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LOCK WILLOW,

3rd October

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

Your note written in your own hand--and a pretty wobbly hand!--

came this morning. I am so sorry that you have been ill; I wouldn't

have bothered you with my affairs if I had known. Yes, I will tell you

the trouble, 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 seems funny, doesn't it, for me to be sending a cheque to you?

Where do you think I got it?

I've sold my story, Daddy. It's going to be published serially

in seven 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 begin paying you--I owe you over two thousand more. It's coming

in instalments. Now don't be horrid, please, about taking it,

because it makes me happy to return it. I owe you a great deal

more than the mere money, and the rest I will continue to pay all

my life in gratitude and affection.

And now, Daddy, about the other thing; please give me your most

worldly advice, whether you think I'll like it or not.

You know that I've always had a very special feeling towards you;

you sort of represented my whole family; but you won't mind, will you,

if I tell 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 that my 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 entirely

companionable we are. We think the same about everything--

I am afraid I have a tendency to make over my ideas to match his!

But he is almost always 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 he does need looking after--

he hasn't any sense about wearing rubbers when it rains. He and I

always think the same things are funny, and that is such a lot;

it's dreadful when two people's senses of humour are antagonistic.

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 the

moonlight 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,

I don'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

think of anything to say. And now he has gone away imagining

that I want to marry Jimmie McBride--I don't in the least,

I wouldn't think of marrying Jimmie; he isn't grown up enough.

But Master Jervie and I got into a dreadful muddle of misunderstanding

and we both hurt each other's feelings. The reason I sent him

away was not because I didn't care for him, but because I cared

for him so much. I was afraid he would regret it in the future--

and I couldn't stand that! It didn't seem right for a person

of my lack of antecedents to marry into any such family as his.

I never told him about the orphan asylum, and I hated to explain

that I didn't know who I was. I may be DREADFUL, you know.

And his family are proud--and I'm proud, too!

Also, I felt sort of bound to you. After having been educated

to be a writer, I must at least try to be one; it would scarcely

be fair to accept your education and then go off and not use it.

But now that I am going to be able to pay back the money, I feel

that I have partially discharged that debt--besides, I suppose I could

keep on being a writer even 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 into

the proletariat so much as some men might. Perhaps when two people are

exactly in accord, and always happy when together and lonely when apart,

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

unemotional opinion. You probably belong to a Family also, and will

look at it from a worldly point of view and not just a sympathetic,

human point of view--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 is the John Grier Home--would that be a dreadful thing for me

to do? It would take a great deal of courage. I'd almost rather

be miserable for the rest of my life.

This happened nearly two months ago; I haven't heard a word from him

since he was here. I was just getting sort of acclimated to the

feeling of a broken heart, when a letter came from Julia that stirred

me all up again. She said--very casually--that `Uncle Jervis'

had been caught out all night in a storm when he was hunting in Canada,

and had been ill ever since with pneumonia. And I never knew it.

I was feeling hurt because he had just disappeared into blankness

without a word. 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 am

not quite a baby. I can't believe that I am really going to see you--

I've been just THINKING you so long that it hardly seems as though

you are a tangible flesh-and-blood person.

You are awfully good, Daddy, to bother yourself with me, when you're

not strong. Take care and don't catch cold. These fall rains

are very damp.

Affectionately,

Judy

PS. I've just had an awful thought. Have you a butler? I'm afraid

of butlers, and if one opens the door I shall faint upon the step.

What can 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

too amazed and excited and bewildered and happy. I don't believe

I ever shall sleep again--or eat either. But I hope you slept;

you must, you know, 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 I never knew it. When the doctor came down yesterday to put

me in the cab, he told me that for three days they gave you up.

Oh, dearest, if that 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 the other; but at least we shall have had

our happiness and there will be memories to live with.

I meant to cheer you up--and instead I have to cheer myself.

For in spite of being happier than I ever dreamed I could be,

I'm also soberer. The fear that something may happen rests like

a shadow on my heart. Always before I could be frivolous and

care-free and unconcerned, because I had nothing precious to lose.

But now--I shall have a Great Big Worry all the rest of my life.

Whenever you are away from me I shall be thinking of all the automobiles

that can run over you, 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 for ever--but anyway, I never cared much for just

plain peace.

Please get well--fast--fast--fast. I want to have you close

by where I can touch you and make sure you are tangible. Such a

little half hour we had together! I'm afraid maybe I dreamed it.

If I were only a member of your family (a very distant fourth cousin)

then I could come and visit you every day, and read aloud and plump up

your pillow and smooth out those two little wrinkles in your forehead

and make the corners of your mouth turn up in a nice cheerful smile.

But you are cheerful again, aren't you? You were yesterday before

I left. The doctor 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 live to be ninety-nine I shall never forget the tiniest detail.

The girl that left Lock Willow at dawn was a very different person from

the one who came back at night. Mrs. Semple called me at half-past four.

I started wide awake in the darkness and the first thought that

popped into my head was, `I am going to see Daddy-Long-Legs!' I ate

breakfast in the kitchen by candle-light, and then drove the five

miles to the station through the most glorious October colouring.

The sun came up on the way, and the swamp maples and dogwood glowed

crimson and orange and the stone walls and cornfields sparkled

with hoar frost; the air was keen and clear and full of promise.

I knew something was going to happen. All the way in the train

the rails kept singing, `You're going to see Daddy-Long-Legs.'

It made me feel secure. I had such faith in Daddy's ability to set

things right. And I knew that somewhere another man--dearer than Daddy--

was wanting to see me, and somehow I had a feeling that before the

journey ended I should meet him, too. And you see!

When I came to the house on Madison Avenue it looked so big and brown

and forbidding that I didn't dare go in, so I walked around the

block to get up my courage. But I needn't have been a bit afraid;

your butler is such a nice, fatherly old man that he made me

feel at home at once. `Is this Miss Abbott?' he said to me,

and I said, `Yes,' so I didn't have to ask for Mr. Smith after all.

He told me to wait in the drawing-room. It was a very sombre,

magnificent, man's sort of room. I sat down on the edge of a big

upholstered chair and kept saying to myself:

`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 the library. I was so excited that really and truly my feet

would hardly take me up. Outside the door he turned and whispered,

`He's been very ill, Miss. This is the first day he's been

allowed to sit up. You'll not stay long enough to excite him?'

I knew from the way he said it that he loved you--an I think he's

an old dear!

Then he knocked and said, `Miss Abbott,' and I went in and the door

closed behind me.

It was so dim coming in from the brightly lighted hall that for a

moment I could scarcely make out anything; then I saw a big easy

chair before 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 by pillows with a rug over his knees. Before I could

stop him he rose--rather shakily--and steadied himself by the back

of the chair and just looked at me without a word. And then--

and then--I saw it was you! But even with that I didn't understand.

I thought Daddy had had you 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!

A hundred little things might have told me, if I had had any wits.

I wouldn't make a very good detective, would I, Daddy? Jervie?

What must I call you? Just plain Jervie sounds disrespectful, and I

can't be 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

for St Louis. And you were pretty dazed, too. You forgot to give

me any tea. But we're both very, very happy, aren't we? I drove

back to Lock Willow in the dark but oh, how the stars were shining!

And this morning I've been out with Colin visiting all the places

that you and I went 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 with me. I am missing you dreadfully, Jervie dear,

but it's a happy kind of missing; we'll be together soon. We belong

to each other now really and truly, no make-believe. Doesn't it

seem queer for me to belong to someone 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 I know how?

 

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