Had a long letter from Gretchen yesterday in which she says she enjoyed her bridal tour thoroughly, particularly at the Falls. I wrote back and asked: "Which?—Niagara or Sioux?"
Good-night, dearest, I close my eyes and sleep in a moment, as there are no longer any thorns to stuff my pillow.
MARIANNE.
May 2nd.
Lorna Dear:
It wasn't a bit hard to live through. The papers all came back by return mail, and all day Sunday I was in my attorney's office practising. It wasn't any more difficult than a Sunday-school lesson, and Monday morning at eight o'clock I was waiting at Liberty Hall for the hoped-for arrival of "The Greatest Common Divisor." At last he came, but with a sour expression, and not knowing what trouble he might have had before he left home, I tried to be patient.
We were ushered through the big court room into the judge's sanctum—asked how long I'd been here, and so forth and so fifth—then the comical question: "Do you expectto make Sioux Falls your home?" and the threadbare reply: "I have made no plans for the future," when all the time I had my I. C. tickets for the 3.30 train in my pocket. Do you know that was the first time I ever really perjured myself—like a lady—before, and somehow I wished awfully that I had let Carlton hold the tickets until after the trial. I couldn't even get my kerchief out of my pocketbook for fear the blooming time tables and tickets would show. Oh! the judge was terribly saccharine after he warmed up, and I adore him. Wish I had to get another divorce tomorrow—he's just like a dear old Universal Dad, and everyone loves him.
Well! dear, just to think of it. I've lost my hobbies! Isn't it great, and yet isn't it really sad! It means a failure in the greatestundertaking of a woman's life, and it also means that I issue forth—branded. I refuse to hold post mortems and am practising loss of memory. Now for the possibilities of the future. Possibility is the biggest word in the dictionary. Isn't it strange that a woman may live apart from her husband and do atrocious things, without wearing the tell-tale letter on her bosom, yet let a virtuous woman take the step for freedom, and, alas! she carries the scar as long as she breathes. But its worth it, dear. I have thought it all over and I repeat it a thousand times, its worth it. "I have written it upon the doorposts of my house and upon my gates, and I wear it as frontlets between mine eyes"—it's worth it!
I have worn crepe for my departed virtuesfor six years, but I throw it aside now and feel a new being whose glad unrestraint may carry her farther than she intended, just as prudery often lends a woman greater cruelty than she feels.
How clever of Don Willard to buy in Northern Pacific during the slump. He gets on with his sense of smell—he's a jackal who scents a carcass and gets there in time for a good bone.
While unpacking my trunk today I came across my wedding veil and it was all gray and dingy like the end of my honeymoon. How many sweet and tremulous illusions I folded into it on that first night and how soon afterwards did three-fourths of the world look like ashes to me. Dreams are harder to give up than realities, because they come back and gibe us even after theyare dead and buried, while tangible realities stay fairly well hidden when we screw down the lid. I suppose you think that I talk like Old Man Solomon, but you know that the only serious thoughts I have are mushrooms of one minute's gestation.
My landlady does her own washing, so I asked her if she would do mine for ample pay. She suffers so from modesty that she was hardly able to answer me, but finally said: "I would be willing to, but my husband don't improve on it." Poor creature, she has lived here all her days and is still unable to direct me to a single place—her bump of location is surely a dent.
Mrs. Judge knows the name of each member of the colony; when they came and how often they have gone away, and the Lord help you if your residence isn't right!That's the one thing that the Judge is squeamish about, and as Mrs. Judge keeps tab for him, there is no use trying to fudge. If you don't come up before the Judge in six months and one week, she inquires of your landlady the reason for your delay. And of course the landlady knows the reason, even if you don't yourself. Every Monday afternoon Mrs. Judge drives by the I. C. station at exactly 3.25 to see which one of the widows, whose case was tried that morning, is leaving the same day. Of course they all leave unless they are prostrated with excitement. We always pack all baggage on Saturday, the dress-suit cases on Sunday, and engage the drayman on the way down to the trial Monday morning. There has never been any hitch in the arrangements, so I suppose they will remainthe same until the end of time.
