Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

“Yes, but one made by human hands, as we discovered as soon as we crossed the threshold. The walls were cut and carved in many curious devices, while around the three sides ran a shelf cut in the rock, on which reposed many bones piled in regular heaps. A glance revealed the fact that they were human bones,—we were in some prehistoric sarcophagus. Presently, as our eyes became accustomed to the subdued light, we began to look about us more closely. I was examining a pile of bones at the end farthest from the opening, comparing them with the skull in our possession, when, finding them apparently of the usual size, I tossed a thigh bone carelessly back on the shelf. It struck the pile with more force than I had intended, and they all came tumbling to the floor; but as they fell they revealed what appeared then, and subsequently proved to be, a crystal casket. It was about eighteen inches long by six high, and a foot wide; and, as I took hold of it, it moved with my hand. Carrying it to the opening I set it down in the light. Then, for the first time, I saw that it was filled with a blue substance, whose nature I could not clearly make out, owing to the dust and dirt covering the case. Upon examining the lid I found that it was not hinged but simply set on over the top. A quick jerk brought it away, and there before our staring eyes lay a huge heap of blue stones, all cut, and polished to a dazzling brilliancy.

“‘Sapphires!’ cried Mitchell, and his eyes bulged from his head.

“‘Are you certain?’ I asked, almost breathless from amazement.

“‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Look at them,’ and he took a handful of the beautiful stones. ‘You never saw glass like that.’

“I thought as he did, but, being no judge of such things, was not too ready to let my hopes soar, only to be dashed to earth again. There must have been at least two pecks of them, ranging in size from a small pea to stones as big as the end of my thumb,—and all perfectly cut. Suddenly, as we stood gazing incredulously at the gleaming stones, my thoughts flew to the skull, and I ran to fetch it. As I brought it into the light I saw that its gaze was now riveted on the casket, the lidless blue orbs seeming actually to gloat over the piles of blue stones. A new thought flashed through my mind. Could it be—? Yes—undoubtedly—the eyes that we had thought only bits of blue glass were themselves sapphires, but larger and finer than any in the casket.

“Well, Mitchell and I were practical, first of all. As soon as we had recovered from our amazement we made a thorough search of the cave. Finding nothing more, however, we took ourselves and our precious burdens to the camp, and that very night we started for San Francisco.”

“And the stones proved really sapphires?” said Leighton.

“Sapphires! I should say so. The leading jewelers to whom we showed a few specimens upon our arrival in San Francisco, two days later, pronounced them gems of the first water, and gladly paid us twenty thousand dollars for sixty of the smaller stones. Upon parting company we divided the sapphires equally between us, and since then I have visited every capital of Europe, in each of which the stones have been pronounced flawless.”

“And that’s how you struck it rich?”

“Yes, but so far I have converted less than half of them into money. The remainder I have placed in the casket in a New York safe deposit vault, but the skull—”

As he spoke he gestured toward an ebony cabinet just above his head. There, behind a glass door, stood a huge skull, whose lidless blue eyes, looking out toward the distant city, seemed to pierce every obstacle between itself and the casket of sapphires over which it still kept watch and ward.

A Surgical Love-Cure.

BY JAMES BUCKHAM.

One dull, gray afternoon in November I was sitting in my office in Raymond Square, deeply absorbed in an article in my _Medical Journal_,—the description of an experiment conducted by a famous French surgeon for the purpose of determining whether sight could be restored to a blind person by engrafting the live nerve of a dog’s eye upon the shriveled and atrophied nerve of the patient’s eye. So engrossed was I in the fascinating details of the experiment that I did not hear the door of my office open, nor was I aware of the presence of a second person until a peculiarly deep-toned, rich, and musical voice broke upon my ear.

“Have I the honor of addressing Doctor Marston?”

I looked up, and saw before me a tall and graceful young man, smooth-shaven, and dressed in the characteristic clerical garb of the Church of England. His face was singularly handsome, of the clear-cut Grecian type, and was lighted by a pair of large, thoughtful brown eyes. With the exception of the mouth, the whole face was both intellectual and spiritual; but there was a certain fulness and sensuous curve of the lips which suggested a strongly emotive and possibly passionate nature under this calm and priestly exterior.

“Yes, I am Doctor Marston,” I said, replying to the young clergyman’s question. “Can I be of any service to you?”

“On one condition—possibly,” replied the young man, taking the seat which I indicated, and fixing his thoughtful brown eyes searchingly upon mine. For a moment we sat gazing intently at each other, and then I said, somewhat abruptly:—

“I beg to know the condition, sir.”

“It is this,” he replied; “that if I entrust my case to you, you will promise to keep it entirely secret, scientifically or otherwise, until after my death, should that occur before your own. And, in any case, you must agree never to reveal my name in connection with the affair.”

For some moments I sat turning over this peculiar proposition in my mind, conscious all the while that the brown eyes were fixed patiently, but anxiously, upon my face. At length I replied:—

“I have never as yet been called upon to undertake a case guarded by such secrecy as you seem desirous to throw about your own, and, to be frank, I dislike to commit myself to any transaction of the sort,—at least, until I know something of the nature of the trouble and the reasons for suppressing any mention of it. This much, however, I will agree to do. If you will describe the nature of your disease, I will then decide whether I ought to accept the case on the conditions imposed. Whether I accept or refuse it, I will agree to keep the matter a total secret, except so far as your own proposition gives me liberty to speak.”

