289Monday the Thirtieth
“We die a little, when we go away.” How true it is! By to-morrow we will be gone. My heart is heavy as lead. I go about, doing things for the last time, looking at things for the last time, and pretending to be as matter-of-fact as a tripper breaking camp. But there’s a laryngitis lump in my throat and there are times when I’m glad I’m almost too busy to think.
I was hoping that the weather would be bad, as it ought to at this time of the year, so that I might leave my prairie with some lessened pang of regret. But the last two days have been miraculously mild. A Chinook has been blowing, the sky has been a palpitating soft dome of azure, and a winey smell of spring has crept over the earth.... To-night, knowing it was the last night, I crept out to say good-by to my little Pee-Wee asleep in his lonely little bed. It was a perfect night. The Lights were playing low in the north, weaving together in a tangle of green and ruby and amethyst. The prairie290was very still. The moonlight lay on everything, thick and golden and soft with mystery. I knelt beside Pee-Wee’s grave, not in bitterness, but bathed in peace. I knelt there and prayed.
It frightened me a little, when I looked up, to see Peter standing beside the little white fence. I thought, at first, that he was a ghost, he stood so still and he seemed so tall in the moonlight.
“I’ll watch your boy,” he said very quietly, “until you come back.”
He made me think of the Old Priest inThe Sorrowful Inheritance. He seemed so calmly benignant, so dependable, so safe in his simple other-worldliness.
“Oh, Peter!” was all I could say as I moved toward him in the moonlight. He nodded, as much to himself as to me, as he took my hand in his. I felt a great ache, which was not really an ache, and a new kind of longing which never before, in all my life, I had nursed or known. I must have moved closer to Peter, though I could feel his hand pull itself away from mine. It made me feel terribly alone in the world.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me good-by?” I cried out, with my hand on his shoulder.
Peter shook his head from side to side, very slowly.291
“Verboten!” he said as he put his hand over the hand which I had put on his shoulder.
“But I may never come back. Peter!” I whispered, feeling the tears go slowly down my wet cheek.
Peter took my unsteady fingers and placed them on the white pickets of the little rectangular fence.
“You’ll come back,” he said very quietly. And when I looked up he had turned away.
I could see him walking off in the yellow moonlight with his shoulders back and his head up. He walked slowly, with an odd wading movement, like a man walking through water. I was tempted, for a moment, to call after him. But some power that was not of me or any part of me prompted me to silence. I stood watching him until he seemed a moving shadow along the level floor of the world flooded with primrose-yellow, until he became a shifting stroke of umber on a background of misty gold. I stood looking after him as he passed away, out of my sight, and far, far off to the north a coyote howled and over Casa Grande I could see a thin pennon of chimney-smoke going up toward Arcturus.... Good-by, Peter, and God bless you....
Unlimited, indeed, is the power of Eros. For when I went to slip quietly into the house, I found Whinnie292and Struthers seated together beside the kitchen range. And Struthers was readingTam O’Shanteraloud to her laird.
“Read slow, noo, lassie, an’ tak’ it a’ in,” said the placidly triumphant voice of Whinstane Sandy, “for it’ll be lang before ye ken its like!”
293Thursday the Seventeenth
The migration has been effected ... I am alone in my room, I have two and three-quarters trunks unpacked, and I feel like a President’s wife the night after Inauguration. It is well past midnight, but I am too tired and too unsettled to sleep. Things turn out so differently to what one expects! And all change, to the home-staying heart, can be so abysmally upsetting!...
We were a somewhat disheveled and intimidated flock when we emerged from our train and found Duncan awaiting us with an amazingly big touring-car which, as he explained with a short laugh at my gape of wonder, the Barcona Mines would pay for in a week.
“It’s no piker you’re pulling with now,” he exclaimed as we climbed stiff and awkward into that deep-upholstered grandeur on wheels. He said that the children had grown but would have to be togged out with some new duds—little knowing how I had stayed up until long past midnight mending and pressing and doing my best to make my bucolic offspring294presentable. And he told me it wassomecity I had come to, as I’d very soon see for myself. And it wassomeshack he’d corralled for his family, he added with a chuckle of pride.
