He rose, and, taking his candle with him, opened a door leading from the studio up a short flight of steps to a little cupboard of a sleeping room. Here he cast himself on the bed and closed his eyes. He must sleep: but no, he could not. After a time of restless tossing he got up and drew an old portmanteau from the closet and threw the contents out on the bed. From among them he picked up the thing he sought and sat on the edge of his bed with it in his hands, turning it over and regarding it, tieing and untieing the worn, frayed, but still bright ribbons, which had once been the cherry-colored hair ribbons of little Betty Ballard.
Suddenly he rose and lifted his head high, in his old, rather imperious way, put out his candle, and looked through the small, dusty panes of his window. It was day––early dawn. He was jaded and weary, but he would try no longer to sleep. He must act, and shake off sentimentalism. Yes, he must act. He bathed and dressed with care, and then in haste, as if life depended on hurry, he packed the portmanteau and stepped briskly into the studio, looking all about, noting everything as if taking stock of it all, then sat down with pen and paper to write.
The letter was a long one. It took time and thought. When he was nearly through with it, Ben Howard lagged wearily in.
“Halloo! Why didn’t you wait for me? What did you clear out for and leave me in the lurch? Fresh as a daisy, you are, old chap, and I’m done for, dead.”
“You’re not scientific in your pleasures.” Robert Kater lifted his eyes and looked at his friend. “Are you alive enough to hear me and remember what I say? Will you do something for me? Shall I tell you now or will you breakfast first?”
“Breakfast? Faugh!” He looked disgustedly around him.
“I’m sorry. You drink too much. Listen, Ben. I’ll tell you what I mean to do and what I wish you to do for me––and––you remember all you can of it, will you? I must do it now, for you’ll be asleep soon, and this will be the last I shall see of you––ever. I’m leaving in two hours––as soon as I’ve breakfasted.”
“What’s that? Hold on!” Ben Howard sprang up, and darting behind a screen where they washed their brushes, he dashed cold water over his head and came back toweling himself. “I’m fit now. I did drink too much champagne, but I’ll sleep it off. Now fire away,––what’s up?”
“In two hours I’ll be en route for the coast, and to-morrow I’ll take passage for home on the first boat.” Robert closed and sealed the long letter he had been writing and tossed it on the table. “I want this mailed one week from to-day. Put it in your pocket so you won’t lose it among the rubbish here. One week from to-day it must be mailed. It’s to my great aunt, Jean Craigmile, who gave me the 405 money to set up here the first year. I’ve paid that up––last week––with my last sou––and with interest. By rights she should have whatever there is here of any value, for, if it were not for her help, there would not have been a thing here anyway, and I’ve no one else to whom to leave it––so see that this letter is mailed without fail, will you?”