IN WHICH LIZZIE EXERTS AN INFLUENCE ON THE AFFAIRS OF THE RICH AND GREAT

A year after Socrates Potter had told of the descent of Lizzie, and the successful beginning of her new life, I called again at his office.

"How is Pointview?" I asked.

"Did ye ever learn how it happened to be called Pointview?" he inquired.

"No."

"Well, it began with a little tavern with a tap-room called the Pointview House, a great many years ago. Travellers used to stop an\' look around for the Point, an\', of course, they couldn\'t see it, for there\'s none here; at least, no point of land. They\'d go in an\' order drinks an\' say:

"\'Landlord, where\'s the point?\'

"An\' the landlord would say: \'Well, boys, if you ain\'t in a hurry you\'ll probably see it purty soon.\'

"All at once it would appear to \'em, an\' it was apt to be an\' amusin\' bit o\' scenery.

"We\'ve always been quick to see a point here, an\' anxious to show it to other people."

He leaned back and laughed as one foot sought the top of his desk.

"Our balloons rise from every walk o\' life an\' come down out o\' ballast," he went on. "Many of \'em touch ground in the great financial aviation park that surrounds Wall Street. In our stages of recovery the power of Lizzie has been widely felt."

Up went his other foot. I saw that the historical mood was upon him.

"Talk about tryin\' to cross the Atlantic in an air-ship—why, that\'s conservative," he continued. "Right here in the eastern part o\' Connecticut lives a man who set out for the vicinity of the moon with a large company—a joint-stock company—in his life-boat. First he made the journey with the hot-air-ship of his mind, an\' came back with millions in the hold of his imagination. Then he thought he\'d experiment with a corporation of his friends—his surplus friends. They got in on the ground floor, an\' got out in the sky. Most of \'em were thrown over for ballast. The Wellman of this enterprise escaped with his life an\' a little wreckage. He was Mr. Thomas Robinson Barrow, an\' he came to consult me about his affairs. They were in bad shape.

"\'Sell your big house an\' your motor-cars,\' I urged.

"\'That would have been easy,\' he answered, \'but Lizzie has spoilt the market for luxuries. You remember how she got high notions up at the Smythe school, an\' began a life of extravagance, an\' how we all tried to keep up with her, an\' how the rococo architecture broke out like pimples on the face of Connecticut?\'

"I smiled an\' nodded.

"\'Well, it was you, I hear, that helped her back to earth and started her in the simpleton life. Since then she has been going just as fast, but in the opposite direction, and we\'re still tryin\' to keep up with her. Now I found a man who was going to buy my property, but suddenly his wife decided that they would get along with a more modest outfit. She\'s trying to keep up with Lizzie. Folks are getting wise.\'

"\'Why don\'t you?\'

"\'Can\'t.\'

"\'Why not?\'

"\'Because I\'m a born fool. We\'re fettered; we\'re prisoners of luxury.\'

"Only a night or two before I had seen his wife at a reception with a rope of pearls in her riggin\' an\' a search-light o\' diamonds on her forward deck an\' a tiara-boom-de-ay at her masthead an\' the flags of opulence flyin\' fore an\' aft.

"\'If I were you,\' I said, \'I\'d sell everything—even the jewels.\'

"\'My poor wife!\' he exclaimed. \'I haven\'t the heart to tell her all. She don\'t know how hard up we are!\'

"\'I wouldn\'t neglect her education if I were you,\' I said. \'There\'s a kindness, you know, that\'s most unkind. Some day I shall write an article on the use an\' abuse of tiaras—poor things! It isn\'t fair to overwork the family tiara. I suggest that you get a good-sized trunk an\' lock it up with the other jewels for a vacation. If necessary your house could be visited by a burglar—that is, if you wanted to save the feelin\'s of your wife.\'

"He turned with a puzzled look at me.

"\'Is it possible that you haven\'t heard of that trick?\' I asked—\'a man of your talents!\'

"He shook his head.

"\'Why, these days, if a man wishes to divorce the family jewels an\' is afraid of his wife, the house is always entered by a burglar. My dear sir, the burglar is an ever-present help in time of trouble. It\'s a pity that we have no Gentleman\'s Home Journal in which poor but deservin\' husbands could find encouragement an\' inspiration.\'

"He looked at me an\' laughed.

