"Mother," he said, softly.
CHAPTER VIII
Letters and the Post Office
Jeanie Dear:
Your letter was lovely. I forget what you are like between times a little, and then I look at your picture or get a letter from you, and know. I can hardly believe you love me, after all you know about me, but I guess you do. I wish I could see you, but I am glad you are at the Point again this summer. I tried out Mother about my coming to visit you, without asking in so many words, but her idea is that she would like to have me stay put. My brother may get well enough to come down here at any time, and when he does I want to be chief nurse and bottle washer—medicine bottles.
I've been doing quite a lot of things. I spend a great deal of time with Peggy Farraday. She is very nice. Nicer than I am, but not as nice as you, Jeanne of Arc. She is as nice as a Peggy Farraday can be. She has a sister Ruth, who is as sweet as peaches. She is about nineteen and a half, and blonde, with big blue eyes and long golden lashes, and one of those soft voices low in the throat, with a kind of thrill in it. You know—like contralto singing. You would love her. I am wild about her, and Buddy knows her. Don't mention that to any one. It's a secret. If you were here I think I could hint to you some things about it, but I can't on paper. Somebody might read a letter some time that you didn't expect. Buddy is very unhappy, and writes me one cross letter to every pleasant one. He is afraid I shall not be discreet, but discreet is my middle name, to use slang. Oh, I long to tell you what I mean. He won't write to her and she won't to him, and I am trying to make them. You can see how exciting it is.
Well, I must give you a brief résumé of what I have been doing, before I close. Monday we went in swimming, and afterwards, in the Farraday car, to Wianno, which is a very attractive summer colony farther up the Cape. We stopped at Hyannis and had ice-cream with a frozen pudding sauce. Tuesday, after swimming, Grandfather took us to Chatham in the noble Ford—me and Peggy—and we stopped at an attractive little tea room, where we had chocolate ice-cream. Wednesday we went swimming and then we walked to the adjoining town where we got some wonderful ice-cream sodas, three apiece. Peggy and I have each got over thirty Negroes. I told you how we were counting them in order to find out our fate. I am glad you have begun, too. I love you dearly.
Your own Elizabeth-Elspeth.
(Peggy calls me that. She sends her love even though she doesn't know you.)
Elizabeth was in a letter-writing mood, and sealing Jean's letter with her favourite sky-blue sealing wax, stamped with her monogram signet ring, she opened her letter-case again. She began:
Dear Daddy:
We don't write very many letters to each other this summer. At least, I don't write many separate ones to you, but all the letters that go to Mother are meant for you, too. My special particular efforts go to Buddy. Poor Buddy! I hope you will soon be able to bring him to his own grandmother's hunting ground. He keeps writing me about going to Russia. I guess I should want to go to Russia if my health was as discouraging as Buddy's. I worry about him, and, Daddy, dear, I worry about you. I have made the great discovery that a Daddy is a Daddy, and that it has to work pretty hard buying wardrobe trunks and Japanese kimonas and almond nut bars for its female offspring.
When I think of you sweltering in that hot city whether you want to or not, I get quite upset. You have to work every day, don't you, whether you feel like it or not? I never thought of that before till last evening, and it made me a little bit ill, it struck me with such force. I have just never happened to think of it in that light. I can tell you, Daddy, it made me love you harder than ever, and that's pretty hard. Well, all I can say is that I respect you more than anybody, and I hope you are never sorry you got married and got this family on your hands.
Now for a few words to cheer you up. Monday we went in swimming, Peggy and I, and afterwards in the Farraday car to Wianno. I guess you know all about Wianno. We stopped at Hyannis and had some ice-cream with frozen pudding sauce. Tuesday we swam and Grandfather took us to Chatham in the Grand Old Ford, and we had chocolate ice-cream there. Wednesday we went in swimming and then walked to Harwich and got three ice-cream sodas. Also we counted quite a lot of Negroes. I wrote Mother that we had to get ninety-nine Negroes etc. for a stunt we are doing. Portuguese count, if they are dark enough.
I love you more than my old scratchy pen can tell. There goes the station barge, with the morning mail. So here goes I after it.
Your Baby.
"You write an awful lot of letters, Elizabeth," said Peggy, as the two met at the post-office steps. "You get a lot, too. I'm not much good at correspondence. Did you ever write to a boy, Elizabeth?"
"No, not really. Only thank-you letters and answering invitations and things like that."