CHAPTER VII
The Locked Closet
Sister Dear:
Your epistles of late show a great improvement. I don't refer to the spelling and rhetoric. You are not one of these fancy spellers, I am thankful to state, and you subject the English language to only an average amount of ill treatment. What I am referring to is your morale. Your morale has certainly looked up. Your letters from the farm leave nothing to be desired, though they create an atmosphere of yearning for the farm, and all the livestock inclusively. This is a flattering statement. Being weakened by long suffering, I don't mind admitting right out in writing that I'd rather see my sister than even Old Dog Tray.
It's good of you to return this compliment. You did in your last letter, you know, but I'm afraid, if you once got me down there, you would repent of your bargain. Even sisters have their limits, and, to tell you the secret that is preying on my damask cheek (See Bartlett's Familiar Quotations)—like the worm in the well-known bud—no girl but you cares a tinker's damn what becomes of me. No girl but you answers my letters. To be sure, you are the only girl I write to, but I don't think that ought to make a real difference, do you? You'd write your Buddy—if he was your Buddy—no matter what stood in the way, wouldn't you? If he wasn't your Buddy, you wouldn't. Voilà l'obstacle. That's Sarah Bernhardt for "Aye, there's the rub," if anybody should ask you. All of which is complete nonsense. The general idea is that I am not getting well very fast, and I don't care very much if I am not. France was France, and I made it—Dieu merci! If I never make anything else, I hope I shan't do much hollering, but I, too, was young once, little sister. So whenever you feel it's a hardship to milk six cows before sunrise—as I suppose of course you are doing—give a thought to your bed-ridden
Buddy.
Buddy, my own darling, dear, dear Buddy:
I love you best, best, best, which doesn't include the other generation, on account of its being so unflattering to our mutual mother and father, but is almost completely true, all the same. I hate to love anybody so much, because there is a hurt in loving all that. My hurt is in your not getting better, and not feeling more encouraged about it. Mother writes that your discouragement is worse than your sickness. Oh, dear, Buddy, don't be discouraged. Please, please, please don't. You did go over to France and fight. You did get a D. S. C. that all your family are so proud of, their hats will hardly fit any more. You are perfectly lovely yourself, and better looking than any one, and have perfectly fascinating manners. Isn't that something? Any girl would be crazy about you, and if there is any girl you want to be crazy about you, I'll bet you could get her without half trying. I know that if you only wanted to be a girl's friend, you would be a perfectly beautiful, tranquil friend to her, and she would like it better to have you be that than to have a lover of any kind. Also I believe that if ever you wanted to get engaged just by letter, you could do that, too.
Peggy Farraday's sister Ruth is expected down here any time. I believe that she is the girl you used to correspond with before you went to France. Perhaps you have forgotten all about her by this time. Peggy and I took the Steppe children to a bean supper. I will describe this at length anon. It made them quite sick. As I remarked before, I like you better than ice-cream or pink silk underclothing.
Elspeth.
Elspeth waited anxiously for the answer to this letter, for she had tried to be very tactful and helpful, and to handle strategically the secret that she had surprised, but Buddy's answer was a blow. He wrote:
Dear Sis:
I'm duly appreciative of the soft stuff. I sure do appreciate your letters, and I know you like the way I look. (We might be mistaken for twins, save for the slight accident of a few years' handicap.) But I'd be willing to can that Everywoman stuff, if it's all the same to you. Don't go getting ideas in your head about the girls I'm clubby with. My first letter was all a joke, and I gave you the credit for understanding a joke. That's all. Keep on the subject of the old farm, and this year's crop of brass tacks, and you will suit me fine.
I am no better, but a lot worse. Don't, however, mention me to any one but Grandpa and G-ma. If any one wants to know how I am, say that I am aces up, and anxious to get discharged and go to Russia. Yes, if I can get my old job back, I might get a chance at Russia, and that's what I want. To get as far out of this country as I can get. If this letter sounds grouchy—it's because I am grouchy, and not that I don't like my relations. I do, and here's a kiss to prove it.
Bud.
"I don't see why a tactful letter like mine made him sore," Elizabeth thought, forlornly, and inelegantly. But a communication from her mother, a day or two later, made her understand her brothers state of mind and body a little more clearly.
Elizabeth dear:
Be careful how and what you write to Junior—John, I mean. He is in a highly excitable condition, and little things worry him out of all proportion. Recently his great fear seems to be that you will gossip about his condition to friends of his that you may meet on the Cape. As far as I can find out, he has no friends there except his immediate family, but he says that you don't understand how a fellow hates to have his physical condition discussed, and he seems to be in terror lest you tell someone whom he doesn't care to have informed just what a state he is in. I am writing you this for two reasons: First, I don't want you to mind if John writes you irritably, and second, I promised him that I would ask you not to talk about him to any one at all.
Your father and I are as comfortable as we can be with this anxiety upon our minds, but New York is very uncomfortable just at present, and keeping cool is an occupation in itself. I miss my little girl. I didn't realize, Elizabeth, dear, how many things you do for me, how many steps you save me, and how many thoughtful little things you contribute to my comfort.
I know it is hard for you to be away from us, but I am so thankful for your brave and helpful spirit and the real character building that I feel you are accomplishing. Every letter I get I am prouder of, and so is your father. You could make it so much harder for us if you were not trying to get through the summer right.
Do be careful when you go into the water, and don't ever stay in too long. Take plenty of wraps to the beach to put on when you come out. Don't let Grandmother feed you too many pies and cakes, but obey and trust her in every other way. She is a very wise woman. Mother knows in just what ways this summer is hard for you, and she loves you dearly—dearly.
Mother.
"I thought I had got all over the habit of crying at Mothers letters, but it seems that I haven't," Elizabeth said. "I know what Buddy's afraid of now. I shall just have to use my own judgment and try to make it the best old judgment I ever used in my life." She wrote again:
Dear Buddy:
I am very snubbed, but I guess I shall survive. I will can the Everywoman stuff, but after all, I know more about it than you do, even at my very immature age, because some day I am going to grow up to be a woman, and in spite of your very great and boasted superiority—you aren't.
I won't talk about you to any one except to G-pa and G-ma, and not them if you don't want me to. But I shall say that I love you, and why. You're a dear darling, that's why, and if I was cross a little bit at your letter, I got right over it, on account of your being such a dear, and such a darling.
I am glad you can sit up some. I ate a whole pint of ice-cream and a quarter of a chocolate cake to-day, and thought of our childhood days when you did the same thing. Peggy Farraday's sister came yesterday, and I think she is a peacherine. She inquired for you and I said you were getting better, and thanked her. Buddy, I won't say nothing to nobody that will make you out an invalid or not an invalid. When asked, I shall open my mouth wide, and say nothing, nothing, nothing.
I do, I do, I do love you.
Elspeth.