EXTRACT FROM A LETTER
From Mrs. Rebecca Winter to Mrs. John S. G. Winslow,
Fairport, Iowa.
* * * * *
And it was delightful to discover that you were so distressed about
me. I must be getting a trifle maudlin in my old age, for I have had a
lump in my throat every time I have thought of Johnny and you actually
starting out to find me; I am thankful my telegram (Please, Peggy, do
not call it a _wire_ again--to me! I loathe these verbal indolences)
reached you at Omaha in time to stop you.
Really, we have not had hardships. Thanks to Israel Putnam Arnold!
I have a very admiring gratitude for that man! In these days of
degeneracy he builded a stanch enduring house. With union labor, too! I
don’t see how he contrived to do it. Generally, when they build houses
here, they scamp the underpinning and weaken the joists and paint over
the dirt instead of washing it off; and otherwise deserve to be killed.
The unfortunate man opposite had just that kind of house, which tumbled
down and burned up, at once; but, alas! it killed some of the people in
it, not the guilty masons and carpenters.
Our chimneys have been inspected and we are now legally as well as
actually sound; but we did not suffer. We cooked out on the sidewalk,
and supplemented our cooking with young Tracy’s stove.
I told you of Janet’s engagement. Confidentially, my dear Peggy, I
am a bit responsible. They met by chance on the train; and I assure
you, although chance might have parted us, I did not let it. I clung
to Nephew Bertie. I’m sure he wondered why. I knew better than to let
him suspect. But a success you can’t share is like a rose without a
smell. So I confess to you, _I_ have made this match. But when you see
Millicent she will tell you that _she_ helped things along. She has
abused Janet like a pickpocket; but now, since she has discovered Janet
didn’t draw the Daughters’ caricature of her, she regards her as one of
the gems of the century.
We are recovering from the terrible events of which we wrote. It
is certainly a relief that Atkins is killed. He was one of the two
scoundrels who sneaked into the _patio_ and put the bombs into the
automobile. Bertie shot him. You have no doubt heard all about Mr.
Keatcham’s death. He was killed by the man whose wickedness he had
unconsciously fostered. He did not know it, but I make no doubt his
swollen fortune and the unscrupulous daring of its acquiring had a
great influence in corrupting his secretary.
And his corruption was his master’s undoing. I must say I sympathize
with young Tracy, who said last night: “I feel as if I had been put
to soak in crime! That bomb was the limit. In future, me for common
or garden virtue; it may be tame but I prefer tameness to delirium
tremens!”
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.
[B] So still and calm the night is,
The very winds asleep,
My heart’s so tender sentinel
His watch and ward doth keep.
And on the wings of zephyrs soft
That wander how they will,
To thee, O woman fair, to thee
My prayers go fluttering still.
Oh, take the heart’s love to thy heart
Of one that doth adore!
Have pity, add not to the flame
That burns thy troubadour!
And if compassion stirs thy breast
For my eternal woe,
Oh, as I love thee, loveliest
Of women, love me so!
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.