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?