A slight smile flitted over the young clergyman’s face. “Very well,” he said; “I accept your word of honor, as a gentleman should, and will proceed at once to describe the malady which has, perhaps justly, awakened your suspicions. To come at once to the point, then, know that, impelled by your well-deserved reputation as an anatomist, I have applied to you to perform a surgical operation _for the cure of love-sickness_!”

I started, the suspicion that flitted through my mind mirroring itself unconsciously in my dilated eyes.

“Ah, no!” exclaimed my companion seriously, reading the tell-tale revelation of my face. “I am not insane. My mind is as clear and logical at this moment as it ever was in my life, and the request which I make, a little reflection will prove to you, is not only reasonable, but scientific.

“First, however, let me state to you the circumstances which make me desirous to rid myself of the passion which I have confessed, thereby anticipating the question which is sure to rise to your lips. You are aware, of course, that the High Church movement in this country, as well as in England, has resulted in the formation of certain brotherhoods of the clergy, bound together by vows more or less approaching in strictness those which govern the clergy of the Church of Rome?”

“I was not aware of the fact,” I replied, as the young clergyman paused for an answer.

“It is indeed so,” he continued. “You will not be surprised, then, to know that by the vows of the Brotherhood of St. Michael, to which I consecrated myself soon after the days of my novitiate, celibacy is as strictly enjoined as upon the priesthood of the Church of Rome.”

“Indeed!” I exclaimed, carried away by some sudden feeling, which I cannot even now defend. “The more fools—”

But here I stopped, the great brown eyes with something like a flash of Olympic lightning piercing and enchaining mine. In another instant the deep, rich voice proceeded:—

“For ten years I have kept every vow of the brotherhood referring to woman, without a single spiritual struggle—wearing these restraints as Samson wore his chains. But something less than six months ago I met a woman—”

The young clergyman paused, throwing his head back against the green baize of the easy-chair in which he sat. For a moment I thought he had fainted, and sprang for a cordial; but, without taking his slowly opening eyes from the ceiling, he motioned me back, and continued, while an indescribably sweet and almost transfiguring smile lit his pale face:—

“A woman, said I? An angel! A vision of transcendent loveliness! She came into my life as a new star comes across the disk of an astronomer’s telescope, shedding its undiscovered light from eternity for him alone. O my Ethel! My angel! My lips yearn toward yours, my arms grope out to clasp you!—My God! What am I saying?”

The young priest sprang from his chair and stood trembling before me. His face was livid with the exercise of some tremendous mental effort, and I could see that the white nails of his clenched hands were driven deep into the flesh. For a full minute he stood thus, and then his strong frame relaxed, and he sank back into his chair, white as the paper on which I write, and weak as a babe. This time I pressed the cordial to his lips, and he did not refuse it. Presently he looked up with a faint smile, and said, “Now, sir, you see what my malady is. I have no need to describe it any farther.”

I stepped to the window and gazed up into the gray sky, as if looking for a solution of my perplexity. But my mind remained as blank as the dull expanse above the city roofs. Was this man insane, or was he really, as he said, in his right mind? Could the force of a mere amorous passion for a beautiful woman so carry away one of his character unless the man’s mental integrity was impaired? I turned suddenly, in response to the young clergyman’s voice. He had risen, and was advancing towards me.

“Do you believe in phrenology, Doctor Marston?”

“Most assuredly I do not.”

“Will you perform an experiment upon me to test the reasonableness of your doubt?”

“Do you mean by that, will I assume your case surgically?”

“Exactly.”

I turned to the window again. Here was certainly an opportunity to contribute something to the discussion of a vexed scientific question. Are the functions of the brain localized in its structure? So say Gall, and Spurzheim, and not a few other eminent anatomists. Well, every practical experiment looking towards the solution of this question has its value. Here was a strong, vigorous man, evidently possessed by the amative mania. It would be an operation of little difficulty and no great degree of danger to uncover the occipital protuberance at the base of the brain, where phrenologists claim that the organ of love is situated, and then—

“Well, will you take the case?”

The clergyman’s hand was on my shoulder. I turned and looked him squarely in the face. “Is it understood that you assume all the risk, and that you do not hold me responsible for the psychological result of an experiment which, so far as I am concerned, is purely physical in its character?”

“Certainly. We will have it so understood.”

“Then you may call at my office to-morrow morning at eleven. Eat a light breakfast, and, as far as possible, avoid excitement of every kind.”

It seemed strange instruction to be giving a clergyman; but the young man understood and nodded approval. In a few minutes he took his departure, and I returned to my _Medical Journal_—but not to read.

Precisely at eleven o’clock the next morning my singular patient walked into the office. I at once remarked upon his changed appearance. His face looked haggard, and there were heavy, dark rings under his eyes, appearing almost black at the inner corners of the lids.

