I used to think that I should like to match my wits against a first-class criminal intellect; God forgive me for the wish! I have been matching wits for the last month; and never putting on my shoes without looking in them for a baby bomblet or feeling a twinge of indigestion without darkly suspecting the cook—who is really the best creature in the world, sent Mr. Arnold by a good Chinese friend of mine. (I had a chance to do a good turn to my friend, by the way, during the earthquake and thus repay some of his to me.)
Archie is well and cheerful. Isn’t it like the Winter temperament to lose its melancholy in such horrors as we have seen? Archie is distinctly happier since he came to California. As for Janet and Rupert—oh, well, my dear, you and Johnny know! The house has been full of people, and we have had several friends of our own for a day or two. I got a recipe for a delicious tea-cake from Mrs. Wigglesworth of Boston. She didn’t save anything but her furs and her kimono and a bridge set, besides what she had on; she packed her trunk with great care and nobody would take it down-stairs. Of course she saved her bag of jewels, which reminds me that poor Mr. Keatcham left Janet some pearls—that is, the money for them. He was very much attached to her.
We buried him on the crest of the hill; later, when more settled times shall come, he may take another and last journey to that huge mausoleum where his wife and mother are buried. Poor things! it is to be hoped they had no taste living or else that they can’t see now how hideous and flamboyant is their last costly resting place. But if Keatcham hadn’t a taste for the fine arts he had compensating qualities. I shall never forget the night of his burial. It was a “wonderful great night of stars,” as Stevenson says. A poor little tired-out clergyman, in a bedraggled surplice, who had been reading prayers over people for the last ten hours and was fit to drop, hurried through the service; and the town the dead man loved was flaming miles beyond miles. About the grave was none of his blood, none of his ancient friends, but the men I believe he would have chosen—men who had fought him and then had fought for him faithfully. They were haggard and spent with fighting the fire; and they went from his burial back to days and nights of desperate effort. He had fought and lost and yet did not lose at the last, but won, snatching victory out of defeat as he was wont to do all his life. The heavy burdens which have dropped from his shoulders these others whom he chose will carry, maybe more humbly, perhaps not so capably, but quite as courageously. And it is singular how his influence persists, how it touches Kito and Haley, as well as the others.
“Shure,” said honest Haley (whose wit you are likely to sample in the near future, for he has elected to be the Rupert Winters’ chauffeur; they don’t know it yet, but they will when it is time); “shure,” says he, “whin thot man so mashed up there ye cudn’t move him for fear ye’d lose the main parrt of him, whin he was thinkin’ of the town and nothin’ else, I hadn’t the heart to be complainin’ for the loss of a few teeth and a few limps about me! An’ I fair wu’ked like the divil. So did Kito, who’s a dacint Jap gintleman and no haythin at all.”
Poor Keatcham, he had no childhood and his wife died too soon to revive the fragrance of his youth; but I can’t help but think he had a reticent, awkward, shy sort of heart somewhere about him. Well, he was what Millicent would call “a compelling personality.” I use plain language and I call him a great man. He won the lion’s share because he was the lion. And yet, poor Lion, his share was a lonely life and a tragic death.
THE END
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Of course, no allusions are made to any real M. 20139.
So still and calm the night is,