Weariness compels me to lay down my pen, Louisa. Perhaps I shall feel strong enough to resume it after luncheon.
Really, Grosvenor has grown more impossible every day. I had hoped that in spite of his difficult childhood he might become a credit to me, but at thirty-four he still exhibits his early traits of weakness and lack of stamina. I try to be patient with him because of his infirmity. I cannot imagine why he should have contracted poliomylitis as an infant; certainly none of the men in my family have been anything but excellent physical specimens.
Grosvenor’s single charm — his exact physical resemblance to his father — is of course marred by his crippled leg. His posture is still bad in spite of the fact that I insisted upon his wearing a brace throughout most of his childhood to correct it.
His most maddening trait is a continual conviction that he is ill — which of course he is not. He is always discovering new symptoms in himself and seeking cures for them. His recent addiction is to a type of capsule that he carries in a small, green bottle in his pocket. Dr. Low assures me that the capsules are harmless.
Grosvenor’s weaknesses might be forgivable if he were an affectionate or dutiful son. He is neither. For example, he was nearly a quarter of an hour late to our reading hour today. His excuse when he finally limped in was that he had fallen asleep. I don’t believe he had fallen asleep at all. I believe he was out of the house somewhere. This is the second time he’s been late this week. Certainly he should have no doubt as to what time I expect him after twelve years of holding our little reading hour daily.
Then when he began his reading — we are re-doing Walter Pater — he seemed a million miles away. I do hope he hasn’t sold another of his stories to that ridiculous little quarterly. About twice a year they accept one of his sketches and he is utterly unmanageable for months afterwards. He read his first-published story aloud to me. I should be the first to be proud of anything creditable that Grosvenor did, but this story was without plot and the characters were completely untrue to life... a selfish woman who drove her husband to suicide and their crippled, ineffectual son. Honesty compelled me to tell Grosvenor he had no talent whatsoever. He became quite sulky and never again mentioned his work to me. If it weren’t that Martha keeps me informed, I should be completely unaware of what he is doing.
The money Grosvenor receives for these stories is not, apparently, sufficient to maintain him. He still lives on the income which I have assigned him — subject to my supervision, of course. I am convinced that if he could afford it, he would leave my house without a qualm. You no doubt realize how difficult it is for me to admit that my own son is lacking in affection for me, but I’m afraid that Grosvenor resembles his father morally as well as in person.
Well, Louisa, a woman as ill as you should not be obliged to listen to an account of an undutiful son. How fortunate you are that your last days are peaceful!
Your friend,
Broome Park
April 8th
Dear Louisa,
I have discovered why Grosvenor has been acting so strangely lately. It seems unbelievable, but he has become involved with a woman.
I am too disturbed to write more than a brief note now. I shall give you a full account of any action I decide upon. Really, Louisa, it’s amazing how much closer I feel to you than I did years ago, even before our little difficulty.
I enjoyed your letter, particularly the account of Julia Dollard’s funeral. But what did you mean by saying, “Thanks for your commiseration on my heart-gallop, but would you please omit flowers until absolutely necessary?”
Your friend,
Broome Park
April 9th
Dear Louisa,
Well, let me start from the beginning. As I told you yesterday, I discovered that Grosvenor has been carrying on with some woman. This, after consideration, was less surprising than it seemed to me at first. Certainly the Grosvenor name and money could not fail to attract a woman. As for Grosvenor, this involvement merely makes the resemblance between him and his father complete.
I have never told you this, Louisa — after all, we have only recently been on intimate terms — but shortly before my husband’s death I had evidence that there was another woman. I know this must seem incredible; nevertheless it is true. I began to suspect something soon after I induced Harley to abandon his absurd idea of being a concert pianist and to go into Father’s office. He began to spend evenings away from home, and although his excuse was that he was playing chess with Dr. Low, I wasn’t deceived. One day I was able to confront him with evidence — I found in his pocket a handkerchief scented with cheap violet cologne.
Harley didn’t even show the good taste of denying my allegations, and went so far as to tell me he loved this other woman and wished me to divorce him. Naturally, I refused and told him that unless he terminated the connection I should not allow him to see Grosvenor again. He capitulated, of course.
I have never had an instant’s doubt that my procedure was the correct one, not only for my sake and Grosvenor’s but for Harley’s as well. After that incident his conduct was unexceptionable; he ceased trying to cross me at every turn and our married life was perfectly happy — until the night he shot himself.
I am giving you this background, Louisa, so that you’ll understand why I was not surprised when Martha reported to me that Grosvenor, like his father before him, had allowed himself to be ensnared by a woman of the most unacceptable type.
I am an extraordinarily perceptive person, Louisa. I was made immediately aware by Martha’s attitude the other day that she had news for me. She came into the room with her eyes sparkling and her lips compressed.
It seems that Grosvenor has been seeing this young woman for nearly two months. Her name is Mary Trent. She is a New Yorker and has been brought to Broome Park to catalogue the new Higgins Collection at the Public Library. This is what comes of importing outside labor.
Martha assured me that Luke Spivens told her that Grosvenor is seen in this young woman’s company constantly. (You remember Luke, don’t you, Louisa? The handyman at the library — a very worthy and reliable old person. I was instrumental in inducing the Library Board to grant him a rise in salary fourteen years ago.) Luke told Martha that Grosvenor calls on this young woman at her lodging house, that they lunch together frequently, and that only last week Miss Trent was seen wearing a nosegay of violets pinned to her dress. Violets! Like father, like son!
Can you imagine the duplicity of this, Louisa? Apparently, everyone in Broome Park learned of Grosvenor’s amour before his mother did. You can imagine my distress. This afternoon I was so exhausted I could barely lift my field glasses to look out of the window. When I complained to Dr. Low, all he did was to increase my dose of prostigmin. Useless, of course. However, I am feeling better now.
Your friend,