I tried to be interested in the skyscrapers he showed me along Eighth Avenue, and the Palliser, and the concreted subway, and the Rockies, in the distance, with the wine-glow on their snow-clad peaks. And while I did my best to shake off the Maud-Muller feeling which was creeping over me, by studying the tranquillizingly remote mountain-tops, Duncan confided to me that he had first said: “Fifty thousand or bu’st!” But two months ago he had amended that to “A hundred thousand or bu’st!” and now he had his reasons for saying, with his jaw set: “Just a cool quarter of a million, before I quit this game!”
It was for us, I told myself as I looked down at my kiddies, that the Dour Man behind the big mahogany wheel was fighting. This, I felt, should bring me happiness, and a new sense of security. And it was only because my stomach was empty, I tried to assure myself, that my poor old prairie heart felt that way. I should have been happy, for I was going to a brand-new home—and it was one of those foot-hill late afternoons that make you think of295the same old razor-blade muffled up in the same old panne-velvet, an evening of softness shot through with a steely sharpness. There was a Chinook arch of Irish point-lace still in the sky, very much like the one I had left behind me, and the sky itself was a canopy of robin-egg bluecrêpe de chinehemmed with salmon pink.
But as we whirled up out of the city into the higher ground of some boulevarded and terraced residential district the evening air seemed colder and the solemn old Rockies toward the west took on an air of lonesomeness. It made the thought of home and open fires and quiet rooms very welcome. The lights came out along the asphalted streets, spangling the slopes of that sedate new suburb with rectangular lines of brilliants. Duncan, in answer to the questions of the children, explained that he was taking the longer way round, so as to give us the best view of the house as we drove in.
“Here we are!” he exulted as we slowed down and turned into a crescent lined with baby poplar and Manitoba maple.
I leaned out and saw a big new house of tapestry brick, looking oddly palatial on its imposing slope of rising ground. My husband stopped, in fact, midway296in a foolishly pillared gate that bisected a long array of cobble-stone walls, so that we might get a look at the gardens. They seemed very new gardens, but much of their newness was lost in that mercifully subduing light in which I saw trim-painted trellises and sepulchral white flower-urns and pergolas not yet softened with creepers. There was also a large iron fountain, painted white, which Duncan apparently liked very much, from the way he looked at it. From two of the chimneys I could see smoke going up in the quiet air. In the windows I could see lights, rose-shaded and warm, and beyond the shrubbery somewhere back in the garden a workman was driving nails. His hammer fell and echoed like a series of rifle-shots. From the garage chimney, too, came smoke, and it was plain from the sounds that somebody inside was busy tuning up a car-engine.
I sat staring at the grounds, at the cobble-stone walls, at the tapestry-brick house with the high-shouldered French cornices. It began to creep over me how it meant service, how it meant protection, how it meant guarded lives for me and mine, how it stood an amazingly complicated piece of machinery which took much thought to organize and much money to maintain. And the mainspring behind it297all, I remembered, was the man sitting at the mahogany wheel so close to me. Light and warmth and comfort and safety—they were all to come from the conceiting and the struggling of my Dour Man, fighting for an empty-headed family who were scarcely worth it. He was, after all, the stoker down in the hole, and without him everything would stop. So when I saw that he was studying my face with that intent sidelong glance of his, I reached over and put my hand on his knee, as I had done so often, in the old days.
He looked down, at that, with what was almost an appearance of embarrassment.
“I want to play my part,” I said with all the earnestness of my earnest old heart, as he let in his clutch and we started up the winding drive.
“It ought to be a considerable part,” he said as we drew up under a bone-white porte-cochère where a small-bodied Jap stood respectfully impassive and waiting to open the door for us.
My husband got down out of the car. I sat wondering why I should feel so much like a Lady Jane Grey approaching the headsman’smakura.
“Come on, kids!” Duncan called out with a parade of joviality, like a cheer-leader who realized that298things weren’t going just right. For Dinkie, I could see, was shrinking back in the padded seat. His underlip was trembling a trifle as he sat staring at the strange new house. But Poppsy, true little woman that she was, smiled appreciatively about at the material grandeurs which confronted her. If she’d had a tail, I’m sure, she’d have been wagging it. And this so tickled her dad that he lifted her out of the car and carried her bodily and triumphantly up the steps.
I waited for Dinkie, whose eye met mine. I did my best to show my teeth, that he might understand how everything was eventually to be for the best. But his face was still clouded as we climbed the steps and passed under the yoke.
The little Jap, whose name, I have since found out, is Tokudo, bowed a jack-knife bow and said “Irashai” as I passed him. And “Irashai” I have also discovered, is perfectly good Japanese for “Welcome.”
