CHAPTER III

I

March 12, 1900.

Dearest, dear Judy-pudy: Uncle Phineas’s dictum, “Never begin a letter or end a love affair with an apology,” has been a hindrance to me in the starting of this letter. Perhaps if I state that Dong Lee has had another toothache, and that Christopher sent us a telegram that came two days after you and Greg left, and that said he had been married the week before and would arrive at Q 2 on Saturday, March ninth, with his wife, you may understand why I have not had time to write to you.

All the preparations were exciting and much fun. Grandfather himself helped me shine the best silver on Friday afternoon. Dong Lee had been compelled to lie down with a bag of hot salt on his face. Aunt Gracia made new curtains for Chris’s room, and Olympe put her best cloisonné rose jar on the lowboy. The one drawback was that something so pleasant going to happen made us miss you and Greg more tensely. We couldn’t say, once, as we had said the day of the hailstorm and rain after you left, “Thank goodness, Judy and Greg aren’t here.”

Father and Uncle Phineas met Chris and Irene at the train with the carriage. Neal had worked hard getting it mended and washed and polished; but, of course, there had been no time to paint it. Bread and Butter were not as dashing as I wished they might be. Though Neal had curried them carefully, they somehow did seem to betray the fact they were generally used for ploughing. I hoped that Irene might not notice it. I fear that she did.

Irene is pretty. Her hair is yellow. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes are turquoise blue. But, though it is hard to explain, her prettiness seems inexpensive: like the things we don’t buy in the shops because, though attractive, we feel sure they won’t be durable. I should add that this is not very noticeable except when she is close to Aunt Gracia, and that, even then, Irene’s clothes do much to counteract the impression.

Her clothes are very beautiful, and she rustles in them as if she were walking knee-deep in autumn leaves. Her trains make Aunt Gracia’s and Olympe’s seem like something they just happened to be dragging about behind them. On just one hat she has eight plumes, and she said the shortest one was sixteen inches long.

She was very enthusiastic over all of us, and the place, on Saturday evening. She has a way of expressing appreciation by saying “oo,” with rising and falling inflections. Sometimes it sounds as if she were running a scale. She showed all sorts of deference to Grandfather by constantly calling him “sir,” and acting humble. I am sure that Grandfather disliked it.

Olympe came downstairs rather late, as she usually does when we have company. She looked beautiful in her old white lace ball gown and with her “Prince of Wales” magenta plumes in her gray hair. Irene seemed much astonished at Olympe; but then, you know, strangers often do. Olympe was at her best. She lifted her lovely chin (not once all evening did she forget and droop her chin) and told Irene how great artists had painted her portraits. It seems that a great artist once wished to paint Irene’s picture, too. It is interesting, I think, to have two beauties in the family at one time. It is a pity that Irene uses so much White Rose perfume that, whenever Olympe stays close to her, Olympe begins to sneeze with hay fever as she usually does only in August. But, excluding that, and a few other things, I think the general exchanged impressions on Saturday evening were all at least moderately favourable. Irene made me happy by saying that I looked like a Reginald Birch child. I was glad to be able to repay her at once, and honestly, by saying that she looked like a Penrhyn Stanlaws lady. But it was not original. She said that so she had often been told.

On Sunday morning, when Father, Chris, and I were showing her about the ranch she said, “But, Booful!” (She calls Chris “Booful” in public. I thought, for some time, that she would spell it “Boofel,” or “Boofle,” and that it was a joke with perhaps interesting origins. I have since discovered that she means “Beautiful.” I should think Chris would abhor it.) “But, Booful!” she said, “I didn’t know that your funny farm was a truck farm.”

Yes, Judy dear, I quote exactly. I was extremely glad that Grandfather had not come with us to be wounded.

Darling Father, as usual, met the situation superbly. He explained to her that, during the hard times, it had seemed wise to him to put in enough garden to supply the family table, with perhaps a bit over, for occasional trading at the stores, until the worst pressure was past. He told her, of course, we still had cattle and horses, and that, now, the South African War was raising the cattle prices, so that the stockmen would soon come into their own again. He added that after this he would always have a family garden, however, and a large one.

She said, “It is a large family, isn’t it?” She has a syrup-sweet voice; but, someway, the things she says with it often seem to ruin its timbre.

When I told Aunt Gracia what Irene had said about the family, she asked me why I repeated it. She said, “We are a large family, aren’t we, honey-baby?”

“Aunt Gracia,” I said, “we are. But we are not a large patch of loco weed that has got a start in the best bunch grass.”

Father came in, just then, and when he found I was writing to you he asked me to convey this message. Your last letter, he said, has distressed him. You must spare no expense when it is a question of comfort for Greg. Quilters, he thought, had not yet reached the place where they found it necessary to practise economy on their invalids. He sends you and Greg his dearest love. He will write you, at length, in a few days.

