Chapter 5
3rd October
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
It is a great feeling to come back to the college and I am excited to be in the Senior year—also editor of the Monthly. It seems queer that such a refined person was once an inmate of the John Grier Home? We do arrive fast in America!
Here, listen to this. A note was directed to Lock Willow from Master Jervie and was forwarded here. He’s sorry, for he cannot make up to the farm this autumn because he was tempted by his friends to go yachting. Hopes I’ve had a nice summer and am enjoying the country.
And he knew all the time that I was with the McBrides, Julia might have told him. You men know nothing about conspiracy, so leave it to women.
Julia’s wardrobe is full of most graceful new clothes—an evening gown of rainbow Liberty crepe that would be fitting raiment for the angels in Paradise. And I was wondering that my own clothes this year were unprecedentedly (is there such a word?) gorgeous. A cheap dressmaker helped me copy Mrs. Paterson’s attire, but the gowns didn’t turn out to be the twins of the originals. Even though I was entirely happy, until Julia unpacked. But now—I live to see Paris!
Daddy, you must be glad that you are not a girl. I suppose you think that the fuss we make over clothes is too absolutely silly? It is. No doubt about it.
Yours ever,
Judy
PS. The chamber-maid in our corridor wears blue checked gingham aprons. I am going to get her some brown ones instead, and sink the blue ones in the bottom of the lake. I have a reminiscent chill every time I look at them.
17th November
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Such blight has fallen over my literary career. I don’t know whether to tell you or not, but I would like some sympathy—silent compassion, please; don’t re-open the wound by referring to it in your next letter.
I was working on a book for quite a few months, which include all the evenings of the winter, plus the summer when I was free after teaching lessons to my two stupid children. I just finished it before the reopening of the college and sent it to a publisher. I was very much positive about my book being published as he kept it for two months. But yesterday morning an express parcel came (thirty cents due) and there it was back again with a letter from the publisher, a very nice, fatherly letter—but truthful! He said he guessed from the address that I was still pursuing my graduation, and gave a piece of advice that I should put all of my energy into my lessons and wait until I graduated before beginning to write. He enclosed his reader’s opinion. Here it is:
‘Plot highly improbable. Description overstated. Conversation abnormal. A good deal of humour but not always in the best of taste. Tell her not to give up and keep on trying, and in time she may produce a real book.’
It was not entirely pleasing Daddy. And I thought I was adding an excellent thing to American literature. I did truly. I wanted to startle you by writing a great novel before I graduated. I started assembling the tits and bits for it last Christmas at Julia’s. But I dare say the editor is right. Probably two weeks are not enough to examine the etiquettes and customs of a great city.
Yesterday afternoon, I took it with me and chucked it into the gas furnace with my own hands. I felt as though I had cremated my only child!
Last night I felt as though I was completely crestfallen; I thought I was never going to do anything and that you just wasted your money on me. But you know what? This beautiful morning brought along with her a striking new plot, and I’ve been going about all day preparing my characters, and I’m just as happy as I could be. Now I can never be blamed of being a hopeless girl!
Affectionately,
Judy
26th December
My Dear, Dear, Daddy,
Don’t you have any sense? How can dare to give seventeen Christmas presents to a girl? I’m a Socialist, please remember; and you are turning me into a Plutocrat.
It will be very upsetting to argue with you. I should have to engage a moving-van to return your gifts.
I am sorry about the necktie I sent you. It was a bit unstable; I knit it with my own hands (you must have discovered from internal proof). Please wear it on cold days and keep your coat buttoned up tight.
I thank you a thousand times, Daddy. You’re the sweetest man in the whole world—and the foolishest!
Judy Here’s a four-leaf clover from Camp McBride to bring you good luck for the New Year.
