Letters of

A Dakota Divorcee

_By Jane Burr_

BOSTON

THE ROXBURGH PUBLISHING CO. 

INCORPORATED

COPYRIGHTED 1909

BY THE ROXBURGH PUBLISHING COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

GRATEFULLY DEDICATED TOMY SIOUX FALLS FRIENDS. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE. 

This little volume will soon assume the proportions of an invaluablereference book as the Divorcee is gradually becoming extinct in SouthDakota. 

Species may thrive in a given latitude and longitude for ages. Suddenlythe atmospheric, climatic, or diatetic conditions become so altered asto preclude the further development of the species--yes even the furthersurvival of the animal. The result may be either of two alternatives:

1st. The animal finding the habitat no longer conducive to its wellbeing may migrate singly or in bunches to another environment. In thiscase scientists have noted that the animal undergoes a considerablemorphological and physiological change. 

2nd. In an environment unfavorable to its existence an animal may becomeextinct. 

In the case of the South Dakota Divorcee the former alternative wouldseem to be the course followed, for up to date the animal has shownitself to be quite too resourceful to lapse into that most archaiccondition--extinctness. 

Time was when it roamed the prairies and hills of the State in vastherds, but owing to the removal of the protective underbrush in the formof the Referendum (which decrees that one year is necessary for itscomplete development), it has gone in great droves to Nevada andOklahoma, which promise to be a more suitable environment for it. 

There are a few rare species left, but they are disconsolate andhang-jawed and by no means representative of the species. In formeryears the Divorcee reached maturity in three short months, and was sotame that it built its lair near the city limits and some even venturedquite into the hearts of the villages and attempted to live there. Butthese were half tamed individuals and by no means indicative of thegenus as a whole. Then peculiar to relate, the environmental influencescaused them to grow less rapidly and six whole months passed before asingle specimen could call itself full fledged. The other Dakota animalssported around with the Divorcee and received it _a bras ouverts_, butthe latter developed a slight _degage_ mannerism and the other beastsgrew alarmed and crawled within their dens. 

Now they have almost died out entirely as the atmosphere grew not onlyunfriendly, but owing to the sudden cool change their development wasintensely slow. The animal originally migrated from New York and thusanything slow would naturally unnerve its intuitively high strungtemperament. 

And if in some future sociological period of the earth's history someantiquarian of the post-aviatorian age, prying into the _modus vivendi_of the men of pre-air-shippian times can learn "a thing or two" aboutthat delicate gazelle-like mammal so as to show his contemporaries how"fierce" living was before the age of trial marriages and legitimateaffinities, the dessicated author will rattle what is left of her teethin a contended mummified smile. 

Duckie Lorna:

Sip a mint julip--slowly, gently, through a long dry straw, then beforeit dies in you, read my P. O. Mark--Sioux Falls, South Dakota, --Yes, I've bolted!

Don't dare to tell anyone where I am for if my husband should find out, he might make me go where I could get a divorce more quickly--You knowI'm here for his health. I would splash round in orange blossoms, andthis is the result. 

My boarding house is a love, furnished with prizes got with soap--"Buyten bars of our Fluffy Ruffles soap, and we will mail you, prepaid, oneof our large size solid mahogany library tables. "

Would you believe dear, that these Sioux Fallians have alreadycomplained because I bathe my dear, shaggy Othello in the bath tub. Andthere isn't a human being here with a pedigree as long as his. 

If you hear any talk about my being seen in a Staten Island beer gardenwith Bern Cameron, don't believe one word of it--we didn't go in at all, the place was too smelly. And that fib about his giving me a diamondring, --deny it please, as I have never shown it to a soul--So you cansee how people manufacture gossip. 

I walk to the Penitentiary for recreation, as I may have to visit theresome day and I never like to be surprised at anything. It isn't refined. 

My Attorney is thoroughly picturesque. He wears a coat in his officethat his wife must have made. His collar came from Noah's grab bag, and, if you remember, there was no washing machine on the ark. A heavygold chain meanders down his shirt front to protect his watch fromimprobable theft. On Sunday he passes the contribution box and isconsidered a philanthropic pest. I asked how much the fee would be andhe said, "One hundred if you furnish witnesses, two hundred if we do. "You can hire a man for five dollars out here to swear that he killedyou. 

When my attorney talks, he sits on his haunches, showing his teeth thatwould do credit to a shark, and fancies he's smiling when he permits hiscracked purple lips to slide back. I wouldn't trust my case to him, onlyhe could not lose if he tried. 

Every time I look at him I wonder if there could be a face behind thatnose and those whiskers, which give his head the appearance of a ferndish. He wears an old silk hat whose nap is attacked with a skindisease. They say he belongs to one of the first families of thistown--first on the way coming up from the station I suppose. He wasmarried years ago, but isn't working at it now. I am so unstrung afterour seances that I feel like crawling right out under a bush and eatingsage. If I weren't afraid of him I'd raise my umbrella while hetalks--his conversation is so showery. In my ingrown heart I hate him sothere is no danger for me, tho' I've heard that he's a perfect fusserwith the women. 

I telephoned the livery stable yesterday and asked if any of the hearsehorses were idle, as I'd like to take a ride. The fellow said he'd sendme a winner, so I togged up in my bloomers, boots and spurs and stood onthe veranda waiting. A young boy galloped up with something draggingbehind him. I said: "Do you call that insect a horse?" he answered; "No, but it used to be, m'am. " The poor creature was all bones and onlywaiting for a nudge to push him into the grave. I mounted the broncho, which kept "bronking, " but after an encouraging tclk-tclk, I made adetour of the block, then sent the nag to the stable. 

There were two children and a dog drowned here yesterday--it almostmakes one afraid to go near the tub. 

The man who sits on my right at the table, says he's here fornervousness. First time I ever heard a divorce called that, but anywaywe all know that he gets out of jail on December, and I will be glad, for the way he plays the anvil chorus with his soup makes me get out ofmy skin backwards. Hope some day that the Devil will play dominoes withhis bones. 

The lady on the other end, chews with her lips and of course I'm alwaysexcited for fear her dinner will fall overboard. The way she jugglesfood would get her a job in the vaudeville game any day. She sits up astho' she'd been impaled, and the shaft broken off in her body. 

Long ago--a being, desirous of unhitchment could come here, rent a room, hang her pajamas in the closet and fade away back to Broadway, but timesare changed, and you must serve six months or the Judge's wife will notlet you have a divorce. The Judge's house is next to mine and the way Ilook demure when I pass, is a heathenism hypocrisy. But he is underpetticoat tyranny and I dread ruffling the petticoat. 

Formerly the law was three months, but the Cataract Hotel had theLegislature change it as they could not make enough money. 

We had chicken last night and asparagus tips--did you ever notice what alot of skin a boarding house chicken has? And the tips just missed byone, being tip. The meals are an unsatisfactory substitute for somethingto eat, and I find myself filling up on bread to keep my stomach andbackbone apart. 

I am up against old timers that are always to be met at boardinghouses--the dear old soldier and the lady "too heavy for lightamusements, and not old enough to sit in the corner and knit, " as GeorgeAde puts it. She is simply ubiquitous; she is everywhere; she does notgossip! Oh no! Still she wonders if they really are married, you know, and if that strange man is her brother or not? Oh you know the wholetribe! Dear old parasites on the body politic! I have also had suddenparalysis of the jaw from looking into a country mirror and was notagain convinced, until consulting my own hand glass during the nightthat one of my eyes had not slipped down below my nose. I can get alongvery well if my hair is not parted at all, but I insist upon my featuresremaining in the same locations. 

I am copying down some of the stories that I hear as they are well worthit, and may come in handy some day. I have the advantage of coming uponthem suddenly for the first time, with an absolute unbiased mind, whichlike the Bellman's chart in "The Hunting of the Snark" is "a perfect andabsolute blank. "

I know I shall go mad before the six months are up, for after ten days, I am down-down deep in a bog of melancholy, and so bored that I feellike the president of the gimlet club. 

My stomach like nature abhors a vacuum, so me to the strangled eggs andbaked spuds which are our unfailing morning diet. 

In the name of Charity, send me messages from the world I love. 

 Devotedly, MARIANNE. 

Dearest Lorna:

There's an old maid here (Heaven knows she's out of place) who wears herhair in one of those "tied for life knots, " and she comes tip-toeing tomy room each night to ask me if I think she'll ever get a man. BecauseI've had one, and am making something that resembles a trousseau, shethinks that I have a recipe for cornering the male market. Her dentalarch is like the porte-cochere of the new Belmont Hotel, and last nighta precocious four-year-old said, "Miss Mandy, why don't you tuck yourteeth in?"--Miss Mandy would if she could but she can't. She is the sortwho would stop her own funeral to sew up a hole in her shroud. 

The moonlight nights here are a perfect irritation, and I really thinkthis moon isn't half as calloused to demonstration as our dear old NewYork moon. There are so few men here that the female congregation isgetting terribly out of practice. 

I have found out lately that our attorneys out here rob us of everythingand politely allow us to keep the balance. 

My abode of virtue is filled with furniture from the vintage of theearly forties and I sit in it alone and am so pathetically good, that Iam beginning to suspect myself. 

You know I was born when I was very young and have been desperately tidyabout my morals ever since, but for fear of stumbling just because I'mso bored I have entrenched myself behind a maddening routine. Six monthshere ought to put ballast into the brain of the silliest. 

