The Red Book Magazine/Volume 44/Number 2/Miranda, the Measles and Marmaduke

HAT'S the use, Billy?” said Miranda impatiently. “Oh, you know darn well, I like you—and we have a darn good time together—but the man I marry—”

“Alluding to Mr. William Harley Hamilton?” said that gentleman hopefully.

“No, Billy—but the man I marry— Oh, Billy, don't you see we know each other too darn well, in the first place?”

“I don't,” said Billy. “I never knew you liked cashew-nuts before this afternoon. I never knew I liked you just as well with your hair shingled. I—”

“Be serious, Billy! What on earth would be the fun of—of either of us marrying somebody they'd known all my life?”

“Well, I'd like it well enough—” Billy began, but she stopped him.

“Well, I wouldn't! The man I marry—”

“For Pete's sake, what does he have to be—a bass singer?”

“Well, he has to have a real sense of humor in the first place— Now, Billy, I know all about your line, but it isn't the same thing. And—and—he has to be intelligent—really intelligent—”

“Dr. Eliot?”

“Billy! But—he has to have some real appreciation of—oh, arts and things—and Billy, you know you don't even know who Jeritza is—”

“I do, too,” said Billy, grinning. “She's eggs. I saw her on the menu at the club the other day. 'Ooofs Jeritza (ten minutes).' But go on about this Masked Marvel. Does he have to have iron-gray hair and a whimsical smile and call himself Lover Man through six big installments of a woman's magazine?”

“N-no,” said Miranda, her eyes dreaming, “though, of course, an older man—but most of all, Billy—”

“Yuh?”

“There must be something strange about him.”

“Plaid spats?”

“Oh, no, no, no! Something strange—romantic—unexpected—”

“Well, I don't see anything so blame unexpected about Jimmy Gordon, except the way he never manages to pay the check at a party,” remarked Billy, from out of the bitterness of his trod-upon heart.

“Now, Billy!” said Miranda furiously.

“Oh, never mind,” said Billy, seeing he'd said too much. “Little Billy is on his way out into the night. But listen, Randie—”

“I am not going through all that with you, over again, Billy.” And by the exercise of some brusqueness she managed to get him to the door with the new proposal unspoken. When he was gone, she flopped into a chair, wearily.

She shouldn't have lost her temper—but really—the ninth time! And Billy's proposals were so alike! And Billy was sweet, but—good heavens, imagine marrying a man who knew the exact date when you had cut your first tooth! And anyhow, she wouldn't have lost her temper at all, if Billy hadn't brought up Jimmy Gordon.

Her eyes dreamed again. Jimmy Gordon: He was suave and older—almost twenty-eight—in every way the opposite of Billy. Not quite the mysterious hero of her imagination, but..... He was coming after dinner. Jimmy had never proposed to her—yet; but when he did, he would do it so differently from Billy. Yes, if Jim came this evening—and—and actually— And the last time she saw him he had certainly just been on the point of—

She stared solemnly at a neighboring sofa-pillow. Her life, as far as the matter of a first marriage, at least, was concerned, might very well be decided this very evening. Strange! And yet, she wished rather peevishly that it did not have to be just this evening. That irritating scene with Billy—and then— No, she hadn't felt really zippy all week. Her cigarette had an evil taste; her head was hot and dry—and now, suddenly, a vast bone-aching weariness lay upon her. She started up, alarmed. She'd never be able to last through the Underwood party, and the Schofield party, and the big dance at the Alstynes', if she kept on feeling like this. And Jim hated draggy girls. Oh, darn Jim! No, darn Billy! Darn everything! Darn—

“Dinner, Miss Miranda,” said Ellen cheerfully, from the doorway. Miranda shuddered at the thought, but she powdered her nose and went wearily into the dining-room.

Dinner did not improve her temper. Grandmother was in one of her trying moods.

She began by inquiring after Billy. Miranda's replies were short and sulky. Finally after a pause:

“Pity you don't marry him,” said Grandmother reflectively, in the peculiarly piercing voice of the intermittently deaf. “That is—if he's ever asked you—not that that seems to matter much these days, when the girls run after the men so much that it ought to be Leap Year all the time—”

This was too much. “Do you want my children to be rabbits?” said Miranda furiously.

“Hey?” said Grandmother, cupping her hand to her ear.

“Miranda, dear!” said Miranda's mother, but Miranda was in full career.

“Do you want my children to be rabbits?” she repeated fiercely. “Do you want them to have a father without a spark of imagination—or—or—intelligence—or anything but a grin? Billy indeed! Do you want them—oh—oh—” She choked.