9th January
Daddy, do you want to make sure that you escape from the consequences of the sins you’ve committed? I almost know a family here who are in a pathetic despondent condition. A mother and father and four visible children—their two elder sons have vanished into the world to make their fortune but didn’t send any of it back. Their father worked in a glass furnace his entire life and got consumption—it’s terribly injurious work—and now has been sent away to a hospital. That took all their funds, and now oldest daughter, who is twenty-four, is supporting the family. She makes a dress for $1.50 a day (when she can get it) and embroiders centrepieces in the evening. The mother is very weak and is totally feeble and pious. She sits with her hands folded, a picture of patient resignation, but her daughter kills herself with overwork and responsibility and concern. It is hard for them to survive through this winter. A hundred dollars can get them some coal and a pair of shoes for all three children so that they could go to school, and give a little margin so that there is no reason to worry herself to death even if she doesn’t get work for a few days.
Daddy, you are the richest man I know. I think you can spare a hundred dollars? That girl deserves to be helped a lot more than I ever did.
The way people are forever rolling their eyes to heaven and saying, ‘Perhaps it’s all for the best,’ It makes me furious when they are perfectly dead sure it’s not.
You know where my new novel is? In the dustbin. I can myself see that it’s a total waste on earth, and when an affectionate author realizes that, then it is not hard to guess the judgment of a vital community?
Next morning
I read this letter twice before sealing it. I don’t know why I cast such a misty atmosphere over life. I swear that I am young and content and cheerful; and I hope you are in
You should have seen the girl’s face! With that cheque in her hand, she was numbed and glad and comforted.
the best of your spirits. Youth has nothing to do with birthdays, only with alivedness of spirit, so even if you’re grey-haired and you have wrinkles all over your face, Daddy, you can still be a boy.
Affectionately,
Judy
12th January
Dear Mr. Philanthropist,
I received the cheque for the family yesterday. I just ran out of words to thank you. I cut my swimming classes and hasten right after luncheon. You should have seen the girl’s face! With that cheque in her hand, she was numbed and glad and comforted that she looked young all over again; and she’s only twenty-four. Isn’t it disgraceful?
Now she feels as though she has gathered all the good things in her hands. Someone’s getting married, so she has a steady work ahead for about two months and there’s a trousseau to make.
‘Thank the good Lord!’ cried the mother, after comprehending the fact that that small piece of paper was one hundred dollar cheque.
‘It wasn’t the good Lord at all,’ I explained to her, ‘it was Daddy-Long-Legs.’ (Mr. Smith, I called you.) ‘But it was the good Lord who put it in his mind,’ she said.
‘Not at all! It was I who put it in his mind,’ I said.
Nevertheless, Daddy, one day you’ll be rewarded by the good Lord properly. You deserve ten thousand years out of purgatory.
Yours most gratefully,
Judy Abbott
15th February
May it please Your Most Exceptional Majesty:
I had a turkey pie and a goose in my breakfast this morning, and I did send for a cup of tea (a china drink) of which I had never heard before.
I haven’t lost my mind daddy, so don’t get panicky. I’m simply quoting Samuel Pepys. We’re reading him in connection with English History, original sources. Nowadays, Sallie and Julia and I chat in the language of 1660. Listen to this:
‘I went to Charing Cross to see Major Harrison hanged, drawn and quartered: he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition.’
It’s a beautiful day—frozen and icy and clear. As soon as dinner is over, Sallie and Julia and Marty Keene and Eleanor Pratt (friends of mine, but you don’t know them) and I are going to put on short skirts and walk ‘cross country to Crystal Spring Farm and have a fried chicken and waffle supper, and then have Mr. Crystal Spring drive us home in his buckboard. We are supposed to be inside the campus at seven, but we are going to stretch a point tonight and make it eight.
Farewell, kind Sir.
I have the honour of subscribing myself,
Your most reliable, devoted, trustworthy
and docile servant,
J. Abbott
5th March
Dear Mr. Trustee,
Tomorrow is a dreadful and tired day for John Grier Home because it is the first Wednesday of the month. They take a relief of sigh when the clock hand strikes five and you pat them on their heads and take yourselves off! Did you (individually) ever pat me on the head, Daddy? Well, I don’t think so. My memory is associated with only fat Trustees.
