Part 8 (1/2)

I read for a while, then I took a lamp, went to my room, and deliberately locked the door. My one regret was that I couldn't see d.i.n.ky-Dunk's face when that key turned. And now I must stop writing, and go to bed, for I am dog-tired. I know I'll sleep better to-night. It's nice to remember there's a man near, if he happens to be the man you care a trifle about, even though you _have_ calmly turned the door-key on him.

_Sunday the Third_

d.i.n.ky-Dunk has at least the sensibilities to respect my privacy of life.

He knows where the deadline is, and doesn't disregard it. But it's terribly hard to be tragic in a two-by-four shack. You miss the dignifying touches. And you haven't much leeway for the bulky swings of grandeur.

For one whole day I didn't speak to d.i.n.ky-Dunk, didn't even so much as recognize his existence. I ate by myself, and did my work--when the monster was around--with all the preoccupation of a sleep-walker. But something happened, and I forgot myself. Before I knew it I was asking him a question. He answered it, quite soberly, quite casually. If he had grinned, or shown one jot of triumph, I would have walked out of the shack and never spoken to him again. I think he knew he was on terribly perilous ground. He picked his way with care. He asked me a question back, quite offhandedly, and for the time being let the matter rest there. But the breach was in my walls, Matilda Anne, and I was quite defenseless. We were both very impersonal and very polite, when he came in at supper time, though I think I turned a visible pink when I sat down at the table, for our eyes met there, just a moment and no more. I knew he was watching me, covertly, all the time. And I knew I was making him pretty miserable. But I wasn't the least bit ashamed of it.

After supper he indifferently announced that he had nothing to do and might as well help me wash up. I went to hand him a dish-towel. Instead of taking the towel he took my hand, with the very profane e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, as he did so, of ”Oh, h.e.l.l, Gee-Gee, what's the use?”

Then before I knew it, he had me in his arms (our b.u.t.ter-dish was broken in the collision) and I was weak enough to feel sorry for him and his poor tragic pleading eyes. Then I gave up. If I was silly enough to have a little cry on his shoulder, I had the satisfaction of feeling him give a gulp or two himself.

”You're the most wonderful woman in the world!” he solemnly told me, and then in a much less solemn way he began kissing me again. But the barriers were down. And how we talked that night! And how different everything seemed! And how nice it was to feel his arm over my shoulder and his quiet breathing on the nape of my neck as I fell asleep. It seemed as though Love were fanning me with its softest wings. I'm happy again. But I've been wondering if it's environment that makes character, or character that makes environment. Sometimes I think it's one way, and sometimes I feel it's the other. But I can't be sure of my answer--yet!

It's hard for a spoiled woman to remember that her life has to be merged into somebody else's life. I've been wondering if marriage isn't like a two-panel screen, which won't stand up if both its panels are too much in line. Heaven knows, I want harmony! But a woman likes to feel that instead of being out of step with her whole regiment of life it's the regiment that's out of step with her. To-night I unlaced d.i.n.ky-Dunk's shoes, and put on his slippers, and sat on the floor between his knees with my head against the steady _tick-tock_ of his watch-pocket.

”d.i.n.ky-Dunk,” I solemnly announced, ”that gink called Pope was a poor guesser. The proper study of man should have been _woman_!”

_Thursday the Seventh_

Everything at Casa Grande has settled back into the usual groove. There is a great deal to do about the shack. The grimmest bug-bear of domestic work is dish-was.h.i.+ng. A pile of greasy plates is the one thing that gets on my nerves. And it is a little Waterloo that must be faced three times every day, of every week, of every month, of every year. And I was never properly ”broke” for domesticity and the dish-pan! Why can't some genius invent a self-was.h.i.+ng fry-pan? My hair is growing so long that I can now do it up in a sort of half-hearted French roll. It has been quite cold, with a wonderful fall of snow. The sleighing could not be better.

_Sat.u.r.day the Ninth_

d.i.n.ky-Dunk's Christmas present came to-day, over two weeks late. He had never mentioned it, and I had not only held my peace, but had given up all thought of getting a really-truly gift from my lord and master.

They brought it out from Buckhorn, in the bobsleigh, all wrapped up in old buffalo-robes and blankets and tarpaulins. _It's a baby-grand piano_, and a beauty, and it came all the way from Winnipeg. But either the s.h.i.+pping or the knocking about or the extreme cold has put it terribly out of tune, and it can't be used until the piano-tuner travels a couple of hundred miles out here to put it in shape. And it's far too big for the shack, even when pushed right up into the corner. But d.i.n.ky-Dunk says that before next winter there'll be a different sort of house on this spot where Casa Grande now stands.

”And that's to keep your soul alive, in the meantime,” he announced. I scolded him for being so extravagant, when he needed every dollar he could lay his hands on. But he wouldn't listen to me. In fact, it only started an outburst.

”My G.o.d, Gee-Gee,” he cried, ”haven't you given up enough for me?

Haven't you sacrificed enough in coming out here to the end of nowhere and leaving behind everything that made life decent?”

”Why, Honey Chile, didn't I get _you_?” I demanded. But even that didn't stop him.

”Don't you suppose I ever think what it's meant to you, to a woman like you? There are certain things we can't have, but there are some things we're going to have. This next ten or twelve months will be hard, but after that there's going to be a change--if the Lord's with me, and I have a white man's luck!”

”And supposing we have bad luck?” I asked him. He was silent for a moment or two.

”We can always give up, and go back to the city,” he finally said.