October 3d.
_Dear Daddy-Long-Legs_,
Your note written in your own hand--and a pretty wobbly hand!--came
this morning. I am so sorry that you have been ill; I wouldn’t have
bothered you with my affairs if I had known. Yes, I will tell you
the trouble, but it’s sort of complicated to write, and _very
private_. Please don’t keep this letter, but burn it.
Before I begin--here’s a check for one thousand dollars. It seems
funny, doesn’t it, for me to be sending a check to you? Where do
you think I got it?
I’ve sold my story, Daddy. It’s going to be published serially in
seven parts, and then in a book! You might think I’d be wild with
joy, but I’m not. I’m entirely apathetic. Of course I’m glad to
begin paying you--I owe you over two thousand more. It’s coming in
instalments. Now don’t be horrid, please, about taking it, because
it makes me happy to return it. I owe you a great deal more than the
mere money, and the rest I will continue to pay all my life in
gratitude and affection.
And now, Daddy, about the other thing; please give me your most
worldly advice, whether you think I’ll like it or not.
You know that I’ve always had a very special feeling toward you;
you sort of represented my whole family; but you won’t mind, will
you, if I tell you that I have a very much more special feeling for
another man? You can probably guess without much trouble who he is.
I suspect that my letters have been very full of Master Jervie for a
very long time.
I wish I could make you understand what he is like and how entirely
companionable we are. We think the same about everything--I am
afraid I have a tendency to make over my ideas to match his! But he
is almost always right; he ought to be, you know, for he has
fourteen years’ start of me. In other ways, though, he’s just an
overgrown boy, and he does need looking after--he hasn’t any sense
about wearing rubbers when it rains. He and I always think the same
things are funny, and that is such a lot; it’s dreadful when two
people’s senses of humor are antagonistic. I don’t believe there’s
any bridging that gulf!
And he is--Oh, well! He is just himself, and I miss him, and miss
him, and miss him. The whole world seems empty and aching. I hate
the moonlight because it’s beautiful and he isn’t here to see it
with me. But maybe you’ve loved somebody, too, and you know? If you
have, I don’t need to explain; if you haven’t, I can’t explain.
Anyway, that’s the way I feel--and I’ve refused to marry him.
I didn’t tell him why; I was just dumb and miserable. I couldn’t
think of anything to say. And now he has gone away imagining that I
want to marry Jimmie McBride--I don’t in the least, I wouldn’t
think of marrying Jimmie; he isn’t grown up enough. But Master
Jervie and I got into a dreadful muddle of misunderstanding, and we
both hurt each other’s feelings. The reason I sent him away was not
because I didn’t care for him, but because I cared for him so much.
I was afraid he would regret it in the future--and I couldn’t stand
that! It didn’t seem right for a person of my lack of antecedents
to marry into any such family as his. I never told him about the
orphan asylum, and I hated to explain that I didn’t know who I was.
I may be _dreadful_, you know. And his family are proud--and I’m
proud, too!
Also, I felt sort of bound to you. After having been educated to be
a writer, I must at least try to be one; it would scarcely be fair
to accept your education and then go off and not use it. But now
that I am going to be able to pay back the money, I feel that I have
partially discharged that debt--besides, I suppose I could keep on
being a writer even if I did marry. The two professions are not
necessarily exclusive.
I’ve been thinking very hard about it. Of course he is a Socialist,
and he has unconventional ideas; maybe he wouldn’t mind marrying
into the proletariat so much as some men might. Perhaps when two
people are exactly in accord, and always happy when together and
lonely when apart, they ought not to let anything in the world stand
between them. Of course I _want_ to believe that! But I’d like to
get your unemotional opinion. You probably belong to a Family also,
and will look at it from a worldly point of view and not just a
sympathetic, human point of view--so you see how brave I am to lay
it before you.
Suppose I go to him and explain that the trouble isn’t Jimmie, but
is the John Grier Home--would that be a dreadful thing for me to do?
It would take a great deal of courage. I’d almost rather be
miserable for the rest of my life.
This happened nearly two months ago; I haven’t heard a word from
him since he was here. I was just getting sort of acclimated to the
feeling of a broken heart, when a letter came from Julia that
stirred me all up again. She said--very casually--that “Uncle
Jervis” had been caught out all night in a storm when he was hunting
in Canada, and had been ill ever since with pneumonia. And I never
knew it. I was feeling hurt because he had just disappeared into
blankness without a word. I think he’s pretty unhappy, and I know I
am!
What seems to you the right thing for me to do?