You don't know what a comfort my phonograph has been to me—I would never attempt another divorce without one. The long, lonely evenings—the endless days, when time never moves off the spot, my dogs and I have sat on the floor fascinated with the greatest music in the world. I like my machine because it may be depended upon, never is nervous, and always willing to perform. Talent is so spasmodic and dependent upon moods, while the little hard rubber discs tirelessly and graciously amuse you.
You say that you will write more anon. I have looked in Webster and the Brittanica, as I was a bit anxious to find out just what length of time anon signifies, but I have been unsuccessful. In other words, if afterbreakfast someone said to me, "You shall have more food anon," I should probably starve to death if I sat down and waited for it. Now don't be mean to me because I am in love and have neglected you. I send you thousands of messages and ask you thousands of questions each day, and simply because I don't waste time and paper in setting them down is no sign that you aren't constantly in my thoughts. Love knows no distance, and I go to you every evening for a good-night kiss just as I close my eyes to sleep, and always do I feel that you know it. There is no barrier of antagonism around you so my spirit enters where you are whenever it so desires.
You are melancholy again—how can you live in stays set with nails and maintain the grace of a dancer? It must be because ofyour child. I could not do it, I'm sure—not even for my child if I had one. You are wiser than most of us fools who have choked our lives in the mud of New York. To men, dear, you are a cold Alp. Snow bound and near to heaven, impenetrable and frowning with flanks of granite, and yet beneficent. How do you accomplish it when your heart is wrung from year's end to year's end?
It must be Machiavellian foresight, precious—foresight that you alone, out of the whole set, possess. The world never forgives a failure and never forgives you for telling it the truth, and my standard is truth, as near as possible, and yours is sacrifice complete. Which is right? We shall go on begging the question until the end of time. In human transactions the law ofoptics seems to be reversed—we always see indistinctly the things that are nearest to us. You have never judged, so judge me not.
MARIANNE.
The Black Hills,September 20.
Dearest Lorna:
A thousand years ago—or maybe it wasn't so long, I can't clearly remember things any more, time isn't of any consequence, but it was the day I received my decree, and I returned my railroad tickets to the I. C. office—Carlton and I packed up some rugs, pillows and luncheon, and floated down the river to breathe confidences. Far away on the horizon was a misty hedge of cypress trees darkly traced on a canvas of lavenders and blues, overhung by extravagant yards of cloudy chiffon. Nearby the tall alders were all bent to the southward, from the bitter winds, and looked like huge giants on the marchwith heavy burdens on their shoulders. They swayed at times and seemed likely to fall with their loads. On and on we floated, and on and on they marched.
The country was as tremulous as a bride, and to us nothing seemed impossible. In such magic moments when enjoyment sheds its reflection on the future the soul foresees nothing but happiness.
Toward sunset we moored our boat to a tree in a little backwater where the current was barely felt and mutely watched the changes in the great turquoise satin tent above us that seemed held aloft by the hills to shelter the landscape of barley and corn and wheat that swished and swished like feminine music of taffeta petticoats.
We felt reasons all around us why we should be happy—the trees were greens andbrowns—no one like the other, blended in the harmonious colorings of an old French tapestry stolen from a deserted chateau.
All the earth seemed so sweet and so pure, and we were enjoying the world as a clean open-air playground. A few fluffy clouds began to appear, but old Boreas blew them away as soon as the west wind brought them up.
Suddenly his gaze betrayed remembrance and he drew me into his arms and our lips met. Thus we remained, languidly content, until long after the sky man had studded the heavens with millions of silver nails. And there, near a field of cattle, like Paul Potter painted, under a sky worthy of Raphael, in a cove overhung with trees like a picture by Hobbema, he asked me to be his wife. And then the sweetest ceremonythat ever was solemnized under God's loving eyes was fulfilled there in the stillness of the night. He said: "I love you," and for answer I said: "I love you too," and on my finger was placed a cool new band, which reads within: "For all eternity." As old and worldly as I am, I felt all the instinct of chastity and delicacy which is the very material of a first love. Our wedding feast was spread out in the bottom of the craft, with no effulgence of light save the reflection of God's own lanterns.