Just overnight, almost, economy has stopped here. Chris insisted on having all the stoves right out and the fireplaces reopened. They eat up wood. He says that before next winter we must have the old furnace repaired. Probably, before next winter he will understand better. He and Irene brought us all presents from the East. I have no enthusiasm, as yet, for describing them. Perhaps, when you receive yours, my difficulty will be clear to you. I think that Olympe is going to send you the ice-wool fascinator they brought to her. It is beautiful, but Olympe will never wear lavender. It was an experience and a lesson to watch Grandfather being grateful for _Richard Carvel_ when he had so desired a Miss Tarbell’s new Life of Lincoln.

I must run now and help Aunt Gracia with supper. Dear Judy and Greg, I love you so much that when I stand on tiptoes I can touch it in the stars.—Lucy.

II

March 19, 1900.

My dear, sweet Sister Judy: This morning I found out an amazing thing. Did you know that Q 2 Ranch belonged entirely to Christopher? Neal says that he had known it, but that it was so unimportant he had forgotten it. I had never thought about who owned it. If I had, I should have supposed that we all did. But to-day I happened to hear Irene say to Chris, “But, Booful, the farm belongs entirely to you.” She seemed to be wishing him to do something, I don’t know what, about the ranch.

I went at once to Grandfather. I suppose that no one could question the assertion that Grandfather has one of the most beautiful characters that ever was in the world. No matter what great man I read about from Da Vinci to McKinley, I always decide that Grandfather is superior to him. Sometimes I wonder whether any of us are grateful enough for the opportunity of having Grandfather for an ancestor.

To-day, though I interrupted him when he was deep in his new translation of Schiller, he treated me with kingly courtesy. That is not an exact description. Grandfather, I think, is much more of a gentleman than are most kings.

“Grandfather,” I said, respecting his liking for directness in all things, “does Q 2 Ranch belong to Cousin Christopher?”

“It does,” he replied. And then, I suppose, he read my feeling in my face, for he asked, quickly, “But, my darling, need that trouble you?”

I told him that if it did not trouble him it would not trouble me; but that I should like to understand about it.

He placed a chair for me. He explained that, since Cousin Christopher had been Uncle Christopher’s eldest son, naturally he would inherit the estate. He said that when he and Uncle Christopher, and, later, Uncle Phineas, had founded this second family estate they had agreed that divisions were unwise. So, though both Grandfather and Uncle Phineas had put their fortunes into the ranch, they had desired it to be inherited, though not entailed, as the estates in England are. He explained to me why that is the wisest way. I am sure you know about that; so I shan’t bother you with a repetition. Grandfather also said that, of course, mine and thine never had, and never could, mean anything to the Quilter family.

We have often heard that. I suppose we have always believed it. At any rate, I stopped questioning Grandfather and went and looked up the word “bounty” in the dictionary. It meant what I had thought. So, when Aunt Gracia and I were ironing, I asked her why if _meum_ and _teum_ really meant nothing to a Quilter, it could be true that we had been living on Christopher’s bounty all these years.

She seemed shocked, but controlledly so, and said what a very funny baby I was, and where had I managed to pick up so mad an idea.

I told her Irene had said to Chris that, after all, the “farm” belonged to him, and that all these people had been living on his bounty for years and years.

Aunt Gracia said that, of course, I had to do what seemed best to me; but that she was sorry my ideas of rectitude, and of being Grandfather’s granddaughter, seemed to allow me to eavesdrop. She finished ironing one of Irene’s beautiful corset covers, trimmed with yards of lace ruffling, before she said another word. I ironed plain pillow shams in silent humiliation. Oddly, the next thing she said was, “What did Christopher say?”

“He called her a delightful little imbecile,” I said, “and that ended the conversation.”

“Necessarily, one would think,” Aunt Gracia smiled. But I explained that they stopped conversing in order to begin kissing. They kiss constantly. Uncle Phineas says that is entirely good form for honeymoons. Perhaps he is joking. It seems strange. You and Greg didn’t. At least, not lavishly and in public.

Olympe came into the kitchen to see whether her second-best taffeta petticoat had split from being laundered. (It had.)

Aunt Gracia said, “Olympe, dear, why do some women like to be called imbeciles?”

“Because they are,” Olympe answered. “It is an acid test. However, if that young person doesn’t stop calling me Aunt Olympe, I shall find something to call her that won’t please her.”

We have told Irene that Olympe objects to the “Aunt,” but Irene says she can’t remember. I think Olympe and Irene do not love each other, as yet. I believe I haven’t told you of an odd mannerism of Irene’s. She talks all the time—incessantly is the exact word. It is particularly hard for Olympe. Since all the rest of the family are so busy—Chris has pitched right in and is helping Father and Neal with the ranch work—it leaves only Olympe for Irene to talk to. We could say now, though we do not, how fortunate it is that Greg is not here. Olympe does not have to sit quietly in a chair. She can walk away. She often does.

Your letter telling of Greg’s improvement brought us all bright joy. I love you so much that if it were planted as a clover seed it would grow as a meadow.—Lucy.

III

March 26, 1900.

Dearest, dearest Judith: You asked me in your letter that came last Monday to write to you more about Grandfather. Grandfather, of late, has spent more time than usual in his room, and has been more subdued. There seemed to be not much to write about him. So, after I had read your letter, I decided to have a talk with him in order to gather material for my next letter to you.

