But he wasn't very wonderful when he came home to her--only when he had
an audience and applause. He would drink with every casual acquaintance,
and be gay and bubbling and expansive; and then return morose and sullen
and down. "Joie de rue, douleur de maison," is the burden of the book.
I read it till twelve last night, and honestly I didn't sleep for being
scared. I know you'll be angry, but really and truly, Gordon dear,
there's just a touch too much truth in it for my entire amusement. I
didn't mean ever to refer again to that unhappy matter of August 20,--we
talked it all out at the time,--but you know perfectly that you need a
bit of watching. And I don't like the idea. I want to have a feeling of
absolute confidence and stability about the man I marry. I never could
live in a state of anxious waiting for him to come home.
Read "Numa" for yourself, and you'll see the woman's point of view.
I'm not patient or meek or long-suffering in any way, and I'm a little
afraid of what I'm capable of doing if I have the provocation. My heart
has to be in a thing in order to make it work, and, oh, I do so want our
marriage to work!
Please forgive me for writing all this. I don't mean that I really think
you'll be a "joy of the street, and sorrow of the home." It's just that
I didn't sleep last night, and I feel sort of hollow behind the eyes.
May the year that's coming bring good counsel and happiness and
tranquillity to both of us!
As ever,
S.
January 1.
Dear Judy:
Something terribly sort of queer has happened, and positively I don't
know whether it did happen or whether I dreamed it. I'll tell you
from the beginning, and I think it might be as well if you burned this
letter; it's not quite proper for Jervis's eyes.
You remember my telling you the case of Thomas Kehoe, whom we placed
out last June? He had an alcoholic heredity on both sides, and as a baby
seems to have been fattened on beer instead of milk. He entered the
John Grier at the age of nine, and twice, according to his record in
the Doomsday Book, he managed to get himself intoxicated, once on beer
stolen from some workmen, and once (and thoroughly) on cooking brandy.
You can see with what misgivings we placed him out. But we warned the
family (hard-working temperate farming people) and hoped for the best.
Yesterday the family telegraphed that they could keep him no longer.
Would I please meet him on the six o'clock train? Turnfelt met the six
o'clock train. No boy. I sent a night message telling of his non-arrival
and asking for particulars.