All sorts of night things chirped and sang of our joy, and trout leaped from the water in answer to the bread that I crumbled for them.
Our boat rocked and swayed as the current reached us more directly, and leaves and sticks and weeds went floating by withturgid little whirlpools swirling aft. We were lazy lurdans, nestling there in the moonlight, but time is the precious gift of the Almighty and man may gamble it away if he chooses. Finally dawn found us floating homeward in the mists of awakening morn.
Months and months have passed since then—strange new mother instincts have arisen in my soul, and he still presses me to his heart and whispers: "For all eternity."
You could not discover my whereabouts, as I left no address in Sioux Falls. I did not want the world nor society, not even you, but just solitude—and my husband. Now we want you to know that in this beautiful wilderness we have a home—a mountain home with placid Indian servants, who glide in and out and serve noiselesslyand speechlessly: I must confess that I am only one-half brave, as the world, all but you, thinks that a minister has mumbled over us for a second time.
You are great enough to appreciate the joy we feel in cheating all humanity. Carlton has willed all of his possessions to me and to our precious little future reproduction of our love, who can but be perfect, as he is a creature of perfect conditions. We are also but half great, as it pleased us that the New York papers reported our marriage; but in our lives we are all-great and all-sufficient for each other.
Our bungalow is built in rugged, primeval "Spearfish Canon," but you may address all mail to Custer, where Carlton goes in his motor every day for things that please me.
I am so happy, so proud, so grateful that my mate is as far-seeing as I am, and we feel a mutual dread for the time when we must forsake our Black Hills for the fuller and less satisfying life in New York—but we can't play always, out here in the sunshine.
Write to me soon and forgive me for doubting that you would understand.
MARIANNE.
Black Hills,November 25.
Dearest:
How happy your letter has made me and how slow you were in making up your mind, but I'd rather have you love me after thinking than to love me just because I'm I. Had you not understood, I should have loved you but because you understand I bow down and idolize you as I have done all my days.
Every girl deserves a mother—it is her natural heritage and Nature risks a great deal in cheating her out of her original right. I have been defrauded, but a friend like you compensates for much and is a straight gift from God and Heaven.
Carlton and I have motored over to Custerevery day for your letter but not until yesterday were we recompensed for all the anxiety and doubt that I might have suffered. We read it together and I am not ashamed that our eyes were moist with joy as we drove slowly away from the little village and out into our free and glorious primevalism again. The twilight fell like a silver dust on the crests of two double rows of ancient elms in a long and lordly country road, and lighted up the sand and the drying wild grass that had waved like so many spears of gold in the sunset of a few moments before. On and on we flew—he with a trembling hand on the wheel and I with my arm around him and my lips pressing his cheek.
The rays of our acetylene lamps began to cast lurid lights before us as the darknessthickened, just as my soul's fire is luminous now in an atmosphere ordained to bring forth all its normal glory—and all the while the back seats were empty; empty dear. Do you know the luxury of it?
We were both dreaming and praying—dreaming of a thousand more such perfect nights, praying in all our fervor and gratitude for more and yet more of our boundless and mutual passion. And then we lost our way as the machine rushed into a mystic cross-road that led due north, for the Dipper was before us. I crawled closer and closer to him until I could hear his heart pounding mercilessly as his breath came quicker and my lips pressed closer. The lamps were brilliant then and the woods and fields as silent and endless as eternity. A long snake stretched its lazy lengthacross our path and frogs held mute high carnival on all the little hills and bumps on the high road.
We both felt the inspiration of the moment and neither profaned it with words. As far as our lights fell three waving, nodding bands of seered grass, beckoned us on and heedless of the danger we might be rushing toward—our empassioned lips met. And like eternity the mystic course lay hidden in darkness before us, but also like the things that look most forbidding in the future, as we rushed by, the yellow hedge turned golden by our lamps, the grassy plumage rose and fell in sallow waves of approbation.
The good little people were with us (you know I believe in fairies) and the faithful engine puffed and struggled and tried itsbest on the incline that we were ascending, but we were too jealous of our sensations to pay much heed to its unaided success. I would work in the fields for ten days were I sure that the eleventh night would be such another as this.