Please give my all the love to the Home. As I look back through the smaze of four years I realize that I am still quite attached to it. Earlier I felt a little offended at the thought that I was not granted the kind of childhood that the other girls had been; but now, I don’t feel that way in the least. That phase of my life was a very odd journey. It gave me a better view of life.
There are lots of girls, for example Julia, who still don’t know that they are blissful. They are now so used to the happiness that they no more feel it; but as for me—I am perfectly sure every moment of my life that I am happy. And I will remain like this, no matter what life comes up with. I don’t know about others, but from now on, I’ll be glad to have such a beautiful life and I’m going to regard even toothaches as fascinating experiences. ‘Whatever skies above me, I’ve a heart for any fate.’
However, Daddy, don’t take this new friendliness for the J.G.H. too literally. I will never leave my children on the steps of an orphanage, just to make sure that they are brought up plainly, even if I have 7 children.
Give my kindest regards to Mrs. Lippett (that, I think, is truthful; love would be a little strong) and do tell her that I’ve developed a beautiful nature.
Affectionately,
Judy
Lock Willow,
4th April
Dear Daddy,
Have you noticed the postmark? Sallie and I intend to decorate Lock Willow and give company to the Semples this Easter Vacation. We decided to spend the ten days at a quieter place. Our nerves had got to the point where they wouldn’t stand another meal in Fergussen. Having dinner in a room with four hundred girls especially when you are tired is like icing on the cake. There is so much noise that you can’t hear the girls across the table speaks unless they make their hands into a megaphone and shout. That is the truth.
We stroll over the hillocks and having a pleasant, restful time. And Daddy, this morning we mounted to the top of ‘Sky Hill’ where Master Jervie and I once cooked supper—it doesn’t seem possible that it was nearly two years ago. I could still see the place where the smoke of our fire blackened the rock. It is strange how few places are remembered just because of certain people, and you never go back without thinking of them.
What do you think is my latest activity, Daddy? I am writing a book. You must be thinking that I am incorrigible. It has been three weeks now and am eating it up in chunks. I’ve caught the secret. Master Jervie and that editor man were correct; if someone is writing about the things he know, then at that time he is the most influential person. And this time I’m dead sure about the things I’m writing. Guess where the story is laid? It’s about the John Grier Home! It is all about the daily routine of the foundlings and all those little things that have ever happened. I discarded idealism and now I’m a practical person. I will surely return to it later though, when my own adventurous future begins.
I assure you that this new book will be finished and published! If you actually want something and you try hard enough for it, you do get it in the end. It’s been four years that I’m trying to get a note from you and I have still not given up hope yet.
Goodbye, Daddy dear,
(I like to call you Daddy dear; it’s so alliterative.)
Affectionately,
Judy
PS. I forgot to tell you the farm news, but it’s very distressing. Skip this postscript if you don’t want your sensibilities all wrought up.
Poor old Grove is dead. He got so that he couldn’t chew and they had to shoot him.
Nine chickens were killed by a weasel or a skunk or a rat last week.
.One of the cows is sick, and we had to have the veterinary surgeon out from Bonnyrigg Four Corners. Amasai stayed up all night to give her linseed oil and whisky. But we have an awful suspicion that the poor sick cow got nothing but linseed oil.
Sentimental Tommy (the tortoise-shell cat) has disappeared; we are afraid he has been caught in a trap.
There are lots of troubles in the world!
17th May
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Sorry for writing such a short note but my shoulder aches at the sight of a pen. Writing lecture notes in the morning, endless novel in the evening makes too much writing.
Commencement within three weeks from next Wednesday. Don’t you think you should come and make my acquaintance? I shall hate you if you don’t! Julia’s inviting Master Jervie, he being her family, and Sallie’s inviting Jimmie McB., he being her family, but who should I invite? Just you and Lippett, and I don’t want her to come. Please come.
Yours, with love and writer’s pain.