Grandmother's retort was inconsequential but crushing. She turned to Miranda's mother. “Children!” she sniffed. “What that child needs is a good sound spanking! And if I were you, Polly Farley—”

“Oh—oh!” exclaimed Miranda, and crushing her napkin into a crumpled ball, she fled from the room in hot and childish tears.

Grandmother watched her indignant departure without a quiver. When the door had banged, she turned to Miranda's mother again.

“What that child needs is bed,” she said, chewing.

“But Mother dear,” said Mrs. Farley vaguely, “you just said a moment ago that what she needed—”

“Then I'm an old fool,” said Grandmother with relish. “That child's sick. Now, Polly, don't get into a fluster—she's strong—she'll get over it—even if that little rash she has does look like scarlet fever—”

“Scarlet fever!” cried Mrs. Farley breathlessly, and fled from the table.

IDN'T I tell you all along it was measles?” said Grandmother grimly, after the doctor had come and gone. “Used to call 'em German measles in my day when things weren't so hifalutin'. S'pose they call 'em Liberty measles now—or Pershing measles—” And she chuckled.

Miranda moaned.

“Now, darling,” said her mother soothingly, “he says it's a very light case—you'll be out in just a few weeks—”

“Do you good to lie on your back and try to think for a spell, too,” said Grandmother cheerily.

But Miranda refused to be comforted. Measles! She beat the pillow. And to miss all the parties—and Jim might be going away to Chicago soon and—oh! If it had only been something decently interesting! A long, racking illness—the family talking about her bed in hushed, solemn voices—Jim weeping outside the door—“O God, let my little girl live!”—at last a convalescent, spirituelle Miranda with huge eyes and wasted beautiful hands, the pathos of whose frail, heroic voice made even Grandmother sob with joy and pain! But—measles!

Besides, even a light case of measles can be quite uncomfortable for a while, as she soon found out.

There were letters, of course—and American beauties from Jim—and violets from Billy. They helped a little. But then there was a note from that cat Gretchen Day, telling just how wonderful the Underwood party had been, and how everybody was looking forward to the Schofields'. Jim was going to take Gretchen to the Schofields'. Shortly after the receipt of that note, Miranda's temperature went up a degree and a half.

And when the first few days of discomfort and mild fever had passed, it was worse than ever.

The vast, implacable boredom of convalescence set in, a boredom without visible reward, for she had never felt very ill. And she was not supposed to read much, and as for the radio! After listening attentively to three bedtime stories, a crop-report and the annual banquet of the Earmuff Manufacturers Association, she gave up in disgust. Outside, it was spring—there was a row of potted tulips in the window across the court, and now and then she could hear hand-organs playing far away. Inside was Grandmother, relentlessly reading Florence Barclay aloud, or now and then challenging her to a brisk, exciting game of cribbage. And Jim hadn't telephoned for two days—and it would seem like years before the silly doctor lifted the quarantine.

“Oh, Lord, if only anything would happen!” yawned Miranda, dolefully alone, one afternoon. Grandmother was taking a nap, and Miranda's one occupation for the last thirty minutes had been useless speculation as to which dress she might have worn to the Alstynes'. The window beside her bed was half-open—the air was warm and ingratiating—a girl across the way was trying on a delightful new hat in front of a mirror. Miranda could have bitten her.

“Oh, Lord!” she repeated as boredom grew upon her relentlessly.

Then suddenly she stared—wide-eyed—and stared again. There was something dangling in front of her window—something on a string.

It was—yes—a brightly painted tin monkey, revolving solemnly at the end of a long stout cord. She sat up in bed. Attached to the monkey's back was a little green box—and on its breast was a label: “Take Me In!” The cord swayed—the monkey swung in through the window and dropped at her bedside. She picked it up, wonderingly. How extraordinary! The little green box was addressed to her—“For Miss Miranda Farley, Apartment 21.”

Tremendously excited now, she managed to reach her nail-scissors and open the box. Inside was a single magnificent orchid and a plain white card with the typewritten inscription:

“Rx

“To be taken in a glass of water by the young lady who is ill in Apartment 21—with the respectful compliments of her neighbor in the apartment above, “M. B.”

“Well, of all the— But how perfectly delightful!”

She hastily seized pencil and paper and wrote:

“M. B.” Mr.? Mrs.? Miss? It must be Mr.

“Thank you ever so much—the orchid is simply charming. But you mustn't, you know, because I have measles and it's awfully contagious. “Miranda F.”