Olympe—this is not changing the subject—has developed deafness. As you know, she has been very slightly deaf for some time; but, of late, she pretends to be totally deaf. I say pretends, because she is deaf only when she is with Irene. My problem was: is that wise of Olympe, or is it wrong?

For several months I have felt that it would be beneficial for me to discuss the question of right and wrong, again, with Grandfather. Last year, when I wished to discuss it, he gave me a rule of conduct, you know, “Search for beauty,” and said we would better postpone the other for a while.

Yesterday, then, after a quick ride with Neal over the south range (Neal was so adorable. He let me ride Tuesday’s Child for the first time, and took Thursday’s Child for himself), to pink my cheeks as Grandfather likes to see them, I went and rapped on his door.

I suppose a man would have to be as great as Grandfather is to be able to make other, quite unimportant, people feel almost great themselves when they enter his presence.

I gave my problem to him. He laughed very heartily and then said that, according to Hume, whom he had been reading when I came in, Olympe was justified. Hume, he told me, was an Eighteenth Century historian and philosopher—a better philosopher than historian—who held that utility was the chief element of all virtue.

“You see,” he explained, “according to this gentleman, Olympe’s act, since it is so useful, could not be wrong.”

Disappointingly, with that he changed the subject and began to talk about loyalty. It was all interesting, as related by Grandfather; but, since it was mostly the same history of the Quilter family, and their courage and loyalty since the time of Cromwell, you would not care to have me repeat it here. Grandfather, of course, knew that I had heard it many times before, and explained that he was using it to make his point—since Irene was now a Quilter we owed loyalty to her.

“Then,” I questioned, “if you didn’t laugh, you’d really think it was wrong of Olympe to pretend to be deaf?”

Again Grandfather disappointed me by saying that I was a bit young to penetrate Hume.

I picked up my notebook and started to go away. Grandfather asked me what I had there. I told him I had brought my notebook to write in it what he would tell me about right and wrong. He asked me what I had written. I had not written anything. He was troubled. I hurried to explain that it did not matter. He was still troubled. I suggested that it might be wise for me to ask Aunt Gracia about right and wrong. She has them both so neatly.

Grandfather said, “Heaven forbid.” And, again, he said that I was too young to be delving into moral issues. He said, perhaps, I would allow him to write a few simple rules of conduct in my notebook for me to use until I was older. He took my book and wrote:

“Darling little Lucy Quilter. Be proud. Be loyal. Be gay. Be generous rather than just.”

After I left Grandfather’s room I met Uncle Phineas and Irene in the hall. She had been talking to him. She went away. I said to Uncle Phineas, because Irene had looked so pink and blue and gold, “How lovely she is!”

He pulled my top curl and made up a face at me.

“I mean,” I explained, feeling that lovely had been a little extravagant—you know, one would call Aunt Gracia lovely, “how pretty, how delicate.”

“Yes,” Uncle Phineas said, “pretty and delicate as a somersault.” Uncle Phineas does not like Irene at all.

I told him then, since I thought he should know, what Grandfather had been telling me about our owing Irene our loyalty. How family loyalty was one of our strongest traditions. Uncle Phineas said: “Thad goes about brandishing Quilter loyalty like a club.” You may imagine what a terrible humour Uncle Phineas must have been in to criticize Grandfather.

Later that evening, when I was showing Neal my new rules of conduct, Uncle Phineas came up. Neal showed them to him, after asking my permission, which it seemed rude to withhold.

Uncle Phineas said he would give me one more. He took my notebook, and wrote, scrawlingly, right under Grandfather’s beautiful, patient lettering: “Be wise. Use Wisdom’s Robertine.” That, as you may not know, is a cosmetic which comes in dark blue glass bottles. Irene has one, and she gave one to Olympe. I thought it generous of her. Neal says that Irene will never miss one bottle.

It is difficult to explain, but here of late, hatefulness seems to have got hold of all of us. I should say, all of us except Grandfather, who is too perfect, and Father, who is too busy. Darling Father, not busy, wouldn’t be hateful, either, I am sure. But the thought of work as a producer of virtue has given me an idea for a story. I have put it in my notebook, and shall write it when I am grown up. It is to be about two men; one who has all the virtues, and one who has none of them, but who is egotistic and avaricious. He has to work so hard to satisfy his vanity and his avarice, and he has to do such good things to get the glory and admiration he wants, that he leads as virtuous a life as does the good man. When they both die, they are regarded with equal respect by their neighbours. _Two Roads_ would be the title for it.

As I finished writing that last paragraph, Neal came in. I told him that I had come to the end of my letter, but that I was trying to think of some extra special way to express my love for you and Greg. I asked him how he liked, “I love you so much that, just from what spills over, I love the whole world.” He evaded, and teased, and said he did not want to be loved from leakage, and so on. But, finally, though he was very sweet, he reminded me of Grandfather’s rule about simplicity, and he said that it seemed to him that love, more than anything else, should be simply expressed. I suppose he is right. So, I love you. I love Greg.—Lucy.