"His wife!" I cried.
The next instant I was furious with myself for having spoken, but I was
so completely taken off my guard. Mrs. McGurk straightened up and became
volubly conversational at once.
"And didn't he never tell you about his wife? She went insane six years
ago. It got so it weren't safe to keep her in the house, and he had to
put her away. It near killed him. I never seen a lady more beautiful
than her. I guess he didn't so much as smile for a year. It's funny he
never told you nothing, and you such a friend!"
"Naturally it's not a subject he cares to talk about," said I dryly, and
I asked her what kind of brass polish she used.
Sadie Kate and I went out to the garage and hunted up the kittens
ourselves; and we mercifully got away before the doctor came back.
But will you tell me what this means? Didn't Jervis know he was
married? It's the queerest thing I ever heard. I do think, as the McGurk
suggests, that Sandy might casually have dropped the information that he
had a wife in an insane asylum.
But of course it must be a terrible tragedy and I suppose he can't bring
himself to talk about it. I see now why he's so morbid over the question
of heredity--I dare say he fears for the little girl. When I think of
all the jokes I've made on the subject, I'm aghast at how I must have
hurt him, and angry with myself and angry with him.
I feel as though I never wanted to see the man again. Mercy! did you
ever know such a muddle as we are getting ourselves into?
Yours, SALLIE.
P.S. Tom McCoomb has pushed Mamie Prout into the box of mortar that the
masons use. She's parboiled. I've sent for the doctor.
July 24. My dear Madam:
I have a shocking scandal to report about the superintendent of the John
Grier Home. Don't let it get into the newspapers, please. I can picture
the spicy details of the investigation prior to her removal by the
"Cruelty."
I was sitting in the sunshine by my open window this morning reading
a sweet book on the Froebel theory of child culture--never lose your
temper, always speak kindly to the little ones. Though they may appear
bad, they are not so in reality. It is either that they are not feeling
well or have nothing interesting to do. Never punish; simply deflect
their attention. I was entertaining a very loving, uplifted attitude
toward all this young life about me when my attention was attracted by a
group of little boys beneath the window.
"Aw--John--don't hurt it!"
"Let it go!"
"Kill it quick!"
And above their remonstrances rose the agonized squealing of some animal
in pain. I dropped Froebel and, running downstairs, burst upon them
from the side door. They saw me coming, and scattered right and left,
revealing Johnnie Cobden engaged in torturing a mouse. I will spare you
the grisly details. I called to one of the boys to come and drown the
creature quick! John I seized by the collar; and dragged him squirming
and kicking in at the kitchen door. He is a big, hulking boy of
thirteen, and he fought like a little tiger, holding on to posts and
doorjambs as we passed. Ordinarily I doubt if I could have handled him,
but that one sixteenth Irish that I possess was all on top, and I was
fighting mad. We burst into the kitchen, and I hastily looked about for
a means of chastisement. The pancake turner was the first utensil that
met my eyes. I seized it and beat that child with all my strength, until
I had reduced him to a cowering, whimpering mendicant for mercy, instead
of the fighting little bully he had been four minutes before.
And then who should suddenly burst into the midst of this explosion but
Dr. MacRae! His face was blank with astonishment. He strode over and
took the pancake turner out of my hand and set the boy on his feet.
Johnnie got behind him and clung! I was so angry that I really couldn't
talk. It was all I could do not to cry.
"Come, we will take him up to the office," was all the doctor said. And
we marched out, Johnnie keeping as far from me as possible and limping
conspicuously. We left him in the outer office, and went into my library
and shut the door.
"What in the world has the child done?" he asked.
At that I simply laid my head down on the table and began to cry! I was
utterly exhausted both emotionally and physically. It had taken all the
strength I possessed to make the pancake turner effective.
I sobbed out all the bloody details, and he told me not to think about
it; the mouse was dead now. Then he got me some water to drink, and told
me to keep on crying till I was tired; it would do me good. I am
not sure that he didn't pat me on the head! Anyway, it was his best
professional manner. I have watched him administer the same treatment a
dozen times to hysterical orphans. And this was the first time in a week
that we had spoken beyond the formality of "good morning"!
Well, as soon as I had got to the stage where I could sit up and laugh,
intermittently dabbing my eyes with a wad of handkerchief, we began
a review of Johnnie's case. The boy has a morbid heredity, and may be
slightly defective, says Sandy. We must deal with the fact as we would
with any other disease. Even normal boys are often cruel. A child's
moral sense is undeveloped at thirteen.
Then he suggested that I bathe my eyes with hot water and resume
my dignity. Which I did. And we had Johnnie in. He stood--by
preference--through the entire interview. The doctor talked to him, oh,
so sensibly and kindly and humanely! John put up the plea that the mouse
was a pest and ought to be killed. The doctor replied that the welfare
of the human race demanded the sacrifice of many animals for its own
good, not for revenge, but that the sacrifice must be carried out with
the least possible hurt to the animal. He explained about the mouse's
nervous system, and how the poor little creature had no means of defense.
It was a cowardly thing to hurt it wantonly. He told John to try to
develop imagination enough to look at things from the other person's
point of view, even if the other person was only a mouse. Then he went
to the bookcase and took down my copy of Burns, and told the boy what a
great poet he was, and how all Scotchmen loved his memory.
"And this is what he wrote about a mouse," said Sandy, turning to the
"Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie," which he read and explained
to the lad as only a Scotchman could.
Johnnie departed penitent, and Sandy redirected his professional
attention to me. He said I was tired and in need of a change. Why not
go to the Adirondacks for a week? He and Betsy and Mr. Witherspoon would
make themselves into a committee to run the asylum.
You know, that's exactly what I was longing to do! I need a shifting of
ideas and some pine-scented air. My family opened the camp last week,
and think I'm awful not to join them. They won't understand that
when you accept a position like this you can't casually toss it aside
whenever you feel like it. But for a few days I can easily manage. My
asylum is wound up like an eight-day clock, and will run until a week
from next Monday at 4 P.M., when my train will return me. Then I shall
be comfortably settled again before you arrive, and with no errant
fancies in my brain.
Meanwhile Master John is in a happily chastened frame of mind and body.
And I rather suspect that Sandy's moralizing had the more force because
it was preceded by my pancake turner! But one thing I know--Suzanne
Estelle is terrified whenever I step into her kitchen. I casually picked
up the potato-masher this morning while I was commenting upon last
night's over-salty soup, and she ran to cover behind the woodshed door.
Tomorrow at nine I set out on my travels, after preparing the way with
five telegrams. And, oh! you can't imagine how I'm looking forward to
being a gay, carefree young thing again--to canoeing on the lake and
tramping in the woods and dancing at the clubhouse. I was in a state of
delirium all night long at the prospect. Really, I hadn't realized how
mortally tired I had become of all this asylum scenery.
"What you need," said Sandy to me, "is to get away for a little and sow
some wild oats."
That diagnosis was positively clairvoyant. I can't think of anything in
the world I'd rather do than sow a few wild oats. I'll come back with
fresh energy, ready to welcome you and a busy summer.
As ever,