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