# The Black Cat (magazine)/Volume 1/Number 7/How Small the World

How Small the World.
by E. H. Mayde.
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 after noon, 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.
II.
Boston, July 27, 1892.
Dear Fax:—Sorry enough to hear of your accident. A sprained ankle is no joke. Thought you were the most sure footed 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!
?, 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.
III.
Innasittie, Col., August 2, 1892.
Probably uses it instead of a fork.
A. Selbourne.
IV.
The letter of Miss Polly Forsythe to Mrs. Arthur Selbourne, Innasittie, Col.
Peide'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 to gether. 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 class mate 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. Wecame 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.
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.
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.
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 fishballs 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 fishballs, 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 thiin 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 fire place, 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.
VI.
Mrs. Arthur Selbourne's good-night remarks.
To Mrs. Jack Simms.—You are really growing fat, Nannie, dear. I was sure this Colorado air would build you up. Yes, it is a lovely country, with a charm that is all its own. Something of life will come back to you here—if only added strength to bear its pain. Good-night, dear; sleep well.
To Miss Forsythe.—Yes, Dr. Ellis and Mr. Fairfax are coming to-morrow. Nannie really seems to look forward with pleasure to meeting another of Jack's old friends. You know she has never met Mr. Fairfax, though she's heard so much about him. How much better she seems! You have been the best tonic she could have had.
I want to caution you about one thing in regard to Mr. Fairfax. He, of course, only knows your brother as Poindexter, and he has m—m—m—er—associations with the name of Billy, so I wouldn't use it before him if I were you—that is, if you happen to remember—it isn't important. Good-night.
VII.
In the Canon.
Miss Forsythe and Mr. Fairfax.
Miss Forsythe.—Yes, of course. But ever since the great base ball game you have been one of Billy's heroes, and—
​Mr. Fairfax.—Billy's?
Miss Forsythe.—Oh, I beg your pardon. "Poin," I meant to say.
Mr. Fairfax.—But why did you say "Billy"? And who is Billy? And why did you beg my pardon?
Miss Forsythe.—Billy is my pet name for Poin. You know he went to Williams, and was so fond of it I called him Billy. Almost all my friends before that were Harvard men.
Mr. Fairfax.—But why did you beg my pardon?
Miss Forsythe.—I— Mr. Fairfax, forgive me if I hurt you, but I can only explain by telling you frankly that before you came, Mrs. Selbourne cautioned me—I don't know why—against using that name before you. She said it held associations for you—and I thought—
Mr. Fairfax.—You thought?
Miss Forsythe.—That perhaps there was some one you had loved—and lost—
VIII.
The Rectory Dining-Room.
Mrs. Selbourne, Mrs. Simms, Miss Forsythe, Mr. Fairfax, and Dr. Ellis, all intently regarding a large box that has just been brought up from the express office.
Mrs. Selbourne.—We can't open it until Arthur comes home, for he has the key of the tool-closet in his pocket, and the cover is screwed on.
Miss Forsythe.—Oh, yes, we can. My screw driver is never to be found, and I always use a kitchen knife.
Mrs. Selbourne (aside, to Mr. Fairfax, as she passes him on her way to the kitchen).—This only means that I am a mercenary woman, and take comfort in the most incipient stages of love making.
Mr. Fairfax.—To me it means that you are an angel.
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This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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