“I have seen _her_,” he explained heavily. “She was at All Saints Chapel this morning. It was impossible for me to retire, or I should have done so. I had to fight my desire to look at her, to speak to her. I had to fight like a wild lion, and it has told on me, as you can see. But, thank God, it is over now!”

“I hardly think you are in a fit condition to endure a surgical operation,” I objected.

“For God’s sake, do not put it off any longer, doctor!” exclaimed the young clergyman, clutching my hand. “I would rather die than endure another day of such moral agony.”

“Very well,” I said; “I do not consider the experiment a dangerous one in any case—only exhausting.”

Five minutes later my patient, divested of coat, vest, and collar, lay stretched on the operating table. In five minutes more he was under the influence of ether.

My first procedure was to shave the dark, soft, silken hair from the lower part of the young man’s head. I then made two V-shaped incisions with a lancet at the base of the skull, where phrenologists locate the organ of amativeness, and raised the flap of skin from the skull. The next thing was to get at the brain itself, and this I accomplished by boring two fine holes through the skull with the smallest trephine known in surgery. The portion of the brain thus exposed, I was amazed to find, was in a highly inflamed condition. Instead of attempting to relieve the surcharged brain with any instrument, I now placed a leech at each orifice, and allowed a considerable amount of blood to be thus withdrawn. I then dressed the wound antiseptically, and closed it with sutures.

My patient soon came out from under the influence of the anesthetic, but appeared very weak. I lifted him in my arms and carried him to the couch in my private room. Enjoining strict quiet, and, if possible, sleep, I left him alone for a couple of hours. At the end of that time, considering it safe to permit him to talk, I reentered the room with considerable curiosity, not to say agitation, and asked him how he was feeling. To my astonishment, he grasped my hand warmly, exclaiming that he would consider me his greatest benefactor as long as he lived. “For,” he cried, “you have saved my soul from its otherwise certain ruin. Thank God! I feel now no more emotion at the thought of that woman than of any other of her sex.”

I brought my patient some refreshment, and at three o’clock he left my office in high spirits, promising to return again the next day to report upon his condition.

For three weeks the Rev. Alexander Maeck—as I will call my clerical patient—haunted my office every day, and we became fast friends. During all this time he was entirely free from disturbing sentiments. The flames of love, he declared, were quenched, and he was supremely happy.

So favorably, I must confess, did this experiment dispose me towards the neglected science of phrenology that I at once began to direct my studies in that direction, and soon accumulated a large number of expensive books on the subject. I also began to write up the details of my experiment, so as to get the matter into permanent shape while it was still fresh in my mind.

About six weeks after the occurrences above related, and just after I had posted an order for several hundred dollars’ worth of phrenological works, the letter-carrier came into my office and presented me with a large, square, cream-colored envelope. I tore it open carelessly, removed the enclosure from the inner envelope, and bent over two beautifully engraved cards which fell upon the table. They bore the names of Rev. Alexander Maeck and Miss Ethel Plympton.

The wedding was a strictly private affair: and perhaps the most remarkable thing connected with it was the fact that the would-be annihilator of Cupid was permitted to kiss the bride.

The Williamson Safe Mystery.

BY F. S. HESSELTINE.

One morning in the spring of 1894, the attention of persons walking along Sudbury Street, Boston, was attracted to a huge iron safe that was being put out from the warerooms of a well-known safe company, which for many years had done business on that street.

The way was blocked, and all passage by cars and teams prevented while a number of men, with great effort, by the aid of blocks, rollers, and windlass, drew the huge mass of iron onto the platform of a stout dray by which it was to be transported to its destination.

Of course passers-by wondered and queried as to the purpose and possible use of a safe of such unusual form and dimension. But the curiosity of the questioners remained unsatisfied; no one standing by knew, and the merchant with his employees was too busy to answer those who ventured to interrupt with their inquiries.

This much, however, was evident: the safe was not new; indeed, the style and appearance of it indicated that it had been built many years ago for some special purpose, in which it had doubtless seen long service. Altogether the appearance of this strange object so excited my curiosity that, although I was in a hurry to reach my office, I waited until the thing was finally loaded and moved slowly off up the street. Then I entered the store of the safe company, and, being well acquainted with the manager, I asked if he could give me the old safe’s history.

He replied that there was a strange story connected with it, known now only to himself. For certain reasons it never had been known except to two people, and they had been sacredly bound, one by personal interest and the other by a solemn vow, never to divulge the secret. “This promise,” he said, “has been faithfully and sacredly kept; but now all those in any way connected with or affected by it have passed beyond the dark river. The safe, which has stood here for many years like a specter, reminding me of the dead past, has now, to my great relief, vanished forever, and I know no good reason why the strange story should not be told. While I may withhold or change names in the recital, that which I am about to relate is true, and is capable to some extent of verification.

“More than fifty years ago a stranger of good appearance, whose speech and manner indicated that he was of English birth, entered the shop of one Kershaw, a manufacturer on the corner of Chardon and Green Streets, in this city, inquired for the proprietor, and stated that he wanted constructed a strong, fire-proof safe, giving the description and dimensions desired. By his conversation he appeared familiar with such work, and stated plainly how he wanted this constructed and the kind of lock required,—the keyless combination not having then been invented. In answer to inquiries he said that he was about to open a jewelry store in Hanover Street, that he did not intend to do a retail business, but would carry a considerable stock for wholesale, visiting for trade dealers in neighboring cities. He added, also, that as he would be absent from his store from time to time, he desired a safe of large dimensions where his stock could be safely stored during his absence, as well as at night. He required no shelving in the safe, and wanted it of unusual depth, that he might put directly into it the cases and trunks in which he would keep or carry his stock.

