Dear Enemy [74]
had only got drunk and dragged me about by the hair," Helen wailed, "it would have been legitimate; but because we didn't actually throw things at each other, no one could see any reason for a divorce."
The pathetic part of the whole business is that both she and Henry were admirably fitted to make some one else happy. They just simply didn't match each other; and when two people don't match, all the ceremonies in the world can't marry them.
Saturday morning.
I meant to get this letter off two days ago; and here I am with volumes written, but nothing mailed.
We've just had one of those miserable deceiving nights--cold and frosty when you go to bed, and warm and lifeless when you wake in the dark, smothered under a mountain of blankets. By the time I had removed my own extra covers and plumped up my pillow and settled comfortably, I thought of those fourteen bundled-up babies in the fresh-air nursery. Their so-called night nurse sleeps like a top the whole night through. (Her name is next on the list to be expunged.) So I roused myself again, and made a little blanket removing tour, and by the time I had finished I was forever awake. It is not often that I pass a NUIT BLANCHE; but when I do, I settle world problems. Isn't it funny how much keener your mind is when you are lying awake in the dark?
I began thinking about Helen Brooks, and I planned her whole life over again. I don't know why her miserable story has taken such a hold over me. It's a disheartening subject for an engaged girl to contemplate. I keep saying to myself, what if Gordon and I, when we really get acquainted, should change our minds about liking each other? The fear grips my heart and wrings it dry. But I am marrying him for no reason in the world except affection. I'm not particularly ambitious. Neither his position nor his money ever tempted me in the least. And certainly I am not doing it to find my life work, for in order to marry I am having to give up the work that I love. I really do love this work. I go about planning and planning their baby futures, feeling that I'm constructing the nation. Whatever becomes of me in after life, I am sure I'll be the more capable for having had this tremendous experience. And it IS a tremendous experience, the nearness to humanity that an asylum brings. I am learning so many new things every day that when each Saturday night comes I look back on the Sallie of last Saturday night, amazed at her ignorance.
You know I am developing a funny old characteristic; I am getting to hate change. I don't like the prospect of having my life disrupted. I used to love the excitement of volcanoes, but now a high level plateau is my choice in landscape. I am very comfortable where I am. My desk and closet and bureau drawers are organized to suit me; and, oh, I dread unspeakably the thought of the upheaval that is going to happen to me next year! Please don't imagine that I don't care for Gordon quite as much as any man has a right to be cared for. It isn't that I like him any the less, but I am getting to like orphans the more.
I just met our medical adviser a few minutes ago as he was emerging from the nursery--Allegra is the only person in the institution who is favored by his austere social attentions. He paused in passing to make a polite comment upon the sudden change in the weather, and to express the hope that I would remember him to Mrs. Pendleton when I wrote.
This is a miserable letter to send off on its travels, with scarcely a word of the kind of news that you like to hear. But our bare little orphan asylum up in the hills must seem awfully far away from the palms and orange groves and lizards and tarantulas that you are enjoying.
Have a good time, and don't forget the John Grier Home
and
SALLIE.
December 11. Dear Judy:
Your Jamaica letter is here, and I'm glad to learn that
The pathetic part of the whole business is that both she and Henry were admirably fitted to make some one else happy. They just simply didn't match each other; and when two people don't match, all the ceremonies in the world can't marry them.
Saturday morning.
I meant to get this letter off two days ago; and here I am with volumes written, but nothing mailed.
We've just had one of those miserable deceiving nights--cold and frosty when you go to bed, and warm and lifeless when you wake in the dark, smothered under a mountain of blankets. By the time I had removed my own extra covers and plumped up my pillow and settled comfortably, I thought of those fourteen bundled-up babies in the fresh-air nursery. Their so-called night nurse sleeps like a top the whole night through. (Her name is next on the list to be expunged.) So I roused myself again, and made a little blanket removing tour, and by the time I had finished I was forever awake. It is not often that I pass a NUIT BLANCHE; but when I do, I settle world problems. Isn't it funny how much keener your mind is when you are lying awake in the dark?
I began thinking about Helen Brooks, and I planned her whole life over again. I don't know why her miserable story has taken such a hold over me. It's a disheartening subject for an engaged girl to contemplate. I keep saying to myself, what if Gordon and I, when we really get acquainted, should change our minds about liking each other? The fear grips my heart and wrings it dry. But I am marrying him for no reason in the world except affection. I'm not particularly ambitious. Neither his position nor his money ever tempted me in the least. And certainly I am not doing it to find my life work, for in order to marry I am having to give up the work that I love. I really do love this work. I go about planning and planning their baby futures, feeling that I'm constructing the nation. Whatever becomes of me in after life, I am sure I'll be the more capable for having had this tremendous experience. And it IS a tremendous experience, the nearness to humanity that an asylum brings. I am learning so many new things every day that when each Saturday night comes I look back on the Sallie of last Saturday night, amazed at her ignorance.
You know I am developing a funny old characteristic; I am getting to hate change. I don't like the prospect of having my life disrupted. I used to love the excitement of volcanoes, but now a high level plateau is my choice in landscape. I am very comfortable where I am. My desk and closet and bureau drawers are organized to suit me; and, oh, I dread unspeakably the thought of the upheaval that is going to happen to me next year! Please don't imagine that I don't care for Gordon quite as much as any man has a right to be cared for. It isn't that I like him any the less, but I am getting to like orphans the more.
I just met our medical adviser a few minutes ago as he was emerging from the nursery--Allegra is the only person in the institution who is favored by his austere social attentions. He paused in passing to make a polite comment upon the sudden change in the weather, and to express the hope that I would remember him to Mrs. Pendleton when I wrote.
This is a miserable letter to send off on its travels, with scarcely a word of the kind of news that you like to hear. But our bare little orphan asylum up in the hills must seem awfully far away from the palms and orange groves and lizards and tarantulas that you are enjoying.
Have a good time, and don't forget the John Grier Home
and
SALLIE.
December 11. Dear Judy:
Your Jamaica letter is here, and I'm glad to learn that