FROM MRS. MELVILLE’S POINT OF VIEW
The Palace Hotel,
San Francisco, March 24, 1906.
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.
THE SAME TO THE SAME
Casa Fuerte, San Francisco, Cal.,
Wednesday.
Dear Husband:
This heading may surprise you. But we are making a visit to Mr. Anthony
Arnold (_the_ Arnold’s son) in his beautiful house in the suburbs of
the city. It was far more convenient for me at the Palace where I
found Mrs. Wigglesworth most attentive and congenial and found some
_great bargains_; but you know I can not be false to my _Trust_. To
watch Aunt Rebecca Winter (without seeming to watch, of course, for
the aged always resent the care which they need) is my chief object in
this trip; therefore when Mr. Arnold (whose father she knows, but the
old gentleman is traveling in Europe with his married daughter and her
family) when the young Arnold urged us all to come and spend a couple
of weeks with him, I could not very well refuse. Though a stranger
to me, he is not to Auntie or Bertie. The house is his own, left him
by his mother, who died not very long ago. At first, I remained at
the Palace with Bertie and Archie; Bertie seemed so disturbed at the
idea of my going and Aunt Rebecca was very liberal, insisting that I
was just as much her guest as before, it was only she who was running
away; and the end of it was (she has such a compelling personality,
you know) that she went with Randall and J. S. to Casa Fuerte (Strong
House--and you would call it well-named could you see it; it is a
massive structure!) while we others remained until Sunday. On account
of what I have hinted in regard to the designs of a certain lady I was
not sorry to have Bertie under another roof. He has a fortune of his
own, you know, and a reputation as well. Wealth and position at one
blow certainly would appeal to her, an obscure dependent probably of no
family (it is not a romantic name), and Bertie is very well-bred and
rather handsome with his black eyebrows and gray hair and aquiline
nose. I have been very, very worried, but I feel relieved as to
that. Melville, _she is flying at higher game_! In this house is a
multimillionaire, in fact the fourth richest man in the United States,
Edwin S. Keatcham. He is ill--probably with appendicitis which seems to
be the common lot. I asked the doctor--of course, very delicately--and
he said, “Well, not exactly, but--” and smiled very confidentially; and
begged me not to mention Mr. Keatcham’s illness or even that he was
in the house. “You know,” he said, “that when these great financiers
sneeze, the stock-market shakes; so absolute secrecy, please, my dear
madam.” Don’t mention it to a soul, will you? Of course I haven’t seen
the invalid; but I’ve seen his valet, who is very English; and I have
seen his nurse. Who do you suppose she is? Janet Smith! Yes; you know
she has been a trained nurse. Was there ever a more artful creature!
But Mr. K. is none of my affairs; he will have to save himself or be
lost. Once she is his wife we are safe from that designing woman. I am
quite willing to admit his danger and her fascination. Now, Melville,
for once admit that I can be just to a woman whom I dislike.
This house is sumptuous; I’ve a lovely bath-room and a beautiful huge
closet with a window. It must have cost a mint of money. I have been
told that Arnold _père_ made a present of it to his wife; he let
the architect and her draw all the plans of it, but he insisted on
attending to the construction himself; he said he was not going to
have any contract work or “scamping,” such as I am reliably informed
has been common in these towering new buildings in San Francisco; he
picked out all the materials himself and inspected the inspector. It
has what they call “reinforced concrete” and all the beams, etc., are
steel and the lower story is enormously thick as to walls, in the
genuine Mission style. He said he built for earthquakes. The house
is all in the Spanish _hidalgo_ fashion. I wish you could see the
bas-reliefs and the carved furniture with cane seats of the seventeenth
century, _all genuine_; and the stamped leather and the iron grille
work--_rejas_ they call it--all copied from famous Spanish models from
Toledo; you know the ancient Spaniards were renowned for their _rejas_.
The pictures are fine--all Spanish; I don’t know half the names of the
artists, but they are all old and imposing and some of them wonderfully
preserved. The electric lights are all in the shape of lanterns.
The _patio_, as they call the court around which the house is built,
reminded me of the court in Mrs. Gardiner’s palace in Boston, only
it was not so crowded with _objets_ and the pillars are much thicker
and the tropical plants and vines more luxuriant--on account of the
climate, I suppose. It is all certainly very beautiful.
There is a great arched gateway for carriages--which reminds me, do be
sure to send the horses into the country to rest, one at a time; and
have Erastus clean the stable properly while they are gone. You can
keep one horse for golf; but don’t use the brougham ever; and why not
send the surrey to be done over while I am gone? Is the piazza painted
yet? How does the new cook do? Insist upon her cooking you nourishing
food. You might have the Bridge Club of an evening--there are only the
four of you--and she might, with Emily’s help, get you a nice repast of
lobster à la Newburg, sandwiches and chicken salad; but be sure _you_
don’t touch the lobster! You know what happened the last time; and I
shan’t be there to put on mustard-plasters and give you Hunyadi water.
If Erastus needs any more chamois skins Emily knows where they are,
but admonish him to be careful with them; I never saw mortal man go
through chamois skins the way he can; sometimes I think he gives them
to the horses to eat!
Good-by,
Your aff. wife,
M.