We had dinner at seven. It was a well-ordered meal, but it went off rather dismally. I was depressed, for reasons I couldn’t quite fathom, and the children were tired, and Duncan, I’m afraid, was a bit disappointed in us all. Tokudo had brought299cocktails for us, and Duncan, seeing I wasn’t drinking mine, stowed both away in his honorable stomach. He ate heartily, I noticed, and gave scant appearance of a man pining away with a broken heart. After dinner he sat back and bit off the end of a cigar.
“This is my idea of living,” he proclaimed as he sent a blue cloud up toward the rather awful dome-light above the big table. “There’s stir and movement here, all day long. Something more than sunsets to look at! You’ll see—something to fill up your day! Why, night seems to come before I even know it. And before I’m out of bed I’m brooding over what’s ahead of me for that particular date and day—Say, that girl of ours is falling asleep in her chair there!”
So I escaped and put the children to bed. And while thus engaged I discovered that some of Duncan’s new friends were dropping in on him. I wanted to stay up-stairs, for my head was aching a lot and my heart just a little, but Duncan called to me from the bottom of the stairs. So down I went, like a dutiful wife, to the room full of smoke and talk, where two big men and one very thin woman in a baby-bear300motor coat were drinking Scotch highballs with my lord and master. They were genial and jolly enough, but I couldn’t understand their allusions and I couldn’t see the points to their jokes. And they seemed to stay an interminable length of time. I was secretly uncomfortable, until they went, but I became still more uncomfortable after they had gone.
For as we sat there together, in that oppressive big room, I made rather an awful discovery. I found that my husband and I had scarcely anything we could talk about together. So I sat there, like an alligator in a bayou, wondering why his rather flushed face should be turned toward me every now and then.
My heart beat a little faster as I saw him take out his watch and wind it up.
“Let’s go to bed,” he said as he pushed it back in his waistcoat pocket. My heart stopped beating altogether, for a moment or two. I felt like a slave-girl in a sheik’s tent, like a desert-woman just sold into bondage.
It was the smoky air and the highballs, I suppose, which left his eyes a little bloodshot as he turned slowly about and studied my face. Then he repeated what he had said before.301
“I can’t!” I told him, with a foolish surge of terror.
He sat quite a long time without speaking. I could see the corners of the Holbein-Astronomer mouth go down.
“As you say,” he finally remarked, with a grim sort of quietness. But every bit of color had gone from his face. I was glad when Tokudo came in to take away the glasses.
Duncan stood up, after the servant had gone again, and bowed to me very solemnly.
“Oyasumi nasi,” he said with a stabilizing ironic smile.
“What does that mean?” I asked, doing my best to smile back at him.
“That means ‘sleep well,’” explained my husband. “But Tokudo would probably translate it into ‘Condescend to enjoy honorable tranquillity.’”
Instead of enjoying honorable tranquillity, however, I am sitting up into the wee sma’ hours of the night, patrolling the gloomy ramparts of my soul’s unrest.
302Wednesday the Twenty-Third
This change to the city means a new life to my children. But I can also see it means new dangers and new influences. The simplicity of ranch life has vanished. And Dinkie and Poppsy are already getting acquainted with their neighbors. A Ford truck came within an inch of running over Poppsy this morning. She has announced a curiosity to investigate ice-cream sodas, and Dinkie has proclaimed his intention of going to the movies Saturday afternoon with Benny McArthur, the banker’s son in the next block. On Monday I’m to take my children to school. “One of the finest school-buildings in all the West,” Duncan has proudly explained. I can’t help thinking of Gershom and his little cubby-hole of a wooden building where he is even now so solemnly and yet so kind-heartedly teaching the three R’s to a gathering of little prairie outlaws.
I shall have time on my hands, I see, for Hilton and his wife, our English gardener-chauffeur and our portly maid-of-all-work, pretty well cover what the303wonderful Tokudo overlooks. And Tokudoisa wonder. That cat-footed little Jap does the ordering and cooking and serving; he answers the door and the telephone; he attends to the rugs and the hardwood floors; he rules over the butler’s pantry and polishes the silver and inspects the linen, and even keeps the keys to Duncan’s carefully guarded wine-cellar, which the mistress of the house herself has not yet dared to invade.
