Letters of a Dakota Divorcee Part 7

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 burned themselves 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 a _serviette_ at 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 display to 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 people seem to possess in such unlimited quant.i.ties.

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 pa.s.s.

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 any cultivated 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 excitement over 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d, will not delay too long its coming.

I suppose the family cannot be built on a foundation of pa.s.sion, 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.