Dear Enemy

It ended by Gordon's going, never to return. As I stood there at the

end and watched him drop out of sight over the brow of the hill, and

realized that I was free and alone and my own master well, Judy, such a

sense of joyous relief, of freedom, swept over me! I can't tell you;

I don't believe any happily married person could ever realize how

wonderfully, beautifully ALONE I felt. I wanted to throw my arms out and

embrace the whole waiting world that belonged suddenly to me. Oh, it

is such a relief to have it settled! I faced the truth the night of

the fire when I saw the old John Grier go, and realized that a new John

Grier would be built in its place and that I wouldn't be here to do it.

A horrible jealousy clutched at my heart. I couldn't give it up, and

during those agonizing moments while I thought we had lost our doctor,

I realized what his life meant, and how much more significant than

Gordon's. And I knew then that I couldn't desert him. I had to go on and

carry out all of the plans we made together.

I don't seem to be telling you anything but a mess of words, I am so

full of such a mess of crowding emotions. I want to talk and talk and

talk myself into coherence. But, anyway, I stood alone in the winter

twilight, and I took a deep breath of clear cold air, and I felt

beautifully, wonderfully, electrically free.

And then I ran and leaped and skipped down the hill and across the

pastures toward our iron confines, and I sang to myself. Oh, it was a

scandalous proceeding, when, according to all precedent, I should have

gone trailing home with a broken wing. I never gave one thought to

poor Gordon, who was carrying a broken, bruised, betrayed heart to the

railroad station.

As I entered the house I was greeted by the joyous clatter of the

children trooping to their supper. They were suddenly MINE, and lately,

as my doom became more and more imminent, they had seemed fading away

into little strangers. I seized the three nearest and hugged them hard.

I have suddenly found such new life and exuberance, I feel as though I

had been released from prison and were free. I feel,--oh, I'll stop,--I

just want you to know the truth. Don't show Jervis this letter, but tell

him what's in it in a decently subdued and mournful fashion.

It's midnight now, and I'm going to try to go to sleep. It's wonderful

not to be going to marry some one you don't want to marry. I'm glad of

all these children's needs, I'm glad of Helen Brooks, and, yes, of the

fire, and everything that has made me see clearly. There's never been a

divorce in my family, and they would have hated it.