Also, I felt sort of bound to you. After having been educated to be a writer, I must at least try to be one; it would scarcely be fair to accept your education and then go off and not use it. But now that I am going to be able to pay back the money, I feel that I have partially discharged that debt—besides, I suppose I could keep on being a writer even if I did marry. The two professions are not necessarily exclusive.
I ’ve been thinking very hard about it. Of course he is a Socialist, and he has unconventional ideas; maybe he would n’t mind marrying into the proletariat so much as some men might. Perhaps when two people are exactly in accord, and always happy when together and lonely when apart, they ought not to let anything in the world stand between them. Of course I want to believe that! But I ’d like to get your unemotional opinion. You probably belong to a Family also, and will look at it from a worldly point of view and not just a sympathetic, human point of view—so you see how brave I am to lay it before you.
Suppose I go to him and explain that the trouble is n’t Jimmie, but is the John Grier Home—would that be a dreadful thing for me to do? It would take a great deal of courage. I ’d almost rather be miserable for the rest of my life.
This happened nearly two months ago; I have n’t heard a word from him since he was here. I was just getting sort of acclimated to the feeling of a broken heart, when a letter came from Julia that stirred me all up again. She said—very casually—that “Uncle Jervis” had been caught out all night in a storm when he was hunting in Canada, and had been ill ever since with pneumonia. And I never knew it. I was feeling hurt because he had just disappeared into blankness without a word. I think he ’s pretty unhappy, and I know I am!
What seems to you the right thing for me to do?
Judy.
October 6th.
Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,
Yes, certainly I ’ll come—at half-past four next Wednesday afternoon. Of course I can find the way. I ’ve been in New York three times and am not quite a baby. I can’t believe that I am really going to see you—I ’ve been just thinking you so long that it hardly seems as though you are a tangible flesh-and-blood person.
You are awfully good, Daddy, to bother yourself with me, when you ’re not strong. Take care and don’t catch cold. These fall rains are very damp.