Thursday.
Dear Enemy:
You see, I'm feeling very friendly toward you this moment. When I call
you "MacRae" I don't like you, and when I call you "Enemy" I do.
Sadie Kate delivered your note (as an afterthought). And it's a very
creditable production for a left-handed man; I thought at first glance
it was from Punch.
You may expect me tomorrow at four, and mind you're awake! I'm glad that
you think we're friends. Really, I feel that I've got back something
quite precious which I had carelessly mislaid.
S. McB.
P.S. Java caught cold the night of the fire and he has the toothache. He
sits and holds his cheek like a poor little kiddie.
Thursday, January 29.
Dear Judy:
Those must have been ten terribly incoherent pages I dashed off to you
last week. Did you respect my command to destroy that letter? I should
not care to have it appear in my collected correspondence. I know that
my state of mind is disgraceful, shocking, scandalous, but one really
can't help the way one feels. It is usually considered a pleasant
sensation to be engaged, but, oh, it is nothing compared with the
wonderful untrammeled, joyous, free sensation of being unengaged! I have
had a terribly unstable feeling these last few months, and now at last
I am settled. No one ever looked forward to spinsterhood more thankfully
than I.
Our fire, I have come to believe, was providential. It was sent from
heaven to clear the way for a new John Grier. We are already deep in
plans for cottages. I favor gray stucco, Betsy leans to brick, and
Percy, half-timber. I don't know what our poor doctor would prefer;
olive green with a mansard roof appears to be his taste.
With ten different kitchens to practice in, won't our children learn how
to cook! I am already looking about for ten loving house mothers to put
in charge. I think, in fact, I'll search for eleven, in order to have
one for Sandy. He's as pathetically in need of a little mothering as
any of the chicks.
It must be pretty dispiriting to come home every night to the
ministrations of Mrs. McGur-rk.
How I do not like that woman! She has with complacent firmness told me
four different times that the dochther was ashleep and not wantin' to be
disturbed. I haven't set eyes on him yet, and I have just about finished
being polite. However, I waive judgment until tomorrow at four, when
I am to pay a short, unexciting call of half an hour. He made the
appointment himself, and if she tells me again that he is ashleep,
I shall give her a gentle push and tip her over (she's very fat and
unstable) and, planting a foot firmly on her stomach, pursue my way
tranquilly in and up. Luellen, formerly chauffeur, chambermaid, and
gardener, is now also trained nurse. I am eager to see how he looks in a
white cap and apron.
The mail has just come, with a letter from Mrs. Bretland, telling
how happy they are to have the children. She inclosed their first
photograph--all packed in a governess cart, with Clifford proudly
holding the reins, and a groom at the pony's head. How is that for three
late inmates of the John Grier Home?
It's all very inspiring when I think of their futures, but a trifle sad
when I remember their poor father, and how he worked himself to death
for those three chicks who are going to forget him. The Bretlands
will do their best to accomplish that. They are jealous of any outside
influence and want to make the babies wholly theirs. After all, I think
the natural way is best--for each family to produce its own children,
and keep them.
Friday.
I saw the doctor today. He's a pathetic sight, consisting mostly of
bandages. Somehow or other we got our misunderstandings all made up.
Isn't it dreadful the way two human beings, both endowed with fair
powers of speech, can manage to convey nothing of their psychological
processes to each other?
I haven't understood his mental attitude from the first, and he even
yet doesn't understand mine. This grim reticence that we Northern
people struggle so hard to maintain! I don't know after all but that the
excitable Southern safety valve method is the best.
But, Judy, such a dreadful thing--do you remember last year when he
visited that psychopathic institution, and stayed ten days, and I made
such a silly fuss about it? Oh, my dear, the impossible things I do! He
went to attend his wife's funeral. She died there in the institution.
Mrs. McGurk knew it all the time, and might have added it to the rest of
her news, but she didn't.
He told me all about her, very sweetly. The poor man for years and years
has undergone a terrible strain, and I fancy her death is a blessed
relief. He confesses that he knew at the time of his marriage that he
ought not to marry her, he knew all about her nervous instability;
but he thought, being a doctor, that he could overcome it, and she was
beautiful! He gave up his city practice and came to the country on her
account. And then after the little girl's birth she went all to pieces,
and he had to "put her away," to use Mrs. McGurk's phrase. The child is
six now, a sweet, lovely little thing to look at, but, I judge from what
he said, quite abnormal. He has a trained nurse with her always. Just
think of all that tragedy looming over our poor patient good doctor, for
he is patient, despite being the most impatient man that ever lived!
Thank Jervis for his letter. He's a dear man, and I'm glad to see him
getting his deserts. What fun we are going to have when you get back to
Shadywell, and we lay our plans for a new John Grier! I feel as though I
had spent this past year learning, and am now just ready to begin. We'll
turn this into the nicest orphan asylum that ever lived. I'm so absurdly
happy at the prospect that I start in the morning with a spring, and go
about my various businesses singing inside.
The John Grier Home sends its blessing to the two best friends it ever
had!