Having despatched the cables he settled down to write his letters—one each to his father and mother. The cable he had received disturbed him. He was anxious about his father’s health.
The letters, indicative of John’s character and his relations to his parents are, perhaps, worthy of reproduction.
Suez, October ——, 189—.
Dear Father:
At last I am out of the desert and once more within civilization on my way home. I cabled you to-night:
“Will leave England second week November. Will advise steamer. Take care yourself, love all. Please approve by cable heavy drafts on your agents, Rome, Brindisi. Am well.”
I shall have to go to Paris for some days, see some friends in Germany and report in London to the Secretary of the Colonies about my work in Egypt; expect to take the Cunarder that leaves November 14th from Liverpool.
Have had your letters of August 10th and September 16th upon arriving here, and some letters from mother and sis. Also have your cable of the —— in which you ask me to come home as you are not feeling well.
I hope, dear father, this does not mean that you are ill. You work too hard and play too little. When I get back I’ll want you to make use of me, put me into harness and ease up on yourself. I have had any amount of time in the desert to think of my work and my duty, and I assure you, father, I will settle down and try to carry on your work and your plans. I have always admitted that you knew best and were ever right. I repeat that now and want to put myself at your service.
I am hearty and strong. You will find me fit and willing, and the life abroad and the knowledge I have gained have done me good, I think. How I do look forward, dear Dad, to seeing you again; to sit by you and chat and plan! How proud I am that my work here has been so successful! Dad, you will be pleased. Your ideas are absolutely borne out, and with the data we have of Jackson’s Hole country I am positive the work can be done and finished in two and a half or three years. We can rely on at least 300 million gallons of storage reserve and a useful supply of not less than 18 million per day. Isn’t that glorious?
Remember, father, you always hinted that my duty, as the last of the Mortons, was to settle down, marry and see to it that I shan’t remain the last of your doughty clan. Well, I am as “dour” as any Morton ever was—and willing. As I am writing in similar strain to mother I expect between you two you will try and pick the mother of my future offspring. I guess you will want her to be fair and mother dark—I will thus, at least, have a chance of choosing for myself!
But, joking aside, Dad, I am ready to quit roving for good, ready to give up adventure, ready to settle down in the dear old home and go into business. And if I can’t duplicate you, father, I’ll make a good try anyway!
Have you gotten the Mummy which I shipped in May; and did the Sarcophagus reach you that I sent by “underground” in July? The latter is certainly a very fine specimen and will just fit into your gallery.
I feel fine. I am, if anything, heavier than two years ago, and didn’t have a sick minute while in Africa. I am browned as dark as the headwaiter at the Lake House and with a little practice could beat you on the links.
Unless I have cable from you will stick to the above plan and be in New York on November 22d.
Donald is well and glad to turn his nose west. He asks to be remembered to you. You will be satisfied with him when you look at me.
Dearest love to you all, my loved ones.
Give my regards to all our friends whom I shall be glad to see again this winter.
I embrace you, my dear Dad.
Your loving
John.
P.S.—“Am going to draw rather heavily on your agents in Rome or Brindisi, as I won’t have time to see bankers before getting to London. Will settle by transfer from my account when I return.”
The other letter to his mother, he wrote more carefully.
Suez, October——, 189—.
My Dearest Mother:
By this same mail I am writing to father and you will get all information about me from that letter. You are not supposed to show this, your own letter, to Dad; it is partly for you only, as you will see in the next few sentences.
I have cabled to you inquiring if father’s health is in any way alarming and expect your reply promptly. If the answer is favorable I shall take a week or so in Europe for an enterprise which looks very important to me and of which you, I am certain, would approve.
I haven’t even time to write a long letter, but as I shall be but a week or two later than these lines, my tale can well wait.
This enterprise, dear mater, I cannot specify more exactly than to say that I know you would applaud the principle involved and would yourself urge me to undertake it.
I can hardly wait until I am home with you, dearest mother, and with father and Ruth. I shall have an awful lot to tell, of strange countries, experiences and a study of life that has been granted to few men. You may lionize me, mother, and ask all the swell people of the ultra cultured crowd to come and listen to your son’s adventures. I shall let my hair grow, raise again the beautiful whiskers that were four days ago sacrificed on the altar of comfort and decency (tell Ruth I have preserved a photo with them on) and satisfy the craving of society for something novel.
Mater, dear, you always claimed I was a good deal “Randolph” in my exterior; did the R’s ever run into red hair? My whiskers—save the mark—were of a hue which an enemy of your proud Virginia ancestry might designate as—red! Please don’t mention it to Ruth; the photo doesn’t show the color and she might be shocked.
Now, Mother dear, be happy and be sure to be just as pretty as you always were. I think the natural bird will be ready to be substituted for the fatted calf by the time I get home, because—Thanksgiving will put me at your table and—Oh, won’t the turkey taste good!
Love to Ruthie and thousands of kisses to you both, dearest mother.
Ever Your Loving Admirer and Son.
“Apropos! If Ruth really pesters you as she surely will and starts a guessing match—tell her the lady is five foot eleven, hair raven and eyes—a deep violet bordering on purplish black—she’s proud and has refused me three times. I am going to follow her into her retreat, play the guitar outside her little window for ten consecutive nights, moonlight or no light. If she melts under the influence of the sweet strains, my pleadings and the proofs of dad’s wealth—I shall bring her home dragging her along by a chain of Marshal Niel roses; if she remains cold and disdainful—she, I mean Ruth, can pick the girl for me in old America. But mind you—only one at a time, please, for safety’s sake. You must remember I have dwelt in the Orient for two years, and the Orient—you recall the hundred wives of Solomon? So don’t subject me to the charms of more than one divine lady at a time. Love to all—I mean you of course and not the prospective ladies!—John.”
The writing and sending of the cables and letters quieted John’s mind; he had acquitted himself of his filial duties for the time being at least. With renewed zest he again entered into his plans for the enterprise before him—and it was not until a very late hour that he found his bed.
The steamer reached Ishmaila and Port Said in good time. Here he received his one cable answer from his father informing him that the delay would not matter in the least and wishing him good luck and an early termination of the new work. Agents in Rome and Brindisi had been notified to honor his drafts.
Early next morning the Mediterranean was entered and the last stretch of the voyage begun.
Count Rondell had become feebler and appeared less frequently and for shorter periods on deck or in the smoking room. His features had become duller and John caught Dr. Brown more than once looking anxiously at his new friend. The Count never complained, rarely referred to his health at all and, when with John, would speak only of his country and his early life. Each interview served but to knit him and John more closely together.
One afternoon, when Morton, as usual, was visiting the count in his stateroom, he found the old man strangely silent and seemingly very depressed. John tried to draw him into conversation, asking questions about his beloved Roumelia, but the Count replied only in monosyllables. He seemed curiously embarrassed. Finally, however, the old man roused himself.