feel about it all. I suppose I could never make you see it as I see
it. But it's a feeling like loyalty, loyalty to the land that's given
us what we have. And it's also a feeling of disliking to see one old
rule repeating itself: what has once been a crusade becoming merely a
business. To turn and leave our land now, it seems to me, would make
us too much like those soulless soil-robbers you used to rail at, like
those squatters who've merely squeezed out what they could and have
gone on, like those land-miners who take all they can get and stand
ready to put nothing back. Why, if we were all like that, we'd have no
country here. We'd be a wilderness, a Barren Grounds that went from
the Border up to the Circle. But there's something bigger than that
about it all. I love the prairie. Just why it is, I don't know. It's
too fundamental to be fashioned into words, and I never realized how
deep it was until I went back to the city that time. One can just say
it, and let it go at that: _I love the prairie._ It isn't merely its
bigness, just as it isn't altogether its freedom and its openness.
Perhaps it's because it keeps its spirit of the adventurous. I love it
the same as my children love _The Arabian Nights_ and _The Swiss
Family Robinson_. I thought it was mostly cant, once, that cry about
being next to nature, but the more I know about nature the more I feel
with Pope that naught but man is vile, to speak as impersonally, my
dear Diddums, as the occasion will permit. I'm afraid I'm like that
chickadee that flew into the bunk-house and Whinnie caught and put in
a box-cage for Dinkie. I nearly die at the thought of being cooped up.
I want clean air and open space about me."
"I never dreamed you'd been Indianized to that extent," murmured my
husband.
"Being Indianized," I proceeded, "seems to carry the inference of also
being barbarized. But it isn't quite that, Dinky-Dunk, for there's
something almost spiritually satisfying about this prairie life if
you've only got the eyes to see it. I think that's because the prairie
always seems so majestically beautiful to me. I can see your lip curl
again, but I know I'm right. When I throw open my windows of a morning
and see that placid old never-ending plain under its great wash of
light something lifts up in my breast, like a bird, and no matter how
a mere man has been doing his best to make me miserable that something
stands up on the tip of my heart and does its darnedest to sing. It
impresses me as life on such a sane and gigantic scale that I want to
be an actual part of it, that I positively ache to have a share in its
immensities. It seems so fruitful and prodigal and generous and
patient. It's so open-handed in the way it produces and gives and
returns our love. And there's a completeness about it that makes me
feel it can't possibly be wrong."
"The Eskimo, I suppose, feels very much the same in his little igloo
of ice with a pot of whale-blubber at his elbow," observed my
husband.
"You're a brute, my dear Diddums, and more casually cruel than a
Baffin-land cannibal," I retorted. "But we'll let it pass. For I'm
talking about something that's too fundamental to be upset by a bitter
tongue. There was a time, I know, when I used to fret about the finer
things I thought I was losing out of life, about the little hand-made
fripperies people have been forced to conjure up and carpenter
together to console them for having to live in human beehives made of
steel and concrete. But I'm beginning to find out that joy isn't a
matter of geography and companionship isn't a matter of over-crowded
subways. And the strap-hangers and the train-catchers and the
first-nighters can have what they've got. I don't seem to envy them
the way I used to. I don't need a Louvre when I've got the Northern
Lights to look at. And I can get along without an Æolian Hall when
I've got a little music in my own heart--for it's only what you've got
there, after all, that really counts in this world!"
"All of which means," concluded my husband, "that you are most
unmistakably growing old!"
"You have already," I retorted, "referred to me as a withered
beauty."
Dinky-Dunk studied me long and intently. I even felt myself turning
pink under that prolonged stare of appraisal.
"You are still easy to look at," he over-slangily and over-generously
admitted. "But I do regret that you aren't a little easier to live
with!"
I could force a little laugh, at that, but I couldn't quite keep a
tremor out of my voice when I spoke again.
"I'm sorry you see only my bad side, Dinky-Dunk. But it's kindness
that seems to bring everything that is best out of us women. We're
terribly like sliced pineapple in that respect: give us just a
sprinkling of sugar, and out come all the juices!"
It was Dinky-Dunk's color that deepened a little as he turned and
knocked out his pipe.
"That's a Chaddie McKail argument," he merely observed as he stood up.
"And a Chaddie McKail argument impresses me as suspiciously like Swiss
cheese: it doesn't seem to be genuine unless you can find plenty of
holes in it."
I did my best to smile at his humor.
"But this isn't an argument," I quietly corrected. "I'd look at it
more in the nature of an ultimatum."
That brought him up short, as I had intended it to do. He stood
worrying over it as Bobs and Scotty worry over a bone.
"I'm afraid," he finally intoned, "I've been repeatedly doing you the
great injustice of underestimating your intelligence!"
"That," I told him, "is a point where I find silence imposed upon
me."
