Yesterday who should drop down upon our peaceful village but Mr. Gordon
Hallock, on his way back to Washington to resume the cares of the
nation. At least he said it was on his way, but I notice from the map in
the primary room that it was one hundred miles out of his way.
And dear, but I was glad to see him! He is the first glimpse of the
outside world I have had since I was incarcerated in this asylum. And
such a lot of entertaining businesses he had to talk about! He knows the
inside of all the outside things you read in the newspapers; so far as I
can make out, he is the social center about which Washington revolves.
I always knew he would get on in politics, for he has a way with him;
there's no doubt about it.
You can't imagine how exhilarated and set-up I feel, as though I'd come
into my own again after a period of social ostracism. I must confess
that I get lonely for some one who talks my kind of nonsensical talk.
Betsy trots off home every week end, and the doctor is conversational
enough, but, oh, so horribly logical! Gordon somehow seems to stand for
the life I belong to,--of country clubs and motors and dancing and sport
and politeness,--a poor, foolish, silly life, if you will, but mine own.
And I have missed it. This serving society business is theoretically
admirable and compelling and interesting, but deadly stupid in its
working details. I am afraid I was never born to set the crooked
straight.
I tried to show Gordon about and make him take an interest in the
babies, but he wouldn't glance at them. He thinks I came just to spite
him, which, of course, I did. Your siren call would never have lured me
from the path of frivolity had Gordon not been so unpleasantly hilarious
at the idea of my being able to manage an orphan asylum. I came here to
show him that I could; and now, when I can show him, the beast refuses
to look.
I invited him to dinner, with a warning about the pressed veal; but he
said no, thanks, that I needed a change. So we went to Brantwood Inn and
had broiled lobster. I had positively forgotten that the creatures were
edible.
This morning at seven o'clock I was wakened by the furious ringing of
the telephone bell. It was Gordon at the station, about to resume his
journey to Washington. He was in quite a contrite mood about the asylum,
and apologized largely for refusing to look at my children. It was not
that he didn't like orphans, he said; it was just that he didn't like
them in juxtaposition to me. And to prove his good intentions, he would
send them a bag of peanuts.
I feel as fresh and revivified after my little fling as though I'd had a
real vacation. There's no doubt about it, an hour or so of exciting talk
is more of a tonic to me than a pint of iron and strychnine pills.
You owe me two letters, dear Madam. Pay them TOUT DE SUITE, or I lay
down my pen forever.
Yours, as usual,
S. McB.
Tuesday, 5 P.M. My dear Enemy:
I am told that during my absence this afternoon you paid us a call and
dug up a scandal. You claim that the children under Miss Snaith are not
receiving their due in the matter of cod-liver oil.
I am sorry if your medicinal orders have not been carried out, but you
must know that it is a difficult matter to introduce that abominably
smelling stuff into the inside of a squirming child. And poor Miss
Snaith is a very much overworked person. She has ten more children to
care for than should rightly fall into the lot of any single woman, and
until we find her another assistant, she has very little time for the
fancy touches you demand.
Also, my dear Enemy, she is very susceptible to abuse. When you feel in
a fighting mood, I wish you would expend your belligerence upon me. I
don't mind it; quite the contrary. But that poor lady has retired to her
room in a state of hysterics, leaving nine babies to be tucked into bed
by whomever it may concern.
If you have any powders that would be settling to her nerves, please
send them back by Sadie Kate.
Yours truly,
S. McBRIDE.
Wednesday Morning.
Dear Dr. MacRae:
I am not taking an unintelligent stand in the least; I am simply asking
that you come to me with all complaints, and not stir up my staff in any
such volcanic fashion as that of yesterday.
I endeavor to carry out all of your orders--of a medical nature--with
scrupulous care. In the present case there seems to have been
some negligence; I don't know what did become of those fourteen
unadministered bottles of cod-liver oil that you have made such a fuss
about, but I shall investigate.
And I cannot, for various reasons, pack off Miss Snaith in the summary
fashion you demand. She may be, in certain respects, inefficient;
but she is kind to the children, and with supervision will answer
temporarily.
Yours truly,
S. McBRIDE.
Thursday.
Dear Enemy:
SOYEZ TRANQUILLE. I have issued orders, and in the future the children
shall receive all of the cod-liver oil that by rights is theirs. A
wilfu' man maun hae his way.
S. McB.
March 22.
Dear Judy:
Asylum life has looked up a trifle during the past few days--since the
great Cod-Liver Oil War has been raging. The first skirmish occurred on
Tuesday, and I unfortunately missed it, having accompanied four of
my children on a shopping trip to the village. I returned to find the
asylum teeming with hysterics. Our explosive doctor had paid us a visit.
Sandy has two passions in life: one is for cod-liver oil and the other
for spinach, neither popular in our nursery. Some time ago--before I
came, in fact--he had ordered cod-liver oil for all of the
{aenemic} --Heavens! there's that word again! {aneamic}--children, and
had given instructions as to its application to Miss Snaith. Yesterday,
in his suspicious Scotch fashion, he began nosing about to find out why
the poor little rats weren't fattening up as fast as he thought they
ought, and he unearthed a hideous scandal. They haven't received a whiff
of cod-liver oil for three whole weeks! At that point he exploded, and
all was joy and excitement and hysterics.
Betsy says that she had to send Sadie Kate to the laundry on an
improvised errand, as his language was not fit for orphan ears. By the
time I got home he had gone, and Miss Snaith had retired, weeping, to
her room, and the whereabouts of fourteen bottles of cod-liver oil was
still unexplained. He had accused her at the top of his voice of taking
them herself. Imagine Miss Snaith,--she who looks so innocent and
chinless and inoffensive--stealing cod-liver oil from these poor
helpless little orphans and guzzling it in private!
Her defense consisted in hysterical assertions that she loved the
children, and had done her duty as she saw it. She did not believe in
giving medicine to babies; she thought drugs bad for their poor little
stomachs. You can imagine Sandy! Oh, dear! oh, dear! To think I missed
it!
Well, the tempest raged for three days, and Sadie Kate nearly ran her
little legs off carrying peppery messages back and forth between us
and the doctor. It is only under stress that I communicate with him by
telephone, as he has an interfering old termagant of a housekeeper who
"listens in" on the down-stairs switch. I don't wish the scandalous
secrets of the John Grier spread abroad. The doctor demanded Miss
Snaith's instant dismissal, and I refused. Of course she is a vague,
unfocused, inefficient old thing, but she does love the children, and
with proper supervision is fairly useful.
At least, in the light of her exalted family connections, I can't
pack her off in disgrace like a drunken cook. I am hoping in time to
eliminate her by a process of delicate suggestion; perhaps I can make
her feel that her health requires a winter in California. And also, no
matter what the doctor wants, so positive and dictatorial is his manner
that just out of self-respect one must take the other side. When he
states that the world is round, I instantly assert it to be triangular.
Finally, after three pleasantly exhilarating days, the whole business
settled itself. An apology (a very dilute one) was extracted from him
for being so unkind to the poor lady, and full confession, with promises
for the future, was drawn from her. It seems that she couldn't bear
to make the little dears take the stuff, but, for obvious reasons, she
couldn't bear to cross Dr. MacRae, so she hid the last fourteen bottles
in a dark corner of the cellar. Just how she was planning to dispose of
her loot I don't know. Can you pawn cod-liver oil?