Judy
Lock Willow,
19th June
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I’m a graduate! I’ve kept my diploma safely in the bottom bureau drawer with two of my best outfits. Commencement was as usual, with a few showers at vital moments. Thank you for those lovely flowers. Master Jervie and Master Jimmie both gave me roses, too, but I left theirs and carried yours in the class procession.
I am here again at Lock Willow to spend my summer or forever maybe. The board is economical; the atmosphere calm and favourable for a writer. A belligerent author wants nothing more. I am going crazy for my book. I think of it every waking instant, and dream of it at night. All I want is calm and gentle and lots of time to work along with nutritious meals.
I hope to see Master Jervie for a week or so in August, and Jimmie McBride might come and see me sometime through the summer. He’s working for a bond house now, and goes about the country selling bonds to banks. He’s going to combine the ‘Farmers’ National’ at the Corners and me on the same trip.
You see that Lock Willow isn’t entirely lacking in the social order. I still expect a visit from you but I know now that it is impossible. When you didn’t come to my commencement, I tore you from my heart and suppressed you forever.
Judy Abbott
24th July
Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,
It is so much fun to work, isn’t it? It’s especially fun when your kind of work is the thing you’d rather do more than anything else in the world. I’ve been writing as fast as my pen would go every day this summer, but I disagree with life on one thing. I feel sad that the days aren’t long enough to pen down all my attractive and precious and interesting thoughts I’m thinking.
I just finished the second part of my book and will begin the third tomorrow morning at half-past seven. It’s the sweetest book you ever saw—it is, truly. I think of nothing else. I don’t think I’ll be able to wait till morning to start writing it again. I have to dress up and eat fast, and then I write and write and write till suddenly I’m so tired that I’m limp all over. Then I shall go out and romp through the fields and get a fresh supply of ideas for the next day. It’s the most beautiful book you ever saw—Oh, pardon—I said that before.
Don’t consider me conceited, Daddy, really, I am just in the enthusiastic stage. Maybe later on I’ll get cold and critical and sniffy. No, I’m sure I won’t! This time I’ve written a real book. Just wait till you see it.
I think I should better leave the topic of the book try to talk about something else. There isn’t much of any farm news. The animals are all in the best of health. The pigs are unusually fat, the cows seem contented and the hens are laying well. I am thinking of starting an incubator next spring 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.
Jimmie McBride was here last Sunday. I was very much happy to see him; he brought a temporary reminder that the world at large exists. Poor Jimmie is having a hard time going places to sell his bonds. I think he’ll end up by going home to Worcester and will take up a job in his father’s factory. He’s too open and confiding and kind-hearted ever to make a successful financier.
I know that this is a long letter from a person with writer’s pain and I hope you value the fact. 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
27th August
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I wonder where you live. Nor I know what part of the world you are in, but I hope you’re not in New York right now because the weather is awful there. I hope you’re on a mountain peak (but not in Switzerland; somewhere nearer) looking at the snow and thinking about me. I’m feeling very 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’m having second thoughts. It is getting hard for me to bear much more of Lock Willow now. Sallie is going to Boston next winter to do some settlement work. I guess it would be nice if I accompany her. We can even have a studio together. I would write while she settled and we could be together in the evenings. 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 wants you to stay at Lock Willow.
Yours truly,
ELMER H. GRIGGS
I don’t really like your secretary. I can make out that a man named Elmer H. Griggs must be very unkind. Frankly speaking, 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! It’s very hot. All the grass is burnt up, lakes are dry, and roads are muddy. It hasn’t rained for I don’t know how many weeks.
This letter might give you an idea that I’m highly depressed, but I am not. I just want some family.
Goodbye, my dearest Daddy.
I wish I knew you.
Judy
ock Willow,
19th September
Dear Daddy,
I need suggestion, Daddy. Something has turned up. I need a piece of advice from you only and from nobody else in the world. Is it possible for us to meet? It’s so much easier to talk than to write; and what if your secretary opened the letter?