"\'Suppose you engage a trusty and reliable burglar?\' he proposed.

"\'There\'s only one in the world.\' I said.

"\'Who is it?\'

"\'Thomas Robinson Barrow. Of course, I\'m not sayin\' that if I needed a burglar he\'s just the man I should choose, but for this job he\'s the only reliable burglar. Try him.\'

"He seemed to be highly amused.

"\'But it might be difficult to fool the police,\' he said, in a minute.

"\'Well, it isn\'t absolutely necessary, you know,\' I suggested.
\'The Chief of Police is a friend of mine.\'

"\'Good! I\'m engaged for this job, and will sell the jewels and turn the money over to you.\'

"\'I do not advise that—not just that,\' I said. \'We\'ll retire them from active life. A tiara in the safe is worth two in the Titian bush. We\'ll use them for collateral an\' go to doin\' business. When we\'ve paid the debts in full we\'ll redeem the goods an\' return them to your overjoyed wife. We\'ll launch our tiara on the Marcel waves.\'

"Tom was delighted with this plan—not the best, perhaps—but, anyhow, it would save his wife from reproach, an\' I don\'t know what would have happened if she had continued to dazzle an\' enrage his creditors with the pearls an\' the tiara.

"\'It will not be so easy to sell the house,\' Tom went on. \'That\'s our worst millstone. It was built for large hospitality, and we have a good many friends, and they come every week and jump on to the millstone.\'

"\'If one has to have a millstone he should choose it with discretion,\' I said. \'It doesn\'t pay to get one that is too inviting. You\'ll have to swim around with yours for a while, and watch your chance to slip it on to some other fellow\'s neck. You don\'t want your son to be a millstonaire. Some day a man of millions may find it a comfortable fit, an\' relieve you. They\'re buyin\' places all about here.\'

"Tom left an\' began work on our programme. The burglary was well executed an\' advertised. It achieved a fair amount of publicity—not too much, you know, but enough. The place was photographed by the reporters with the placard \'For Sale\' showin\' plainly on the front lawn. The advertisin\' was worth almost as much as the diamonds. Tom said that his wife had lost weight since the sad event.

"\'Of course,\' I said. \'You can\'t take ten pounds of jewelry from a woman without reducin\' her weight. She must have had a pint o\' diamonds.\'

"\'Pictures an\' glowin\' accounts of the villa were printed in all the papers, an\' soon a millionaire wrote that it was just the place he was lookin\' for. I closed the deal with him. It was Bill Warburton, who used to go to school with me up there on the hills. He had long been dreamin\' of a home in Pointview.

"They used to say that Bill was a fool, but he proved an alibi. Went West years ago an\' made a fortune, an\' thought it would be nice to come back an\' finish his life where it began, near the greatest American city. I drew the papers, an\' Bill an\' I got together often an\' talked of the old happy days, now glimmering in the far past—some thirty-five years away,

[Illustration: Bill an\' I got together often an\' talked of the old happy days.]

"Well, they enlarged the house—that was already big enough for a hotel—an\' built stables an\' kennels an\' pheasant yards an\' houses for ducks an\' geese an\' peacocks. They stocked up with fourteen horses, twelve hounds, nine collies, four setters, nineteen servants, innumerable fowls, an\' four motor-cars, an\' started in pursuit o\' happiness.

"You see, they had no children, an\' all these beasts an\' birds were intended to supply the deficiency in human life, an\' assist in the campaign. Well, somehow, it didn\'t succeed, an\' one day Bill came into my office with a worried look. He confided to me the well-known fact that his wife was nervous and unhappy.

"\'The doctors don\'t do her any good, an\' I thought I\'d try a lawyer,\' said he.

"\'Do you want to sue Fate for damages or indict her for malicious persecution?\' I asked.

