I forecast, I foresee, I provide, I plan--it is my
"natur' to." I can't go sprawling through life. I must know where I am
to set my foot. Dear mother has no more sense of anxiety than a rice
pudding, and father is as cool as one of his own ice-pitchers. We all
know what Charles Edward is, and I didn't count grandmother and Aunt
Elizabeth.
There has been my blunder. I ought to have counted Aunt Elizabeth. I
ought to have fathomed her. It never occurred to me that she was deep
enough to drop a plummet in. I, the burden-bearer, the caretaker, the
worrier; I, who am opprobriously called "the manager" in this family--I
have failed them at this critical point in their household history. I
did not foresee, I did not forecast, I did not worry, I did not manage.
It did not occur to me to manage after we had got Peggy safely
graduated and engaged, and now this dreadful thing has gaped beneath us
like the fissures at San Francisco or Kingston, and poor little Peggy
has tumbled into it. A teacupful of "management" might have prevented
it; an ounce of worry would have saved it all. I lacked that teacupful;
I missed that ounce. The veriest popular optimist could have done no
worse. I am smothered with my own stupidity. I have borne this
humiliating condition of things as long as I can. I propose to go over
to that house and take the helm in this emergency.
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