I don't think I can stand much more of Lock Willow. I'm thinking ofmoving. Sallie is going to do settlement work in Boston next winter.Don't you think it would be nice for me to go with her, then we couldhave a studio together? I would write while she SETTLED and we couldbe together in the evenings. Evenings are very long when there's noone but the Semples and Carrie and Amasai to talk to. I know inadvance that you won't like my studio idea. I can read yoursecretary's letter now:
'Miss Jerusha Abbott. 'DEAR MADAM,
'Mr. Smith prefers that you remain at Lock Willow. 'Yours truly, 'ELMER H. GRIGGS.'
I hate your secretary. I am certain that a man named Elmer H. Griggsmust be horrid. But truly, Daddy, I think I shall have to go toBoston. I can't stay here. If something doesn't happen soon, I shallthrow myself into the silo pit out of sheer desperation.
Mercy! but it's hot. All the grass is burnt up and the brooks are dryand the roads are dusty. It hasn't rained for weeks and weeks.
This letter sounds as though I had hydrophobia, but I haven't. I justwant some family.
Goodbye, my dearest Daddy.
I wish I knew you. Judy
LOCK WILLOW, 19th September
Dear Daddy,
Something has happened and I need advice. I need it from you, and fromnobody else in the world. Wouldn't it be possible for me to see you?It's so much easier to talk than to write; and I'm afraid yoursecretary might open the letter. Judy
PS. I'm very unhappy.
LOCK WILLOW, 3rd October
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Your note written in your own hand--and a pretty wobbly hand!--camethis morning. I am so sorry that you have been ill; I wouldn't havebothered you with my affairs if I had known. Yes, I will tell you thetrouble, 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 cheque for one thousand dollars. It seemsfunny, doesn't it, for me to be sending a cheque to you? Where do youthink I got it?
I've sold my story, Daddy. It's going to be published serially inseven 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 beginpaying you--I owe you over two thousand more. It's coming ininstalments. Now don't be horrid, please, about taking it, because itmakes me happy to return it. I owe you a great deal more than the meremoney, and the rest I will continue to pay all my life in gratitude andaffection.
And now, Daddy, about the other thing; please give me your most worldlyadvice, whether you think I'll like it or not.
You know that I've always had a very special feeling towards you; yousort of represented my whole family; but you won't mind, will you, if Itell 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 thatmy 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 entirelycompanionable we are. We think the same about everything--I am afraidI have a tendency to make over my ideas to match his! But he is almostalways 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 hedoes need looking after--he hasn't any sense about wearing rubbers whenit rains. He and I always think the same things are funny, and that issuch a lot; it's dreadful when two people's senses of humour areantagonistic. 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 themoonlight 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, Idon'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 thinkof anything to say. And now he has gone away imagining that I want tomarry Jimmie McBride--I don't in the least, I wouldn't think ofmarrying Jimmie; he isn't grown up enough. But Master Jervie and I gotinto a dreadful muddle of misunderstanding and we both hurt eachother's feelings. The reason I sent him away was not because I didn'tcare for him, but because I cared for him so much. I was afraid hewould regret it in the future--and I couldn't stand that! It didn'tseem right for a person of my lack of antecedents to marry into anysuch family as his. I never told him about the orphan asylum, and Ihated to explain that I didn't know who I was. I may be DREADFUL, youknow. And his family are proud--and I'm proud, too!
Also, I felt sort of bound to you. After having been educated to be awriter, I must at least try to be one; it would scarcely be fair toaccept your education and then go off and not use it. But now that Iam going to be able to pay back the money, I feel that I have partiallydischarged that debt--besides, I suppose I could keep on being a writereven 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 intothe proletariat so much as some men might. Perhaps when two people areexactly in accord, and always happy when together and lonely whenapart, 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 unemotionalopinion. You probably belong to a Family also, and will look at itfrom a worldly point of view and not just a sympathetic, human point ofview--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 isthe John Grier Home--would that be a dreadful thing for me to do? Itwould take a great deal of courage. I'd almost rather be miserable forthe rest of my life.
This happened nearly two months ago; I haven't heard a word from himsince he was here. I was just getting sort of acclimated to thefeeling of a broken heart, when a letter came from Julia that stirredme all up again. She said--very casually--that 'Uncle Jervis' had beencaught out all night in a storm when he was hunting in Canada, and hadbeen ill ever since with pneumonia. And I never knew it. I wasfeeling hurt because he had just disappeared into blankness without aword. I think he's pretty unhappy, and I know I am!
What seems to you the right thing for me to do?
Judy
6th October
Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,
Yes, certainly I'll come--at half-past four next Wednesday afternoon.Of COURSE I can find the way. I've been in New York three times and amnot quite a baby. I can't believe that I am really going to seeyou--I've been just THINKING you so long that it hardly seems as thoughyou are a tangible flesh-and-blood person.
You are awfully good, Daddy, to bother yourself with me, when you'renot strong. Take care and don't catch cold. These fall rains are verydamp.
Affectionately, Judy
PS. I've just had an awful thought. Have you a butler? I'm afraid ofbutlers, and if one opens the door I shall faint upon the step. Whatcan I say to him? You didn't tell me your name. Shall I ask for Mr.Smith?
Thursday Morning
My Very Dearest Master-Jervie-Daddy-Long-Legs Pendleton-Smith,
Did you sleep last night? I didn't. Not a single wink. I was tooamazed and excited and bewildered and happy. I don't believe I evershall sleep again--or eat either. But I hope you slept; you must, youknow, because then you will get well faster and can come to me.
