A LETTER
Dicky Burnett called at the Fairburne house every afternoon following
the accident, and was informed daily by the functionary at the door,
whom up to now he had rather liked, that “Miss Fairburne begs to be
excused from seeing any one to-day, sir.”
Of course there was nothing further he could do about it, although at
the moment he always conceived some such wild plan as knocking down the
innocent butler and making his way past him. But in the end he merely
left his card and meekly retired.
Joan did not give him a chance. If it had only been a case of
scrimmaging his way to her side, or of scaling a wall or surmounting
any other kind of natural barrier, he would at least have had the
satisfaction of a struggle, even if he failed to reach her. But to
be foiled by nothing more tangible than the lady’s formal refusal,
made still more negative when voiced through a second party (an
inconsequential stick of a second party whom he felt perfectly sure he
could have thrown down the stone steps), was not to give him a show.
He was willing to admit that she must have suffered a good deal of a
shock. It is unpleasant enough at best to run down any one, and to
a woman of her delicate sensibilities it must have been unnerving.
He understood, however, that it was wholly the fellow’s fault. He
understood further that the man was not seriously injured, and she
had certainly done everything in her power to offset the damage. If
the fellow had any sense of appreciation he ought to consider himself
fortunate in being established in the same house with her. He would get
run over himself for the opportunity.
By the end of the fourth day Dicky felt that she, if not her victim,
should have fully recovered. In fact, he was certain of it.
Yet she canceled all her social obligations, and persisted in refusing
to see him. That was not like her. And nothing that went before
explained it.
He had, to be sure, asked her to marry him and she had refused. But
surely she did not think that he was cad enough to make a scene about
that. She knew him well enough to know that he was not the kind to wave
his arms in the air and make himself disagreeable just because she was
obliged to tell him she did not love him. He had hoped up to the last
moment. Good Lord, a man who loved her as he loved her could not be
blamed for that! When, that afternoon at Delmonico’s, he had told her
of his love he had told her true. With all there was in him, he loved
her. With a great deal more than he had ever suspected was in him, he
loved her. Because of this he had hoped to the end, though he knew the
odds were a thousand to one against him. They would be that against any
man who wanted to marry her. She was too good for them all, including
himself.
Looking at the proposition calmly—which meant leaving out of the
question for the moment all such personal considerations as the fact
that he wanted her, reason or no reason, like the devil—he realized
that he could offer her no sufficient consideration that would justify
him in expecting that she should want to marry him. Neither his social
position nor his prospects held any advantage over her social position
and prospects. In fact they were identical. For all those things she
might just as well stay where she was. If he were a Rockefeller, or she
the daughter of poor but honest parents—but there is not much sense in
speculating about what is not. There was just as much chance of his
making himself a billionaire as there was of Fairburne going broke.
A man to win her would have to bring her something she did not have
already. Offhand the only type he could think of was some foreign duke
or lord with a couple of million acres and a chest plastered over with
various orders, and a trunk full of crown jewels. But if ever he saw
anything of the kind snooping around he would nail him. He would pummel
him to within an inch of his life if he went to jail for it. He used to
find considerable relief in picturing himself about that task.
Barring the nobility, what in thunder could a man bring her? There were
serious moments when Dicky Burnett searched his soul for an answer to
that question. With the need of her came the need of doing something
for her—the need of making himself of use to her. And the serious part
of it all was that he could find no way. That her love should call
back to his love—that it should be as simple as this—he never even
considered. He was not that worthy of her. She was too fine, too rare,
too wonderful to allow an ordinary man to conceive anything so rash.
He labored under no delusions about himself. He was decent and he was
honest and he loved her. That was all. There were a thousand men who,
if ever they had the chance to learn her as he had, could say the same.
He was neither better nor worse than these others who in their turn
might come along. Any man who did not love her after knowing her would
be an ass.
These were some of the things that he wished to tell her. She must not
think it was necessary to avoid him; to hide from him like a hunted
rabbit. So when, on the sixth day, he called at the house and received
his stereotyped refusal, he went back to the Harvard Club, instead of
going on to keep his engagement for tea with the Henshaws, and in the
seclusion of the library sat down and wrote her a letter. He was not
especially skillful at that sort of thing. He wrote bluntly in a bold
hand, with his thoughts bent upon what he wished to say rather than any
grace of composition.
Dear Joan [he began]: I want very much to see you. Won’t you please
let me in next time for just a few minutes? If you’re afraid because
you think I’m going to bother you with telling you some more that I
love you—why, I promise I won’t. I don’t mean by this I promise not
to love you. I couldn’t very well promise that, because I do. And
that goes on just the same whether I see you or not, so it needn’t
make any difference one way or the other, need it?
I have been wandering round town all alone for pretty nearly a week
now, and I’m getting mighty homesick. That’s what Hollister says—it
is just plain homesickness. Ever have it? You feel like a cat in a
strange garret, and wander around without any stopping-places. Even
when I go home, the house has a foreign look, as though a whole lot
of things were missing, even though you can’t find anything gone.
I guess it’s you that’s missing at home and everywhere I go. I didn’t
realize until now how much I must have carried you round with me in
my mind. Even dear old dad, who doesn’t pay much attention to my
affairs because he doesn’t think they amount to much, looked up at
dinner the other night and said, “Where’s Joan?”
I’ve told him a little about you. I couldn’t help it.
And every so often, wherever I am, I give a start myself and say,
“Where’s Joan?”
I miss not _seeing_ you even though I know you’re all right. After
all, remembering any one isn’t like seeing her. I know perfectly well
your hair is black and just how it’s going to look when I do see it;
but that isn’t the same. Queer, but it isn’t. And that’s true of your
eyes and nose and mouth and all the rest of you. I want to look at
you again and, even if you don’t love me, there’s no harm, is there?
I won’t take any of you away by doing that. There’ll be just as much
of you left.
I want to hear your voice too—even if you tell me things I won’t like
to hear. And I want—oh, I just want to see you, Joan. Won’t you tell
his nibs at the door to let me in?
_Please._
Of all I told you last time, I want you to remember this most! that
I’m always within reach if you need me for anything. Lord knows, I
can’t think of much I could do. I wish I might.
Good-bye, Joan.
DICK.
P.S. If you don’t see me to-morrow, I’ll believe it was you who was
run over. D.
It helped some just to write to her.