I think that marriage has become a social atrophy, and I never want tobe guilty of irrevocably skewering two hearts together. 

I fear myself only when I'm bored. Eve never would have flirted with thesnake if Adam hadn't got on her nerves. I always could resist everythingbut temptation. 

Bern once told me that every married man ought to be made to run afterhis wife. And I told him he'd be out of breath most of the time if hetied up with me. 

I went to church Sunday and the funny man at the head of the table saidhe was going round to view the ruins in the afternoon. Father Time, whosits opposite me and mows down the food said, "Every stylish woman Isee, I know she's getting a divorce and I can't understand it, as mostof them are good looking. " I answered "You didn't see the other half. "

I am not going to correspond with Bern as our mail might be intercepted. For although I'm passing through the mournful ceremony of losing myhusband in South Dakota, I don't want to gather too much dust on myskirts on the way to the funeral. We send each other registered lettersevery day--but that's different--nobody could possibly get those. 

There is a woman here who does a queer, pretty sort of embroidery. Andshe said this morning with unquenchable urbanity, "I will learn you howto do shadow work. " Now Bern and I have been busy on all sorts of shadowwork for the past four years in New York, but this is a differentpattern. Sioux Falls is plethoric of widows and when one is freed, theother convicts writhe under the burden of their stripes. Dearie, won'tyou drop in and try to quiet my dressmaker? She is beginning to showevidences of dissatisfaction--inscrutable sign-manual of finances at lowtide. I'm not rich but I'm sweet and clean--did I hear two dollars and adish of cherries?

I have bought a calendar with the dates on a block of pages--one pagefor each day, just for the joy of tearing them off with a vim everytwenty-four hours. Sometimes I allow two days to pass, then I do a wardance like a Sioux, wild at the opportunity of pulling off a couple at atime. 

There is a N. Y. Central time table on my desk and I am eternallylooking up train connections until I feel like a bureau of information. I have enough money to get back on, tucked away in my stocking. And ifI have to take in washing I won't touch it. Funds are getting very lowso I've started writing short stories again but "like" usual, publishersdon't seem to recognize a genius and my P. O. Box is always filled withlong yellow comebacks--slip enclosed "Sorry we find your valuable Mss. Unavailable for our publication, etc. " However, nothing beats trying butfailure. And although everything on this mud ball looks inky, and I amonce more Past Grand Master of Hoodoo Philosophy, I shall grit my teethand push ahead as I have done a thousand times before. My debts aregrowing like a snow ball and although I am not entirely broke, I am sobadly bent that it ceases to be funny. There isn't a blooded dog hereexcept the ones we Easterners bring. The Sioux Falls dogs are like thepeople--you can't tell exactly what breed they are, but as a few of theN. Y. Lawyers and doctors and a few of the N. Y. Dogs have remainedhere, we hope for a better blending in the next litter. 

There is an Englishman here who calls himself "Chappie" but "Baw Jove"he never saw the other side of the Atlantic if I am any judge. But youcan hand these people any sort of pill and they'll swallow it withoutmaking a face. We have no indigestible pleasures here, but the food. Iam suffering from gastric nostalgia. I was so hungry for something sharpand sour last night that I bought a bottle of horse-radish and ate it incold blood. Today my digestive apparatus is slumped and I feel like theragged edge of a misspent career. 

Every night the man in the next room, treats himself to a skin full andcomes home so pleasantly lit up that he has to be put to bed. Last nighthe must have drunk like the sands of the desert, for he was a bit moretipsy than ever and flung apologies and hiccoughs over my transom. 

I look back upon my old life as an impression received in the dawn, andalready it seems but a level highroad on a gray day. Marriage laws weremade by old maids--any one can see that. And they have decreed thatconjugal love, apart from passion, is elevating and a woman in yieldingherself may evict the sanctum of love if the man may legally call herhis own. It's all wrong dear--woman has been sacrificed to the family. And what a degrading imitation of Nature to propagate the species. Howglorious never again to be shod in the slippers of matrimony--I seem todemand the advantages of marriage with none of the drawbacks. 

To return to things less serious, Othello hates something about my newcombination lingerie and barks like fury when I put it on--maybe it isthe blue ribbon--I'll try a dash of lavender tomorrow. 

You will agree that my _geistes ab vesend_ has reached an alarmingdegree when I tell you that this A. M. After my tub, I liberally dashedtooth powder all over my body instead of talcum. 

My affection is all for you--for the opposite sex it seems to have grownas cold as a raked-out oven. 

 Goodnight, MARIANNE. 

 September 21. 

Most Precious Lorna:

I am excited--excited--from the bottom lift on my French heels to thetop hair on my golden puffs. 

Now who would have thought that the "Fate Sisters" would discover me wayout here and sit on the corner of Minnesota and 12th spinning theirbreakable yarn. 

Well--well--yesterday the one with the weary look and the crooked nose, got a knot in her twine and this is how it happened. I was crossing thisMinnie-something street, when a shrill siren and the cannonade of apowerful exhaust warned me to stay my tootsies. I wasn't looking for abig white aseptic machine out here or any other kind, so the bloomingthing crashed into us and rather than have Bunky hurt, I ran the risk(not quite, but nearly) of losing my life, but not until I had assuredmyself that the man at the wheel was exotic to this soil. 

Zip-bang-gasoline-smoke! and I was fished out, laid tenderly on the backseat and rushed to a druggery. I allowed the dramatic spirits ofpneumonia to be forced down my throat by his manicured hands and somehowI couldn't find the courage to take my head away from his shoulder--itwas such a comfy, tailored Fifth Avenue shoulder. You know myreputation--30 years in a circus and never lost a spangle. 

What is it that the Christian Scientists have on their souvenir spoons:"There is no life in matter?"--well old girl I can sign a testimonial tothe opposite. Poor little Bunky added one more knot to his tail duringthe mix-up, but as every knot is worth twenty-four dollars on a Frenchbull pup's tail, I don't mind this acquisition. 

I was asked the other day if Bunk was a Pomeranian and I said, "No, aFrench bull pup. " The woman answered, "That's the same thing, isn't it?"

Finally with a little home-made sob I opened my eyes and asked the samequestion that Eve put to Adam the morning after God had presented himwith that poisonous bon-bon. "Where am I?" and it's none of yourinquisitive business what he answered. The white auto will call tonightto see of I'm still living and meantime I have ordered fifty yards ofwhite dabby stuff from "Fantles" to keep busy on. No--not a trousseau--Ishall never--never marry again--I'm too full of experience. 

I told the white auto that I had been hemmed in so long that I did notknow how to act in decent society any more and he said he's the besthem-ripper that ever lived, so I think I'll take a chance. Isn't there agreat difference in men, dear? But, in husbands--they vary only in thecolor of their hair. 

I'm so glad motors stand without hitching. Now you'll say "Can't youleave men alone for six months?" Sometimes my conscience does getfeverish and bothers me, but it's so seldom that I am grateful for thechange as it acts as a stimulation to my gray matter--whatever that is. 

My honest intentions were to leave off my puffs and artificials whilehere, just to give Nature a chance, but now that I have been run over byan auto I consider the plan inadvisable. 

There are dandy golf links here but they don't allow "Divorsays" on theground. The Sioux Falls women, (cats for short) had it stopped threeyears ago, because they were all neglected when any number of my tribeappeared. 

Not a soul knows what I'm here for. One must never tell. That's thefirst divorce colony by-law. I have become a perfect diplomat and knowhow to keep still in three languages. I just casually told my troublesto the boarding house keeper and her daughters, but they don't count, asthey are such dears, and it won't go any further. 

As long as I live, my attorney says, I must sign in hotel registers fromSioux Falls--If I do the clerks will stoop to pick cockle burrs andtumble weeds off my skirts and help me to loosen my Indianwampum--whatever that is. 

Father Time, whom I mentioned in my last and who possesses as muchenergy for getting divorces (this being his third time on earth) asRoosevelt exhibits in the Baby market, has taken to peddling "The LadiesHome Journal, " and the "Saturday Evening Post, " and if you only knew howcunning he looks with his abbreviated coat and short, quick, littlesteps, you would give a dollar for a picture of him to paste in yourbook of curiosities of the world. 

Court was in session last week and all sorts of real Indians paraded thestreets. They weren't like our dear old Irish Indians on ManhattanIsland, who perambulate inside little houses placarded with one nightcorn cures; these were the real article and their wives walked behind, just like New York wives, carrying an orphan asylum on their backs andprovisions for the week on their hips. 

Poor down trodden creatures. I feel like organizing a class to show themhow to _marcelle_ their mops and "straight front" their stomachs. Atommyhawk for me and no mop to _marcelle_ if I try to revolutionizeIndiandom. 

Last night at a wonderful performance of Fiske in "Rosmerholm, " thehouse was packed with Indians and in the ghostly part where everybodythrows himself into the mill-stream, Squaw Sloppy-Closey and ChiefMany-Licey opened soda pop and passed it to each other for a drink outof the same bottle. Poor Fiske was horrified and threatened to stop theperformance if the soda pop artillery didn't cease its bombarding. 

The wind tears around the corner of my room on the bias and the catskeep up a Thomas Concert beneath my windows all night long. No wonder Ihave nightmares. Last night I dreamed that I was a saint with an applepie for a halo--this boarding house pie habit will eventually tell onthe strongest nerves. 