“Being convinced of the stranger’s responsibility by a large advance deposit, and by the promise of full payment on completion and delivery, Mr. Kershaw accepted his order, and in due time the safe was completed and delivered. Soon after a sign was put up on the store,—‘J. Williamson, Wholesale Dealer in Watches and Jewelry.’ No great display was made in the window. Goods were received and shipped by the rear entrance opening on an alley-way. Apparently, but little business was done at the store, and frequently Mr. Williamson was absent visiting his customers or buying additional stock in New York City. He contracted no indebtedness, paying cash for everything. He expressed a lack of confidence in banks and bankers, saying that he had once lost a large sum by the failure of a bank in which he deposited, and for the future should be his own banker.

“Shortly after he began business he took up his residence on Sheafe Street in the North End of the city, and attended regularly the Baldwin Place Baptist Church. No subscription paper or contribution box ever passed him without a fairly liberal donation.

“In disposition he was quiet and retiring, and rarely spoke except in response to some inquiry. His earlier life he never referred to except in reply to one or two persons who ventured the question, when he briefly stated that he was the second son of a well-to-do English squire, that at an early age he found that there was no future for him in the old country, and that when little more than a boy he came to New York where he acquired a knowledge of business, and by diligence and economy saved enough to start in business.

“Within a year after his arrival in Boston Mr. Williamson sought the hand of the eldest daughter of a respectable merchant, a deacon in the church which he attended, producing at the same time letters from New York indorsing his worth and character. Having thus satisfied her parents, he was accepted and with little delay married. Very soon after he was received, on profession of his faith, into the church, and by his quiet, correct life, liberality, and honest dealing, secured the confidence and respect of all who knew him.

“About this time a strange epidemic of crime swept over the Puritanic city of Boston. The houses of the wealthy were entered and robbed of their valuable contents. Packages of money were boldly seized within the very enclosures of the bank, the thief escaping through some passageway or by fastening behind him the door through which he escaped; the satchels of bank messengers, filled with valuable contents, were suddenly snatched, and the robber eluded pursuit. At night persons were garroted and robbed on the public street. The police force was small and, although they exercised unusual diligence, every few days some new and startling crime, committed with wonderful skill and boldness, was announced. It was thought that a gang of experienced criminals had made a descent upon the city so long exempt from crime, and every stranger was under suspicion and carefully watched.

“One night, not long after his marriage, Mr. Williamson was found on Charlestown Bridge in a dazed, exhausted condition, and assisted to his home. When sufficiently recovered he stated that while crossing the bridge he was suddenly seized from behind, his throat grasped so that he could not cry out, and his pocketbook, containing a large sum of money, taken from him. He struggled to free himself from his unknown assailant until he gasped for breath, and fell exhausted, unconscious.

“On the following day Mr. Williamson offered a liberal reward for the arrest of the highwayman, but as he had not seen him he could give no clue to aid in the detection of the criminal. Some of the persons robbed, however, who had caught a glimpse of the thief, described a dark person with heavy black hair, wearing blue glass spectacles; and, as it was believed that he and the assailant of Williamson were one, search was made for a person answering this description.

“One evening the whole city was startled by the news of a crime just committed, bolder than any that had preceded it. The store of Davis & Palmer, jewelers on Washington Street, had been entered between the hours of seven and eight P. M., and the most valuable part of their stock taken, the trays containing many valuable watches, diamonds, and jewelry, having all been emptied. As was customary, the store was closed at seven o’clock and a night-watchman came on duty within an hour after. On this evening when the watchman entered he found the cases stripped of their valuable contents and immediately gave the alarm. The police were sent for and an investigation began. It was soon discovered that persons near the store had seen a sleigh drive up, a man alight, unlock and enter the store. Not long after he came out bringing two heavily laden bags, one after the other, which he placed in the sleigh and drove away. At the time no suspicion had been excited, as there was nothing peculiar about his manner of entering or leaving the store. From his course of action the thief was evidently well acquainted with the fact that there was a brief period between the closing of the store and the arrival of the watchman; and, having at some time, doubtless, obtained an impress of the key and made a duplicate, the task of entering and robbing the store at a time when it was least expected was an easy one.

“In those days there was no detective force or special police to investigate crime and capture the criminals. The attention of the few policemen employed by the city was given wholly to the preservation of order, and to preventing a breach of the peace. There was, however, a force of a few constables who served civil processes and worked as private detectives for a reward, headed by an old experienced officer, Captain Darius Clapp; and when it was known that a large reward had been offered for the discovery and return of the goods irrespective of the arrest and conviction of the criminal, Clapp devoted himself at once to that object. As a first step he visited every stage-office, stable, vessel, and mode of egress from the city, but to no purpose. The owner of the sleigh was found, but could give no information except that it had been hired in the afternoon by a dark-haired man wearing colored glasses, and that late in the evening the team was found without any driver in Haymarket Square.