So lofty are the regions where I soar, that a fall would shiver me to atoms, but just to breathe the same air with my love lifts me to the vault of paradise. Whole hours each evening I lie on an Indian blanket in front of the open grate and dream of the legacy of love that we shall hand down to our children and our children's children until the end of time.
Ecstatically yours,MARIANNE.
December 25.
Dearest Friend:
We are snowed in and our two bronze boys are trying to make a path to the road. We are all so abnormally well and with the nurse and Carlton's friend Dr. Harmen, constitute a lively household though I liked the sweetness of our oneness better. These are happy times and they watch and guard me as though I were another Wilhelmina.
Was ever Christmas day so wonderful! Our tree is a real cedar of Lebanon, uprooted by our beloved Indians and decorated with their handiwork. Last eve we romped and sang and played tricks upon each other until midnight, when we saucily hung up the biggest stockings and sneaked off to bed to leave our Santa Claus with his labors.It must have taken him hours for I slept for ages when I finally heard him getting ready for bed. I slipped into my kimono and tried to crawl down stairs and take a peep, but he heard me and would not countenance any cheating so I snuggled up again and went to sleep, but like children, we were all up at daybreak. For days and days Carlton has been going on clandestine shopping tours to the meccas around us and has kept all purchases locked and guarded. He can't bear the thought of grown-ups not loving and believing in Santa.
Aside from all the valuable and exquisite things that each received, the gift that proved Carlton's feeling toward me,—if I may insult that feeling by even suggesting the necessity of a proof—was a tiny silkstocking, hung quite at the end of the mantel shelf, all alone as though it needed no protection, and filled with—you would never guess in a thousand years, so I shan't keep you suspended in mid air—fifty thousand dollars in U. S. bonds to start a bank account for the little visitor that is to come. Every night before we sleep, we talk to our baby, we pray to our baby, we worship our baby. Only beautiful thoughts come to our minds; only beautiful things come to our hands,—surely God sends babies for other reasons than to propagate the species—we are grown entirely unselfish; we are filled with kindly sympathies and affection, and our energies and aims reach to Heaven.
A beautiful pink satin baby basket came direct from Printemps, filled with the most delicate little garments that a human handcould create. Do you remember the day when we were at school in Paris, that we passed Printemp's baby shop and planned our progenys' outfits—twenty years ago? I am now fuller of the joy of living than I was then—but on the threshold of womanly emotions.
From my window I can see far down the icy canon. The mountain stream is a fluted ribbon of snow and ice, and where the spray tumbled before it froze, there are thousands of filmy rosettes iridescent in the sun's rays. The path is finished and Dr. Harmen is building a snow man. We are civilized aborigines gone mad with youth out here in the frigid zone, and anything as grown up as bridge has failed to interest us. From our home on the summit of "Kewanas Crag," Silver Lake looks like a stray turquoisebelow and the mysterious Black Hills around us catch glimpses of gold in the sunset hour, then dye themselves purple, take a tint of glowing rose-water, then turn dull and gray; a drama of color goes on ceaselessly; a play of ever shifting hues like those on a pigeon's breast.
Do you know of anyone who has ever died in childbirth? If you do, don't tell me, as I am beginning to be frightened. Not afraid of the agony, for I rather enjoy pondering over the sacrifice, but so fearful of leaving all of this barely tasted sweet behind me. It seems as though my impatience would consume me—I want so to know whether I may be spared for more and more days of our endless joy.
Your Christmas box came one day too soon and, like the child that I am transformedinto, I resorted to tears in order to wheedle Carlton into permitting me to open it. The little things are wonderful and the discretion of your love is more so. Each little article is an expression of your faultless friendship, for losing which, not even Carlton's love could compensate me.
The new decorations in my bed room are all in bloom like our love, and I lie awake during my specified hours of rest, gathering mental roses from my wall garden. My revival is as natural as the effect of May on the meadows; of a shower on a dry plant. I awaken with the breath of my Spring, which is heavy with Oriental sweetness like a rose of Frangistan. I should not in such moments as these, feel a death blow.