Last night I cut my leg on a barbed wire--no dear I wasn't hurdling thefence--the wire was on the side walk, where everything except thekitchen stove usually lies. I hope I won't have lockjaw--it's harder ona woman than it is on a man anytime. I was just thinking how clever itwould be, if a man who had a chattering wife, would keep a bunch ofrusty pins on hand. 

I sat down to the piano this morning and ran through that pyrotechnical_Solfigetto_ by the other Bach, and Father Time, who sat enchanted, said, "You and the piano has met before. " It's a shame to cheat theaged. 

Thank heaven that the sunshine is free and that the florist's window isgratis to look at, otherwise on my slender means I should have to takeadvantage of the bankrupt law. 

My old friend Insomnia again stands incessantly at the foot of my bedand bids me corner the sunrise market. A heavy heart is mine tonight andthough I try to fancy beautiful pictures in the crystal ball of thefuture, I grow sick with anticipation as the visions fall away beforethey are half formed, leaving me melancholy and wondering if there is anangel somewhere who collects the sighs of such ever-repressed feeling. 

 Goodnight, MARIANNE. 

 October 5. 

Lorna Dear:

Well, Lorna, you and I were "all day suckers" to believe that Mrs. Phyllis Lathrop was touring California; I bumped plump into heryesterday in front of the poor-house. No, dear, I did not go there tostay, merely to visit. Phyllis is nice in her red-headed way and lookedvery fresh and sweet with the lower part of her face lost in a tulleabyss. She lives just a whisper away from me--so strange I haven't seenher before. She's trotting around with a Sioux Falls fellow who lookslike a Dutch luncheon favor. Every time he lifts his hat I look forbon-bons to drop out. Says she must be loving someone all the time, evenif she is considered in the light of an accommodation train. She's theunfinished sort of a woman who carries her beauty around in little tubesand seems so used to audiences that I always feel that she must havesung between the acts. 

_Town Topics_ said something about "The soft breezes of Californiarestoring the bloom to Phyllis' cheeks"--to think that _T. Ts_ gotfogged in the matter is consoling to such lesser lights as you and I. You can take it from me, "the soft breezes of California" are blowinginto her room in a nearby Sioux Falls boarding house, but instead ofbeing laden with the scent of flowers they are redolent of hash from thecookery. I'll take off my hat to her. She was a slick duck. Of courseshe denied nothing to me--her time is up soon; then she will lay herhistory before the Judge, who is always busy picking hairs from hiscoat and doing other things of vital import while you pour out yourheart's woes. 

The fellow whose motor sent me to the brink of the Styx, is nowpreparing me by night light to take the 33d degree of happiness. Youhave heard of him I know, Carlton Somerville, the Wall Street broker. Iforget what it was his wife did that got on his nerves, but anyway hetoo is hibernating in Sioux Falls clay. We have gotten "First-namey" andhave frankly decided that in order to keep our cleverness from dying ofinanition, we will practice on each other. 

How could you, my dearest friend, accuse me of being forgetful of Bern?He wouldn't appreciate me at all if I forgot how. And really six monthsof non-practice would be ruination. 

Carlton has fallen in love over his depth with that beefy Mrs. Claymoreand takes me motoring to pour his love (of her) into my aurallabyrinths. I don't object to playing second fiddle, but when it comesto holding the triangle for the drummer, I pass blind. Never mind, whilehe isn't watching some day he'll get stung, for I'm really fond of him. You say that you are so much stronger willed than I am--did you everlook at yourself in the mirror? Carlton has eyes that I adore--they arethe deeply sad sort that would make one think that love had passed thatway. If it really hasn't, he might as well begin to put up the grandstand and have the tickets printed. My dear, I'd never marry another manwith a memory--most inconvenient asset that a husband can possess. 

"Chappie, " the Englishman, has started a society paper--sort of sixmonths gestation of _Town Topics_, so Carlton and I are batting aroundafter midnight, so "we won't become saw. " There are all sorts of ways tomake a bee buzz. Do keep Bern from wearing red ties while I'm gone andgive him a shove along the straight and narrow, once and so often. 

After a month and a half of drinking Sioux Falls water, I would bring ahigher price as a lime kiln than I would in the woman market. One's peltgets wind tanned and such a thing as a daintily flushed face is asunlooked for out here as consideration from the natives. 

My head ached so yesterday that I called on a doctor, "Visit includingall medicine, one dollar. " Isn't it "patetic?" He raved about theclimate and said he brought his wife here with T. B. , and she improvedso much. Naturally I asked, "How is she now?" He said, "O, she's dead. "Don't blame him for raving about the climate, do you?

My dear it is worth a trip out here to see a whist party "let out. " No, not "bridge, "--they haven't heard of it yet--just plain whist; but as Iwas saying, to see one turn out with its white alpaca skirt and bluesatin ribbon belt. I've paid two dollars at Hammerstein's to see thingsnot half so funny. O, for a sip of Fleischman's coffee--there aregrounds for divorce in every cup out here. The butter we eat, walks infrom the country alone, and at every meal we get smashed potatoes piledas high as the snow on the Alps. I can't look a potato in the eye anymore. 

There is a couple here on business from Michigan, --a Mr. And Mrs. Jones, odd name that. Isn't it sad that they are so happily married, they mightboth be getting divorces, but as it is they are simply wasting a yearout here for nothing. I passed the Judge on the street this morning andI was so nervous that I walked bow-legged. But thanks to _skirts etcetera-et cetera_. 

I have sampled all the churches and have finally landed at the ChristianScience house of worship, as I would rather any day hear a pianola grindout its _papier mache_ music than listen to a poor performer. 

If I had Carnegie's millions, I'd go straight to Chicago, buy a big, fat, thick, beef steak, step into the middle of it and eat my way out. I'm hungry, hungry. I worry down the "dope" that they deal out in thedining room, then go back to my sanctum and finish on limey water andcrack-nells--you know what they are, a powdery sort of counterfeit cakethat chokes you to death if you happen to breathe while you're chewingit. 

Last night while trying to cut some stringy roast beef and still retainmy dignity, the man with the red tie said: "Put your other foot on it. "I'm afraid if I don't eat potatoes again, my stomach will shrivel sothat I will never be able to sit through a course dinner when I getback. Potatoes distend it all right--I feel like I have swallowed onewing of Fleischman's yeast factory whenever I eat them. You have to comedown on the meat with such force to make any impression on it, that moregets pushed up between your teeth than goes down your alimentary canal;then you spend the balance of the night squandering Japanese dentalfloss. I unconsciously finish my prayers with "Lord preserve us fromthe holy trinity of roast beef, roast mutton and roast pork. "

You can recognise one of the clan in a moment by what is known as the"Divorsay jaw. " No feek and weeble expression on our faces but "Do ordie" is the look we have in our optics. 

Every time I go to church I vow I'll never go again. The organ isasthmatic and the wheezing gets on my gray matter. 

The Judge has begun to wear a fur coat--Dakota cow fur, I think, and helooks for all the world like a turkey gobbler in distress. 

I sleep on what they call here a "sanitary couch. " Can't fathom themystery of the name, for mine is so chucked with dust that I dream I'min a sand storm crossing the Sahara, and when I awaken my sympathies arekeen with the camel. 

There's a new boarder here whose face looks like a chapel and every timeshe opens her mouth you're afraid it's going to be the Lord's Prayer. She wears a wide ruching which makes her look excited; distributestracts, and can't see a joke. She says she's Miss and leaves envelopesaround with "Mrs. " written on them in red ink--modest writing fluid I'vealways considered it. 

Will you buy me some new puffs? Mine are all ratty and I feelbare-footed without them. Enclosed is a clipping from my hair. Read itcarefully. False hair is no crime as long as it matches--like thatGerman song that says "Kissing is no sin with a pretty woman. "

Have you caught "Three Weeks" yet? I had a violent attack a few daysago. Cured it with a small dose of Christian Science before meals andsome of Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_, which I shook well after using. 

You can imagine what disastrous effect Eleanor Glynn's book had on the"Divorce Colony. " We all bunched together and said "What's the use, " andif it hadn't been for the old man who eats his soup out loud, we wouldhave bolted in a mass to suggest "Free Love" to our respective"Fiascos"--Dakota's past tense for "Fiance. "

I long so to flash my calciums on a Fifth Ave. Stroller that I'd flirtwith God if I met him. 

I close dear with a sigh over my chin, which is getting triple (aninvention of the devil). 

 _Auf wiedersehen_, MARIANNE. 

 October 25. 

My Dear:

I've changed lodgings and before I took the new chambers, I inquired ofthe landlady if there was any electricity in the house and she answered"Yes, " so today I asked here where it was, and she pointed to thetelephone. O, me! O, my! this life is wearing me to a fraz!

Last week the autumn leaves fell and in order to show Mrs. Judge howsimple and near to nature I live, I raked their lawn, and ours, clean, and stood long after dark making huge bonfires on a line with thesidewalk. But lo! the fleas that were of the earth became the fleas ofme and I have occupied most of my time since scratching. But anythingto pass the hours away. 

Our hedges are cut for the last time this fall, and look as though theyare fresh from the barber. Isn't that phrase "for the last time" themost desolate utterance that a human voice can make? It goes thunderingdown the aisles of time only to be lost in the arcana of treacherousmemory. To dream for the last time--to love for the last time--bittercontemplation--funereal introspection. 