"\'Neither,\' he said, \'but you know the laws of nature as well as the laws of men. I appeal to you to tell me what law my wife has broken, and how she can make amends.\'

"\'You surprise me,\' I said. \'You an\' the madame can have everything you want, an\' still you\'re unhappy.\'

"\'What can we have that you can\'t? You can eat as much, an\' sleep better, an\' wear as many clothes, an\' see an\' hear as well as we can.\'

"\'Ah, but in the matter of quality I\'m way behind the flag, Bill. You can wear cloth o\' gold, an Russian sables, an\' have champagne an\' terrapin every meal, an\' fiddlers to play while ye eat it, an\' a brass band to march around the place with ye, an\' splendid horses to ride, an\' dogs to roar on ahead an\' attract the attention of the populace. You can have a lot of bankrupt noblemen to rub an\' manicure an\' adulate an\' chiropodize ye, an\' people who\'d have to laugh at your wit or look for another job, an\' authors to read from their own works—\'

"Bill interrupted with a gentle protest: \'Soc, how comforting you are!\'

"\'Well, if all that is losin\' its charm, what\'s the matter with travel?\'

"\'Don\'t talk to me about travel,\' said Bill. \'We\'ve worn ruts in the earth now. Our feet have touched every land.\'

"\'How many meals do you eat a day?\'

"\'Three.\'

"\'Try six,\' I suggested.

"He laughed, an\' I thought I was makin\' progress, so I kept on.

"\'How many motor-cars have ye ?\'

"\'Four.\'

"\'Get eight,\' I advised, as Bill put on the loud pedal. \'You\'ve got nineteen servants, I believe, try thirty-eight. You have—twenty-one dogs—get forty-two. You can afford it.\'

"\'Come, be serious,\' said Bill. \'Don\'t poke fun at me.\'

"\'Ah! but your wife must be able to prove that she has more dogs an\' horses an\' servants an\' motor-cars, an\' that she eats more meals in a day than any other woman in Connecticut. Then, maybe, she\'ll be happy. You know it\'s a woman\'s ambition to excel.\'

"\'We have too many fool things now,\' said Bill, mournfully. \'She\'s had enough of them—God knows!\'

"Something in Bill\'s manner made me sit up and stare at him.

"\'Of course, you don\'t mean that she wants another husband!\' I exclaimed.

"\'I\'m not so sure of that,\' said Bill, sadly. \'Sometimes I\'m almost inclined to think she does.\'

"\'Well, that\'s one direction in which I should advise strict economy,\' said I. \'You can multiply the dogs an\' the horses, an\' the servants an\' the motor-cars, but in the matter o\' wives an\' husbands we ought to stick to the simple life. Don\'t let her go to competing with those Fifth Avenue ladies.\'

"\'I don\'t know what\'s the matter,\' Bill went on. \'She\'s had everything that her heart could wish. But, of course, she has had only one husband, and most of her friends have had two or three. They\'ve outmarried her. It may be that, secretly, she\'s just a little annoyed about that. Many of her old friends are consumed with envy; their bones are rotten with it. They smile upon her; they accept her hospitality; they declare their love, and they long for her downfall. Now, my wife has a certain pride and joy in all this, but, naturally, it breeds a sense of loneliness—the bitter loneliness that one may find only in a crowd. She turns more and more to me, and, between ourselves, she seems to have made up her mind that I don\'t love her, and I can\'t convince her that I do.\'

"\'Well, Bill, I should guess that you have always been fond of your wife—and—true to her.\'

"\'And you are right,\' said Bill. \'I\'ve loved with all my heart and with a conscience. It\'s my only pride, for, of course, I might have been gay. In society I enjoy a reputation for firmness. It is no idle boast.\'

"\'Well, Bill, you can\'t do anything more for her in the matter of food, raiment, beasts, or birds, an\' as to jewelry she carries a pretty heavy stock. I often feel the need of smoked glasses when I look at her. You\'ll have to make up your mind as to whether she needs more or less. I\'ll study the situation myself. It may be that I can suggest something by-and-by—just as a matter of friendship.\'

"\'Your common sense may discern what is needed,\' said Bill. \'I wish you\'d come at least once a week to dinner. My wife would be delighted, to have you, Soc. You are one of the few men who interest her.\'

"She was a pretty woman, distinguished for a look of weariness and a mortal fear of fat. She had done nothing so hard an\' so long, that, to her, nothing was all there was in the world—save fat. She was so busy about it that she couldn\'t sit still an\' rest. She wandered from one chair to another, smokin\' a cigarette, an\' now and then glancin\' at her image in a mirror an\' slyly feelin\' her ribs to see if she had gained flesh that day. She liked me because I was unlike any other man she had met. I poked fun at her folly an\' all the grandeur of the place. I amused her as much as she amused me, perhaps. Anyhow, we got to be good friends, an\' the next Sunday we all drove out in a motor-car to see Lizzie. Mrs. Bill wanted to meet her. Lizzie had become famous. She was walkin\' up an\' down the lawn with the infant in a perambulator, an\' the small boy toddling along behind her. We left Mrs. Bill with Lizzie an\' the kids, an\' set out for a tramp over the big farm. When we returned we found the ladies talkin\' earnestly in the house.

