The Old Fellow's Letter by Lucy Maud
Ruggles and I were down on the Old Fellow. It doesn't matter why and,
since in a story of this kind we must tell the truth no matter what
happens—or else where is the use of writing a story at all?—I'll
have to confess that we had deserved all we got and that the Old
Fellow did no more than his duty by us. Both Ruggles and I see that
now, since we have had time to cool off, but at the moment we were in
a fearful wax at the Old Fellow and were bound to hatch up something
to get even with him.
Of course, the Old Fellow had another name, just as Ruggles has
another name. He is principal of the Frampton Academy—the Old Fellow,
not Ruggles—and his name is George Osborne. We have to call him Mr.
Osborne to his face, but he is the Old Fellow everywhere else. He is
quite old—thirty-six if he's a day, and whatever possessed Sylvia
Grant—but there, I'm getting ahead of my story.
Most of the Cads like the Old Fellow. Even Ruggles and I like him on
the average. The girls are always a little provoked at him because he
is so shy and absent-minded, but when it comes to the point, they like
him too. I heard Emma White say once that he was "so handsome"; I
nearly whooped. Ruggles was mad because he's gone on Em. For the idea
of calling a thin, pale, dark, dreamy-looking chap like the Old Fellow
"handsome" was more than I could stand without guffawing. Em probably
said it to provoke Ruggles; she couldn't really have thought it.
"Micky," the English professor, now—if she had called him handsome
there would have been some sense in it. He is splendid: big six-footer
with magnificent muscles, red cheeks, and curly yellow hair. I can't
see how he can be contented to sit down and teach mushy English
literature and poetry and that sort of thing. It would have been more
in keeping with the Old Fellow. There was a rumour running at large in
the Academy that the Old Fellow wrote poetry, but he ran the
mathematics and didn't make such a foozle of it as you might suppose,
Ruggles and I meant to get square with the Old Fellow, if it took all
the term; at least, we said so. But if Providence hadn't sent Sylvia
Grant walking down the street past our boarding house that afternoon,
we should probably have cooled off before we thought of any working
plan of revenge.
Sylvia Grant did go down the street, however. Ruggles, hanging halfway
out of the window as usual, saw her, and called me to go and look. Of
course I went. Sylvia Grant was always worth looking at. There was no
girl in Frampton who could hold a candle to her when it came to
beauty. As for brains, that is another thing altogether. My private
opinion is that Sylvia hadn't any, or she would never have
preferred—but there, I'm getting on too fast again. Ruggles should
have written this story; he can concentrate better.
Sylvia was the Latin professor's daughter; she wasn't a Cad girl, of
course. She was over twenty and had graduated from it two years ago,
but she was in all the social things that went on in the Academy; and
all the unmarried professors, except the Old Fellow, were in love with
her. Micky had it the worst, and we had all made up our minds that
Sylvia would marry Micky. He was so handsome, we didn't see how she
could help it. I tell you, they made a dandy-looking couple when they
Well, as I said before, I toddled to the window to have a look at the
fair Sylvia. She was all togged out in some new fall duds, and I guess
she'd come out to show them off. They were brownish, kind of, and
she'd a spanking hat on with feathers and things in it. Her hair was
shining under it, all purply-black, and she looked sweet enough to
eat. Then she saw Ruggles and me and she waved her hand and laughed,
and her big blackish-blue eyes sparkled; but she hadn't been laughing
before, or sparkling either.
I'd thought she looked kind of glum, and I wondered if she and Micky
had had a falling out. I rather suspected it, for at the Senior Prom,
three nights before, she had hardly looked at Micky, but had sat in a
corner and talked to the Old Fellow. He didn't do much talking; he was
too shy, and he looked mighty uncomfortable. I thought it kind of mean
of Sylvia to torment him so, when she knew he hated to have to talk to
girls, but when I saw Micky scowling at the corner, I knew she was
doing it to make him jealous. Girls won't stick at anything when they
want to provoke a chap; I know it to my cost, for Jennie Price—but
that has nothing to do with this story.
Just across the square Sylvia met the Old Fellow and bowed. He lifted
his hat and passed on, but after a few steps he turned and looked
back; he caught Sylvia doing the same thing, so he wheeled and came
on, looking mighty foolish. As he passed beneath our window Ruggles
"I've thought of something, Polly," he said—my name is Paul. "Bet you
it will make the Old Fellow squirm. Let's write a letter to Sylvia
Grant—a love letter—and sign the Old Fellow's name to it. She'll
give him a fearful snubbing, and we'll be revenged."
"But who'll write it?" I said doubtfully. "I can't. You'll have to,
Ruggles. You've had more practice."
Ruggles turned red. I know he writes to Em White in vacations.
"I'll do my best," he said, quite meekly. "That is, I'll compose it.
But you'll have to copy it. You can imitate the Old Fellow's
handwriting so well."
"But look here," I said, an uncomfortable idea striking me, "what
about Sylvia? Won't she feel kind of flattish when she finds out he
didn't write it? For of course he'll tell her. We haven't anything
against her, you know."
"Oh, Sylvia won't care," said Ruggles serenely. "She's the sort of
girl who can take a joke. I've seen her eyes shine over tricks we've
played on the professors before now. She'll just laugh. Besides, she
doesn't like the Old Fellow a bit. I know from the way she acts with
him. She's always so cool and stiff when he's about, not a bit like
she is with the other professors."
