My dear Husband:
Although I sent you a postal yesterday, I am writing again to-day to try to keep you in touch with our extraordinary series of events. Nothing has been heard from Archie except the letter—if he wrote it—which tells nothing except that his kidnappers use the same kind of writing paper as Miss Janet Smith. I grow more suspicious of her all the time. You ask (but of course you wrote before the recent mysterious and tragical occurrences) you ask do I like Miss Smith any better, now that I am thrown with her so closely. No, Melville, I have not the fatal credulity of the Winters! I distrust her more. She has, I admit, an engaging personality; there is a superficial amiability that would be dangerous to one not on her guard. But I am never off my guard with her. I’m sorry to say, however, that your brother seems deceived by her plausible ways. And, of course, our poor aunt is still her blind dupe. Aunt Rebecca has failed a good deal this last year; she is quite irritable with me, sometimes; and I suppose it is the insensibility of age, but she does not appear to realize the full horror of this kidnapping. Miss Smith actually seems to suffer more; she looks pale and haggard and has no appetite. I do not think it all pretense, either; I dare say much of it is remorse! The situation is dreadful. Sometimes I think Aunt Rebecca will not yield to the demands of these wretches who have our poor boy, and that he will be mutilated or murdered; sometimes I think that they have murdered him already and are writing forged letters to throw us off the track. You can imagine how my nerves are shaken! I have seen hardly anything of the city; and of course have not gone into society at all. Indeed, I have met only one pleasant person; that was the secretary of the great financier, Mr. Edwin Keatcham, who was here, next to us. The secretary is a pleasing person quite comme il faut in appearance. I met him here in the court where he nearly knocked me over; and he apologized profusely—and really very nicely, using my name. That surprised me, but he explained that they had been on the train with us. Then I remembered him. His name is Horatio Atkins; and he is very polite. He is on a two weeks’ vacation and came here to see Mr. Keatcham, not knowing he was gone. He was really most agreeable and so sympathetic about poor dear Archie. He agreed with me that such a nervous temperament as Archie’s suffers much more from unkindness. I could see, in spite of his assumed hopefulness, that he shared my fears. He has met quite a number of our friends. He may (through Mr. Keatcham) be a most valuable acquaintance. Didn’t you tell me, once, that Keatcham was the leading benefactor of the university?
He (Mr. Atkins) got his vacation on account of his health; and he is going to Southern California. I don’t wonder. I have never suffered more than in this land of sunshine! It is not so much the cold of the air as the humidity! Do pray be cautious about changing to your summer underwear. Don’t do it! I nearly perished, in the bleak wind yesterday, when I tried to visit a few shops. Be sure and take the cough medicine on the second shelf of our bath-room medicine closet; don’t mistake rheumatism liniment for it; they are both on the same shelf; you would better sort them out. You are so absent-minded, Melville, I haven’t a peaceful day when I’m away from you; and do for Heaven’s sake try to bow to Mrs. Farrell and call her by her right name! You certainly have been to the president’s house often enough to know his wife on the street; and I don’t think that it was a good excuse which you gave to Professor Dale for calling “Good morning, Katy!” to Mrs. Dale (who was born a Schuyler and is most punctilious) that you mistook her for our cook!
I miss you very much. Give my love to all our friends and be sure to wear your galoshes (your rubbers, you know) when the campus is wet, whether it is raining or not.
Your aff. wife,
M. Winter.
THE SAME TO THE SAME
The Palace Hotel, March 25, ten P. M.
My dear Husband:
What do you think has happened? I am almost too excited to write. Archie is back! Yes, back safe and sound, and absolutely indifferent, to all appearances, to all our indescribable sufferings on his account! He walked into the parlor about six or a little after, grinning like an ape, as if to disappear from the face of the earth and come back to it were quite the usual thing. And when we questioned him, he professed to be on his word not to tell anything. And Bertie upheld him in this ridiculous position! However, I was told by the detective whom Bertie employed, rather a decent, vulgar, little man, that they (Bertie and he) had cornered the kidnappers and “called their bluff,” as he expressed it; but I’m inclined to think they got their ransom from our unfortunate, victimized aunt who is too proud to admit it, and that they probably managed it through Miss S—. I know they called up the room to know if the boy was back; and I puzzled them well, I fancy, by saying he was. I may have saved our poor aunt some money by that; but I can’t tell, of course. Melville, I am almost sure that Miss J. S— is at the bottom of it, whatever the mystery is. I am almost sure that, not content with blackmailing and plundering auntie, Miss S— is now making a dead set at poor, blind, simple-hearted Bertie! I have reasons which I haven’t time to enumerate. Bertie will hardly bear a word of criticism of her patiently; in fact, I have ceased to criticize her to him or to Aunt Rebecca—ah, it is a lonely, lonely lot to be clear-sighted; but noblesse oblige. But often during the last few days I have thought that Cassandra wasn’t enough pitied.
Your aff. wife,
M.