I am suffering from acute nostalgia--by this time you are standing inthe gun-room at Keith Lodge, drinking your first. I can hear Duncan ask:"Scotch or Irish, " and see you tip it off with Blake and the rest. Nobridge for you tonight--early to bed and tomorrow morning you'll allstart out in your natty knickers and short kilts to murder things thatwill fall in bloody feathery heaps at your feet. Native woodcock, jacksnipe, black mallard, grouse, etc. , the restless eager setters doingtheir own retrieving; the soft dank ground daintily overspread with thefrond of marvelous fern like my window pane this morning with itsdelicate tracery in frost; the tall-stemmed alders echoing your shots toskyward; the big dense timber with its springy ground all saturated withthe fragrance of the mounting sea: I seem like something dead whisperingto you from the tomb. Nothing lasts longer than twenty-four hours in NewYork--not even a memory, so no one misses me. It's another of God'sjollies and I know I'm ungrateful dear, for you are thinking of me Iknow, with my dear old "Sport" ready to point for you tomorrow, just toreceive your pats of recognition and thanks. My feelings are worn intomeaningless smoothness like the head on an old coin, and because I haveadded my quota of absurdity to the morning papers I am no longerinteresting. But, pshaw! one can't buy cocaine for a nickel, and as Icould live extravagantly on the interest of my debts, I haven't morethan five cents to invest. 

Don't mind this slump in grit--it will return to par and slang tomorrow. Keep a record of all you do to send to me, and above all--win the cup. With whom are you shooting?

I will now stuff the cracks of my door with medicated cotton, open theportholes and smoke my cigarette alone--Lord preserve me, if anybodyknew! See if you can't get the Humane Society to form a branch out hereto feed and water the widows. 

I have just returned from a little walk with Carlton--I suppose my eyesprattled, for he smiled at me through his wrinkles and was rather morethoughtful of my comforts than usual. His _Insouciance_ is charming andalways turns the tide of my melancholy. He is the only man who everventured to stand on my tack and take me broadsides. We have framed up alittle Bacchic plot to be enacted on our way back from the Post where Ishall soon meander to mail this on the late Rock Island. 

I am certainly in love, because I know the symptoms, but I can't tellwith whom. Some temperature, high pulse and strange flutterings--but whois the victim? Bern or Howard in New York or Carlton here? The thoughtof all of them stirs me, so how am I to know which is in the lead? Hopethe period of incubation will soon be over and the blooming thing assertitself. I have often been vaccinated and the thing always takes, butstill I am not immune and never will be until I am six feet under, evenif I live to be an hundred years old! Did you catch the an? But it'sdisgusting not to know whether it is the measles or something worse, however I am taking all precautions and awaiting developments. 

I often wonder what I'll do with my decree when I get it--I can't wearit on my finger, and it certainly isn't the thing for gold leaf and ashadow box--Oh! I shan't waste time placing it; perhaps Carlton willfind a pigeon-hole for it somewhere. 

I haven't written to Bern in days, but I don't care; I never considereda banker as one of the human race, anyway. Poor Bern; he's thrown outlike a bill in Parliament! Beaten by a blackball called Carlton--I'dhate to see him now. Roland the Furious is charming in a poem, but in adrawing room, prosaic and expensive. 

Carlton and I went to church Sunday and were refused communion--the deargood Bishop has but one eye, so he sees things half way. I said: "Ifthis is God's table, I want communion, if it's the Episcopal, I don't. "In his sermon he called divorcees "social lepers, social filthiness, "and said: "After the new law goes into effect, we'll have no moredumping here. " He's an old pop-gun that shoots spit-balls, so the woundshe makes are not fatal. Carlton refuses to go to church here or anywhereelse again, and will once more trudge along his Sunday field of Bacchuscultivated by Venus. 

By the way, after June 1st, all divorcees will be required to stay oneyear, then they won't come at all. Oklahoma had a hunch and changed herlaw back to three months. Now the colony will transplant itself, thenwatch the death agony of Sioux Falls. She's foolish--foolish! TheEasterners have made this burg what it is. Take away our influence andshe'll sink into nothingness again. Some of us are bad, but all of usare not; however, the Sioux Falls gossips make no distinction. They lifttheir $2. 98 skirts when they pass us, for fear of inoculation by the_bacillus_ divorce. I often wonder if they realize that the prejudice isreturned with compound interest. 

When any new gossip is born, they fly around the streets like the beadsof a rosary when the string is snapped. Perhaps you haven't noticed howserious this letter is. I'm frowning as I write--a habit most bad on theeyebrows--surest of signs that I am sinking again into the quagmire oflove. 

I have felt my pulse so often and know all the symptoms--which I morethan enjoy scrutinizing--not even the finest emotion escapes me. Ibelieve that I play the game well for I am still unjaded, which isunusual with so much over-feeding. 

Is your new fur coat unborn lamb, or did it happen? Speaking ofpossessions--my appendix still gives me ample proof of its constancy. The blue devils are chasing me today and I am wearing the expressionthat sits on the lips of every portrait in every exhibition. I smile tokeep from crying, because if I cry--I'm lost!

As I am of the experienced elite of society that sups, I must bid youadieu--I promise more jocosity in my next. 

 Affy, MARIANNE. 

 December 1. 

Since writing you I have heard the turkey gobbler say his last prayerand have had a coming out party for "Penny, " short for appendix. Thereceiving party was comprised of two eminent surgeons, two trainednurses, who served adhesive plaster and instruments, and an "etherist"who poured. Costumes were uniformly white with great profusion of gauzetrimmings, with which I also eventually became somewhat decorated. Oneof the internes wasn't half bad, so I kept the nurse busy combing myadopted hair and pinning it on becomingly. It is a much quicker andeasier process to have your appendix cut out than your husband. 

I was away four weeks and am now back in Sioux and well taken care of bymy landlady, whose hair and face disagree as to age. My walls are hungwith ten-cent store art, and if I were not awfully strong-minded I couldnot overcome the effect. 

The white auto called last night, and as my head rested on his shoulderour conversation was the rambling sort that may be ticketed "all rightsreserved, " so I won't repeat it as the postmaster-general would refuseme stamps in the future if I sent it through the mail. In Chicago they'dtake out my phone if I squeaked it over the wires. Carlton is deeplyinterested in some mines out here--spinach mines I think. I made up mymind to something last night--I am determined to get him away from thatcarrotty giraffe whom he used to believe he loved. If in myconvalescent state I am unable to arouse his sympathy, I'll relapse intowhite muslin emotions and thereby gain my end. I am made from dust andthe slightest rustle from the right man's coat can blow me whithersoeverit willeth. You know I am a spoiled child who has had everything itwanted, so bon-bons no longer excite me. Carlton is so thin that you cansee daylight through his lattice work, and cold as paving stone inwinter. He's a real "millionery, " but his cash is 40 degrees below, so Iam determined to warm up his eagles and teach them to fly. I am going totouch that cash box under his left breast and show him that the devilhas a sister. The man wants bleeding--he has too many bank notes in hisveins. He seems to be toppling so I might as well register him in my"Book of Mistakes. "

Do you know that I still keep a record of these undying passions of minewith a picture of each culprit attached, and Carlton is 999. I thought, when I was sixteen, I would record the one divine fire that waslike to consume me, and now I have eighteen volumes of this105-degrees-in-the-shade literature, all bound alike in a perfect_edition de luxe_. I'd rather regret what I have done than what I havenot done. You dear old ostrich, I can hear you sigh over me, but don'tyou waste your gasoline. You, too, should have callouses on youremotions by this time. 

Bunky and Othello have both decided to bark at my chemiselets andskirtlets in one, --maybe they think they are too flossy to be concealed. I agree there. 

Phyllis Lathop's lawyer, Mr. Maryan Soe Early, got her decree for herlast week and she flew back on the 3. 30 train to Manhattan and GordonBooth. Of course everyone knows that he is booked. 

Her plea was extreme cruelty; said her husband struck her. The dear oldjudge asked her to explain in detail some of the circumstances of herhusband's brutality. She said: "While crossing Lake Michigan there was aterrible storm on, and as my husband was descending from the upperberth, the boat lurched and he struck me with his elbow. " Phyllis saidthe judge smiled very broadly and gave her her decree on "ExtremeNerve, " instead of "Extreme Cruelty. "

She writes that she and Gordon are having such times together--battingaround their old stamping ground, Bronx Park--strange how hard it is toovercome habits. They slink off to the New York woman's trysting placewhen there is no longer any reason for secrecy. One bitter cold day lastwinter Bern and I met Phyllis and Gordon in the very spot that we alwaysfrequented, and poor individuals were stamping their feet to keep themfrom freezing. The monkey house was full of people and they dared notremain there any longer. We all smiled as much as to say: "You don'ttell, and I certainly won't. " Not a word ever came out, so the treatywas well kept. Bern and I were more or less engaged at the time. 

We laughed over it when she was out here, and I asked her why she neverrepeated it, as she never keeps anything to her gossipy self. Sheanswered: "If I had said that I had seen you there, I would have had toexplain my own presence in the park, and I never incriminate myself. "She says that "there are two new kinds of monkeys out there and onelooks like Elbert Hubbard--sits all day surrounded by his hair. "

She's running a bar in connection with her tea table now, which isequivalent to putting salt on the tail of the social male bird. She canhardly believe that she's free, and says that it will take some time forher to realize "that there aint no beast. " Isn't it strange that themost fascinating lover in the world can turn into the veriest beastwithin six months after he has hit you on the head and dragged yousenseless into his Fifth Avenue home? Of course you're senseless or youwould not have tied up. 