All of the old mental bruises caused by knocking myself against corners, some thatI myself created at times, and others that I saw but could not escape, are healed and quite forgotten in this new world of mine.
I press a goodnight kiss on your dear understanding lips.
MARIANNE.
The Black Hills.February 1.
Dearest of all Friends:
Today for the first time I am permitted to write one letter, while Dr. Harmen and Carlton are trying to discover traces of rare genius on the head of Carlton Church Somerville Junior, who resembles one of those cherubs circling about the Eternal Father in an old Italian picture.
Dizzy with the wonder of it all, I lie for hours trying to convince myself that the world is real. When my child awakens and craves his nourishment, I cry for very ecstacy of giving him life. What woman on earth who has nursed her child once, can refrain from doing so again? His velvet lips kiss me; his precious hand, dimpled and immature,fondles me in gratitude. How can any mother ever be unhappy while her infant breathes upon her breast.
My wasted years squandered in society seem hideous fancies of a perverted mind, while my one glorious year out here is a deep-breathing, pure record of clean thoughts and a perfect life. No one save God Almighty to wish us well on our wedding day; no purring women and overfed men to throw rice and old shoes along with the "wedding formula"—"Isn't she a perfect bride,"—"did ever couple seem so well suited,"—"they are real affinitieset cetera," all of which started me out on my bridal trip sixteen years ago. I shall never witness another wedding as long as I live—it is too insufferably sad a contemplation.
It seems strange and pitiful that yoursweet daughter is now old enough to make her formal bow into an atmosphere of hatred and vice. If she could but seek rapturous peace out here in my wilderness with some man that she really loves—but no woman is born into mature society with a knowledge of its utter worthlessness. And even were you able to convince her of it now, it would be a sin to rob her sweet mentality of its blushes. No, the precious child must first suffer and find out alone.
Almost childlessly greedy do I feel, to live so perfectly while you are still sacrificing your years on the altar of motherhood. At least I am thankful that Walter has decided to parade his affairs less, now that Evelyn is coming out. You proud, queenly, beautiful woman, how can you be so brave? In your place I should havedied of hopelessness and grief years ago. But you go on with your precious head high in the air, smiling, though crushed by your agony. Day in and day out your nerves are taut—you never rest. Why hasn't something snapped years ago? Perhaps God gives an abundance of strength to those who are ordained to suffer most.
You ask if I have any regrets. No—no—a million times no. I have torn the word from my dictionary and have forgotten the meaning. I repeat a thousand times a day my honest prayer:—
"Spare me O Lord the crowded way,Life's busy mart where men contend,For me the home the tranquil day,A little sock to mend."
"Spare me O Lord the crowded way,Life's busy mart where men contend,For me the home the tranquil day,A little sock to mend."
I try never to think of an end to my happiness, but somehow the crushing thoughtcomes and stifles me into abject fear. Then my husband brings me my little child and the evil thoughts are kissed away.
Yesterday Carlton's eyes filled with tears of gratitude as I sat nursing our baby before the open grate and running my hand through his thick brown hair as he sat on the floor beside us. We remain long hours in silence watching the pictures in the blazing back logs, then suddenly we embrace to prove mutually that we still have each other.
The river is still a frozen jagged band all down the canon, and the roads are knee deep with snow and ice. I scarcely breathe while Carlton is away in his motor, for fear the wheels will skid and hurl him into endless depths down the mountain side. It is impossible to procure food without his goingto the railroad, but each day I try to believe that I don't need nourishment just to see if I can't prevent these precarious errands. We live so naturally and so happily that we are staying on indefinitely in our frozen love bower.
Dr. Harmen leaves tomorrow after weeks of rejuvenating pleasures out here. The nurse will remain to render me such assistance as I need, though I am so jealous of her care of my son that I shall claim my mother rights as soon as I am strong enough. Junior has his father's eyes with all the softness of the blue periwinkle flower in their splendid depths, and I feel when I hold him in my arms and am held in turn in Carlton's that I can never give either of them up—even to the Almighty. I will never givethem up. They are mine and I am theirs—for all eternity.
Adieu sweet friend,MARIANNE.
February 25.
