fly off either,” Upton explained.

“Well, I won’t make even a vesta, you old goose,” said Mrs. Upton, smiling faintly.

“You’ve made one, and it’s a beauty,” observed Upton, quietly, referring of course to their own case.

So, as I have said, Mrs. Upton forswore her match-making propensities for a period of five years, and people noting the fact marvelled greatly at her strength of character in keeping her hands out of matters in which they had once done such notable service.  And it did indeed require much force of character in Mrs. Upton to hold herself aloof from the matrimonial ventures of others; for, although she was now a woman close upon forty, she had still the feelings of youth; she was fond of the society of young people, and had been for a long time the best-beloved chaperon in the community.  It was hard for her to watch a growing romance and not help it along as she had done of yore; and many a time did her lips withhold the words that trembled upon them—­words which would have furthered the fortunes of a worthy suitor to a waiting hand—­but she had resolved, and there was the end of it.

It is history, however, that the strongest characters will at times falter and fall, and so it was with Mrs. Upton and her resolution finally.  There came a time when the pressure was too strong to be resisted.

“I can’t help it, Henry,” she said, as she thought it all over, and saw wherein her duty lay.  “We must bring Molly Meeker and Walter together.  He is just the sort of a man for her; and if there is one thing he needs more than another to round out his character, it is a wife like Molly.”

“Remember your oath, my dear,” replied Upton.

“But this will be a vesta, Henry,” smiled Mrs. Upton.  “Walter and you are very much alike, and you said the other night that Molly reminded you of me—­sometimes.”

“That’s true,” said Upton.  “She does—­that’s what I like about her—­but, after all, she isn’t you.  A mill-pond might remind you at times of a great and beautiful lake, but it wouldn’t be the lake, you know.  I grant that Walter and I are alike as two peas, but I deny that Molly can hold a candle to you.”

“Oh you!” snapped Mrs. Upton.  “Haven’t you got your eyes opened to my faults yet?”

“Yessum,” said Upton.  “They’re great, and I couldn’t get along without ’em, but I wouldn’t stand them for five minutes if I’d married Molly Meeker instead of you.  You’d better keep out of this.  Stick to your resolution.  Let Molly choose her own husband, and Walter his wife.  You never can tell how things are going to turn out.  Why, I introduced Willie Timpkins to George Barker at the club one night last winter, feeling that there were two fellows who were designed by Providence for the old Damon and Pythias performance, and it wasn’t ten minutes before they were quarrelling like a couple of cats, and every time they meet nowadays they have to be introduced all over again.”

“I don’t wonder at that at all,” said Mrs. Upton.  “Willie Timpkins is precisely the same kind of a person that George Barker is, and when they meet each other and realize that they are exactly alike, and see how sort of small and mean they really are, it destroys their self-love.”

“I never saw it in that light before,” said Upton, reflectively, “but I imagine you are right.  There’s lots in that.  If a man really wrote down on paper his candid opinion of himself, he’d have a good case for slander against the publisher who printed it—­I guess.”

“I should think you’d have known better than to bring those two together, and under the circumstances I don’t wonder they hate each other,” said Mrs. Upton.

“Sympathy ought to count for something,” pleaded Upton.  “Don’t you think?”

“Of course,” replied Mrs. Upton; “but a man wants to sympathize with the other fellow, not with himself.  If you were a woman you’d understand that a little better.  But to return to Molly and Walter—­don’t you think they really were made for each other?”

“No, I don’t,” said Upton.  “I don’t believe that anybody ever was made for anybody else.  On that principle every baby that is born ought to be labelled:  Fragile.  Please forward to Soandso.  This ‘made-for-each-other’ business makes me tired.  It’s predestination all over again, which is good enough for an express package, but doesn’t go where souls are involved.  Suppose that through some circumstance over which he has no control a Michigan man was made for a Russian girl—­how the deuce is she to get him?”