Phyllis says that she has gotten out of the habit of decent food, thatevery time she really dines, she gets strange pains in her underneath. Iwish I could fly back home, but I must grit my teeth and get rid of mybeast too. I wonder which breed I'll try next time. Boston Bull, Isuppose, I think that's where Carlton was first kenneled. 

I have a large stove in my sitting-room and keep it going myself. Othello looks as though he'd laugh himself to death every time I putcoal on--darn his pelt! He's crazy over Sioux Falls--possibly becausethere are seven dogs to the city block. He goes away on bridal toursevery few days and then I have to get out a search warrant. I could livequite decently if I did not have to invest in so many rewards for him. 

It is so terribly cold here that my very thoughts are frozen and myhot-water bag does nightly service. The thing sprung a leak last weekand I took it to a garage to ask if they would mend it, and the fellowanswered: "Certainly, madam, we have quite a trade in hot-water bottlesand "nature's rivals. "" I have also found out that the only place to buyburnt wood is at Mr. Trepaning's the undertaker and embalmer. 

All the stiff and crackling branches of the trees are weighted down witha three-inch ruching of snow. It is all silently fascinating, especiallyso because since starting this letter two short raps at my windowannounce Carlton who comes each night to accompany me to the late postafter the landlady is snoozing. His arms are around me as I scrawl, andthe thousand tiny little thrills that answer so eagerly to hisnearness, assure me that it is not deplorable to be thirty-nine. 

 Good night, MARIANNE. 

 December 20. 

So near Xmas, dear, yet none of the Yule-tide joys float out to thisfrozen wilderness. Snow, snow everywhere. The tall alders, whose vividcoloring so inspired me when I arrived, are now black and gaunt, and thepitiless desert wind comes tearing and howling from the north to bendand crack their stiffened joints. I often wonder--am I any more thearbiter of my fate than these lifeless snow-draped spectres around me. 

Carlton left the hotel almost a week ago and took the room next to mine. We are hopelessly in love with each other, and he wonders how he evercould have thought of accepting happiness from Mrs. Claymore, accompanied by so many freckles and a half million dollars. 

As for Bern, dear, he will survive. I am much older than he is, so thatsome day he would be forty with all his emotions and I would be fiftywith the rheumatism--it would never do. Henceforth I shall be prodigalof negatives, except where Carlton is concerned. 

We have attained the intimacy which thinks aloud, and instead of hatingSioux Falls and longing for my sentence to expire, I am beginning toworship every inch of the ground, and only pray that such an exileshould last forever. 

None of the fulminating fires that I have heretofore known aremine--only calm and peace and the joys born of a perfect understanding. We have not let the moment slip when souls meet in comprehension. Ialmost decided not to confide all this to you, but it slipped off mypen and I'm not sorry, for no woman living was ever before blessed witha friend like you. You and I have visited the lowest Dantesque circlesof despair together, and no confidence between us could amount to anindiscretion. 

Our landlady thinks that we are merely speaking acquaintances, and it isbest, as this new-found sympathy must not be distilled by Sioux Fallsscandal-mongers, though I should like to shout it from the house topsthrough a megaphone, I am so happy and proud of it. 

So you shot with Aldrich and he tried to get you to buy "SteelPreferred. " I am glad you did not invest and sorry you did not win thecup. I shall never again shoot for pleasure. I am ashamed of mytrophies. Perhaps love has made me mushy but I don't regret it as hatemade me flinty. Have you noticed how our bonds have slumped--the wholething was a Golden Fleece. Commercialism bores me to extinction. Isuppose the world began with trade, since Adam sold Paradise for apippin. 

Are you still of the opinion that tradespeople should be branded on theforehead down to the third generation?--you dear snobbish treasure. 

Henceforth I shall only deal in sentimental tramways and have shares inthe moral funds--maybe not moral according to the threadbare ideal ofthe genus _homo sapiens_. 

Surprising that a girl as young as Alice Noah--no relation to the fellowwho built the ark--should just take out legal separation papers in NewYork. How can the _modus vivendi_ suit her better than divorce? Perhapsshe wants to cinch her alimony until she finds another affinity. ThenAlice for Dakota. It is foolish to cut your financial string when youmight just as well dangle, especially until you find something worthdropping for. 

Dear, will you please send me a reel of Sirdars? I can't smoke anythingelse and no one sells them out here. Our landlady has one eye that looksup the chimney and another that goes cellar wards and Carlton says thatshe always regards him obliquely--never mind, she is a good stupid souland I can forgive a landlady anything but perspicacity. I don't see howour intimacy has escaped her, --to me it looks like the first foreignsticker on an American five dollar dress suit case. 

Why do you write such short letters? Is it because you have but alimited number of ideas and must dispense them carefully?

What did Philip Leighton die of? His wife, I suppose. They never hadanything in common but the kiddies. That means no more hunts atBlackburn Heath unless someone careless like Philip absorbs the estate. Mrs. Philip was a Pennsylvania girl. _N'est ce pas?_ That accounts forher effulgent spontaneity. Isn't it a shame for me to wax bombastic overa girl who, if she were just a little brighter, might be called halfwitted. She's the girl with the massive mother, who suffers fromdislocated adjectives. They say when she was married her prayer book wasmissing, so she carried a cake of ivory soap instead--The mother wasdivorced and could have had alimony if she had wanted it, but she hadbetter sense than to want it. She has venomous optics--the fellows usedto say they flew when she flashed her calciums; ugly as the seven deadlysins and so mannish that I was always afraid her trousers would showbeneath her petticoats. The giddy old cat! If she had been hanging sinceher sixtieth birthday, she would certainly be breathless now. 

All day, dear, I go about my duties with a most ladylike absence ofpassion, but when night comes I cross the sandy waste of the past andstretch out my hands to fondle the idea of perfect companionship. Ourthoughts seem to be a reverberation of the same thunderous roll, andwhile they are not identical, they are of the same breadth andelevation. The conditions of propinquity are responsible; and as lovedid not come to me, I had to do as Mahomet did with the mountain. 

When he goes from me, Joy vanishes, but leaves a bright track of lightbehind, which bursts upon me through the clouds of cigarette smoke thathe has left. 

Each day I awaken more warmed and thrilled, like the sun which finds themountain tops that he touched with his departing rays still warm when hesends his shaft of light in the morn. 

No maelstrom of distrust do we feel, only a mighty, overpowering passionthat no undress of intimacy can ever destroy. 

Good-night, friend of my babyhood, my girlhood, my womanhood. Mygreetings for your birthday. 

 Affy, MARIANNE. 

 February 10. 

Don't be cross with me, dear, I am in no danger. Your repeated letterscame--I read them, then straightway forgot that they should be answered. It is no evidence of a lessening of my love for you, but because lifehas become so mysteriously perfect for me that I dream away my hours. 

One night, seemingly a million years ago, but really only within thepresent week, I felt cold as I stood by my stove and plaited my hair--Ihave nice hair, Lorna, haven't I? But I didn't seem to notice it. I wasin my nightie and I shivered. My white chiffon bedspread with the pinkroses strewn over it was near, so I drew it close about me and felt thatI had protected myself from the chill. It wasn't an external chill thatmade me quake, but something old and deep-rooted and lonely that camefrom the depths of the soul in me and begged and pleaded forrecognition. 

The big stove with its dozens of mica eyes threw out comforting littlerays of coziness, but the real me still shivered. I walked to the windowand opened it. Strange, disquieting, but gracious thoughts that I hadlost somewhere in the twilight of the night before, came riding back tome on a snow flurry--it was so still that I feared to breathe, lest Idisturb the solitude--the sky wasn't heavy and gray, but clear and blueand seemed like a soft silken canopy that the gaunt maples upheld toprotect me and my love, and the virgin snow that fell on my outstretchedarms in soft little rosettes that disappeared as our loves sometimes dowhen they have but let us feel the deliciousness of their possession. 

The heavy old door between my room and his creaked with rustiness andage, as for the first time in years it turned upon its hinges. Carltonhad watched for my last good-night signal and grew alarmed at itsabsence and my quietude. 

I wonder why I didn't feel embarrassed--all I know is that after hediscovered a comfortable angle in my Morris, I crawled into his arms andlay there quietly without a word until dawn the next morning. Our sleepwas rhythmic, just like our love. What a strange beautiful night wepassed and how difficult it would be to make the world believe!

Awakening, I felt something cold around my neck, and there, dear girl, he had fastened pearls while I slept in his arms. I cannot even imaginetheir value, as I know nothing of jewels but how to accept and wearthem. 

Such a gift is wonderful at any time, but how much more subtly charmingto have it fastened on you as you lay, comfy and subconscious in hisstrong and doubtless aching arms. Such peace, peace, dear, would havebenumbed Napoleon; but I need few other interests--my universe begins athis head and ends at his feet. 

This is the purest jag of joy that I have ever been on in my life, and Iwonder that one small blonde woman is able to allow herself so muchspark and not have her engines explode. 

I always fancied that I should die if such an ideal existence evenattempted to show its face to me; and instead, I take my soup beforeit's cold, put my shoes on my feet, my hat on my head, retire and ariseat the usual hours. 