Judy
PS. I’m very unhappy.
Lock Willow
3rd October
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I got your letter written in your own pretty shaky handwriting this morning. I didn’t know that you have been sick otherwise I wouldn’t have troubled you with my stuff. Of course, I will tell you the problem, but it’s sort of complicated to write, and very much private. Please don’t keep this letter with you, but burn it.
Before I begin with my trouble—here’s a cheque for one thousand dollars. It seems witty, doesn’t it, for me to be sending a cheque to you? Do you know where I got it from?
I sold my story, Daddy. It will be printed serially in seven parts, and then finally, in a book! According to you I must have gone wild with euphoria, but I’m not. I’m just not interested. But yes the fact relieved me that I paying you and I still have to pay you a lot more. It will come in part payment. Now don’t be revolting, please, about taking it, and don’t put too much pressure on your precious soul because it makes me happy to return it. It is not just mere money that I have to return to you, I will continue to pay all my life in gratitude and warmth.
most worldly advice, whether you think I’ll like it or not.
You know, Daddy, that you’ve always been a valuable and priceless part of my life; you are my only and my whole family; but I hope you won’t mind, if I tell you that there is a man who is much more valuable to me? You can most likely presume without much trouble who he is. I suspect that my letters have been very full of Master Jervie for a very long time.
You must have known him now through all my letters. We are so comfortable with each other. Our thinking is so much similar—I am afraid I have a tendency to make over my ideas to match his! He is most of the times right; he should be, you know, for he has fourteen years’ start of me. Well, he’s just an overgrown boy, and someone should definitely look after him—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 sense of humour is antagonistic. I don’t believe there’s any bridging that gulf!
And he is—Oh, well! He is the way he is, and I miss him so much. With him around me the whole world seems full of joy and happiness. I hate sitting beneath the beautiful moonlit sky because he isn’t here to see it with me. You might have loved somebody, too, and haven’t you? If you have, I don’t need to explain; if you haven’t, I can’t explain.
Anyway, that’s the way I feel about him—and I’ve refused to marry him.
I didn’t give him any reason; I acted dumb and wretched. I was speechless. My tongue was as if it had fallen into my stomach. Then he departed thinking that I want to spend my entire life with Jimmie McBride—trust me, I don’t in the slightest, I wouldn’t think of marrying Jimmie even in my dreams; he is not that mature. And as a result an awful cloud of misinterpretation formed between ma and Master Jervie and both our feelings were hurt. I care for him so much that I had to send him away. I feared that he might repent sooner or later—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 let him know that I was brought up in an orphan asylum, and that I didn’t know what my background was. I may be terrible, you know. And his family are proud—and I’m proud, too!
Also, I cannot just let go off the gift of education you have given me. After training me to become a writer, I must at least try to be one. It will be very unfair if I do not utilize what I’ve learnt in these years. But now that I am capable enough to pay back the debt, I feel that I have partly discharged it- moreover, I think that I can still be a writer even if I did marry. The two professions are not essentially exclusive.
My mind is flooding with thoughts. He is a Socialist person with eccentric ideas; perhaps he won’t mind marrying into the working class as much as other men do. If two people are exactly in agreement, and until the end of time content when together and lost when away from each other, they must remove each and every barrier in their way. Of course I want to believe that! But first I’d like to get your unbiased opinion. Even you would have a family, and will look at it from a worldly viewpoint and not just a concerned, human point of view—so you see how valiant I am to lay it before you.
What if I go to him and tell him that the trouble isn’t Jimmie, but is the John Grier Home? I guess that’s a pathetic idea. It would take a great deal of courage. It is better that I get dejected for the rest of my life.
Two months have gone now after this incident and I haven’t heard a word from him since he was here. I was getting used to the feeling of a broken heart, when i received a letter from Julia that moved me from head to toe. She wrote in a casual tone that ‘Uncle Jervis’ had been down with pneumonia ever since he was caught out in a storm all night when he was hunting in Canada. And I was never aware of it. It pained me a lot to think that because of me just vanished into emptiness without a word. I know he’s pretty sorrowful, and I am too!