It has come. The bright fire in the grate is a heap of smouldering ashes and all the pictures and dreams are dead. I cannot breathe—I cannot live—I am insane with grief. And the ignorant world teaches of an all merciful God—an all seeing Father! The irony of it! I cannot live—I must go too. It will be impossible to go on, and on, alone—forever and for all eternity—alone—I cannot—I will not!
They are lying down there in their shrouds—my husband and his faithful Monkaushka with their poor bodies crushed and mangled—O! I cannot tell you more! The machine is an unsightly heap at the bottom of the ravine. I cannot write—I cannot think and yet I must do both. Whathave I done but love with all my womanhood and all my motherhood!
After all it was beautiful for him to die and go to heaven while flowers filled his hands. A loud cry has gone up in my soul; an echo as it were of the funerealConsummatum est, which is pronounced in church on Good Friday at the hour when theSaviourdied. And all day I wring my hands helplessly and can do nought but build dungeons and dungeons in the air. I speak in an altered voice as though my instrument had lost several strings and those that remained were loosened.
Dearest—can you tell me—am I responsible for his death? All during last night I seemed to hear God's voice asking: "Cain, where is Abel?" and I wail and beseech: "Am I my brother's keeper?" My soul isguilty—guilty of loving him—guilty of his death, for had I not loved him he would never have known the Black Hills. Oh! if I could but be resigned—if I could but bind up my bleeding wounds and lose myself in immeasurable lassitude!
I have pressed his lips for the last time, my precious son is at my breast—his long lashes are pressed tightly against his cheeks as if to secure his eyes from too strong a light, or to aid an effort of his young soul to recollect and hold fast a bliss that had been perfect but fleeting. His tiny pink and white ear framed by a stray lock of his hair and outlined by a wrapping of lace from you, would make an artist, a painter, even an old man wildly in love with his perfect little being, and will, please God, restore me, a mad woman to her senses!
Come to my Black Hills, I am crushed, desolate, heart-broken—come to
MARIANNE.
The Black Hills.July 2.
One week has passed Dear, since you left us—a strange week of readjustment and thought. All of those precious months that you have given me are but another expression of your divine friendship. The poignant grief is gone with you and my gratitude to you can but be shown by the degree of bravery that I now manifest.
Every day this week, my son and I have sat in the sunshine near the two mounds, which my remaining bronze boy has decorated with crocuses from the neighboring ravine. He spends long hours after dark, gathering wild flowers in the moonlight. His devotion to me and my dead love, is the saddest, most boundless tribute that an uncivilizedmind could offer. Silently he goes about his duties; silently he grieves, and more silently he gathers flowers as a tangible evidence of his devotion.
Your letters have come each day and will come each day until I lie too, beside my love on the desolate mountain side. Such is your unfailing love and sympathy for me, all unworthy of your months of sacrifice and isolation out here in my new home. My son, bless his precious heart, tried to crawl today but the newly developed feat frightened his baby mind and he cried. Closely almost roughly, I crush him to me a thousand times a day, so fearful am I that he too may go to join infinitude.
You ask me to come back to New York. I must refuse your request. I cannot—I cannot leave my home—the only place worthyof the name that I have ever possessed! Some day, maybe, but not now—it is all too dear and consoling to breathe the same air that sustained me in my perfect happiness.
How can you say: "Don't regret." What do you mean? Regret the only joy that my poor starved soul has ever known? No atom of regret enters my grief—only a great unbounded gratitude to God, to the world, to Nature, that one perfect year has been saved from out the wreck of time!
Gratefully,MARIANNE.
The Black Hills,September 20.
Two marvelous things have come to me today dear; my son took his first trembling steps alone, and a letter came to me from the man who was my husband. I am trembling with joy over the first and still dazed with lack of understanding of the second. I enclose the letter as I have long since given up trying to think clearly, and must depend upon you, to decide for me any matters of grave import. I am plunged in perplexity; advise me after reading the enclosed letter.
Lovingly,MARIANNE.
New York,Sept. 16.
