Dear Enemy [94]
ADDIO!
SALLIE.
THE JOHN GRIER HOME,
Saturday at half-past six in the morning!
My dearest Enemy:
"Some day soon something nice is going to happen."
Weren't you surprised when you woke up this morning and remembered the truth? I was! I couldn't think for about two minutes what made me so happy.
It's not light yet, but I'm wide awake and excited and having to write to you. I shall despatch this note by the first to-be- trusted little orphan who appears, and it will go up on your breakfast tray along with your oatmeal.
I shall follow VERY PROMPTLY at four o'clock this afternoon. Do you think Mrs. McGurk will ever countenance the scandal if I stay two hours, and no orphan for a chaperon?
It was in all good faith, Sandy, that I promised not to kiss your hand or drip tears on the counterpane, but I'm afraid I did both--or worse! Positively, I didn't suspect how much I cared for you till I crossed the threshold and saw you propped up against the pillows, all covered with bandages, and your hair singed off. You are a sight! If I love you now, when fully one third of you is plaster of Paris and surgical dressing, you can imagine how I'm going to love you when it's all you!
But my dear, dear Robin, what a foolish man you are! How should I ever have dreamed all those months that you were caring for me when you acted so abominably S C O T C H? With most men, behavior like yours would not be considered a mark of affection. I wish you had just given me a glimmering of an idea of the truth, and maybe you would have saved us both a few heartaches.
But we mustn't be looking back; we must look forward and be grateful. The two happiest things in life are going to be ours, a FRIENDLY marriage and work that we love.
Yesterday, after leaving you, I walked back to the asylum sort of dazed. I wanted to get by myself and THINK, but instead of being by myself, I had to have Betsy and Percy and Mrs. Livermore for dinner (already invited) and then go down and talk to the children. Friday night-social evening. They had a lot of new records for the victrola, given by Mrs. Livermore, and I had to sit politely and listen to them. And, my dear--you'll think this funny--the last thing they played was "John Anderson, my jo John," and suddenly I found myself crying! I had to snatch up the earnest orphan and hug her hard, with my head buried in her shoulder, to keep them all from seeing.
John Anderson, my jo John, We clamb the hill thegither, And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.
I wonder, when we are old and bent and tottery, can you and I look back, with no regrets, on monie a canty day we've had wi' ane anither? It's nice to look forward to, isn't it--a life of work and play and little daily adventures side by side with somebody you love? I'm not afraid of the future any more. I don't mind growing old with you, Sandy. "Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in."
The reason I've grown to love these orphans is because they need me so, and that's the reason--at least one of the reasons-- I've grown to love you. You're a pathetic figure of a man, my dear, and since you won't make yourself comfortable, you must be MADE comfortable.
We'll build a house on the hillside just beyond the asylum-- how does a yellow Italian villa strike you, or preferably a pink one? Anyway, it won't be green. And it won't have a mansard roof. And we'll have a big cheerful living room, all fireplace and windows and view, and no McGURK. Poor old thing! won't she be in a temper and cook you a dreadful dinner when she hears the news! But we won't tell her for a long, long time--or anybody else. It's too scandalous a proceeding right on top of my own broken engagement. I wrote to Judy last night,
SALLIE.
THE JOHN GRIER HOME,
Saturday at half-past six in the morning!
My dearest Enemy:
"Some day soon something nice is going to happen."
Weren't you surprised when you woke up this morning and remembered the truth? I was! I couldn't think for about two minutes what made me so happy.
It's not light yet, but I'm wide awake and excited and having to write to you. I shall despatch this note by the first to-be- trusted little orphan who appears, and it will go up on your breakfast tray along with your oatmeal.
I shall follow VERY PROMPTLY at four o'clock this afternoon. Do you think Mrs. McGurk will ever countenance the scandal if I stay two hours, and no orphan for a chaperon?
It was in all good faith, Sandy, that I promised not to kiss your hand or drip tears on the counterpane, but I'm afraid I did both--or worse! Positively, I didn't suspect how much I cared for you till I crossed the threshold and saw you propped up against the pillows, all covered with bandages, and your hair singed off. You are a sight! If I love you now, when fully one third of you is plaster of Paris and surgical dressing, you can imagine how I'm going to love you when it's all you!
But my dear, dear Robin, what a foolish man you are! How should I ever have dreamed all those months that you were caring for me when you acted so abominably S C O T C H? With most men, behavior like yours would not be considered a mark of affection. I wish you had just given me a glimmering of an idea of the truth, and maybe you would have saved us both a few heartaches.
But we mustn't be looking back; we must look forward and be grateful. The two happiest things in life are going to be ours, a FRIENDLY marriage and work that we love.
Yesterday, after leaving you, I walked back to the asylum sort of dazed. I wanted to get by myself and THINK, but instead of being by myself, I had to have Betsy and Percy and Mrs. Livermore for dinner (already invited) and then go down and talk to the children. Friday night-social evening. They had a lot of new records for the victrola, given by Mrs. Livermore, and I had to sit politely and listen to them. And, my dear--you'll think this funny--the last thing they played was "John Anderson, my jo John," and suddenly I found myself crying! I had to snatch up the earnest orphan and hug her hard, with my head buried in her shoulder, to keep them all from seeing.
John Anderson, my jo John, We clamb the hill thegither, And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.
I wonder, when we are old and bent and tottery, can you and I look back, with no regrets, on monie a canty day we've had wi' ane anither? It's nice to look forward to, isn't it--a life of work and play and little daily adventures side by side with somebody you love? I'm not afraid of the future any more. I don't mind growing old with you, Sandy. "Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in."
The reason I've grown to love these orphans is because they need me so, and that's the reason--at least one of the reasons-- I've grown to love you. You're a pathetic figure of a man, my dear, and since you won't make yourself comfortable, you must be MADE comfortable.
We'll build a house on the hillside just beyond the asylum-- how does a yellow Italian villa strike you, or preferably a pink one? Anyway, it won't be green. And it won't have a mansard roof. And we'll have a big cheerful living room, all fireplace and windows and view, and no McGURK. Poor old thing! won't she be in a temper and cook you a dreadful dinner when she hears the news! But we won't tell her for a long, long time--or anybody else. It's too scandalous a proceeding right on top of my own broken engagement. I wrote to Judy last night,