My husband seems to be very busy with his coal-mines and his other interests. He said last night that his idea of happiness is to be so immersed in his work as to be unconscious of time and undisturbed by its passing. And hehasbeen happy, in that way. But Time, that patient remodeler of all things mortal, can still work while we sleep. And something has been happening, without Duncan quite knowing it. He has changed. He is older, for one thing. I don’t mean that my husband is an old man. But I can see a number of early-autumnal alterations in him. He’s a trifle heavier and stiffer. He’s lost a bit of his springiness. And he seems to know it, in his secret heart of hearts, for he tries to make up for that loss with a sort of coerced blitheness which doesn’t always carry. He affects a sort of creaking jauntiness which304sometimes falls short of its aim. When he can’t clear the hurdle, I notice, he has the habit of whipping up his tired spirits with a cocktail or a highball or a silver-fizz. But he is preoccupied, at times. And at other times he is disturbingly short-tempered. He announced this morning, almost gruffly, that we’d had about enough of this “Dinkie and Poppsy business,” and the children might as well be called by their real names. So I shall make another effort to get back to “Elmer” and “Pauline Augusta.” But I feel, in my bones, that those pompous appellatives will not be always remembered. It has just occurred to me that my old habit of calling my husband “Dinky-Dunk” has slipped away from me. Endearing diminutives, I suppose, are not elicited by polar bears.
305Thursday the Thirty-First
I don’t quite know what’s the matter with me. I’m like a cat in a strange garret. I don’t seem to be fitting in. I sat at the piano last night playing “What’s this dull town to me, Robin Adair?” And Duncan, with the fit and natural spirit of the home-booster, actively resented that oblique disparagement of his new business-center. He believes implicitly in Calgary and its future.
As for myself, I am rigidly suspending all judgments. I’m at least trying to play my part, even though my spirit isn’t in it. There are times when I’m tempted to feel that a foot-hill city of this size is neither fish nor fowl. It impresses me as a frontier cow-town grown out of its knickers and still ungainly in its first long trousers. But I can’t help being struck by people’s incorruptible pride in their own community. It’s a sort of religious faith, a fixed belief in the future, a stubborn optimism that is surely something more than self-interest. It’s the Dutch courage that makes deprivation and long waiting endurable.306
It’s the women, and the women alone, who seem left out of the procession. They impress me as having no big interests of their own, so they are compelled toplaytendwith make-believe interests. They race like mad in the social squirrel-cage, or drug themselves with bridge and golf and the country club, or take to culture with a capital C and read papers culled from the Encyclopedias; or spend their husbands’ money on year-old Paris gowns and make love to other women’s mates. The altitude, I imagine, has quite a little to do with the febrile pace of things here. Or perhaps it’s merely because I’m an old frump from a back-township ranch!
But I have no intention of trying to keep up with them, for I have a constitutional liking for quietness in my old age. And I can’t engross myself in their social aspirations, for I’ve seen a bit too much of the world to be greatly taken with the internecine jealousies of a twenty-year-old foot-hill town. My “day” in this aristocratic section is Thursday, and Tokudo this afternoon admitted callers from seven closed cars, two landaulets, three Detroit electrics and one hired taxi. I know, because I counted ’em. The children and I posed like a Raeburn group and did our best to be respectable, for Duncan’s sake.307But he seems to have taken up with some queer people here, people who drop in at any time of the evening and smoke and drink and solemnly discuss how a shandygaff should be mixed and tell stories I wouldn’t care to have the children hear.
There’s one couple Duncan asked me to be especially nice to, a Mr. and Mrs. Murchison. The latter, I find, is usually addressed as “Slinkie” by her friends, and the former is known as “Cattalo Charley” because he once formed a joint-stock company which was to make a fortune interbreeding buffalo and range-cattle, the product of that happy union being known, I believe, as “cattalo.” Duncan calls him a “promoter,” but my earlier impression of him as a born gambler has been confirmed by the report that he’s interested in a lignite briquetting company, that he’s fathering a scheme, not only to raise stock-yard reindeer in the sub-Arctics but also to grow karakule sheep in the valleylands of the Coast, that he once sold mummy wheat at forty dollars a bushel, and that in the old boom days he promoted no less than three oil companies. And the time will come, Duncan avers, when that man will be a millionaire.