Dear Marianne:
Six years ago, I found myself, though fond of you, glad when business took me away. We spent that summer in different places, but about October lived together again. I was still fond of you, but at that time found Vera, whose company was very pleasing to me. You and I seemed to be drawn away from each other and we decided to separate at the end of December, when I started on my long cruise.
I felt very, very sorry to leave you, but something told me that it was better to do so. I remember you seemed to feel the same, and we kissed each other goodbye asthough we were both sorry for something that had to be.
Leaving the question of dual or multiple personality aside, and putting the matter very simply, I believe that my soul made a right choice in you my wife. I believe that alcohol was necessary for a while to put my body, even at its expense, into a state of conductivity, so that my soul, when I was somewhat alcoholized, could gain some expression; give some glimpses of itself and suggest the trend of my powers. For this reason I believe that some men are made to drink and drug—but that is another subject which I hope to take up with you more fully at some future time.
My soul self has always wanted my wife's soul self, and I believe that if I could have you back, my conquered body self wouldnever need to wander from home. A little more pliability—all you ever lacked, and which your trouble should have brought you, could make it so that we could live together in very perfect harmony. Then I could release a lot of good plays and good writings, much of which I know already has been completed by my subliminal self. I get frequent glimpses of parts of plays, plots and ideas.
You cannot but feel proud of the success of my last book, which ought to show you that I'm getting a grip of myself. My mother and I wereen rapportand under the dual personality theory, it is reasonable to suppose that I have been guided by her since her death. I certainly have been guided by God or by her, and it is reasonable to believe that she is God's instrument of my guidance.
A young man makes whole ranges of mountains out of tiny mole hills which, when he has learned sense, he will spread under his foot without noticing them. Most of our differences were mere mole hills, dear, which couldn't thwart us now. For we are too big now, to be so easily thwarted. Can't we give each other the chance to prove this to each other?
If you will permit me I will love your child as my own—as every real man ought to love every child, dear little unfinished human beings. Formerly I thought I knew a good deal; but God knew better and took me away from you to teach me a few lessons. For they were lessons that I alone needed and God did not want you to undergothem as well as me. They were lessons calling for chastisement and you didn't need chastising.
I've taken God's punishment dear, and thanked Him for it. And I believe I'm fit company for you now.
I am coming next Monday to Custer, four miles from where you are, and on Tuesday morning, starting at eight, I shall walk toward your bungalow by way of the path by the river. I am familiar with every inch of the road, as you know I wrote "Treasure-trove" at the Wilson ranch near your canon.
Will you and your little son meet me if only a few yards from your home so that you may judge for yourself if I am fit company for you now.
If you do not meet me—then the will of Allah be done, for I shall turn back.
DONALD.
October 10.
Your message came too late, dear; already at eight o'clock Tokacon, with my son in his arms, and I were far along on the river path that leads out to the world. Our progress was slow with only the croonings and gurglings of my beautiful child to interrupt the silences of nature, as he clung affectionately to the neck of our red man protector, whose solemnity, though he knew not my mission was superb.
Half way, where Tokacon has built an exquisite rustic bower, we stopped and waited while the Indian returned to the bungalow.
What a strange hour I spent waiting with my baby, who had fallen asleep in my arms. Thousands of rebellious thoughts burnedthemselves upon the retina of my brain, as I sat planning and wondering. I want to be just before I'm generous, or I'm afraid I'll never have the chance to be generous. I sat staring like one at strife with a memory—and then he came, slowly, resignedly. His hair is quite white and there are strange, deep lines on his forehead, and marked parentheses round his mouth which can be but the foot-prints of pain and thought. He could not see us in our secluded shelter and I could not make my mouth utter his name—he who had wrung my heart as a peasant twists an osier withe.
On he walked with his head hung low and a lost look in his eyes—then I called "Don," as I used to do when I loved him, and he stopped suddenly and listened with his hand to his ear. Again I called "Don."He turned and saw us. Slowly and with the dignity that he cannot lose, he came back to where we sat. He could not speak, but knelt beside us and kissed the baby's lips; my infant opened his innocent eyes and put his arms around Donald's neck, as much at ease as though he had known him all of his dear little life. Awake and rested, he must needs be tumbled about and played with, which our visitor seemed pleased to do. The strain would have been more than terrible, had it not been for the sweet influence of the child who occupied us both constantly on our long walk, home.