He embroiders his talk with bungalows, steam yachts and motor cars forthe future, while I fear to buy a pair of boots before a consultationwith my trousers pocket. I find myself imprisoned in a banker'sportfolio, floundering in statements covered with red ink. He doesn'tdream that such is the case, or all his funds would be at my disposal. Somehow, if I had my decree, I should tell him; but while I am stillsomeone's else wife I cannot take his money--it would soil my emotions. 

Yesterday, while opening a crate for me, he cut his finger very badly, and as I bound it up he said, "Forgive me, " and concealing his hurt, hesought pardon for the pain he had caused me. 

His feelings are intuitively charming, and though he hasn't a universityeducation, he has a universal one, which counts for far more in thisworld where a stab is given in return for a pin prick. 

Good-night, precious girl-woman, whose friendship has never failed me, whose love has been the most uplifting emotion that I have ever known. 

 MARIANNE. 

 March 3. 

Lorna Mine:

My six months were up on March first, but as the judge hates undue hasteabout serving papers, I waited one whole hour before I shot mine off toNew York. I am no longer doing time, but am a full-fledged citizen ofSouth Dakota. Isn't it nice that my case won't have a jury--it alwaysgets hung and it sounds unpleasant even if it really isn't. 

Oh! these dazzlingly cool, fresh, spring days. If there is anything morebeautiful in the West than their gaudy Indian summer, it is the halfscared spring. The wind is a bit blustery and pretentious, but otherwiseNature seems doubtful as to whether she will paint her landscape or not. Each night a grand sunset crowns the close of a cloudless day. 

Weeks ago Carlton's decree was granted him, but he stays to hold me inhis arms while I wait for mine. You ask if we are engaged? Yes--awfullyengaged all the time. 

I have never before been able to understand why people put such vastsums in churches. Now I know. It isn't on account of the worship, nor ofthe interior, but for the steps. When you take into consideration whatassistance they have rendered lovers, it only seems just that theyshould be taxed. We worship at Christian Science Church, because it'sdarker, every night except Wednesday; but they have some sort of ashin-dig then, so we switch to the Episcopal and take communion witheach other. Nice clean, comfy, red granite steps that so many pious, divorce-hating feet have passed over. My sympathies go out to all women, even if they are fallen and so did Christ's; but the good Sioux Falliansare above it. They pull all the hay to their side of the manger andforget that we, having never used such food, don't miss it now. It is apity that we can't infuse more of the "God-honor-and-the-ladies" spiritinto this depth of silliness out here. 

The West is so big and glorious and free, it seems strange that the corncrop should be so superior to the people. I suppose it is because eachperfect stalk of corn turns its face to God and Heaven, and the peopleare so busy gossiping they haven't the time to worship. When we passthem on the street we feel like saying: "Our reputations are in yourhands. In God's name be merciful!"

I am keeping house now in my room--light housekeeping, you know. It'spositively airy sometimes. My landlady--bless her ignorant soul!--allowsmy little ice-box to remain in her butler's pantry, which I havechristened "cockroach alley. " They--the cockroaches--are so large andeducated that I have named them, and each one comes when it's called andfeeds from the hand. 

She wears the most artistic skirts--always ball-room back and balletfront. Her grandchild was sitting on the floor yesterday, reading theBible, when suddenly she looked up and said: "Grandma, there's agrammatical error in this Bible, " and my landlady said: "Well, kill it, child, kill it!" She spends whole hours each day talking to her birds, which, she claims, save the expense of a piano. I told the grandchild togo out into the sunshine this morning and it would do her cold good. Shesaid, very saucily: "I won't go into the sunshine, my grandma told me togo into the air. " My grandma didn't tell me to go there, Lorna, butsomeone must have ordered it, for in the "air" I am, and so high that Ino longer feel the earth beneath my feet. 

Thank you so much for Mr. Fitch's article. So you think that Sioux Fallsis like his description of it. He came in one night and left the nextmorning, then wrote an article which is a gross exaggeration in everyparticular. In the first place there was never but one French maid hereand she was Irish. It is true that some scandalous people come here, butthere are also scandalous residents; however, there are many moredivorcees, quiet, charming and unseen, who do not fret away their sixmonths, but spend them profitably, writing, sewing, taking care of theirbeloved children, _et cetera_. 

The very idea of mentioning anything as incongruous as Sioux Falls andluxury in the same breath--it's a slam on luxury! Big and luxurioushotels--Mr. Fitch ought to be mobbed. Wonder if he got a whiff of thelobby of the only thing that can be called an hotel here, or if he had acold during his prolonged stay of twelve hours, nine of which he sleptthrough. At the hotel yesterday I mentioned to the elevator boy thatmany children were stopping there. He answered: "Yes, there is morechildren than there is guests. "

That grill room that he speaks of is a dim memory; I think it lasted twomonths; and as it depended on divorce custom entirely, and as the mainpart of the colony sups in its own home, the thing fell through. And thetheatres, dear, we have had two good shows since I came, otherwise "ten, twenty and thirty. "

The women and preachers may be against the quick lunch method ofdivorce, but you can gamble on it that the business men heartilyapprove; and these same women and preachers will find their larders andcontribution boxes but scantily filled if the odorous money of thedissolute "Divorsay" is barred. 

I am all excited over the article as there is neither truth nor ruth init, and Carlton is intensely amused, so I suppose I will not try tofight the battles of the colony so long as I am lazy and comfortable inthe arms of my love. 

Had a long letter from Gretchen yesterday in which she says she enjoyedher bridal tour thoroughly, particularly at the Falls. I wrote back andasked: "Which?--Niagara or Sioux?"

Good-night, dearest, I close my eyes and sleep in a moment, as there areno longer any thorns to stuff my pillow. 

 MARIANNE. 

 May 2nd. 

Lorna Dear:

It wasn't a bit hard to live through. The papers all came back by returnmail, and all day Sunday I was in my attorney's office practising. Itwasn't any more difficult than a Sunday-school lesson, and Mondaymorning at eight o'clock I was waiting at Liberty Hall for the hoped-forarrival of "The Greatest Common Divisor. " At last he came, but with asour expression, and not knowing what trouble he might have had beforehe left home, I tried to be patient. 

We were ushered through the big court room into the judge'ssanctum--asked how long I'd been here, and so forth and so fifth--thenthe comical question: "Do you expect to make Sioux Falls your home?"and the threadbare reply: "I have made no plans for the future, " whenall the time I had my I. C. Tickets for the 3. 30 train in my pocket. Doyou know that was the first time I ever really perjured myself--like alady--before, and somehow I wished awfully that I had let Carlton holdthe tickets until after the trial. I couldn't even get my kerchief outof my pocketbook for fear the blooming time tables and tickets wouldshow. Oh! the judge was terribly saccharine after he warmed up, and Iadore him. Wish I had to get another divorce tomorrow--he's just like adear old Universal Dad, and everyone loves him. 

Well! dear, just to think of it. I've lost my hobbies! Isn't it great, and yet isn't it really sad! It means a failure in the greatestundertaking of a woman's life, and it also means that I issueforth--branded. I refuse to hold post mortems and am practising loss ofmemory. Now for the possibilities of the future. Possibility is thebiggest word in the dictionary. Isn't it strange that a woman may liveapart from her husband and do atrocious things, without wearing thetell-tale letter on her bosom, yet let a virtuous woman take the stepfor freedom, and, alas! she carries the scar as long as she breathes. But its worth it, dear. I have thought it all over and I repeat it athousand times, its worth it. "I have written it upon the doorposts ofmy house and upon my gates, and I wear it as frontlets between mineeyes"--it's worth it!

I have worn crepe for my departed virtues for six years, but I throw itaside now and feel a new being whose glad unrestraint may carry herfarther than she intended, just as prudery often lends a woman greatercruelty than she feels. 

How clever of Don Willard to buy in Northern Pacific during the slump. He gets on with his sense of smell--he's a jackal who scents a carcassand gets there in time for a good bone. 

While unpacking my trunk today I came across my wedding veil and it wasall gray and dingy like the end of my honeymoon. How many sweet andtremulous illusions I folded into it on that first night and how soonafterwards did three-fourths of the world look like ashes to me. Dreamsare harder to give up than realities, because they come back and gibe useven after they are dead and buried, while tangible realities stayfairly well hidden when we screw down the lid. I suppose you think thatI talk like Old Man Solomon, but you know that the only serious thoughtsI have are mushrooms of one minute's gestation. 

My landlady does her own washing, so I asked her if she would do minefor ample pay. She suffers so from modesty that she was hardly able toanswer me, but finally said: "I would be willing to, but my husbanddon't improve on it. " Poor creature, she has lived here all her days andis still unable to direct me to a single place--her bump of location issurely a dent. 

Mrs. Judge knows the name of each member of the colony; when they cameand how often they have gone away, and the Lord help you if yourresidence isn't right! That's the one thing that the Judge is squeamishabout, and as Mrs. Judge keeps tab for him, there is no use trying tofudge. If you don't come up before the Judge in six months and one week, she inquires of your landlady the reason for your delay. And of coursethe landlady knows the reason, even if you don't yourself. Every Mondayafternoon Mrs. Judge drives by the I. C. Station at exactly 3. 25 to seewhich one of the widows, whose case was tried that morning, is leavingthe same day. Of course they all leave unless they are prostrated withexcitement. We always pack all baggage on Saturday, the dress-suit caseson Sunday, and engage the drayman on the way down to the trial Mondaymorning. There has never been any hitch in the arrangements, so Isuppose they will remain the same until the end of time. 