“That’s all nonsense, Henry,” said Mrs. Upton, impatiently.  “I don’t know why,” observed Upton.  “I can quite understand how a Michigan man might make a first-rate husband for a Russian girl.  Your idea involves the notion of affinity, and if I know anything about affinities, they have to go chasing each other through the universe for cycle after cycle, in the hope of some day meeting—­and it’s all beastly nonsense.  My affinity might be Delilah, and Samson’s your beautiful self; but I’ll tell you, on my own responsibility, that if I had caught Samson hanging about your father’s house during my palmy days I’d have thrashed the life out of him, whether his hair was short or long, and don’t you forget it, Mrs. Upton.”

Mrs. Upton laughed heartily.  “I’ve no doubt you could have done it, my dear Henry,” said she.  “I’d have helped you, anyhow.  But affinities or not, we are placed here for a certain purpose—­”

“I presume so,” said Upton.  “I haven’t found out what it is, but I’m satisfied.”

“Yes—­and so am I. Now,” continued Mrs. Upton, “I think that we all ought to help each other along.  Whether I am your affinity or not, or whether you are mine—­”

“I am yours—­for keeps, too,” said Upton.  “I shall be just as attentive in heaven, where marriage is not recognized, as I am here, if I hang for it.”

“Well—­however that may be, we have this life to live, and we should go about it in the best way possible.  Now I believe that Walter will be more of a man, will accomplish more in the end, if he marries Molly than he will as a bachelor, or if he married—­Jennie Perkins, for instance, who is so much of a manly woman that she has no sympathy with either sex.”

“Right!” said Upton.

“You like Walter, don’t you, and want him to succeed?”

“I do.”

“You realize that an unmarried physician hasn’t more than half a chance?”

“Unfortunately yes,” said Upton.  “Though I don’t agree that a man can cut your leg off more expertly or carry you through the measles more successfully just because he has happened to get married.  As a matter of fact, when I have my leg cut off I want it to be done by a man who hasn’t been kept awake all night by the squalling of his lately arrived son.”

“Nevertheless,” said Mrs. Upton, “society decrees that a doctor needs a wife to round him out.  There’s no disputing that fact—­and it is perfectly proper.  Bachelors may know all about the science of medicine, and make a fair showing in surgery, but it isn’t until a man is married that he becomes the wholly successful practitioner who inspires confidence.”

“I suppose it’s so,” said Upton.  “No doubt of it.  A man who has suffered always does do better—­”

“Henry!” ejaculated Mrs. Upton, severely.  “Remember this:  I didn’t marry you because I thought you were a cynic.  Now Walter as a young physician needs a wife—­”

“I suppose he’s got to have somebody to confide professional secrets to,” said Upton.

“That may be the reason for it,” observed Mrs. Upton; “but whatever the reason, it is a fact.  He needs a wife, and I propose that he shall have one; and it is very important that he should get the right one.”

“Are you going to propose to the girl in his behalf?” queried Henry.

“No; but I think he’s a man of sense, and I know Molly is.  Now I propose to bring them together, and to throw them at each other’s heads in such a way that they won’t either of them guess that I am doing it—­”

“Now, my dear,” interrupted Upton, “don’t!  Don’t try any throwing.  You know as well as I do that no woman can throw straight.  If you throw Molly Meeker at Walter’s head—­”

“I may strike his heart.  Precisely!” said Mrs. Upton, triumphantly.  “And that’s all I want.  Then we shall have a beautiful wedding,” she added, with enthusiasm.  “We’ll give a little dinner on the 18th—­a nice informal dinner.  We’ll invite the Jacksons and the Peltons and Molly and Walter.  They will meet, fall in love like sensible people, and there you are.”

“I guess it’s all right,” said Upton, “though to fall in love sensibly isn’t possible, my dear.  What people who get married ought to do is to fall unreasonably, madly in love—­”

But Mrs. Upton did not listen.  She was already at her escritoire, writing the invitations for the little dinner.