Dear Man, I can't bear to think how ill you've been--and all the time Ineve
r knew it. When the doctor came down yesterday to put me in thecab, he told me that for three days they gave you up. Oh, dearest, ifthat had happened, the light would have gone out of the world for me.I suppose that some day in the far future--one of us must leave theother; but at least we shall have had our happiness and there will bememories to live with.
I meant to cheer you up--and instead I have to cheer myself. For inspite of being happier than I ever dreamed I could be, I'm alsosoberer. The fear that something may happen rests like a shadow on myheart. Always before I could be frivolous and care-free andunconcerned, because I had nothing precious to lose. But now--I shallhave a Great Big Worry all the rest of my life. Whenever you are awayfrom me I shall be thinking of all the automobiles that can run overyou, or the sign-boards that can fall on your head, or the dreadful,squirmy germs that you may be swallowing. My peace of mind is gone forever--but anyway, I never cared much for just plain peace.
Please get well--fast--fast--fast. I want to have you close by where Ican touch you and make sure you are tangible. Such a little half hourwe had together! I'm afraid maybe I dreamed it. If I were only amember of your family (a very distant fourth cousin) then I could comeand visit you every day, and read aloud and plump up your pillow andsmooth out those two little wrinkles in your forehead and make thecorners of your mouth turn up in a nice cheerful smile. But you arecheerful again, aren't you? You were yesterday before I left. Thedoctor said I must be a good nurse, that you looked ten years younger.I hope that being in love doesn't make every one ten years younger.Will you still care for me, darling, if I turn out to be only eleven?
Yesterday was the most wonderful day that could ever happen. If I liveto be ninety-nine I shall never forget the tiniest detail. The girlthat left Lock Willow at dawn was a very different person from the onewho came back at night. Mrs. Semple called me at half-past four. Istarted wide awake in the darkness and the first thought that poppedinto my head was, 'I am going to see Daddy-Long-Legs!' I ate breakfastin the kitchen by candle-light, and then drove the five miles to thestation through the most glorious October colouring. The sun came upon the way, and the swamp maples and dogwood glowed crimson and orangeand the stone walls and cornfields sparkled with hoar frost; the airwas keen and clear and full of promise. I knew something was going tohappen. All the way in the train the rails kept singing, 'You're goingto see Daddy-Long-Legs.' It made me feel secure. I had such faith inDaddy's ability to set things right. And I knew that somewhere anotherman--dearer than Daddy--was wanting to see me, and somehow I had afeeling that before the journey ended I should meet him, too. And yousee!
When I came to the house on Madison Avenue it looked so big and brownand forbidding that I didn't dare go in, so I walked around the blockto get up my courage. But I needn't have been a bit afraid; yourbutler is such a nice, fatherly old man that he made me feel at home atonce. 'Is this Miss Abbott?' he said to me, and I said, 'Yes,' so Ididn't have to ask for Mr. Smith after all. He told me to wait in thedrawing-room. It was a very sombre, magnificent, man's sort of room. Isat down on the edge of a big upholstered chair and kept saying tomyself:
'I'm going to see Daddy-Long-Legs! I'm going to see Daddy-Long-Legs!'
Then presently the man came back and asked me please to step up to thelibrary. I was so excited that really and truly my feet would hardlytake me up. Outside the door he turned and whispered, 'He's been veryill, Miss. This is the first day he's been allowed to sit up. You'llnot stay long enough to excite him?' I knew from the way he said itthat he loved you--and I think he's an old dear!
Then he knocked and said, 'Miss Abbott,' and I went in and the doorclosed behind me.
It was so dim coming in from the brightly lighted hall that for amoment I could scarcely make out anything; then I saw a big easy chairbefore the fire and a shining tea table with a smaller chair beside it.And I realized that a man was sitting in the big chair propped up bypillows with a rug over his knees. Before I could stop him herose--rather shakily--and steadied himself by the back of the chair andjust looked at me without a word. And then--and then--I saw it wasyou! But even with that I didn't understand. I thought Daddy had hadyou come there to meet me or a surprise.
Then you laughed and held out your hand and said, 'Dear little Judy,couldn't you guess that I was Daddy-Long-Legs?'
In an instant it flashed over me. Oh, but I have been stupid! Ahundred little things might have told me, if I had had any wits. Iwouldn't make a very good detective, would I, Daddy? Jervie? Whatmust I call you? Just plain Jervie sounds disrespectful, and I can'tbe disrespectful to you!
It was a very sweet half hour before your doctor came and sent me away.I was so dazed when I got to the station that I almost took a train forSt Louis. And you were pretty dazed, too. You forgot to give me anytea. But we're both very, very happy, aren't we? I drove back to LockWillow in the dark but oh, how the stars were shining! And thismorning I've been out with Colin visiting all the places that you and Iwent to together, and remembering what you said and how you looked.The woods today are burnished bronze and the air is full of frost.It's CLIMBING weather. I wish you were here to climb the hills withme. I am missing you dreadfully, Jervie dear, but it's a happy kind ofmissing; we'll be together soon. We belong to each other now reallyand truly, no make-believe. Doesn't it seem queer for me to belong tosomeone at last? It seems very, very sweet.
And I shall never let you be sorry for a single instant.
Yours, for ever and ever, Judy
PS. This is the first love-letter I ever wrote. Isn't it funny that Iknow how?
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