As for “Slinkie,” his wife, I can’t be quite sure308whether I like her or not. I at least admire her audacity and her steel-trap quickness of mind. She has a dead white skin, green eyes, and most wonderful hair, hair the color of a well-polished copper samovar. She is an extremely thin woman who affects sheathe skirts and rather reminds me of a boa-constrictor. She always reeks ofApres londreand uses a lip-stick as freely before the world as an orchestra conductor uses a baton or a street-sweeper a broom. She is nervous and sharp-tongued and fearless and I thought, at first, that she was making a dead set at my Duncan. But I can now see how she confronts all men with that same dangerous note of intimacy. Her real name is Lois. She talks about her convent days in Belgium, singsrisquesongs in very bad French, and smokes and drinks a great deal more than is good for her. In Vancouver, when informed that she was waiting for a street-car on a non-stop corner, she sat down between the tracks, with her back to the approaching car. The motorman, of course, had to come to a stop—whereupon she arose with dignity and stepped aboard. Duncan has told me this story twice, and tends to consider Lois a really wonderful character. I am a little afraid of her. She asked me the other day how I liked Calgary.309I responded, according to Hoyle, that I liked the clear air and the clean streets and the Rockies looking so companionably down over one’s shoulder. Lois hooted as she tapped a cigarette end against her hennaed thumb-nail.
“Just wait until the sand-storms, my dear!” she said as she struck a match on her slipper-heel.
310Saturday the Second
My old friend Gershom has very slyly written arondeauto me. I have just found it enclosed in myGolden Treasury, which he handed back to me that last night at Casa Grande. It’s the first actualrondeauI ever had indited to my humble self, and while I’m a bit set up about it, I can’t quite detach from Gershom’s lines a vaguely obituarial atmosphere which tends to depress me.
I can see that it may not be the bestrondeauin the world, but I’m going to keep it until my bones are dust, for good old Gershom’s sake. And some day, when he marries the nice girl he deserves to marry, and has a kiddy or two of his own, I’ll shame his gray hairs by parading it before his offspring! I have just been re-reading the lines, in Gershom’s copperplate script. They are as follows:
To C. McK.
On Returning Her Copy of the Golden Treasury
This golden book, dear friend, wherein each lineHolds close a charm for knowing eyes to meet,Holds doubly mystical and doubly sweetAn inner charm no language may define:311For o’er each page a woman’s soul divineBent low a space for kindred souls to greet,And here her eyes were lit with gladness fleetBecause of songs that graced with rare designThis book of thine!And now I give back into Beauty’s handHer borrowed songs, but I shall hold alwaysSecret and safe from every care’s demand,A flame of light to fill my emptier days,That quieter fellowship, which made a shrineThis book of thine!
G. B.
312Tuesday the Fifth
The weather is balmier, and just a tinge of green is creeping into the tan of the foot-hill slopes. Spring is coming again.
I went shopping in the Hudson Bay Store yesterday and found it much more metropolitan than I had expected. And I find I am three whole laps behind in that steeplechase known as Style. But I got a raft of things for Pauline Augusta, and a Boy Scout outfit for my laddie.
One of the few women I like in Calgary is Dinkie’s—I mean Elmer’s—new school-teacher. Her name is Lossie Brown and she is an earnest-eyed girl who’s saving up to go to Europe some day and study art. She’s a trifle shy, and unmistakably moody, but her mind is as bright as a new pin. And some bright morning, when the rose of womanhood has really opened, she’s going to wake up a howling beauty. I love her, too, for the interest she has taken in my boy, whom she reports as getting along much better than she had expected. So I have asked her to write a313little note to Gershom Binks, advising him of his ex-pupil’s advance. For Lossie is a girl I’d like Gershom to know. And she has done this for me. I ask her over to the house as often as I can and yesterday I had Dinkie slip a little platinum-banded fountain-pen, with a card, into the pocket of her rather threadbare ulster. Duncan, however, is not in the least interested in Lossie. He despises what he calls insignificant people.
On my way home from shopping I had Hilton drive me about some of the less-known parts of the city. And I have been compelled to recast some of my earlier impressions of Calgary. It is wonderful, in many ways, and some day, I can see, it will be beautiful, just as Lossie Brown will some day be beautiful.