He didn't speak until he got to the door.
"Well, I'm glad we've cleared the air a bit anyway," he said with a
grim look about his Holbein Astronomer old mouth as he went out.
But we haven't cleared the air. And it disturbs me more than I can say
to find that I have reservations from my husband. It bewilders me to
see that I can't be perfectly candid with him. But there are certain
deeper feelings that I can no longer uncover in his presence.
Something holds me back from explaining to him that this fixed dread
of mine for all cities is largely based on my loss of little Pee-Wee.
For if I hadn't gone to New York that time, to Josie Langdon's
wedding, I might never have lost my boy. They did the best they
could, I suppose, before their telegrams brought me back, but they
didn't seem to understand the danger. And little did I dream, before
the Donnelly butler handed me that first startling message just as we
were climbing into the motor to go down to the Rochambeau to meet
Chinkie and Tavvy, that within a week I was to sit and watch the
cruelest thing that can happen in this world. I was to see a small
child die. I was to watch my own Pee-Wee pass quietly away.
I have often wondered, since, why I never shed a tear during all those
terrible three days. I couldn't, in some way, though the nurse herself
was crying, and poor old Whinnie and Struthers were sobbing together
next to the window, and dour old Dinky-Dunk, on the other side of the
bed, was racking his shoulders with smothered sobs as he held the
little white hand in his and the warmth went forever out of the little
fingers where his foolish big hand was trying to hold back the life
that couldn't be kept there. The old are ready to die, or can make
themselves ready. They have run their race and had their turn at
living. But it seems cruel hard to see a little tot, with eagerness
still in his heart, taken away, taken away with the wonder of things
still in his eyes. It stuns you. It makes you rebel. It leaves a scar
that Time itself can never completely heal.
Yet through it all I can still hear the voice of valorous old Whinnie
as he patted my shoulder and smiled with the brine still in the seams
of his furrowed old face. "We'll thole through, lassie; we'll thole
through!" he said over and over again. Yes; we'll thole through. And
this is only the uncovering of old wounds. And one must keep one's
heart and one's house in order, for with us we still have the living.
But Dinky-Dunk can't completely understand, I'm afraid, this morbid
hankering of mine to keep my family about me, to have the two chicks
that are left to me close under my wing. And never once, since Pee-Wee
went, have I actually punished either of my children. It may be wrong,
but I can't help it. I don't want memories of violence to be left
corroding and rankling in my mind. And I'd hate to see any child of
mine cringe, like an ill-treated dog, at every lift of the hand. There
are better ways of controlling them, I begin to feel, than through
fear. Their father, I know, will never agree with me on this matter.
He will always insist on mastery, open and undisputed mastery, in his
own house. He is the head of this Clan McKail, the sovereign of this
little circle. For we can say what we will about democracy, but when
a child is born unto a man that man unconsciously puts on the purple.
He becomes the ruler and sits on the throne of authority. He even
seeks to cloak his weaknesses and his mistakes in that threadbare old
fabrication about the divine right of kings. But I can see that he is
often wrong, and even my Dinkie can see that he is not always right in
his decrees. More and more often, of late, I've observed the boy
studying his father, studying him with an impersonal and critical eye.
And this habit of silent appraisal is plainly something which Duncan
resents, and resents keenly. He's beginning to have a feeling, I'm
afraid, that he can't quite get _at_ the boy. And there's a youthful
shyness growing up in Dinkie which seems to leave him ashamed of any
display of emotion before his father. I can see that it even begins to
exasperate Duncan a little, to be shut out behind those incontestable
walls of reserve. It's merely, I'm sure, that the child is so terribly
afraid of ridicule. He already nurses a hankering to be regarded as
one of the grown-ups and imagines there's something rather babyish in
any undue show of feeling. Yet he is hungry for affection. And he
aches, I know, for the approbation of his male parent, for the
approval of a full-grown man whom he can regard as one of his own
kind. He even imitates his father in the way in which he stands in
front of the fire, with his heels well apart. And he gives me chills
up the spine by pulling short on one bridle-rein and making Buntie,
his mustang-pony, pirouette just as the wicked-tempered Briquette
sometimes pirouettes when his father is in the saddle. Yet
Dinky-Dunk's nerves are a bit ragged and there are times when he's not
always just with the boy, though it's not for me to confute what the
instinctive genius of childhood has already made reasonably clear to
Dinkie's discerning young eye. But I can not, of course, encourage
insubordination. All I can do is to ignore the unwelcome and try to
crowd it aside with happier things. I want my boy to love me, as I
love him. And I think he does. I _know_ he does. That knowledge is an
azure and bottomless lake into which I can toss my blackest pebbles of
fear, my flintiest doubts of the future.
