I.
The letter of Mr. Robert Fairfax to the Rev. Arthur Selbourne, Innasittie, Colorado:
Manchester, July 24, 1892.
Right you are, Old Hoss, and no mistake. Europe was a great lark—all the better for having been as unexpected as a wedding fee in advance. I’m mighty glad I’ve seen it all. I used to be afraid that foreign scenery would make that of home seem tame in comparison. It has, on the contrary, been rather enhanced for me, and New England continues to stir my aged blood as nothing else does.
I stopped over a day in New York, and dined with Ellis, who told me about poor Jack Simms. Awfully sad case. Of course you know he was eager for the operation—it really was the last hope—and went into it with the greatest amount of pluck and nerve. Ellis is interne at St. Luke’s hospital, and was with Jack all the time, and, up to the last day, believed he’d pull through: but it was no go. Jack’s life was insured for ten thousand dollars, and his wife’s uncle had just left her thirty thousand dollars. So he had the comfort of knowing she was provided for. It’s a lucky thing, for she has weak lungs or something of that sort. It strikes me that women as a race are pretty delicate in spite of their modern fad for athletics.
I saw Adams and Lennox Vandewater in Boston. Van looks rather peaked. Adams says he’s just made his annual proposal to the girl he’s been in love with for six years (nobody knows who she is) and she has rejected him again. Van never recuperates in less than three months, so Adams has consented to go across with him, and they’re going to bike about England during August and September. Adams’s legs must be a better match for his head than they were in college.
I’ve run down here for a week with my mother and sister who are at the Masconomo. Have strolled along the shore this afternoon, and wish you were here to enjoy this comfortable ledge of rock and the strong salt air, and to talk over old times. I put a writing pad in my pocket, and the faithful fountain permits one side of a conversation at least. I’m confoundedly sleepy, however,—don’t grin like a dog when you read that,—and think I’ll stretch out and take a snooze, in the hope of imparting a little brilliancy to my style.
Evening. My dear fellow, I am madly in love. Fact, and you may as well take it seriously. I went to sleep, as I intended to, and dreamed I was discussing methods of executing criminals with your wife, when, in reply to some remark of mine, she said, “I always use a kitchen knife.” Then some one laughed and I woke up. Then a Voice—such a delicious voice—said, “Don’t grin like a dog,” and I thought I must be dreaming, for it was all mixed up with you, and you know I had just written those very words. Then the Voice went on, “Billy said it was inane, but I didn’t care, for the result was just as good as his.” Then followed a most amusing talk, which must have lasted fifteen minutes. You need not put on a look of professional disapproval at my eavesdropping. I pledge you my word, I hadn’t the faintest idea I was doing it until it was too late. You see, I was half asleep and half awake at first, and when I discovered that I was all awake I hadn’t the nerve to get up and apologize for being there, and walk away. It would have been as embarrassing for her as for me. Besides, though she was talking confidentially to some woman friend, she hadn’t said a word which there was the slightest objection to my hearing, so I thought best to lie still. I was completely hidden by the ledge, though she couldn’t have been six feet distant. It was immensely amusing. The Voice was relating her experiences in keeping house for some one she called Billy on “the ranch”—location unknown. For a long time I thought “Billy” was her husband, and it seemed to me he ought to be a happy man, for she called him a saint (not the canonized kind: she meant a brick), and she said Billy called her a better cook than his mother. But it turned out that Billy is her brother. He’s married now, and she apparently dotes on the ‘twins.’ Once they—i.e., the Voice and Billy—had a Mr. Adams to dine with them, and as he was from Boston I think it may be our Adams, and, perhaps, through him I can get a clue to her identity. You think this is all nonsense, but I assure you I’m in dead earnest. She’s the most interesting girl I’ve ever seen—or ever haven’t seen—for I know little enough about her appearance. I looked over the ledge after they’d gone away (they couldn’t see me) and saw them walking off towards the road, and she wears tan shoes and a blue dress. I’m going forth to hunt those articles to-morrow. Why shouldn’t I be the happy man I supposed Billy to be?
I pity Van more than I did when I began this letter.
If Adams’s reply is favorable, and I find her and she’ll have me, I’ll send for you to come on and tie the knot. You may impart this information to your wife (I know you can’t keep it to yourself), for she once told me that she took comfort in the most incipient stages of love-making, because there was always the possibility of a fee ahead. My best regards to that mercenary woman.
Yours,
Bob.
P. S. What do you suppose she uses a kitchen knife for? It must be something unusual.