In the first place, it is so happily situated, lying as it does half-way between the mountains and the plain. And the blue Bow comes dancing so joyously down from the Rockies and the older city sleeps so happily in the sunny crook of its valley-arm, while the newer suburbs seem to boil up and run over the surrounding hills like champagne bubbling over the rim of a glass. There are raw edges, of course, but time will eventually attend to these. Now and then, between the motor-cars, you will see a creaking Red314River cart. Next to an office-building of gray sandstone you’re likely to spot what looks like a squatter’s wickyup of rusty galvanized iron. Yesterday, on our main street where the electric-cars were clanging and the limousines were throwing their exhaust incense to the gods of the future, I caught sight of a lonely and motionless figure, isolated in the midst of a newer world. It was the figure of a Cree squaw, blanketed and many-wrinkled and unmistakably dirty, blinking at the devil-wagons and the ceaseless hurry of the white man. And being somewhat Indianized, as my husband once assured me I was, I could sympathize with that stolid old lady in the blanket.
I’m even beginning to find that one can get tired of optimism, especially when it is being so plainly converted from a psychic abstraction into a municipal asset. There’s a sort of communal Christian Science in this place which ordains that thought shall not dwell on such transient evils as drought or black rust or early frost or hail-storms or money stringencies. And there’s a sort of youthful greediness in people’s longing to live all there is of life to live and to know all there is of life to know. For there is a limit to the sensations we can digest, just as there is a limit to the meat we can digest. And out here we have a315tendency to bolt more than is good for us, to bolt it without pausing to get the true taste of it. The women of this town remind me more and more of mice in an oxygen bell; they race round and round, drunk with an excitement they can’t quite understand, until they burn up their little lives the same as the mice burn up their little lungs.
... I’ve had a letter from Whinstane Sandy to-day, writing about seed-wheat and the repairs for the tractor. It seems like a message from another world. He reports that poor old Scotty is eating again and no longer mourns day in and day out for his lost master. And Mr. Ketley has very kindly brought over the liniment for Mudski’s shoulder. ... Whatever I may be, or whatever I may have done, I feel that I can still cleanse my heart by sacrifice.
316Friday the Ninth
One can get out of the habit, apparently, of having children about. My kiddies, I begin to see, occasionally grate on Duncan. He brought tears to the eyes of Pauline Augusta yesterday by the way he scolded her for using a lead-pencil on the living-room woodwork. And the night before he shouted much strong language at Elmer for breaking a window-pane in the garage with Benny McArthur’s new air-gun.
Elmer and his father, I’m afraid, have rather grown away from each other. More than once I’ve caught Duncan staring at his son and heir in a puzzled and a slightly frustrated sort of way. And Elmer’s soul promptly becomesincommunicadowhen his iron-browed pater is in the neighborhood.
Duncan is very proud of his grand new house. He is anxious to build a conservatory out along the southwest wing. But he has asked how long a conservatory would last with two young mountain-goats gamboling along its leads.... Lossie, little suspecting317the pang she was giving me, laughingly showed me a manuscript which she found by accident in my Dinkie’s reader. It was a poem, dedicated to “D. O’L.” And written in a stiff little hand I read:
“Your lips are lined with roses,Your eyes they shinne like goldIf you call me from the sunlight,I’ll answer from the cold.But I wonder why, Oh, why,You stay so far from me?If you whisper from the prarrie,I’ll call from Calgary.”
“Won’t it be wonderful,” said Lossie as I sat pondering over those foolish little lines, “won’t it be wonderful, if Dinkie grows up to be a great poet?”
318Monday the Eleventh
Elmer,aliasDinkie, after many days’ mourning for his lost Scotty, is consoling himself, as other men do, with a substitute. Last Friday he Brought home a flop-eared pup with a drooping tail and an indefinite ancestry, explaining that he had come into possession of the aforementioned animal by the duly delivered purchase-price of thirty-seven cents.
Remembering Minty and certain matters of the past, I was troubled in spirit. But I couldn’t see why my son shouldn’t have an animal to love. And I have had Hilton fix a little box in one corner of the garage for Dinkie’s new pet, which he has christened Rowdy.
Rowdy, I now see, is a canine of limited spirit and is not likely to repeat the offenses of Minty. But Dinkie really loves his new pup, despite the latter’s indubitably democratic ancestry. And I begin to suspect that my laddie’s weakness for mongrels may arise from his earlier experience with Duncan’s blooded bulldog, which he struggled with for three319whole days, fondly and foolishly trying to teach that stolid animal the art of “pointing.”