“As weeks passed and the mystery seemed no nearer a solution, the strange robbery became the universal topic of conversation. Every clue and suspicion was followed up. Strangers were arrested and obliged to prove their innocence. Everybody became a detective.

“Some weeks after the robbery, a stranger came to the express office with a trunk which he wished transported to New York. Something in the manner of the man, an unnatural, half-disguised appearance, excited the suspicion of the alert, sharp-eyed express agent, who had been cautioned by Captain Clapp, and while he proceeded to make out the receipt he secretly sent a messenger to the constable. Upon his arrival that official instantly began to question the stranger, demanding to know the contents of the trunk. His inquiries were frankly answered with proper explanation, and the key produced that the captain might verify the same by examination. The innocent frankness of the stranger disarmed the constable, and, half apologizing for not accepting his statements as sufficient, the captain stooped to unlock the trunk, when suddenly the stranger leaped by him and out through the door, barring it after him by thrusting a stout cane through the iron handle. Throwing himself against the door the captain soon broke the improvised bolt and rushed off in pursuit, following the fugitive down through Dock Square, Marshall, and Hanover Streets, into a narrow court leading from the last street, where the man had disappeared. But though there was no outlet other than that by which he had entered, a thorough search of this place a few moments after failed to discover the fugitive, or the way of his escape. After the houses opening on the court were searched without discovering any trace of the probable thief, the proprietors of the stores fronting Hanover Street on each side and having rear entrances, were sent for. Among these was Mr. Williamson, but as it was ascertained at his residence that he was absent from the city, entrance was gained to his store by a side window. Here, however, as in the other stores, no person or sign of one was found. The burglar, for such an examination of the trunk at the express office proved him to be, was never captured, nor was trace of him discovered, although diligent search of that neighborhood was made by the whole police force.

“Not long after, the city was again startled, this time by the announcement in the morning papers of the mysterious disappearance and probable murder of Mr. Williamson. He was known to carry large sums of money upon his person, and as there was no good explanation of his absence, it was thought most probable that he had been robbed and murdered. In fact there were some who reported hearing at night cries for help in the vicinity of his store, and a hat which had been found one morning on the street near his store, proved to be one worn by him on the morning when he last left his home.

“Information was sought by advertisement in the newspapers with promise of liberal reward, but all investigation proved unavailing.

“After some weeks of vain inquiry and search, the general suspicion that he had been murdered and his body thrown over the Charlestown Bridge became a settled conviction; but his faithful, trusting wife refused to believe him dead, and her father finally proceeded to New York to see what information, if any, could be gained from those with whom his son-in-law had had dealings in that city.

“What he ascertained there I do not know, but immediately on his return he came to my employer for a workman to go to the store and open in his presence the safe containing the stock stored therein. After some drilling the bolt was sprung and the door swung open, disclosing a sight at which I started back affrighted and amazed, and which so horrified the troubled and anxious father that he fell like a dead man on the floor. There within the safe lay the dead body of Mr. Williamson, the trusted and respected jewelry merchant!

“On recovering consciousness, the good deacon, heartbroken, implored me for his sake and the fair name of his daughter never to make known the sight then revealed, and to assist him in concealing all evidence which would tend to disclose it. To both these requests I at once consented, and that night I helped him to carry out the body privately for burial—no matter where.

“An examination of the safe disclosed a hardly discernible aperture drilled through the back near the top, from which, on the inside, hung a flexible tube by which respiration was made possible for a person enclosed, and through which noise from without could reach the inmate.

“On the inside of the door a hole had been cut so that the key could be inserted and the bolt thrown. The handle of this key had broken off, leaving the key in the lock. There were indications that food and water had been stored in the safe, but none remained; even the shoes bore marks of the teeth, as if gnawed for sustenance. A black wig and blue glass spectacles lay on the floor of the safe. Seeing all this, we soon conjectured for what purpose this safe was made and used—a temporary place of quick retreat. We wondered if the key was broken by accident in the haste to elude that last pursuit, or in attempting to re-open the door. We thought we knew now, though each was silent, the mystery of the many recent crimes; but one thing was certain, they ceased and the author of them was never found or arrested.”

How Small the World.

BY E. H. MAYDE.

I.

_The letter of Mr. Robert Fairfax to the Rev. Arthur Selbourne, Innasittie, Colorado_:

MANCHESTER, July 24, 1892.

Right you are, Old Hoss, and no mistake. Europe was a great lark—all the better for having been as unexpected as a wedding fee in advance. I’m mighty glad I’ve seen it all. I used to be afraid that foreign scenery would make that of home seem tame in comparison. It has, on the contrary, been rather enhanced for me, and New England continues to stir my aged blood as nothing else does.

I stopped over a day in New York, and dined with Ellis, who told me about poor Jack Simms. Awfully sad case. Of course you know he was eager for the operation—it really was the last hope—and went into it with the greatest amount of pluck and nerve. Ellis is interne at St. Luke’s hospital, and was with Jack all the time, and, up to the last day, believed he’d pull through: but it was no go. Jack’s life was insured for ten thousand dollars, and his wife’s uncle had just left her thirty thousand dollars. So he had the comfort of knowing she was provided for. It’s a lucky thing, for she has weak lungs or something of that sort. It strikes me that women as a race are pretty delicate in spite of their modern fad for athletics.

