Daddy-Long-Legs, Jean Webster [early reader chapter books .TXT] 📗

and raising broilers. You see I’m settled at Lock Willow permanently. I have decided to stay until I’ve written 114 novels like Anthony Trollope’s mother. Then I shall have completed my life work and can retire and travel.

Mr. James McBride spent last Sunday with us. Fried chicken and ice-cream for dinner, both of which he appeared to appreciate. I was awfully glad to see him; he brought a momentary reminder that the world at large exists. Poor Jimmie is having a hard time peddling his bonds. The `Farmers’ National’ at the Corners wouldn’t have anything to do with them in spite of the fact that they pay six per cent. interest and sometimes seven. I think he’ll end up by going home to Worcester and taking a job in his father’s factory. He’s too open and confiding and kind-hearted ever to make a successful financier. But to be the manager of a flourishing overall factory is a very desirable position, don’t you think? Just now he turns up his nose at overalls, but he’ll come to them.

I hope you appreciate the fact that this is a long letter from a person with writer’s cramp. But I still love you, Daddy dear, and I’m very happy. With beautiful scenery all about, and lots to eat and a comfortable four-post bed and a ream of blank paper and a pint of ink—what more does one want in the world? Yours as always, Judy

PS. The postman arrives with some more news. We are to expect Master Jervie on Friday next to spend a week. That’s a very pleasant prospect—only I am afraid my poor book will suffer. Master Jervie is very demanding.

27th August Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

Where are you, I wonder?

I never know what part of the world you are in, but I hope you’re not in New York during this awful weather. I hope you’re on a mountain peak (but not in Switzerland; somewhere nearer) looking at the snow and thinking about me. Please be thinking about me. I’m quite lonely and I want to be thought about. Oh, Daddy, I wish I knew you! Then when we were unhappy we could cheer each other up.

I don’t think I can stand much more of Lock Willow. I’m thinking of moving. 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 could have a studio together? I would write while she SETTLED and we could be together in the evenings. Evenings are very long when there’s no one but the Semples and Carrie and Amasai to talk to. I know in advance that you won’t like my studio idea. I can read your secretary’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. Griggs must be horrid. But truly, Daddy, I think I shall have to go to Boston. I can’t stay here. If something doesn’t happen soon, I shall throw myself into the silo pit out of sheer desperation.

Mercy! but it’s hot. All the grass is burnt up and the brooks are dry and 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 just want 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 from nobody 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 your secretary 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!— 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 carefree 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