You don't know what a comfort my phonograph has been to me--I wouldnever attempt another divorce without one. The long, lonelyevenings--the endless days, when time never moves off the spot, my dogsand I have sat on the floor fascinated with the greatest music in theworld. I like my machine because it may be depended upon, never isnervous, and always willing to perform. Talent is so spasmodic anddependent upon moods, while the little hard rubber discs tirelessly andgraciously amuse you. 

You say that you will write more anon. I have looked in Webster and theBrittanica, as I was a bit anxious to find out just what length of timeanon signifies, but I have been unsuccessful. In other words, if afterbreakfast someone said to me, "You shall have more food anon, " I shouldprobably starve to death if I sat down and waited for it. Now don't bemean to me because I am in love and have neglected you. I send youthousands of messages and ask you thousands of questions each day, andsimply because I don't waste time and paper in setting them down is nosign that you aren't constantly in my thoughts. Love knows no distance, and I go to you every evening for a good-night kiss just as I close myeyes to sleep, and always do I feel that you know it. There is nobarrier of antagonism around you so my spirit enters where you arewhenever it so desires. 

You are melancholy again--how can you live in stays set with nails andmaintain the grace of a dancer? It must be because of your child. Icould not do it, I'm sure--not even for my child if I had one. You arewiser than most of us fools who have choked our lives in the mud of NewYork. To men, dear, you are a cold Alp. Snow bound and near to heaven, impenetrable and frowning with flanks of granite, and yet beneficent. How do you accomplish it when your heart is wrung from year's end toyear's end?

It must be Machiavellian foresight, precious--foresight that you alone, out of the whole set, possess. The world never forgives a failure andnever forgives you for telling it the truth, and my standard is truth, as near as possible, and yours is sacrifice complete. Which is right? Weshall go on begging the question until the end of time. In humantransactions the law of optics seems to be reversed--we always seeindistinctly the things that are nearest to us. You have never judged, so judge me not. 

 MARIANNE. 

 The Black Hills, September 20. 

Dearest Lorna:

A thousand years ago--or maybe it wasn't so long, I can't clearlyremember things any more, time isn't of any consequence, but it was theday I received my decree, and I returned my railroad tickets to the I. C. Office--Carlton and I packed up some rugs, pillows and luncheon, andfloated down the river to breathe confidences. Far away on the horizonwas a misty hedge of cypress trees darkly traced on a canvas oflavenders and blues, overhung by extravagant yards of cloudy chiffon. Nearby the tall alders were all bent to the southward, from the bitterwinds, and looked like huge giants on the march with heavy burdens ontheir shoulders. They swayed at times and seemed likely to fall withtheir loads. On and on we floated, and on and on they marched. 

The country was as tremulous as a bride, and to us nothing seemedimpossible. In such magic moments when enjoyment sheds its reflection onthe future the soul foresees nothing but happiness. 

Toward sunset we moored our boat to a tree in a little backwater wherethe current was barely felt and mutely watched the changes in the greatturquoise satin tent above us that seemed held aloft by the hills toshelter the landscape of barley and corn and wheat that swished andswished like feminine music of taffeta petticoats. 

We felt reasons all around us why we should be happy--the trees weregreens and browns--no one like the other, blended in the harmoniouscolorings of an old French tapestry stolen from a deserted chateau. 

All the earth seemed so sweet and so pure, and we were enjoying theworld as a clean open-air playground. A few fluffy clouds began toappear, but old Boreas blew them away as soon as the west wind broughtthem up. 

Suddenly his gaze betrayed remembrance and he drew me into his arms andour lips met. Thus we remained, languidly content, until long after thesky man had studded the heavens with millions of silver nails. Andthere, near a field of cattle, like Paul Potter painted, under a skyworthy of Raphael, in a cove overhung with trees like a picture byHobbema, he asked me to be his wife. And then the sweetest ceremonythat ever was solemnized under God's loving eyes was fulfilled there inthe stillness of the night. He said: "I love you, " and for answer Isaid: "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, Ifelt all the instinct of chastity and delicacy which is the verymaterial of a first love. Our wedding feast was spread out in the bottomof the craft, with no effulgence of light save the reflection of God'sown lanterns. 

All sorts of night things chirped and sang of our joy, and trout leapedfrom the water in answer to the bread that I crumbled for them. 

Our boat rocked and swayed as the current reached us more directly, andleaves and sticks and weeds went floating by with turgid littlewhirlpools swirling aft. We were lazy lurdans, nestling there in themoonlight, but time is the precious gift of the Almighty and man maygamble it away if he chooses. Finally dawn found us floating homeward inthe mists of awakening morn. 

Months and months have passed since then--strange new mother instinctshave arisen in my soul, and he still presses me to his heart andwhispers: "For all eternity. "

You could not discover my whereabouts, as I left no address in SiouxFalls. I did not want the world nor society, not even you, but justsolitude--and my husband. Now we want you to know that in this beautifulwilderness we have a home--a mountain home with placid Indian servants, who glide in and out and serve noiselessly and speechlessly: I mustconfess that I am only one-half brave, as the world, all but you, thinksthat a minister has mumbled over us for a second time. 

You are great enough to appreciate the joy we feel in cheating allhumanity. Carlton has willed all of his possessions to me and to ourprecious 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 inour lives we are all-great and all-sufficient for each other. 

Our bungalow is built in rugged, primeval "Spearfish Canon, " but you mayaddress all mail to Custer, where Carlton goes in his motor every dayfor things that please me. 

I am so happy, so proud, so grateful that my mate is as far-seeing as Iam, and we feel a mutual dread for the time when we must forsake ourBlack Hills for the fuller and less satisfying life in New York--but wecan't play always, out here in the sunshine. 

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 upyour mind, but I'd rather have you love me after thinking than to loveme just because I'm I. Had you not understood, I should have loved youbut because you understand I bow down and idolize you as I have done allmy days. 

Every girl deserves a mother--it is her natural heritage and Naturerisks a great deal in cheating her out of her original right. I havebeen defrauded, but a friend like you compensates for much and is astraight gift from God and Heaven. 

Carlton and I have motored over to Custer every day for your letter butnot until yesterday were we recompensed for all the anxiety and doubtthat I might have suffered. We read it together and I am not ashamedthat our eyes were moist with joy as we drove slowly away from thelittle village and out into our free and glorious primevalism again. Thetwilight fell like a silver dust on the crests of two double rows ofancient elms in a long and lordly country road, and lighted up the sandand the drying wild grass that had waved like so many spears of gold inthe sunset of a few moments before. On and on we flew--he with atrembling hand on the wheel and I with my arm around him and my lipspressing his cheek. 

The rays of our acetylene lamps began to cast lurid lights before us asthe darkness thickened, just as my soul's fire is luminous now in anatmosphere ordained to bring forth all its normal glory--and all thewhile the back seats were empty; empty dear. Do you know the luxury ofit?

We were both dreaming and praying--dreaming of a thousand more suchperfect nights, praying in all our fervor and gratitude for more and yetmore of our boundless and mutual passion. And then we lost our way asthe machine rushed into a mystic cross-road that led due north, for theDipper was before us. I crawled closer and closer to him until I couldhear his heart pounding mercilessly as his breath came quicker and mylips pressed closer. The lamps were brilliant then and the woods andfields as silent and endless as eternity. A long snake stretched itslazy length across our path and frogs held mute high carnival on allthe little hills and bumps on the high road. 

We both felt the inspiration of the moment and neither profaned it withwords. As far as our lights fell three waving, nodding bands of seeredgrass, beckoned us on and heedless of the danger we might be rushingtoward--our empassioned lips met. And like eternity the mystic courselay hidden in darkness before us, but also like the things that lookmost forbidding in the future, as we rushed by, the yellow hedge turnedgolden by our lamps, the grassy plumage rose and fell in sallow waves ofapprobation. 

The good little people were with us (you know I believe in fairies) andthe faithful engine puffed and struggled and tried its best on theincline that we were ascending, but we were too jealous of oursensations to pay much heed to its unaided success. I would work in thefields for ten days were I sure that the eleventh night would be suchanother as this. 

So lofty are the regions where I soar, that a fall would shiver me toatoms, but just to breathe the same air with my love lifts me to thevault of paradise. Whole hours each evening I lie on an Indian blanketin front of the open grate and dream of the legacy of love that we shallhand down to our children and our children's children until the end oftime. 

 Ecstatically yours, MARIANNE. 

 December 25. 

Dearest Friend:

We are snowed in and our two bronze boys are trying to make a path tothe road. We are all so abnormally well and with the nurse and Carlton'sfriend Dr. Harmen, constitute a lively household though I liked thesweetness of our oneness better. These are happy times and they watchand guard me as though I were another Wilhelmina. 

Was ever Christmas day so wonderful! Our tree is a real cedar ofLebanon, uprooted by our beloved Indians and decorated with theirhandiwork. Last eve we romped and sang and played tricks upon each otheruntil midnight, when we saucily hung up the biggest stockings andsneaked off to bed to leave our Santa Claus with his labors. It musthave taken him hours for I slept for ages when I finally heard himgetting ready for bed. I slipped into my kimono and tried to crawl downstairs and take a peep, but he heard me and would not countenance anycheating so I snuggled up again and went to sleep, but like children, wewere all up at daybreak. For days and days Carlton has been going onclandestine shopping tours to the meccas around us and has kept allpurchases locked and guarded. He can't bear the thought of grown-ups notloving and believing in Santa. 