She tied the note to the tin monkey's tail and, chuckling, worked the cord. The monkey hitched up the string and finally disappeared. After a moment the cord tugged at her hand—she released it—it vanished. She lay smiling. What a nice adventure!

The cord returned, this time with a tiny weight on the end, and above the weight, a minute cardboard postal-box. A typewritten note stuck out of the letter slot.

“Thank you for liking the orchid. I have had every species of measle. Jerk the cord twice when you wish to continue conversation—three times when conversation must cease.

“Sincerely, “M. B.”

Two pink spots came into Miranda's cheeks. Whatever he was, he wasn't shy. But anything was better than lonely boredom.

She wrote hurriedly, “Are you animal, vegetable or mineral? And—have I ever been introduced to you?” and jerked the cord—twice.

“(A) Homo sum. (B) Certainly not,” came the answer.

“Well, then—”

“Why not?” said the postal-box unanswerably. Miranda pondered. “Because Grandmother will be here any minute now,” she wrote weakly.

“Grandmothers should be abated,” said the postal-box feelingly. “When wont [sic] she be there?”

Miranda smiled. “They leave me alone for dinner—at seven,” she wrote.

The answer was a crudely drawn little cartoon of men with stick-legs and arms pointing gleefully at an immense figure 7. Then the cord disappeared, and Miranda relaxed on her pillows, chuckling—and when Grandmother came in, suffered thirty-two pages of Florence Barclay with such sweet composure that Grandmother shook her head and said she must be going to have a relapse.

But Miranda continued to be sweet to Grandmother. There were reasons. For one thing, it was Grandmother who had rigorously set her face against the introduction of a trained nurse. A trained nurse would have ruined everything.

As it was, day after day, the cord ascended and descended, bearing missives and gifts. A dozen times the affair trembled on the verge of discovery—but the pink, preposterous gods that preside over courtship were always good. A code of signals was established—a potted hyacinth on the windowsill meant that Miranda was alone—its absence signified danger or Grandmother. Ingenuous signals—ingenuous flirtation—that any decent, respectable, small-town neighbors would have buzzed from door to door within a dozen hours. But the Sidon Arms was “An Apartment-house of Distinction” and heaven has smitten the occupants of such New York apartment-houses with a divine incuriosity as to their fellow tenants. Lucrezia Borgia may live above you, and St. Francis across the way, but all you are apt to know of either is that the are those funny people you see in the elevator occasionally. Which was fortunate for Miranda and the mysterious M. B.

The gifts and the notes were a problem. They had either to been secreted or ascribed alternately to Jim or Billy—and on the days when no packages from either of the latter came, it was difficult. Indeed, the sudden apparition of an immense box of lotto, due to Miranda's idle confession that her childhood had reveled in that aseptic pastime, led Grandmother to the acrid remark that that young Mr. Gordon must be losing his mind.

And the notes! There were getting to be so many of them and so personal. They overflowed an empty shoe-box, were cached in a bookcase behind the set of “World's Greatest Orations” that no one ever touched, and still they came—dozens of little pieces of typewritten paper, each with its new unexpected glimpse of that strange being, M. B.

It was funny, Miranda thought, how somebody you'd never even seen was the only person who really seemed to understand you—the only person who sent you the things you really wanted instead of the things he thought you ought to want. No one else would have sent that single orchid—or the little hollowed-out book with its hidden cargo of real liqueur-chocolates and the terse inscription “One a Day,” or the “Alice” that was an exact replica of you [sic] own long-lost and bitterly-mourned “Alice” or—oh, anything!

Suppose she was falling in love with somebody she'd never seen? Didn't lots of people? What people? Well—there must have been lots—and she was sure they were very happy, too. Wasn't M. B., through his letters, just the sort of person she'd always—always—and she blushed, and Grandmother said, yes, that had been an exciting chapter.

And yet, M. B. was strange. He knew who she was and what she looked like, or said he did. And she—she hadn't really done anything so schoolgirlish as ask for a picture of him, but it was a shock to receive three newspaper photographs, one of the Prince of Wales, one of an elderly Italian with the caption “Old Offender Jailed,” and one of a tattooed man, with the comment “Take your pick,” in response to a perfectly ordinary query as to his style of beauty.

He was older; she gathered that, though he wouldn't be definite. Forty? Fifty? If she only knew! And oh, why did he wear a beard? She had always sworn she would never marry a beaver, and when he wouldn't even tell what color it was! A short and blazingly funny little essay entitled “Man's Crowning Glory—by M. B.” had failed to soothe her feelings on the subject entirely. Of course, it was just because he was such an idealist—she could see that—but couldn't he sacrifice idealism for once? And then she remembered. His name! She could see the notes before her now.

