"I knew it'ld surprise you, but it's as true as we're both standing in
this kitchen at this minute. It was a very nice letter, and it said as
how he had admired me from the first minute he saw me, but more
particularly after he'd sat opposite to me at the table and eat my
cranberry sauce. He said he'd always loved cranberry sauce, but as he
felt he'd never tasted none until he tasted mine. I certainly never see
a more complimentary letter than that letter of Mr. Kettlewell's. But it
was the end of the letter where he signed his name that lit me up with
the clear light of revelation. Until I see his name spelled out there in
black and white, I never once believed it begun with a K. I'd thought
all along as his name was Cattlewell, with a C. Far be it from me, Mrs.
Lathrop, to ever have suspected as Jathrop's friend would stoop to
housebreaking and to binding and gagging a lone woman, but there's other
ways as his handkerchief might have got to my mouth, and I felt to know
the truth. His address was on the letter, and there was nothing as could
have stayed me from getting to that address as fast as steam and steel
could carry me. I left in the middle of the night, and I got to New York
in the morning, and I didn't have that feeling for nothing. Mr.
Kettlewell was at his hotel, and in all my born days I never see a
person gladder to see anybody than Mr. Kettlewell was to see me. It's
marvelous what a impression a little good cooking will make on a man,
even if it's only in cranberry sauce. His mouth actually hadn't stopped
watering yet. Leastwise he said it hadn't, and I'd be a fool not to
believe him. He begun talking about it right away, and I let him talk,
just so's I could look at his shiny bald head and his red whiskers
without having to think of anything else except the sound of his
milk-and-honey voice. Finally he said he supposed I'd come to the city
to select Jathrop's Christmas present of furnishings, and if I'd like
him to help me select 'em, he'd be glad enough to go along and lend a
hand. Well, nothing could of been nicer than that, now, could it? But I
told him I wasn't one as traveled all the way to New York under false
pretences, and that if he must have the truth, I'd never give one
thought to Jathrop's present since he mentioned it. All my thought, I
said, had been give to finding a handkerchief with a K onto it, which
I'd washed and ironed with my own hands and brought to him, believing I
must of picked it up at the Christmas dinner by mistake, and not wanting
him to feel the need of it any longer. And you can believe me or not,
Mrs. Lathrop, just as you feel about it, if he didn't right then and
there on seeing that clue, confess that it did belong to him, and that
he couldn't for the life of him remember where he'd left it."
Mrs. Lathrop, who had been standing all the while, dropped into a chair
at this point in dumb stupefaction. But Susan, who had been caught with
a bowl of batter in one hand and a spoon in the other, paused only to do
a little more stirring.
"Yes, sir," she went on, still apparently as pleased as punch. "The clue
belonged to Mr. Kettlewell and no one else, which led me to suspect
right away that the burglar must have robbed your house first. I knowed
very well that I never carried that clue home myself, though I'd said I
might, just for the sake of drawing Mr. Kettlewell on. And so how could
it have got into my mouth unless the burglar got it from Mr. Kettlewell
himself? But there is stranger things in this world than you and me ever
dreamed of, Mrs. Lathrop, and that was one of 'em. Mr. Kettlewell is a
very frank and open gentleman, and seeing how disturbed I was over
something, though I'd never so much as breathed burglar or burglary, he
made another confession. And when it comes to dreaming, there is very
few people, he said, as has the power to dream the way he does. He
don't just lie still in bed and picture things out in his sleep, but he
gets up and does the things he's dreaming about. He ain't got no
limitations in it, either. Sleepwalkers is more or less common. But
sleepwalkers just walk, and that ends 'em. Mr. Kettlewell says he very
seldom walks. He usually drives a automobile when he's dreaming, just as
he does when he's wide awake. Sometimes he comes to while he's driving,
and he's found himself often as much as a couple a hundred miles from
home, and without a cent in his clothes, the clothes usually being just
pajamas with nothing but a handkerchief in the pocket. Now, if you had
any imagination a _tall_, Mrs. Lathrop, you'd see what I'm coming to,
but as you haven't you don't, I can tell by the way you look. So you'll
get the full benefit of the surprise when I say that on Christmas night
Mr. Kettlewell distinctly remembers he dreamed of committing a burglary.