I saw Adams and Lennox Vandewater in Boston. Van looks rather peaked. Adams says he’s just made his annual proposal to the girl he’s been in love with for six years (nobody knows who she is) and she has rejected him again. Van never recuperates in less than three months, so Adams has consented to go across with him, and they’re going to bike about England during August and September. Adams’s legs must be a better match for his head than they were in college.

I’ve run down here for a week with my mother and sister who are at the Masconomo. Have strolled along the shore this afternoon, and wish you were here to enjoy this comfortable ledge of rock and the strong salt air, and to talk over old times. I put a writing pad in my pocket, and the faithful fountain permits one side of a conversation at least. I’m confoundedly sleepy, however,—don’t grin like a dog when you read that,—and think I’ll stretch out and take a snooze, in the hope of imparting a little brilliancy to my style.

_Evening._ My dear fellow, I am madly in love. Fact, and you may as well take it seriously. I went to sleep, as I intended to, and dreamed I was discussing methods of executing criminals with your wife, when, in reply to some remark of mine, she said, “I always use a kitchen knife.” Then some one laughed and I woke up. Then a Voice—such a _delicious_ voice—said, “Don’t grin like a dog,” and I thought I must be dreaming, for it was all mixed up with you, and you know I had just written those very words. Then the Voice went on, “Billy said it was inane, but I didn’t care, for the result was just as good as his.” Then followed a most amusing talk, which must have lasted fifteen minutes. You need not put on a look of professional disapproval at my eavesdropping. I pledge you my word, I hadn’t the faintest idea I was doing it until it was too late. You see, I was half asleep and half awake at first, and when I discovered that I was all awake I hadn’t the nerve to get up and apologize for being there, and walk away. It would have been as embarrassing for her as for me. Besides, though she was talking confidentially to some woman friend, she hadn’t said a word which there was the slightest objection to my hearing, so I thought best to lie still. I was completely hidden by the ledge, though she couldn’t have been six feet distant. It was immensely amusing. The Voice was relating her experiences in keeping house for some one she called Billy on “the ranch”—location unknown. For a long time I thought “Billy” was her husband, and it seemed to me he ought to be a happy man, for she called him a saint (not the canonized kind: she meant a brick), and she said Billy called her a better cook than his mother. But it turned out that Billy is her brother. He’s married now, and she apparently dotes on the ‘twins.’ Once they—_i.e._, the Voice and Billy—had a Mr. Adams to dine with them, and as he was from Boston I think it may be our Adams, and, perhaps, through him I can get a clue to her identity. You think this is all nonsense, but I assure you I’m in dead earnest. She’s the most interesting girl I’ve ever seen—or ever haven’t seen—for I know little enough about her appearance. I looked over the ledge after they’d gone away (they couldn’t see me) and saw them walking off towards the road, and she wears tan shoes and a blue dress. I’m going forth to hunt those articles to-morrow. Why shouldn’t I be the happy man I supposed Billy to be?

I pity Van more than I did when I began this letter.

If Adams’s reply is favorable, and I find her and she’ll have me, I’ll send for you to come on and tie the knot. You may impart this information to your wife (I know you can’t keep it to yourself), for she once told me that she took comfort in the most incipient stages of love-making, because there was always the possibility of a fee ahead. My best regards to that mercenary woman.

Yours,

BOB.

P. S. What do you suppose she uses a kitchen knife for? It must be something unusual.

II.

_The letter of Mr. Winthrop Adams to Mr. Robert Fairfax, Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts._

BOSTON, July 27, 1892.

_Dear Fax_:—Sorry enough to hear of your accident. A sprained ankle is no joke. Thought you were the most surefooted of men.

I append the memorandum you ask for of all the Williams of my acquaintance. Are you writing a paper on The Influence of Christian Names on Christian Character? And, if so, why in thunder don’t you begin at the other end of the alphabet?

Van and I sail on the second. He’s dumpier than ever before. What a girl she must be to refuse a million, and Van thrown in!

Yours,

WINTHROP ADAMS.

_Memorandum._ (Ages only approximate.) William A. Curtis, fifty, lawyer, widower, New York; Wm. B. Slater, twenty-six, physician, bachelor, Iowa; Wm. Thorndike, thirty, merchant, ?, Charleston, S. C.; Wm. Martin, forty, teamster, married, Boston; Wm. Berkeley Vandewater (our Van’s father); Wm. (generally called Billy) Posey, (colored), seventy-five, janitor, Boston; Wm. Winthrop Adams, my three-months’-old nephew, still unmarried, Boston.

I don’t recall any other Williams whom I have met within the last two years.

III.

_The telegram of the Rev. Arthur Selbourne to Mr. Robert Fairfax, Manchester-by-the-Sea, Mass._

INNASITTIE, COL., August 2, 1892.

Probably uses it instead of a fork.

A. SELBOURNE.

Collect.

IV.