First her rather stiltedly gracious, “Can't I know whom I have to thank for,” etc? and the cryptic reply “M. B.” And then her, “Yes—but—” and then printed large, by hand in extravagant capitals: “THE NAME IS—BUMP.”

“Bump?” she had queried dazedly. “Mr. Bump?”

Even larger—“BUMP!” He was so masterful.

She couldn't believe it. “Really Bump?”

“MARMADUKE BUMP.”

Oh, dear!

But then—she had found herself writing Mrs. Marmaduke Bump on scraps of paper—and after a while, one got quite used to it. One even began to like it.

“Granny,” she asked abruptly, “do you know who the people are who have the apartment just over us?”

“'And Lord Reginald said yearningly'—what's that, my dear?” said Grandmother, summoned back from literary heights.

Miranda repeated her query.

“Whipple's the name, I think,” snapped Grandmother, annoyed. “Sort of a thin, queer-looking young man.”

“Is he married?” asked Miranda.

“Can't be,” said Grandmother decisively “One of those set sort of bachelors. Now let me see—was his name Whipple?” She wiped her glasses. “Sometimes it seems to me as if it must have been Whipple—and sometimes—”

“Oh, Granny—was it—was it—Bump?”

“Bump? What are you thinking of, child? That isn't a name—it's a noise. No—it was Popple, I think—or was it—”

“Well, I think Bump is a very nice name!” said Miranda angrily.

Her grandmother looked at her curiously. “Don't you think I'd better take your temperature, dear?” she said with treacherous sweetness.

OR the rest of the afternoon Miranda was haunted by a phrase—“a set sort of bachelor.” But Marmaduke—she began to think of him as Marmaduke now—explained that evening that he had sublet the apartment temporarily from his friend Mr. Peebles, and all was well.

The last day of her quarantine came, and found Miranda regretful. The little typewritten notes were heaped high behind the set of “World's Best Orations,” and now there would be no more, for she was well. Billy—Jim—she would have to see them soon now, she supposed. She smiled dreamily Dear Billy, dear Jim—dear, commonplace, devoted boys! She was not for them; inscrutable Destiny had willed it otherwise. There was only Marmaduke now.

Mrs. Farley appeared at the door.

“Miranda dear, it's Jim Gordon on the phone; do you want to take it on the extension?”

“Oh, no, Mother—tell him I'm asleep—”

“But dear, suppose he—”

“Tell him—and Billy too, if he calls—that I can't talk to anybody tonight; and, Mother—”

“Yes, dear?”

“I'm—I'm tired—and if you'll only just have Ellen bring dinner up, and nobody to sit with me while—”

“Of course, dear, but—”

“You're an angel!” said Miranda gratefully, and sank back. That night was to be her picnic with Marmaduke, and the thought of Grandmother as a possible third in the party had filled her with dread.

To any sensible convalescent, the bare idea of picnicking with an invisible companion upon food necessarily somewhat chilled by its transit through the air in a wicker basket would have been excessively distasteful, but to Miranda the cold and obviously delicatessen chicken, the glutinous spumoni, were ambrosia indeed. What portions of her regular dinner could be shared with Marmaduke, she shared; the rest she disposed of as best she might, with no sense of the wasteful absurdity of such a procedure. For she and Marmaduke were feasting together, in moonlight, upon stolen apples; and she had never known before how sweet bread eaten in secret can taste.

After dinner she smoked the cigarette she was not to be allowed till tomorrow and, up wherever he was, she knew Marmaduke was smoking too. Two companionable little red stars in the soft spring night.

She sighed, crushing out the end of her cigarette. They had talked a little, via the ever-ready cord, but on this night—their last night—if only they could have really seen each other for a minute!

Steps, far away. The family was coming. She jumped up—locked her door. She must say good-night, at least. She scribbled something, anything—jerked the cord—it traveled slowly up through the night to Marmaduke. It was over. Everything was over.

There was a pause. Wasn't he even going to answer? Then the cord descended again—but this time it bore no typewritten communiqué. A little box dangled at its end. A farewell present? Sweet of him!

She opened the box nervously. Inside, upon cotton wool, lay a small and violently carmine pincushion-heart of the sort that used to lie upon the top of golden-oak bureaus beside the burnt-wood handkerchief-box and the little gilt tray marked “Souvenir of Buffalo, N. Y.” And under the heart was a single sheet of paper bearing only the simple, magnificent query, “?”