On Saturday Dinkie smuggled the verminous Rowdy to the upper bathroom and gave him a thorough but quite unrelished soaping ... Dinkie, by the way, is now a “cub” in the Boy Scouts and after adorning himself in khaki goes off on hikes and takes lessons in woodcraft. Saturday the Scouts of his school marched behind a real band and Lossie and I sat in the car waiting for my laddie to appear. He wiggled one hand, and smiled sheepishly, as he caught sight of us. But he kept “eyes front” and refused to give any further sign as he marched bravely on behind that brave music. He is learning the law of the pack. For some first frail ideas of service are beginning to incubate in that egoistic little bean of his. And he’s suffering, I suppose, the old contest between the ancestral lust to kill and the new-born inclination to succor and preserve. That means he may some day be “a gentleman.” And I’ve a weakness for that old Newman definition of a gentleman as one who never inflicts pain—“tender towards the bashful, gentle towards the distant, and merciful towards the absurd”—conducting himself toward his enemy as if he were some day to be his320friend. And I also wish there were a few more of them in this hard old world of ours!
Speaking of gentlemen, there’s a Captain Goodhue here whom I rather like. Lois Murchison brought us together in the tea-room of the Palliser. In more ways than one he reminds me of Peter. But Captain Goodhue is a much older man, and is English, coming from a very excellent family in Sussex. He’s one of those iron-gray ex-Army men who still believe in a monocle and can be loyal to a queen even though she wears a basque with darts in it. And he doesn’t talk to a woman with that ragging air of condescension which seems to be peculiar to western American civilization. He is courteous and thoughtful and sincere, though I noticed that he winced a trifle when I suddenly remembered, as he was taking his departure, that the McKails were living in what must have once been his house. He blinked, like a well-groomed old eagle, when I reminded him of this. I never dreamed, of course, that the subject would be painful to him. But it was an honor, he acknowledged with a bow, to pass his household gods on to a lady to whom so much had already been given.
When I asked Lois about it, later on, she rather indifferently acknowledged that the old gentleman321had been making a mess of his different business ventures. He was much better at golf than getting in on the ground-floor of a land deal. He was too old fogy, said Slinkie, to make good in the West. He still kept his head up, but they’d pretty well picked him to the bones.... Lois, by the way, describes me as something new in her menagerie and drops in to see me at the most unexpected moments. Then her tongue goes like a mower-knife. She is persuaded that I should permanent-wave my hair, lower my waist-line, and go in for amethysts. “And interest yourself, my dear, in an outside man or two,” she has sagely advised me. “For husbands, you’ll find, always accept you at the other mutt’s valuation!”
I was tempted to make her open her jade-green eyes, for a moment, by telling her I was already interested in an outside man or two and that my lord and master hadn’t been much influenced by the extraneous appreciations. But I’m a little afraid of Slinkie and her serpent’s tongue. And I’m a little afraid of this new circle into which my Duncan has so laboriously engineered himself. They more and more impress on my simple old prairie soul that the single-track woman is the woman who gets most out322of life, that there’s nothing really great and nothing really enduring that is not built on loyalty and truth. Character is Fate, as I once before inscribed in this book of my life. And I’ve been sitting up to-night, while the eternal bridge game is going on below, asking myself if all is well with Chaddie McKail. Have I, or have I not, conceded too much? Am I turning into nothing more than a mush of concession? Haven’t I been bribed by comfort, and blinded to a situation which I am now almost afraid to face? Haven’t I been selfishly scheming for the welfare of my children and endangering all their future and my own by the price I am paying? Haven’t I been crazily manning a rickety old pump, trying to keep afloat a family hulk whose seams are wide open and whose timbers are water-logged? And how long can this sort of thing go on? And what will be the end of it?
I try to warn myself not to smash my goods to kill a rat, as the Chinese say. I try to flatter myself that I am not letting circumstances stampede me into any hasty decision. There’s many a woman, I suppose, with a husband whose legal promise has outlived his loyalty. But all is not well here about my heart. I know that, by the way it keeps sending up little trial-balloons,323to see which way the wind is really blowing.
... And Sunday night Cattalo Charlie went home quite drunk. And our local member, emboldened by his seventh highball, offhandedly invited me to accompany him on a little run up to Banff, stabbing me with a hurt look when I told him I’d see when Duncan could get away from his work....
I wonder if spring is coming to Casa Grande? And at Alabama Ranch? And are the pussy-willows showing in the slough-ends? And why doesn’t Peter Ketley ever write to me?