_The letter of Miss Polly Forsythe to Mrs. Arthur Selbourne, Innasittie, Col._

PRIDE’S CROSSING, July 24, 1892.

_My dearest Lucie_:—I have the most delightful and most disgusting things to tell you. First to the first. Of course you know all about poor Nannie Simms’s trouble and about her husband’s death a month ago, at St. Luke’s Hospital. Perhaps you do not know, however, the only gleam of comfort in the whole sad affair—that she has a very comfortable fortune. Old Mr. Dupuy left her thirty thousand dollars, and when poor Jack died it was found that his life was insured for ten thousand dollars. It is _so_ fortunate, for she is all alone in the world, and not a bit strong. Of course she’s perfectly heartbroken, but she’s just as brave and sweet as you might know she would be. She says she can never be sufficiently thankful for this year they’ve had together. You know at one time there was talk of postponing the marriage for a year, and when Jack was taken ill he reminded her of that. She sent for me immediately, and Carrie was quite well, so I came right on. I really think it’s better now that she and Billy and the babies should be by themselves. They have a very good servant, and a nice motherly woman for a nurse. But this is a digression. Jack’s family dote on Nannie, and they all want her to go and live with them, but she says she couldn’t bear it just yet, and so she has asked me to be her companion for a year, until she feels able to decide on her future.

Dr. Ellis, an awfully nice young surgeon, and a college classmate of Jack’s, has been just as kind as he could be to Nannie. He says she mustn’t stay North this winter, but we haven’t yet decided where we are going; perhaps to Florida, and perhaps abroad. We came down here a week ago, and it is perfectly enchanting, but we are going away to-morrow on account of the horridest thing that happened this afternoon. Now, Lucie, before you read another line you must _promise_ not to breathe a word of this to Arthur. Well, this afternoon Nannie and I walked down to the West Manchester rocks. We sat with our backs against a nice ledge and looked off over the quiet sea and talked for hours. When we got up to go I had an experience before which Robinson Crusoe’s footprint on the sand sinks into nothingness. Right on the other side of the ledge against which we had been leaning I saw, not a footprint, but a foot. Two feet, in fact, and attached to them two legs. All, evidently, the property of _a man_. I felt as if every drop of blood in my body flew into my face, but I never said a word to Nannie until we got back to the road. Then she looked around, very carefully, of course, and there was that disgusting creature looking over the ledge at us. Did you ever know _anything_ so horrid? If I’d only his legs to judge by—that was all of him I saw, because the rest of him was hidden by a rock—I should have thought him a gentleman, for he wore fine russet shoes and blue trousers. I never want to see that combination again as long as I live. But no gentleman _could_ have done so rude a thing as to listen to a long conversation like ours. I dare say you will think this is funny, but I’m sure you won’t laugh when you hear the rest of the story.

What made it so _perfectly dreadful_ was that Lennox has proposed to me again—for the sixth time, my dear,—and I was telling Nannie all about it. Of course, Lennox Vandewater’s name is as well known here as Jay Gould’s or George Washington’s, and you know how perfectly horrid men are, and how they always think girls boast of their offers. And you know, too, Lucie, that you and Nannie are the only living souls that know about that affair, and that Lennox told Nannie himself. And you, dear thing, never would have known it at all if you hadn’t overheard his first proposal, and that ridiculous declaration that he was going to repeat it annually until I accepted him or married some one else. Dear me! I never imagined then he’d keep his word. I do really think the constancy of man is awful.

Of course, now you’ll want to hear how it happened, and I suppose you might as well know. Lennox had something to do with the company in which Jack’s life was insured, and he came to see Nannie several times on business. Of course he saw me, but somehow his manner was different, and I really thought he meant to be just nice and friendly. Once or twice I saw him alone, but he never even _looked_ at me in a way to make me suspicious, and always before that when we’ve been alone together—well it has been

“The embrace of pining eyes,”

all the time. The last afternoon he called—with some papers and things for Nannie—she was in bed with a headache. He explained the business matters to me, and then we actually _talked politics_—not a word of anything else, I assure you—for half an hour. Then he told me he was going to Boston that night by the Fall River Line, and bade me good-by. But just as he reached the door he turned around as if he’d forgotten something, shut the door, put his back against it, and said, “Polly, will you be my wife?”

I was utterly taken aback. “Lennox,” I said, “how long do you mean to keep up this absurd performance?”

“It isn’t a complimentary way of alluding to my offers of marriage,” he replied calmly, “but I intend to repeat them until you are engaged.”

“Then,” I said desperately, “I will be engaged to the very next man that offers himself to me.”

“How good of you,” said he, “to afford me such unexpected encouragement. I will be that happy man, Polly.” And with that he dropped on his knees and said, “Polly, _will_ you be my wife?”

