Letters of a Dakota Divorcee Part 5

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 ceremony that ever was solemnized under G.o.d'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 chast.i.ty 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 G.o.d'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 with turgid 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 pa.s.sed 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 noiselessly and 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 suns.h.i.+ne.

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 G.o.d and Heaven.

Carlton and I have motored over to Custer every 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 gra.s.s 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 darkness thickened, 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 grat.i.tude for more and yet more of our boundless and mutual pa.s.sion. 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 length across our path and frogs held mute high carnival on all the little hills and b.u.mps 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 gra.s.s, beckoned us on and heedless of the danger we might be rus.h.i.+ng toward--our empa.s.sioned 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 gra.s.sy 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 its best 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 s.h.i.+ver 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, const.i.tute 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 silk stocking, 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 wors.h.i.+p our baby. Only beautiful thoughts come to our minds; only beautiful things come to our hands,--surely G.o.d 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 hand could create.

Do you remember the day when we were at school in Paris, that we pa.s.sed 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 turquoise below 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 s.h.i.+fting 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 transformed into, 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 that I 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 grat.i.tude. 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 G.o.d 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 affinities _et 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 your sweet 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 have died 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 G.o.d 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:--