Miranda stared at it for a moment, her own heart jumping. Then, swiftly, she smiled, and turning over the paper, wrote upon it, with an unsteady pencil, her succinct answer “!” hid the pincushion-heart tenderly under her pillow, jammed the paper back in the box, jerked the cord three times. The incredible missive wavered an instant against the window and disappeared; and Miranda, her eyes very bright, turned to answer the knocking at her door.

EXT morning, however, things were different. She slept badly, and when she arose, it was in that unruly mood familiar to gamblers and lovers, the mood of, “Oh, Lord, what have I done?” Of course it was all right; of course she was happy—very happy; of course she loved Marmaduke, but nevertheless, she was very prompt for breakfast, and after it, avoided returning to her room.

Of course she wanted to hear from Marmaduke—her fiancé— Oh, gee, he was her fiancé now, wasn't he? But suppose—suppose he was seventy; suppose he was married; suppose he was a bootlegger! Suppose! She was nervously trying to read in her mother's room, when Ellen came in.

“A gentleman to see you, Miss Miranda.”

The book fell to the floor. Oh, it couldn't be—it couldn't!

“To see me? A—a strange gentleman, Ellen?”

“Yes, Miss Miranda.”

“You're sure it's a strange gentleman, Ellen?”

A fleeting smile crossed Ellen's face. “He's all of that,” she said briefly.

“And his name—oh, Ellen—” But even before Ellen's reply of, “Well, Miss Miranda—he says it's Bump!” she knew.

“Will you see him, Miss Miranda?”

Miranda gulped. This was worse than the first time tobogganing—but she was game.

“Yes, Ellen. Tell him to wait,” she said, through shut teeth.

Miranda came timidly into the living-room. The stranger, stiffly seated on the farthest chair, arose. Yes. It was Marmaduke. It could be no other.

A burly figure, dressed in an antique cutaway and forty if he was a day—an overpowering, dreadful figure with enormous, flashing spectacles, a wild, luxuriant beard, red as a maple in autumn, that ran riot like an untended garden. Her glance traveled horrifiedly down to his feet—he was wearing light fawn spats. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

She heard a thick, joyful cry: “My bride! My bride!” Then his arms were round her. She struggled for an instant feebly, and was still. She felt herself picked up like a doll, carried over to the sofa, seated firmly upon knees—his knees. She moaned, enduring a brief but very whiskery kiss. Then suddenly he released her. She heard a curious, ripping sound, and startled, opened her eyes.

Billy Hamilton brought his right hand from behind his back. Clutched in it was something large and red and furry. She stared at it uncomprehendingly. Then she stared at Billy, intently, angrily.

“Oh, darling—do forgive me!” pleaded Billy remorsefully. “But I thought it was only sporting to play the thing through!”

“Billy!”

“And so I borrowed Uncle George's cutaway—and the specs—and it's only a false beard, dearest—”

“ ! And—oh, gosh—you—Marmaduke—”

“There never was any Marmaduke but me!”

“And you wrote all those—those letters—and sent those presents and—”

“Every darn one,” said Billy. “Well—dammit—you said you wanted to marry somebody strange and romantic and different— And Tod Peebles said he'd lend me his apartment. And so—”

“And you let me believe all the time! And you let me— Oh, Billy—I hate you—I simply hate you—”

“No, you don't,” averred Billy stoutly. “You love me, angel! And I love you. And—”

And after some time had elapsed, Miranda agreed.

In fact, some time later she was saying: “Oh, Billy—you are wonderful—but why couldn't you have, before?”

“You never let me get started,” said Billy firmly. “You always thought I was so darn practical and everything. It was only good old Marmaduke that—”

“Good old Marmaduke,” echoed Miranda tenderly. “But, Billy—how did you ever get the time?”

“Changed my vacation,” said Billy “Furness was willing to swap.”

“You poor sweet thing!”

“Rats,” said Billy. “Wasn't it worth it? Besides—they'll just have to give me two weeks—when we—”

“Darling,” sighed Miranda, and rested her head on his shoulder. “Let's make it soon! Oh, dear—I don't suppose I am being fair to Jim Gordon—but I don't care!”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry about Jim,” said Billy, chuckling. “Jim's got hold of something that will take up his exclusive attention for the next few weeks, all right.”

“Why, Billy—what on earth has happened to Jim?”

“Well, angel,”—and Billy laughed,—“you haven't been the only invalid. Gretchen Day came down with them right after the Alstyne party—”

“Came down with—”

“Uh-huh! And Jim took her to the party, you know, and I just heard this morning that they'd taken him to the hospital with the finest little case of measles you ever saw!”