_Sunday the Fourth_
I wish I could get by the scruff of the neck that sophomoric old
philosopher who once said nothing survives being thought of. For I've
been learning, this last two or three days, just how wide of the mark
he shot. And it's all arisen out of Dinky-Dunk's bland intimation that
I am "a withered beauty." Those words have held like a fish-hook in
the gills of my memory. If they'd come from somebody else they
mightn't have meant so much. But from one's own husband--Wow!--they go
in like a harpoon. And they have given me a great deal to think about.
There are times, I find, when I can accept that intimation of slipping
into the sere and yellow leaf without revolt. Then the next moment it
fills me with a sort of desperation. I refuse to go up on the shelf. I
see red and storm against age. I refuse to bow to the inevitable. My
spirit recoils at the thought of decay. For when you're fading you're
surely decaying, and when you're decaying you're approaching the end.
So stop, Father Time, stop, or I'll get out of the car!
But we can't get out of the car. That's the tragic part of it. We have
to go on, whether we like it or not. We have to buck up, and grin and
bear it, and make the best of a bad bargain. And Heaven knows I've
never wanted to be one of the Glooms! I've no hankering to sit with
the Sob Sisters and pump brine over the past. I'm light-hearted enough
if they'll only give me a chance. I've always believed in getting what
we could out of life and looking on the sunny side of things. And the
disturbing part of it is, I don't _feel_ withered--not by a jugful!
There are mornings when I can go about my homely old duties singing
like a prairie Tetrazzini. There are days when I could do a
hand-spring, if for nothing more than to shock my solemn old
Dinky-Dunk out of his dourness. There are times when we go skimming
along the trail with the crystal-cool evening air in our faces and the
sun dipping down toward the rim of the world when I want to thank
Somebody I can't see for Something-or-other I can't define. _Dum
vivimus vivamus._
But it seems hard to realize that I'm a sedate and elderly lady
already on the shady side of thirty. A woman over thirty years
old--and I can remember the days of my intolerant youth when I
regarded the woman of thirty as an antiquated creature who should be
piously preparing herself for the next world. And it doesn't take
thirty long to slip into forty. And then forty merges into fifty--and
there you are, a nice old lady with nervous indigestion and
knitting-needles and a tendency to breathe audibly after ascending the
front-stairs. No wonder, last night, it drove me to taking a volume of
George Moore down from the shelf and reading his chapter on "The Woman
of Thirty." But I found small consolation in that over-uxorious essay,
feeling as I did that I knew life quite as well as any amorous
studio-rat who ever made copy out of his mottled past. So I was
driven, in the end, to studying myself long and intently in the
broken-hinged mirrors of my dressing-table. And I didn't find much
there to fortify my quailing spirit. I was getting on a bit. I was
curling up a little around the edges. There was no denying that fact.
For I could see a little fan-light of lines at the outer corner of
each eye. And down what Dinky-Dunk once called the honeyed corners of
my mouth went another pair of lines which clearly came from too much
laughing. But most unmistakably of all there was a line coming under
my chin, a small but tell-tale line, announcing the fact that I wasn't
losing any in weight, and standing, I suppose, one of the foot-hills
which precede the Rocky-Mountain dewlaps of old age. It wouldn't be
long, I could see, before I'd have to start watching my diet, and
looking for a white hair or two, and probably give up horseback
riding. And then settle down into an ingle-nook old dowager with a
hassock under _my_ feet and a creak in my knees and a fixed conviction
that young folks never acted up in _my_ youth as they act up
nowadays.
I tried to laugh it away, but my heart went down like a dredge-dipper.
Whereupon I set my jaw, which didn't make me look any younger. But I
didn't much care, for the mirror had already done its worst.
"Not muchee!" I said as I sat there making faces at myself. "You're
still one of the living. The bloom may be off in a place or two, but
you're sound to the core, and serviceable for many a year. So _sursum
corda! 'Rung ho! Hira Singh!_' as Chinkie taught us to shout in the
old polo days. And that means, Go in and win, Chaddie McKail, and die
with your boots on if you have to."
I was still intent on that study of my robust-looking but slightly
weather-beaten map when Dinky-Dunk walked in and caught me in the
middle of my Narcissus act.
"'All is vanity saith the Preacher,'" he began. But he stopped short
when I swung about at him. For I hadn't, after all, been able to
carpenter together even a whale-boat of consolation out of my wrecked
schooner of hope.
"Oh, Kakaibod," I wailed, "I'm a pie-faced old has-been, and nobody
will ever love me again!"
He only laughed, on his way out, and announced that I seemed to be
getting my share of loving, as things went. But he didn't take back
what he said about me being withered. And the first thing I shall do
to-morrow, when Gershom comes down to breakfast, will be to ask him
how old Cleopatra was when she brought Antony to his knees and how
antiquated Ninon D'Enclos was when she lost her power over that
semi-civilized creature known as Man. Gershom will know, for Gershom
knows everything.