Meeting one's husband again after so many years, is something akin to the sensations of drowning—every ugly scene of our married life flashed across my brain, also every kindness that he had done me became equally prominent in my memory,that faculty one cannot cast away as one throws down aservietteat table.
Twilight found us still without words for each other, but when the back logs were lighted (these October nights are cold in the Black Hills) our thoughts came more freely. I find that I care for him as I would for something long dead and half forgotten, but I am grateful for that, as I was half afraid that I couldn't be even patient with him. However the tolerance that we learn through suffering is the most beautiful offspring of real grief.
It was very difficult for me to speak of Carlton and our wonderful life that is buried out there on the mountain side, but he is indeed sympathetic and never interrupted the long and frequent silences that my inmost memory created. The logs burnt in halves and fell with myriad sparks and displayto the sides of the fireplace, but we touched them not. He seemed to realize that Carlton and I were not married in the eyes of the law. How he divined it I do not know, unless it is that he has an uncanny way of reading one's thoughts. He said that he knew and that he understood, and further, that I am a stronger and better woman for all that I have suffered and done. He wants me to leave my West and live again in New York, where he hopes to recreate in me the old feeling for him which he so ruthlessly squandered, when it was his own.
He is earnest and sad and I wish that I might care again, for he needs help and so do I, and at least, with our past experiences we might escape some of the ways of wounding each other that married peopleseem to possess in such unlimited quantities.
Toward midnight the last candles that Tokacon had placed in the sconces, flickered and went out. The helpless embers flared up for the last time, then sank down resigned. Donald knelt beside me sobbing bitterly, with his head upon my knee. All seems to be grief here on this earth—nothing but grief! For answer I raised his head and kissed his eyes, then fetched a candle and lighted him to his room. I showed him my Indian, sleeping outside my door,—which he never forsakes except to allow me to pass.
Long into the still night I heard sobs, and opening my door I found Tokacon swaying to and fro near Donald's room. He seems to understand grief more keenly than anycultivated mind that I have ever known, and he never intrudes, though it takes a mighty effort for him to suppress his own sympathy.
At last it grew quiet and we all rested though we did not sleep. The next morning baby and I walked with Donald to the bower where we had met him, and there we parted. Tokacon came and carried the baby back to the bungalow and I followed later on when I felt sufficiently calm to go about my simple duties again. I am not a connoisseur in consciences, therefore I want days and still more days in which to think and weigh, then maybe a decision will come to me as an inspiration.
Donald will see you as soon as he returns to New York—be honest with him and yet beneficent.
A thousand kisses from my son and me.
Goodnight,MARIANNE.
December 1.
Dearest Lorna:
For the last time I am writing to you from the place which is dearest to me in all the universe. My personal things are packed and on the way to Custer. Tokacon is waiting with his torch to set fire to my palace of dreams.
I could not return to your world—to my old world if I thought that other souls than ours were living in my home. The land, I have given to my Indian with sufficient money to build a home for himself, but not one corner of my own shall remain to be profaned by other human emotions.
Now I am sitting in the machine at a safe distance from the flames, which amuse my son, who is wild with joy and excitementover it. Tokacon groans and I weep, for it is a tomb in flames before us. Ashes—ashes—everywhere—in my home and in my heart, and every where except in the smiles of my child.
Donald has given me back my home and he has taken rooms at the club—what people think and what people say, mean nothing to me. I shall try bravely to construct something out of the ashes of three lives that will be worthy of the respect of God's elect. I cannot teach myself to forget; I can only await with patience the reawakening which for the sake of Donald and my son, pray God, will not delay too long its coming. I suppose the family cannot be built on a foundation of passion, because something on earth always becomes revengeful when human beings are too happy.I shall never try to be too happy again.
Now my memories must lie entombed in the arcana of memory. But some day when my son is old enough to understand, I shall come back with him to my Black Hills of Dakota, and breathe to him every sigh of my sorrow. Then if he takes me in his arms and whispers "Precious Mother," I shall not have loved and cherished in vain.
MARIANNE.