324Saturday the Sixteenth
Lossie and Gershom, I find, have drifted into the habit of writing to each other. It is, of course, all purely platonic and pedagogic, arising out of a common interest in my Dinkie’s academic advancement. But Lossie borrowed Dinkie this morning to have a photograph taken with him, one copy of which she has very generously promised to send on to Gershom.... Struthers has sent me a very satisfactory report from Casa Grande, which I dreamed last night had burned to the ground, compelling me and my kiddies to live in the old prairie-schooner, laboriously pulled about the prairie by Tithonus and Calamity Kate. And when I applied at Peter’s door for a handful of meal for my starving children, he called me worse than a fallen woman and drove me off into the wilderness.
Duncan asked me to-day if I’d motor up to the mines with him for the week-end. I had to tell him that I’d promised to take Elmer and Pauline Augusta to hear Kathleen Parlow and that it325wouldn’t seem quite fair to break my word. Duncan said that I was the best judge of that. Then he slammed a drawer shut and asked me, in his newer manner, how long I intended to pull this iceberg stuff. “For I can’t see,” he concluded after calling out for Tokudo to bring his hat and coat, “that I’m getting such a hell of a lot out of this arrangement!”
I asked him, as quietly as I could, what he expected of me. But I could feel my heart pounding quick against my ribs. I am not, and never pretended to be, any stained-glass saint. And there were a few things I felt it was about time to unload. But Tokudo cat-footed back with the coat, and I could hear Lossie’s clear laugh as she came in through the front door with the returning Dinkie, and some inner voice warned me to hold my peace. So Duncan and I merely stood there staring at each other, for a moment or two, across an abysmal and unbridgeable gulf of silence. Then he strode out to his car without as much as a howdy-do to the startled and slightly mystified Lossie.
326Monday the Eighteenth
I have just learned that we were blackballed from the Country Club. My husband, at least, has met with that experience.
It was Lois who let the cat out of the bag. She wasn’t clear on all the details, but it was that old has-been of a Goodhue who was at the bottom of it all, according to the lady known as Slinkie. Duncan and he had clashed, from the first. Then Duncan had bought up his paper, and compelled him to mortgage his home. It was because of something to do with the Barcona Mines directorate, Lois thought, that Captain Goodhue had had Duncan blackballed when he applied for membership in the Country Club, the Captain being vice-president of the original holding company. Lois laughed none too pleasantly when she added that her Charley and my Duncan had joined hands to go after the old man’s scalp. And they had got it. They turned him inside out, before they got through with him. They took his fore-lock and his teepee and his last string of wampum. And the old snob, of course, would never forgive them.
... They took his fore-lock, and his teepee ...327And it was Chaddie McKail and her bairns who were now housing warm in that captured teepee! And all this toiling and moiling, on the part of my husband, all this scheming and intriguing and juggling with figures, had been a campaign for power, a plotting and working to get even with this haughty old enemy who could carry his defeat so lightly! To be blackballed like that, I remembered, was to be proclaimed not a gentleman. And it must have cut deep. At one time, I suppose, Duncan would have called his monocled captain out. But men seem to fight differently nowadays. They fight differently, but no less grimly. And Duncan, whether it is a virtue or a vice in his make-up, would always be a fighter.... Yet I have no sense of gratitude to Lois Murchison for depositing her painful truths in my lap. She warned me, in her artless soprano, that there wasn’t much good in sentimentalizing the situation. But she has thrown a shadow across the house which I was trying to make into a home. Without quite knowing it, she has cheapened her life-mate in my eyes. Without quite intending it, she has left my own husband more ignominious than he once stood. I was trying hard to school myself into a respect for his material successes. I was struggling to excuse a great many things by the engrossing nature of his work. But the328motive behind all his efforts seemed suddenly a sordid one, in many ways a mean one.
I keep remembering what Lois said about not sentimentalizing a situation. But I’m not yet such a mush of concession that I can’t tell black from white. And there’s some part of us, some vague but unescapable part of us, which we must respect, otherwise we have no right to walk God’s good earth....
I want to get away, for a day or two, to think things out. I think, before Duncan gets back to-morrow, I shall take Poppsy and run up to Banff. I may get my view-point back. And the mountain quietness may do me good....
I keep having that same dull ache of disappointment which came to me as a girl, after I’d idolized a great man called Meredith and after I’d almost prayed to a great poet called Browning, on finding that one was so imperfectly monogamous and that the other philandered and talked foolishly to women. I had thrust my girlish faith in their hands, as so often befalls with the young, and they had betrayed it.... But for the second time since I married, I have been readingModern Love. And I can almost forgive the Apollo of Box Hill for that betrayal which he knew nothing about.