What do you think I should do now?
Judy
6th October
Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,
I’ll definitely be there at half-past four next Wednesday afternoon. I can find the way to your home for sure. I’m not a baby, Daddy. I’ve been in New York three times. It is hard for me to believe that I am actually going to see you. I mean, in real. I’ve been thinking about you so much that it seems tough to assume that you are a tangible flesh-and-blood person.
It is so sweet of you, Daddy, to bother yourself with me, even when you’re so sick. Take care and don’t catch cold. These fall rains are very damp.
Affectionately,
Judy
Thursday Morning
My Very Dearest Master-Jervie-Daddy-Long-Legs Pendleton-Smith,
Hope you had a sound sleep last night. But I didn’t. Not a single wink. It was raining emotions the previous night. I was stunned, thrilled, puzzled and glad. I don’t believe I ever shall sleep again—or eat either. But I hope you slept; you must, you know, to get well soon and can come to me sooner.
Dear Man, It aches me at the thought of you been so ill—and on top of it I never knew about it. When the doctor came down to escort me till the cab, he told me that they almost lost you. Oh dear, if that would have happened, the light would have drained out of my life. 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. I am living in the fear that something might happen to you. I used to be so perky and relaxed and unconcerned, because I had nothing valuable to lose. But now—a great big worry will rest like a shadow in my heart for the entire life. Whenever you are away from me I shall be thinking of all the automobiles that can run over you, 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 basic peace.
Please get well in a little while. I want you to be by my side and touch you to make sure you are physical. I’m afraid maybe I dreamed of you because we spent such a little time together. I still think it wasn’t real. If I were only a member of your family (a very distant fourth cousin) then I could come and visit you every day, 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.
Yesterday was the most amazing day that could ever happen. If I’m blessed to live until ninety-nine I shall never forget the tiniest detail. The girl that left Lock Willow at dawn was way dissimilar 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 had my 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.’ I felt almost safe and sound.
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 gather my courage. Your butler is kind, fatherly old man that he didn’t make me feel odd, rather made me comfortable at once. ‘Is this Miss Abbott?’ he asked me, and I said, ‘Yes’. He told me to wait in the drawing-room. I sat down on the edge of a big upholstered chair. 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. It’s the first day he’s been allowed to sit up. Hope you’ll not stay long enough.’ It was clear from the way he said it that he loved you and cared for you—and I think he’s an old dear!
Then he knocked and said, ‘Miss Abbott’. I went in and the door closed behind me.
The light was so dim inside the room as compared to the brightly lighted hall that for a moment I could hardly see anything. Then I caught the sight of a big easy chair before the fire and a shining tea table with a smaller chair beside it. Suddenly I realized that a man was sitting in the big chair propped up by pillows. He rose from his chair rather shakily and steadied himself by the back of the chair and just looked at me standing silently. And then I was dumbstruck to see you! But even seeing you standing there I didn’t understood a thing. I thought Daddy asked you to come and meet me.
And then with a smile you said, ‘Dear little Judy, was it hard for you to guess that I was your Daddy-Long-Legs?’
In a moment it flashed over me. How dim-witted I was! There were plenty of little things that 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!
Those were the best thirty minutes of my life before your doctor came and sent me away. We both were pretty astonished as well as happy, rather very happy, aren’t we? When I drove back to Lock Willow in the dark, the stars seemed to be more shiny and the moon brighter. This morning when I woke up I missed your presence, so I’ve been out with Colin visiting all the places where we spent time together, and recollecting what you said and how you looked. I am missing you awfully, Jervie dear, but it’s a happy kind of missing. I’m quite sure your illness will not get in our way for much long and we’ll be together soon. It’s a wonderful sensation that I belong to someone at last. I want to express my feelings but i have no words. It seems very, very sweet.
And I promise you I won’t let you regret for a sole
moment.
Yours, forever and ever and ever,
Judy
