Читать книгу Red of the Redfields - Grace S. Richmond - Страница 9

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From Marcia Redfield to her daughter, Ruth Rust Redfield, at college:

Dearest Rusty:

Something interesting and quite new to tell you this week. We have a boarder; he came last evening. No, not the summer kind, a winter boarder,—what I might call a wintry boarder. A patient of Cousin Red's, whom that great surgeon friend of his, Doctor Leaver of Baltimore, has sent him. Felix Rowe was a war correspondent in France, and "crashed" during a battle—up in the air against orders. He has had a bad time of it since. Although he is, physically, fairly himself again, except for persistent weakness and languor, he is able to do no work at his desk. I believe he had a "column" on a great daily; and did much general writing besides—magazine articles, reviews, and so on. The trouble with him now is more or less obscure—a sort of mental hurdle he can't seem to take back into life and activity. He's a slim pale shadow, with a moody look; very silent and sober. He is apparently about thirty years old—possibly younger; such conditions age men early.

Cousin Red has a notion that living with us for a time may be good for him. He's not to be pampered—we shouldn't have much time for that, should we? He's to be treated normally, and left to absorb something or other which Red thinks we have here, to which Felix hasn't been accustomed. What do you think it is, Rusty? And have we it?

In any case, we are much interested to see what happens. We shall hold to our present course, and Felix may see as much or as little of our enterprises as he desires. Our Boys' Club members will tramp up and downstairs past his door—I've given him Nick's room for the present—and they'll thump lustily over his head when their affairs grow lively in their attic quarters. But we shall change nothing on his account. We don't intend to force any therapeutic measures upon him, nor even consider him much. But if Red is right, Felix will experience some quite new reactions, which may kill or cure him.

Thank you for the books, dear. A Russian novelist, an English essayist, and an American statesman-biographer—what richness for one package! And what did you deny yourself in order to afford them for us? Your father has fingered them over and over, gloating over the thickness of them; and has arranged them on the table under the lamp waiting for me to begin to read them aloud—which I shall do this evening. Grandfather insists that he can read only newspapers as they should be read—that seems to be oddly true. I'm waiting for the moment to come when he and Felix fall naturally to talking of newspapers. I want him to know Andy Carter, too, in good time. Andy's office might contain some pretty efficient stimulus to his interest. But I shall not precipitate it. I have an idea that the patient is going to be very suspicious of "remedial" suggestions, and I intend to disappoint him—for his good! This isn't much of a letter, but it's all I have time for this morning. I shall send on the freshened party frock to-morrow, in plenty of time for the Senior spread. No, I didn't sit up nights to do it—put in a stitch at a time. I think you'll like the little yellow silk rosebud wreath about the shoulders—I'm quite proud of that. You'll look like a Rusty-peach in it!

Now I must run and make the Brown Betty for dessert. Heaps of candied overflow round the edges—m-m-m—don't you wish you could have some?

Blessings on you, Rusty,

Mother.

In reply to this came back by return mail a letter in a boyishly heavy hand, the ink very black, the dashes very determined:

Good gracious, Mother darlin'—what a shock! A wintry boarder—I'll wager he is that! Of course you may have much more than enough to do without taking him. But I'll admit I'd do almost anything myself Cousin Red wanted. The man has a way wid him!

So this Felix has a "mental hurdle" to get over, has he? Well, if anything can get him over it, it will be association with you. Yes, I should think Andy Carter might be very good for him indeed. To see you taking hurdles of every sort ought to put anybody to shame. But there never was anybody like you—never will be. You oughtn't to be cooped up there in the country, of course; yet when I come home and see you doing things—the kind of things you do—I wonder if anybody could possibly be of any more use. But you need some fun, Mother, once in a while—you do! A regular blow-off. Nick and I were talking about it last summer. We're going to see that you get it. So don't plan to keep your boarder right up till the time the summer lot come. Mind that, now.

You may be interested to know that I lost my temper yesterday more completely than I've done for a long time, carried along by the force of the concussion. I'm not proud of it—no, not a bit. As a result seven girls hate me—for life, I think. I don't much blame 'em. The worst of it is I made a bad impression on at least one person I wanted to make a good one on, and fear I can't live it down. What's the matter with red hair, anyhow? Does it strike in and affect the brain? Not that it's any excuse, of course.

You were a brick to fix up the frock for me. It looks as if it were right out of a very nice and exclusive establishment. The wreath is an achievement. How do you bring your wonderful brains down to low speed like that?

Bye—heaps of love.

Your

Rusty.

P. S. Tell Andy Carter I've written him a terribly impertinent letter and shall send it when I can work out an ending that shall be the tassel on the cap!

R. R. R.