Now, Lucie, of course, this was perfectly ridiculous, and who could imagine Lennox Vandewater behaving so? I don’t know what made me do what I did, except that I had been under a severe strain with Nannie, and was rather unstrung, but instead of laughing I burst into a fit of hysterical crying. Lennox came to his senses—and his feet—immediately. When I got myself pulled together again I thought we might as well “have it out” then and there, and I prayed that I might say the right thing. I told him how much I admired him, and valued his friendship, and that I had really, honestly tried to love him, but I couldn’t—in that way. I told him about the imaginary scenes I had gone through with him, in which he announced his proposed departure to South Africa as a missionary (only I really think Lennox isn’t an ideal missionary), and that I had always gone through the parting without a pang. I told him I longed to hear of his marriage; and I was going on to use further arguments to convince him that I didn’t love him, but at this point he said, “Well, I guess you needn’t rub it in any more, Polly,” and I looked up and saw that his face was quite white. I can’t tell you the rest, but—I don’t think Lennox will propose to me again, though we—well, we “parted friends.”

Now, my dear Lucie, THAT was the tale I told to those russet shoes.... Was ever anything so—oh, words fail!

And Nannie, you know, has always believed I some day would marry Lennox, so it was about as hard to convince _her_ that I couldn’t love him as it had been to convince him. Luckily, it didn’t take six years in her case; though, if it had, those russet shoes would have starved to death instead of living to tell the tale. That would have been some comfort. After all this conversation Nannie was so “low in her mind” about my affairs that I put forth my best efforts at entertaining her, and actually made her laugh telling her about Billy’s and my experiences on the ranch. And then the whole day was spoiled by this awful discovery. I’m sure I know now exactly how a woman feels when she finds the long-looked-for man under the bed. This, my dear, is the end of the tale of woe. And quite time, too. It will make a hole in my salary to pay the postage.

I’ll send you a postal when we are settled in some secluded spot where shoes and trousers are unknown—and the wearers of those articles.

Meantime, I am thinking more about myself than ever before in my life. Every morning when I unfold the paper I expect to see in enormous headlines:

DISCOVERY OF L—N—X V—D—R’S
BEST GIRL,

or

DID P—Y F—S—E
REFUSE HIM SIX TIMES OR SEVEN?

Good-by, you dear, sweet, patient, long-suffering woman. Arthur little imagines how much I’ve contributed towards making you a model wife.

Your dejected

POLLY.

V.

_That part of Miss Forsythe’s conversation overheard by Mr. Robert Fairfax._

_To Mrs. Nannie Simms_:—_I_ always use a kitchen knife. Don’t grin like a dog. Billy said it was inane, but I didn’t care, for the result was just as good as his. You see we had no end of fun experimenting with all sorts of things. The ranch was twenty miles from the nearest town, and I ‘got my hand in’ at almost everything from cooking to carpentering. We even painted the house in the most artistic style, mixing our own colors. It was _such_ fun, ladling up little dabs of paint from a circle of cans, and stirring up the mixture. We were trying to get a red like the cover of my prayer book. And we did it, too. We had only one kind of wall paper, and it required ‘treatment.’ It was a pretty bluish gray, with scraggly daisies on it. We painted one room in olive green, floors and woodwork, and that killed out all the blue, and gave us a gray and green apartment. And another room, painted in dark brown, brought out the blue and gave us a blue room.

Then the cooking was a great picnic. You see the most I’d ever done was to stir up the ingredients of cake, according to Miss Parloa and Mrs. Lincoln, and then—the cook baked them. What I wanted to learn was how to get a dinner for a hungry man. Billy was a perfect saint. You can’t imagine what blunders I made, with no one to give any help. But I’d wade through it all again to know what I know now, and Billy says I’m a better cook than mother.

One day we had a narrow escape from a tragedy. An accident on the railroad had delayed our supplies a week. Meantime we had to live off the country, and such things as we could get at ‘the store.’ Well, I was going to have fish-balls for dinner—Billy loves them. I didn’t know how codfish shrinks, and I put on what I thought was enough, and when it came out of the water it had wizzled up into a little worm. However, it made six fish-balls, and I thought we were all right, but when Billy walked in,—brotherlike—without warning, with Mr. Adams, of Boston,—did you know about his coming out to the ranch?—I had what Mrs. Stearns used to call “an inward spasm.” I made a mental inventory of the contents of the pantry while I was expressing my joy at meeting Mr. Adams—it _was_ a joy, too,—and I thought of “the woman who hesitates.” I went into the kitchen and put those six fish-balls—they weren’t fried—back into the bowl, and mixed them all up together. Then I made them over into nine, just as big round, but thin to the point of emaciation. In the hen house I found five nice fresh eggs, and I fried these, and “garnished” the platter of fish-balls. And we had potatoes, and good bread and butter, and coffee, and I really believe Mr. Adams thought he had a fine dinner. He said the meal was a “taste of Boston.” We went hunting the next day, and Billy shot a wild turkey, and that time we did have a dinner. Billy was quite proud of my shooting. He taught me to use a rifle, and we had fine times together. Then the evenings were delightful, sitting in front of our great fireplace, and reading aloud; and afterwards music by the firelight. It was just as nice after Billy married and Carrie came. She fitted in beautifully, and they are very happy. And the twins are darlings, the sweetest things. Really, if I begin on them I shall talk till night, and you must be tired to death now. Let’s walk towards home.

Oh! I—I turned my foot. It’s all right now. Come along—this way—there! Give me your hand; that’s it. I was just going to say that—

VI.

_Mrs. Arthur Selbourne’s good-night remarks._