George Melville had no definite destination. He was traveling, not for
pleasure, but for health, and his purpose was to select a residence
in some high location, where the dry air would be favorable for his
pulmonary difficulties.
A week later he had found a temporary home. One afternoon Herbert and
he, each on horseback, for at that time public lines of travel were
fewer than at present, came suddenly upon a neat, one-story cottage in
the edge of the forest. It stood alone, but it was evidently the home
of one who aimed to add something of the graces of civilization to the
rudeness of frontier life.
They reined up simultaneously, and Melville, turning to Herbert, said:
“There, Herbert, is my ideal of a residence. I should not be satisfied
with a rude cabin. There I should find something of the comfort which we
enjoy in New England.”
“The situation is fine, too,” said Herbert, looking about him
admiringly.
The cottage stood on a knoll. On either side were tall and stately
trees. A purling brook at the left rolled its silvery current down a
gentle declivity, and in front, for half a mile, was open country.
“I have a great mind to call and inquire who lives here.” said Melville.
“Perhaps we can arrange to stay here all night.”
“That is a good plan, Mr. Melville.”
George Melville dismounted from his horse, and, approaching, tapped with
the handle of his whip on the door.
“Who's there?” inquired a smothered voice, as of one rousing himself
from sleep.
“A stranger, but a friend,” answered Melville.
There was a sound as of some one moving, and a tall man, clad in a rough
suit, came to the door, and looked inquiringly at Melville and his boy
companion.
Though his attire was rude, his face was refined, and had the
indefinable air of one who would be more at home in the city than in the
country.
“Delighted to see you both,” he said, cordially, offering his hand. “I
don't live in a palace, and my servants are all absent, but if you will
deign to become my guests I will do what I can for your comfort.”
“You have anticipated my request,” said Melville. “Let me introduce
myself as George Melville, an invalid by profession, just come from New
England in search of health. My young friend here is Herbert Carr, my
private secretary and faithful companion, who has not yet found out what
it is to be in poor-health. Without him I should hardly have dared to
come so far alone.”
“You are very welcome, Herbert,” said the host, with pleasant
familiarity. “Come in, both of you, and make yourselves at home.”
The cottage contained two rooms. One was used as a bedchamber, the other
as a sitting room. On the walls were a few pictures, and on a small
bookcase against one side of the room were some twenty-five books.
There was an easel and an unfinished picture in one corner, and a small
collection of ordinary furniture.
“You are probably an artist,” suggested Melville.
“Yes, you have hit it. I use both pen and pencil,” and he mentioned a
name known to Melville as that of a popular magazine writer.
I do not propose to give his real name, but we will know him as Robert
Falkland.
“I am familiar with your name, Mr. Falkland,” said Melville, “but I did
not expect to find you here.”
“Probably not,” answered Falkland. “I left the haunts of civilization
unexpectedly, some months ago, and even my publishers don't know where I
am.”
“In search of health?” queried Melville.
“Not exactly. I did, however, feel in need of a change. I had been
running in a rut, and wanted to get out of it, so I left my lodgings in
New York and bought a ticket to St. Louis; arrived there, I determined
to come farther. So here I have been, living in communion with nature,
seeing scarcely anybody, enjoying myself, on the whole, but sometimes
longing to see a new face.”
“And you have built this cottage?”
“No; I bought it of its former occupant, but have done something
towards furnishing it; so that it has become characteristic of me and my
tastes.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Three months; but my stay is drawing to a close.”
“How is that?”
“Business that will not be put off calls me back to New York. In fact, I
had appointed to-morrow for my departure.”
Melville and Herbert exchanged a glance. It was evident that the same
thought was in the mind of each.
“Mr. Falkland,” said George Melville, “I have a proposal to make to
you.”
The artist eyed him in some surprise.
“Go on,” he said.
“I will buy this cottage of you, if you are willing.”
Falkland smiled.
“This seems providential,” he said. “We artists and men of letters
are apt to be short of money, and I confess I was pondering whether my
credit was good with anybody for a hundred dollars to pay my expenses
East. Once arrived there, there are plenty of publishers who will make
me advances on future work.”
“Then we can probably make a bargain,” said Mr. Melville. “Please name
your price.”
Now, I do not propose to show my ignorance of real estate values in
Colorado by naming the price which George Melville paid for his home
in the wilderness. In fact, I do not know. I can only say that he gave
Falkland a check for the amount on a Boston bank, and a hundred in cash
besides.
“You are liberal, Mr. Melville,” said Falkland, gratified. “I am afraid
you are not a business man. I have not found that business men overpay.”
“You are right, I am not a business man,” answered Melville, “though
I wish my health would admit of my being so. As to the extra hundred
dollars, I think it worth that much to come upon so comfortable a home
ready to my hand. It will really be a home, such as the log cabin I
looked forward to could not be.”
“Thank you,” said Falkland; “I won't pretend that I am indifferent
to money, for I can't afford to be. I earn considerable sums, but,
unfortunately, I never could keep money, or provide for the future.”
“I don't know how it would be with me,” said Melville, “for I am one
of those, fortunate or otherwise, who are born to a fortune. I have
sometimes been sorry that I had not the incentive of poverty to induce
me to work.”
“Then, suppose we exchange lots,” said the artist, lightly. “I shouldn't
object to being wealthy.”
“With all my heart,” answered Melville. “Give me your health, your
literary and artistic talent, and it is a bargain.”
“I am afraid they are not transferable,” said the artist, “but we won't
prolong the discussion now. I am neglecting the rites of hospitality;
I must prepare supper for my guests. You must know that here in the
wilderness I am my own cook and dishwasher.”
“Let me help you?” said Melville.
“No, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, “it is more in my line. I have often
helped mother at home, and I don't believe you have had any experience.”
“I confess I am a green hand,” said Melville, laughing, “but, as Irish
girls just imported say, 'I am very willing.'”
“On the whole, I think the boy can assist me better,” said Falkland.
“So, Mr. Melville, consider yourself an aristocratic visitor, while
Herbert and myself, sons of toil, will minister to your necessities.”
“By the way, where do you get your supplies?” asked Melville.
“Eight miles away there is a mining camp and store. I ride over there
once a week or oftener, and bring home what I need.”
“What is the name of the camp?”
“Deer Creek. I will point out to Herbert, before I leave you, the bridle
path leading to it.”
“Thank you. It will be a great advantage to us to know just how to
live.”
With Herbert's help an appetizing repast was prepared, of which all
three partook with keen zest.
The next day Falkland took leave of them, and Melville and his boy
companion were left to settle down in their new home.