Well, Ruggles wrote the letter. At first he tried to pass it off on me
as his own composition. But I know a few little things, and one of
them is that Ruggles couldn't have made up that letter any more than
he could have written a sonnet. I told him so, and made him own up. He
had a copy of an old letter that had been written to his sister by her
young man. I suppose Ruggles had stolen it, but there is no use
inquiring too closely into these things. Anyhow, that letter just
filled the bill. It was beautifully expressed. Ruggles's sister's
young man must have possessed lots of ability. He was an English
professor, something like Micky, so I suppose he was extra good at it.
He started in by telling her how much he loved her, and what an angel
of beauty and goodness he had always thought her; how unworthy he felt
himself of her and how little hope he had that she could ever care for
him; and he wound up by imploring her to tell him if she could
possibly love him a little bit and all that sort of thing.
I copied the letter out on heliotrope paper in my best imitation of
the Old Fellow's handwriting and signed it, "Yours devotedly and
imploringly, George Osborne." Then we mailed it that very evening.
The next evening the Cad girls gave a big reception in the Assembly
Hall to an Academy alumna who was visiting the Greek professor's wife.
It was the smartest event of the term and everybody was
there—students and faculty and, of course, Sylvia Grant. Sylvia
looked stunning. She was all in white, with a string of pearls about
her pretty round throat and a couple of little pink roses in her black
hair. I never saw her so smiling and bright; but she seemed quieter
than usual, and avoided poor Micky so skilfully that it was really a
pleasure to watch her. The Old Fellow came in late, with his tie all
crooked, as it always was; I saw Sylvia blush and nudged Ruggles to
"She's thinking of the letter," he said.
Ruggles and I never meant to listen, upon my word we didn't. It was
pure accident. We were in behind the flags and palms in the Modern
Languages Room, fixing up a plan how to get Em and Jennie off for a
moonlit stroll in the grounds—these things require diplomacy I can
tell you, for there are always so many other fellows hanging
about—when in came Sylvia Grant and the Old Fellow arm in arm. The
room was quite empty, or they thought it was, and they sat down just
on the other side of the flags. They couldn't see us, but we could see
them quite plainly. Sylvia still looked smiling and happy, not a bit
mad as we had expected, but just kind of shy and radiant. As for the
Old Fellow, he looked, as Em White would say, as Sphinx-like as ever.
I'd defy any man alive to tell from the Old Fellow's expression what
he was thinking about or what he felt like at any time.
Then all at once Sylvia said softly, with her eyes cast down, "I
received your letter, Mr. Osborne."
Any other man in the world would have jumped, or said, "My letter!!!"
or shown surprise in some way. But the Old Fellow has a nerve. He
looked sideways at Sylvia for a moment and then he said kind of drily,
"Ah, did you?"
"Yes," said Sylvia, not much above a whisper. "It—it surprised me
very much. I never supposed that you—you cared for me in that way."
"Can you tell me how I could help caring?" said the Old Fellow in the
strangest way. His voice actually trembled.
"I—I don't think I would tell you if I knew," said Sylvia, turning
her head away. "You see—I don't want you to help caring."
You never saw such a transformation as came over the Old Fellow. His
eyes just blazed, but his face went white. He bent forward and took
"Sylvia, do you mean that you—you actually care a little for me,
dearest? Oh, Sylvia, do you mean that?"
"Of course I do," said Sylvia right out. "I've always cared—ever
since I was a little girl coming here to school and breaking my heart
over mathematics, although I hated them, just to be in your class.
Why—why—I've treasured up old geometry exercises you wrote out for
me just because you wrote them. But I thought I could never make you
care for me. I was the happiest girl in the world when your letter
"Sylvia," said the Old Fellow, "I've loved you for years. But I never
dreamed that you could care for me. I thought it quite useless to tell
you of my love—before. Will you—can you be my wife, darling?"
At this point Ruggles and I differ as to what came next. He asserts
that Sylvia turned square around and kissed the Old Fellow. But I'm
sure she just turned her face and gave him a look and then he kissed
Anyhow, there they both were, going on at the silliest rate about how
much they loved each other and how the Old Fellow thought she loved
Micky and all that sort of thing. It was awful. I never thought the
Old Fellow or Sylvia either could be so spooney. Ruggles and I would
have given anything on earth to be out of that. We knew we'd no
business to be there and we felt as foolish as flatfish. It was a
tremendous relief when the Old Fellow and Sylvia got up at last and
trailed away, both of them looking idiotically happy.
"Well, did you ever?" said Ruggles.
It was a girl's exclamation, but nothing else would have expressed his
"No, I never," I said. "To think that Sylvia Grant should be sweet on
the Old Fellow when she could have Micky! It passes comprehension. Did
she—did she really promise to marry him, Ruggles?"
"She did," said Ruggles gloomily. "But, I say, isn't that Old Fellow
game? Tumbled to the trick in a jiff; never let on but what he wrote
the letter, never will let on, I bet. Where does the joke come in,
Polly, my boy?"
"It's on us," I said, "but nobody will know of it if we hold our
tongues. We'll have to hold them anyhow, for Sylvia's sake, since
she's been goose enough to go and fall in love with the Old Fellow.
She'd go wild if she ever found out the letter was a hoax. We have
made that match, Ruggles. He'd never have got up enough spunk to tell
her he wanted her, and she'd probably have married Micky out of
"Well, you know the Old Fellow isn't a bad sort after all," said
Ruggles, "and he's really awfully gone on her. So it's all right.
Let's go and find the girls."