_Wednesday the Seventh_
Gershom has been studying some of my carbon-prints. He can't for the
life of him understand why I consider Dewing's _Old-fashioned Gown_ so
beautiful, or why I should love Childe Hassam's _Church at Old Lyme_
or see anything remarkable about Metcalf's _May Night_. But I cherish
them as one cherishes photographs of lost friends.
A couple of the Horatio Walker's, he acknowledged, seemed to mean
something to him. But Gershom's still in the era when he demands a
story in the picture and could approach Monet and Degas only by way of
Meissonier and Bouguereau. And a print, after all, is only a print.
He's slightly ashamed to admire beauty as mere beauty, contending that
at the core of all such things there should be a moral. So we
pow-wowed for an hour and more over the threadbare old theme and the
most I could get out of Gershom was that the lady in _The
Old-fashioned Gown_ reminded him of me, only I was more vital. But all
that talk about landscape and composition and line and tone made me
momentarily homesick for a glimpse of Old Lyme again, before I go to
my reward.
But the mood didn't last. And I no longer regret what's lost. I don't
know what mysterious Divide it is I have crossed over, but it seems to
be peace I want now instead of experience. I'm no longer envious of
the East and all it holds. I'm no longer fretting for wider circles of
life. The lights may be shining bright on many a board-walk, at this
moment, but it means little to this ranch-lady. What I want now is a
better working-plan for that which has already been placed before me.
Often and often, in the old days, when I realized how far away from
the world this lonely little island of Casa Grande and its inhabitants
stood, I used to nurse a ghostly envy for the busier tideways of life
from which we were banished. I used to feel that grandeur was in some
way escaping me. I could picture what was taking place in some of
those golden-gray old cities I had known: The Gardens of the
Luxembourg when the horse-chestnuts were coming out in bloom, and the
Château de Madrid in the Bois at the luncheon hour, or the Pre Catalan
on a Sunday with heavenly sole in lemon and melted butter and a still
more heavenly waltz as you sat eating _fraises des bois_ smothered in
thick _crême d'Isigny_. Or the Piazzi di Spagna on Easter Sunday with
the murmur of Rome in your ears and the cars and carriages flashing
through the green-gold shadows of the Pincio. Or Hyde Park in May,
with the sun sifting through the brave old trees and flashing on the
helmets of the Life Guards as the King goes by in a scarlet uniform
with the blue Order of the Garter on his breast, or Park Lane on a
glorious light-and-shadow afternoon in June and a dip into the
familiar old Americanized clangor at the Cecil; or Chinkie's place in
Devonshire about a month earlier, sitting out on the terrace wrapped
in steamer-rugs and waiting for the moon to come up and the first
nightingale to sing. Of Fifth Avenue shining almost bone-white in the
clear December sunlight and the salted nuts and orange-blossom
cocktails at Sherry's, or the Plaza tea-room at about five o'clock in
the afternoon with the smell of Turkish tobacco and golden pekoe and
hot-house violets and Houbigant's _Quelque-fleurs_ all tangled up
together. Or the City of Wild Parsley in March with a wave of wild
flowers breaking over the ruins of Selinunte and the tumbling pillars
of the Temple of Olympian Zeus lying time-mellowed in the clear
Sicilian sunlight!
They were all lovely enough, and still are, I suppose, but it's a
loveliness in some way involved with youth. So the memory of those
far-off gaieties, which, after all, were so largely physical, no
longer touch me with unrest. They're wine that's drunk and water
that's run under the bridge. Younger lips can drink of that cup, which
was sweet enough in its time. Let the newer girls dance their legs off
under the French crystals of the Ritz, and powder their noses over the
Fountain of the Sunken Boat, and eat the numbered duck so
reverentially doled out at La Tour d'Argent and puff their cigarettes
behind the beds of begonias and marguerites at the Château Madrid.
They too will get tired of it, and step aside for others. For the
petal falls from the blossom and the blossom plumps out into fruit.
And all those golden girls, when their day is over, must slip away
from those gardens of laughter. When they don't, they only make
themselves ridiculous. For there's nothing sadder than an antique lady
of other days decking herself out in the furbelows of a lost youth.
And I've got Dinky-Dunk's overalls to patch and my bread to set, so I
can't think much more about it to-night. But after I've done my
chores, and before I go up to bed, I'm going to read _Rabbi Ben Ezra_
right through to the end. I'll do it in front of the fire, with my
feet up and with three Ontario Northern Spy apples on a plate beside
me, to be munched as Audrey herself might have munched them, oblivious
of any Touchstone and his reproving eyes.
I have stopped to ponder, however, how much of this morbid dread of
mine for big cities is due to that short and altogether unsatisfactory
visit to New York, to that sense of coming back a stranger and finding
old friends gone and those who were left with such entirely new
interests.