Dearest Judy:
If you expect a cheerful letter from me the day, don't read this.
The life of man is a wintry road. Fog, snow, rain, slush, drizzle,
cold--such weather! such weather! And you in dear Jamaica with the
sunshine and the orange blossoms!
We've got whooping cough, and you can hear us whoop when you get off
the train two miles away. We don't know how we got it--just one of the
pleasures of institution life. Cook has left,--in the night,--what the
Scotch call a "moonlight flitting." I don't know how she got her trunk
away, but it's gone. The kitchen fire went with her. The pipes are
frozen. The plumbers are here, and the kitchen floor is all ripped
up. One of our horses has the spavin. And, to crown all, our cheery,
resourceful Percy is down, down, down in the depths of despair. We have
not been quite certain for three days past whether we could keep him
from suicide. The girl in Detroit,--I knew she was a heartless little
minx,--without so much as going through the formality of sending
back his ring, has gone and married herself to a man and a couple of
automobiles and a yacht. It is the best thing that could ever have
happened to Percy, but it will be a long, long time before he realizes
it.
We have our twenty-four Indians back in the house with us. I was sorry
to have to bring them in, but the shacks were scarcely planned for
winter quarters. I have stowed them away very comfortably, however,
thanks to the spacious iron verandas surrounding our new fire-escape.
It was a happy idea of Jervis's having them glassed in for sleeping
porches. The babies' sun parlor is a wonderful addition to our nursery.
We can fairly see the little tots bloom under the influence of that
extra air and sunshine.
With the return of the Indians to civilized life, Percy's occupation was
ended, and he was supposed to remove himself to the hotel. But he didn't
want to remove himself. He has got used to orphans, he says, and he
would miss not seeing them about. I think the truth is that he is
feeling so miserable over his wrecked engagement that he is afraid to be
alone. He needs something to occupy every waking moment out of banking
hours. And goodness knows we're glad enough to keep him! He has been
wonderful with those youngsters, and they need a man's influence.
But what on earth to do with the man? As you discovered last summer,
this spacious château does not contain a superabundance of guest rooms.
He has finally fitted himself into the doctor's laboratory, and the
medicines have moved themselves to a closet down the hall. He and the
doctor fixed it up between them, and if they are willing to be mutually
inconvenienced, I have no fault to find.
Mercy! I've just looked at the calendar, and it's the eighteenth, with
Christmas only a week away. However shall we finish all our plans in a
week? The chicks are making presents for one another, and something like
a thousand secrets have been whispered in my ear.
Snow last night. The boys have spent the morning in the woods, gathering
evergreens and drawing them home on sleds; and twenty girls are spending
the afternoon in the laundry, winding wreaths for the windows. I don't
know how we are going to do our washing this week. We were planning to
keep the Christmas tree a secret, but fully fifty children have been
boosted up to the carriage house window to take a peep at it, and I am
afraid the news has spread among the remaining fifty.
At your insistence, we have sedulously fostered the Santa Claus myth,
but it doesn't meet with much credence. "Why didn't he ever come
before?" was Sadie Kate's skeptical question. But Santa Claus is
undoubtedly coming this time. I asked the doctor, out of politeness, to
play the chief role at our Christmas tree; and being certain ahead of
time that he was going to refuse, I had already engaged Percy as an
understudy. But there is no counting on a Scotchman. Sandy accepted with
unprecedented graciousness, and I had privately to unengage Percy!
Tuesday.
Isn't it funny, the way some inconsequential people have of pouring out
whatever happens to be churning about in their minds at the moment? They
seem to have no residue of small talk, and are never able to dismiss a
crisis in order to discuss the weather.
This is apropos of a call I received today. A woman had come to deliver
her sister's child--sister in a sanatorium for tuberculosis; we to keep
the child until the mother is cured, though I fear, from what I hear,
that will never be. But, anyway, all the arrangements had been made, and
the woman had merely to hand in the little girl and retire. But having a
couple of hours between trains, she intimated a desire to look about, so
I showed her the kindergarten rooms and the little crib that Lily will
occupy, and our yellow dining room, with its frieze of bunnies, in order
that she might report as many cheerful details as possible to the poor
mother. After this, as she seemed tired, I socially asked her to walk
into my parlor and have a cup of tea. Doctor MacRae, being at hand and
in a hungry mood (a rare state for him; he now condescends to a cup of
tea with the officers of this institution about twice a month), came,
too, and we had a little party.
The woman seemed to feel that the burden of entertainment rested upon
her, and by way of making conversation, she told us that her husband had
fallen in love with the girl who sold tickets at a moving picture show
(a painted, yellow-haired thing who chewed gum like a cow, was her
description of the enchantress), and he spent all of his money on the
girl, and never came home except when he was drunk. Then he smashed the
furniture something awful. An easel, with her mother's picture on it,
that she had had since before she was married, he had thrown down just
for the pleasure of hearing it crash. And finally she had just got too
tired to live, so she drank a bottle of swamp root because somebody had
told her it was poison if you took it all at once. But it didn't kill
her; it only made her sick. And he came back, and said he would choke
her if she ever tried that on him again; so she guessed he must still
care something for her. All this quite casually while she stirred her
tea.
I tried to think of something to say, but it was a social exigency that
left me dumb. But Sandy rose to the occasion like a gentleman. He talked
to her beautifully and sanely, and sent her away actually uplifted. Our
Sandy, when he tries, can be exceptionally nice, particularly to people
who have no claim upon him. I suppose it is a matter of professional
etiquette--part of a doctor's business to heal the spirit as well as the
body. Most spirits appear to need it in this world. My caller has left
me needing it. I have been wondering ever since what I should do if I
married a man who deserted me for a chewing gum girl, and who came home
and smashed the bric-a-brac. I suppose, judging from the theaters this
winter, that it is a thing that might happen to any one, particularly in
the best society.
You ought to be thankful you've got Jervis. There is something awfully
certain about a man like him. The longer I live, the surer I am that
character is the only thing that counts. But how on earth can you ever
tell? Men are so good at talking! Good-by, and a merry Christmas to
Jervis and both Judies.
S. McB.
P.S. It would be a pleasant attention if you would answer my letters a
little more promptly.