[Illustration: We set out for a tramp over the big farm.]

"Before we left I called Lizzie aside for a minute.

"\'How do you get along with these babies?\' I asked.

"\'They\'re the life of our home. My father and mother think they couldn\'t live without them.\'

"\'An\' they\'re good practice for you,\' I suggested. \'It\'s time you were plannin\' for yourself, Lizzie.\'

"\'I\'ve no prospects,\' said she.

"\'How is that?\'

"\'Why, there\'s only one boy that I care for, an\' he has had enough of me.\'

"\'You don\'t mean Dan?\'

"\'Yes,\' she whispered with trembling lips, an\' turned away.

"\'What\'s the matter?\'

"She pulled herself together an\' answered in half a moment: \'Oh, I don\'t know! He doesn\'t come often. He goes around with other girls.\'

"\'Well,\' I said, \'it\'s the same ol\' story. He\'s only tryin\' to keep up with Lizzie. You\'ve done some goin\' around yourself.\'

"\'I know, but I couldn\'t help it.\'

"\'He knows, an\' he couldn\'t help it,\' I says. \'The boys have flocked around you, an\' the girls have flocked around Dan. They were afraid he\'d get lonesome. If I were you I\'d put a mortgage on him an\' foreclose it as soon as possible.\'

"\'It\'s too late,\' says she. \'I hear he\'s mortgaged.\'

"\'You\'d better search the records,\' I says, \'an\' if it ain\'t so, stop bein\' careless. You\'ve put yer father on his feet. Now look out for yerself.\'

"\'I think he\'s angry on account of the ham war,\' says she.

"\'Why do you think that?\'

"She told me the facts, an\' I laughed \'til the tears came to my eyes.

"\'Nonsense,\' I says, \'Dan will like that. You wait \'til I tell him, an\' he\'ll be up here with his throttle wide open.\'

"\'Do you suppose he\'d spend Christmas with us?\' she asked, with a very sober look. \'You know, his mother an\' father have gone South, an\' he\'ll be all alone.\'

"\'Ask him at once—call him on the \'phone,\' I advised, an\' bade her good-bye.

"The happiness o\' Lizzie an\' the charm o\' those kids had suggested an idea. I made up my mind that I\'d try to put Mr. an\' Mrs. Bill on the job o\' keepin\' up with Lizzie.

"\'That\'s a wonderful woman,\' said Mrs. Bill, as we drove away. \'I envy her—she\'s so strong and well and happy. She loves those babies, and is in the saddle every afternoon, helping with the work o\' the farm.\'

"\'Why don\'t you get into the saddle and be as well and strong as she is?\' Bill asked.

"\'Because I\'ve no object—it\'s only a way of doing nothing,\' said Mrs. Bill. \'I\'m weary of riding for exercise. There never was a human being who could keep it up long. It\'s like you and your dumb-bells. To my knowledge you haven\'t set a foot in your gymnasium for a month. As a matter of fact, you\'re as tired of play as I am, every bit. Why don\'t you go into Wall Street an\' get poor?\'

"\'Tired of play!\' Bill exclaimed. \'Why, Grace, night before last you were playing bridge until three o\'clock in the morning.\'

"\'Well, it\'s a way of doing nothing skilfully and on the competitive plan,\' said she. \'It gives me a chance to measure my capacity. When I get through I am so weary that often I can go to sleep without thinking. It seems to me that brains are a great nuisance to one who has no need of them. Of course, by-and-by, they\'ll atrophy and disappear like the tails of our ancestors. Meanwhile, I suppose they are bound to get sore. Mine is such a fierce, ill-bred, impudent sort of a brain, and it\'s as busy as a bat in a belfry. I often wish that I had one of those soft, flexible, paralytic, cocker-spaniel brains, like that of our friend Mrs. Seavey. She is so happy with it&mda............