He says it wasn't my mince pie as did it, because he's often eaten
mince pie before and never dreamed nothing worse than going to the
electric chair; and it wasn't my stuffing neither, for turkey stuffing
when it's indigestible always makes him dream he's a monkey climbing
trees. He says once he woke up sudden and fell and broke his arm, but
that that was a long while ago. Now he's had more experience, he never
wakes up till he's safe back in bed again. And he says doughnuts causes
his dreams to run back to when he was a boy, and one time he come to,
after a after-dinner nap, when he had doughnuts for dessert, playing
marbles in the back alley with a lot of street urchins. I can tell you,
Mrs. Lathrop, he was most interesting. He's got all his dreams sort of
classified in that way, and can almost tell to a dot what he'll dream
about according to what he eats. And he says soggy biscuits always makes
him dream he's robbing a house or killing somebody. It was mighty lucky
for me, as you can see for yourself, that this time he only dreamed of
binding and gagging. If he'd dreamed of murder, I'd not be here now to
tell the tale. And it's clean to be seen that your biscuits would of
been an accessory before the fact."
"Then he--"
"Yes, it was him as done it, and without no moral blame attaching to him
a _tall_. If he'd killed me, the law couldn't of touched him either, for
the law takes no account of what a person does while they're asleep. But
as you made the biscuits in your full senses and with your eyes wide
open, you'd of been the only one to blame."
Mrs. Lathrop groaned. "You know, Sus--" she protested.
"Of course if I was alive, I'd never hold it against you, because I know
very well you can't make biscuits no better, and ain't never had sense
enough to learn. But if I was murdered, my ghost couldn't testify, and I
don't see as how you could be saved from the law taking its course."
At this juncture there was a sound overhead, and both ladies started,
Mrs. Lathrop in surprise and her friend in sudden realization of
neglected duties.
"What is--?" inquired Mrs. Lathrop.
"It's him," answered Susan. "Mr. Kettlewell. And the coffee's boiled now
till it's bitter, and there ain't a single cake on the griddle." She was
turning back to the stove as Mrs. Lathrop's exclamation caught her and
switched her around.
"Why, Susan Clegg!"
"Don't Susan Clegg me, Mrs. Lathrop," she commanded. "There ain't no
Susan Clegg any more. When Susan Clegg disappeared a week ago last
night, she disappeared for good, never to return. And if you suspect
anything else, it's best I should introduce myself here and now,--Susan
Kettlewell, from this time forth, if you please."
Mrs. Lathrop sprang up and dropped back again.
"You don't--"
"I do. I do mean to say I'm married at last. We was wedded with a ring
in New York last Wednesday, and it's my husband's footsteps you hear up
there in the new bathroom."
She dropped three spreading spoonfuls of batter on the greased griddle
and gave Mrs. Lathrop a full minute to absorb the announcement. Then, as
she drew the coffee pot to one side, she continued:
"And it was purely a love match, make no mistake about that. He's got
money enough to buy and sell Jathrop, but he's as simple-minded and
simple-tasted as a babe in arms. And there's nothing I can think of that
he's not ready and willing to give me. Besides, he's frank and open
about everything. He says his teeth is false, and he has a bullet in his
right leg, got one time when he dreamed somebody was shooting him; but
that otherwise he's as perfect as a man of his age can be. He says he'll
buy a wig if I want him to, and that if I don't like the color of his
whiskers, he'll have 'em dyed whatever color I'd like best, and the
wig'l be made to match. But I wouldn't have him changed the least mite.
And if there's one thing in the world I'm thankful for it is that I got
him and not Jathrop. And I'm not thinking from the financial standpoint,
neither."
THE END
* * * * *
Distinctive Fiction by Anne Warner
The reading world owes Anne Warner a vote of thanks for her
contributions to the best of American humor.--_New York Times._
Anne Warner has taken her place as one of the drollest of American
humorists.--_Century Magazine._
The Gay and Festive Claverhouse
A story of the desperate attempt of a supposedly dying man to lose
the love of a girl.
Sunshine Jane
The joyful story of a Sunshine Nurse whose mission was not to care
for sick bodies but to heal sick souls.
When Woman Proposes.
A clever and entertaining story of a woman who fell in love with an
army officer.
How Leslie Loved
Not only a buoyant love story but a penetrating satire on modern
manners.
Just Between Themselves
A vivacious satire on married life which is full of mirth of the
quieter, chuckling variety.
The Taming of Amorette
A clever comedy telling how a man cured his attractive wife of
flirting.
Susan Clegg, Her Friend, and Her Neighbors
A study of life which is most delectable for its simplicity and for
the quaint character creation.
Susan Clegg and a Man in the House
The remarkable happenings at the Clegg homestead after the boarder
came.
The Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary.
The pranks of a scapegrace nephew who was showing his old aunt a
"good time."
In a Mysterious Way
Compounded of amusing studies of human nature in a rural community.
A Woman's Will
Describes the wooing of a young American widow on the continent by
a musical genius.
Little, Brown & Co., _Publishers_, Boston
End of Project Gutenberg's Susan Clegg and Her Love Affairs, by Anne Warner