Aside from all the valuable and exquisite things that each received, thegift that proved Carlton's feeling toward me, --if I may insult thatfeeling by even suggesting the necessity of a proof--was a tiny silkstocking, hung quite at the end of the mantel shelf, all alone as thoughit needed no protection, and filled with--you would never guess in athousand years, so I shan't keep you suspended in mid air--fiftythousand dollars in U. S. Bonds to start a bank account for the littlevisitor that is to come. Every night before we sleep, we talk to ourbaby, we pray to our baby, we worship our baby. Only beautiful thoughtscome to our minds; only beautiful things come to our hands, --surely Godsends babies for other reasons than to propagate the species--we aregrown entirely unselfish; we are filled with kindly sympathies andaffection, and our energies and aims reach to Heaven. 

A beautiful pink satin baby basket came direct from Printemps, filledwith 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 passedPrintemp's baby shop and planned our progenys' outfits--twenty yearsago? I am now fuller of the joy of living than I was then--but on thethreshold of womanly emotions. 

From my window I can see far down the icy canon. The mountain stream isa fluted ribbon of snow and ice, and where the spray tumbled before itfroze, there are thousands of filmy rosettes iridescent in the sun'srays. The path is finished and Dr. Harmen is building a snow man. We arecivilized aborigines gone mad with youth out here in the frigid zone, and anything as grown up as bridge has failed to interest us. From ourhome on the summit of "Kewanas Crag, " Silver Lake looks like a strayturquoise below and the mysterious Black Hills around us catch glimpsesof gold in the sunset hour, then dye themselves purple, take a tint ofglowing rose-water, then turn dull and gray; a drama of color goes onceaselessly; a play of ever shifting hues like those on a pigeon'sbreast. 

Do you know of anyone who has ever died in childbirth? If you do, don'ttell me, as I am beginning to be frightened. Not afraid of the agony, for I rather enjoy pondering over the sacrifice, but so fearful ofleaving all of this barely tasted sweet behind me. It seems as though myimpatience would consume me--I want so to know whether I may be sparedfor more and more days of our endless joy. 

Your Christmas box came one day too soon and, like the child that I amtransformed into, I resorted to tears in order to wheedle Carlton intopermitting me to open it. The little things are wonderful and thediscretion of your love is more so. Each little article is an expressionof your faultless friendship, for losing which, not even Carlton's lovecould compensate me. 

The new decorations in my bed room are all in bloom like our love, and Ilie awake during my specified hours of rest, gathering mental roses frommy wall garden. My revival is as natural as the effect of May on themeadows; of a shower on a dry plant. I awaken with the breath of mySpring, which is heavy with Oriental sweetness like a rose ofFrangistan. 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 couldnot 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 thehead of Carlton Church Somerville Junior, who resembles one of thosecherubs circling about the Eternal Father in an old Italian picture. 

Dizzy with the wonder of it all, I lie for hours trying to convincemyself that the world is real. When my child awakens and craves hisnourishment, I cry for very ecstacy of giving him life. What woman onearth 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 gratitude. How can any mother ever be unhappy while herinfant breathes upon her breast. 

My wasted years squandered in society seem hideous fancies of aperverted mind, while my one glorious year out here is a deep-breathing, pure record of clean thoughts and a perfect life. No one save GodAlmighty to wish us well on our wedding day; no purring women andoverfed men to throw rice and old shoes along with the "weddingformula"--"Isn't she a perfect bride, "--"did ever couple seem so wellsuited, "--"they are real affinities _et cetera_, " all of which startedme out on my bridal trip sixteen years ago. I shall never witnessanother wedding as long as I live--it is too insufferably sad acontemplation. 

It seems strange and pitiful that your sweet daughter is now old enoughto make her formal bow into an atmosphere of hatred and vice. If shecould but seek rapturous peace out here in my wilderness with some manthat she really loves--but no woman is born into mature society with aknowledge of its utter worthlessness. And even were you able to convinceher of it now, it would be a sin to rob her sweet mentality of itsblushes. No, the precious child must first suffer and find out alone. 

Almost childlessly greedy do I feel, to live so perfectly while you arestill sacrificing your years on the altar of motherhood. At least I amthankful that Walter has decided to parade his affairs less, now thatEvelyn is coming out. You proud, queenly, beautiful woman, how can yoube so brave? In your place I should have died of hopelessness and griefyears 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 nervesare taut--you never rest. Why hasn't something snapped years ago?Perhaps God gives an abundance of strength to those who are ordained tosuffer most. 

You ask if I have any regrets. No--no--a million times no. I have tornthe word from my dictionary and have forgotten the meaning. I repeat athousand times a day my honest prayer:--

 "Spare me O Lord the crowded way, Life's busy mart where men contend, For me the home the tranquil day, A little sock to mend. "

I try never to think of an end to my happiness, but somehow the crushingthought comes and stifles me into abject fear. Then my husband bringsme my little child and the evil thoughts are kissed away. 

Yesterday Carlton's eyes filled with tears of gratitude as I sat nursingour baby before the open grate and running my hand through his thickbrown hair as he sat on the floor beside us. We remain long hours insilence watching the pictures in the blazing back logs, then suddenly weembrace to prove mutually that we still have each other. 

The river is still a frozen jagged band all down the canon, and theroads are knee deep with snow and ice. I scarcely breathe while Carltonis away in his motor, for fear the wheels will skid and hurl him intoendless depths down the mountain side. It is impossible to procure foodwithout his going to the railroad, but each day I try to believe that Idon't need nourishment just to see if I can't prevent these precariouserrands. We live so naturally and so happily that we are staying onindefinitely in our frozen love bower. 

Dr. Harmen leaves tomorrow after weeks of rejuvenating pleasures outhere. The nurse will remain to render me such assistance as I need, though I am so jealous of her care of my son that I shall claim mymother rights as soon as I am strong enough. Junior has his father'seyes with all the softness of the blue periwinkle flower in theirsplendid depths, and I feel when I hold him in my arms and am held inturn in Carlton's that I can never give either of them up--even to theAlmighty. I will never give them up. They are mine and I am theirs--forall eternity. 

 Adieu sweet friend, MARIANNE. 

 February 25. 

It has come. The bright fire in the grate is a heap of smouldering ashesand all the pictures and dreams are dead. I cannot breathe--I cannotlive--I am insane with grief. And the ignorant world teaches of an allmerciful God--an all seeing Father! The irony of it! I cannot live--Imust go too. It will be impossible to go on, and on, alone--forever andfor all eternity--alone--I cannot--I will not!

They are lying down there in their shrouds--my husband and his faithfulMonkaushka with their poor bodies crushed and mangled--O! I cannot tellyou more! The machine is an unsightly heap at the bottom of the ravine. I cannot write--I cannot think and yet I must do both. What have I donebut love with all my womanhood and all my motherhood!

After all it was beautiful for him to die and go to heaven while flowersfilled his hands. A loud cry has gone up in my soul; an echo as it wereof the funereal _Consummatum est_, which is pronounced in church on GoodFriday at the hour when the _Saviour_ died. And all day I wring my handshelplessly and can do nought but build dungeons and dungeons in the air. I speak in an altered voice as though my instrument had lost severalstrings and those that remained were loosened. 

Dearest--can you tell me--am I responsible for his death? All duringlast night I seemed to hear God's voice asking: "Cain, where is Abel?"and I wail and beseech: "Am I my brother's keeper?" My soul isguilty--guilty of loving him--guilty of his death, for had I not lovedhim he would never have known the Black Hills. Oh! if I could but beresigned--if I could but bind up my bleeding wounds and lose myself inimmeasurable lassitude!

I have pressed his lips for the last time, my precious son is at mybreast--his long lashes are pressed tightly against his cheeks as if tosecure his eyes from too strong a light, or to aid an effort of hisyoung soul to recollect and hold fast a bliss that had been perfect butfleeting. His tiny pink and white ear framed by a stray lock of his hairand outlined by a wrapping of lace from you, would make an artist, apainter, even an old man wildly in love with his perfect little being, and will, please God, restore me, a mad woman to her senses!

Come to my Black Hills, I am crushed, desolate, heart-broken--come to

 MARIANNE. 

 The Black Hills. July 2. 

One week has passed Dear, since you left us--a strange week ofreadjustment and thought. All of those precious months that you havegiven me are but another expression of your divine friendship. Thepoignant grief is gone with you and my gratitude to you can but be shownby the degree of bravery that I now manifest. 

Every day this week, my son and I have sat in the sunshine near the twomounds, which my remaining bronze boy has decorated with crocuses fromthe neighboring ravine. He spends long hours after dark, gathering wildflowers in the moonlight. His devotion to me and my dead love, is thesaddest, most boundless tribute that an uncivilized mind could offer. Silently he goes about his duties; silently he grieves, and moresilently he gathers flowers as a tangible evidence of his devotion. 

Your letters have come each day and will come each day until I lie too, beside my love on the desolate mountain side. Such is your unfailinglove and sympathy for me, all unworthy of your months of sacrifice andisolation out here in my new home. My son, bless his precious heart, tried to crawl today but the newly developed feat frightened his babymind and he cried. Closely almost roughly, I crush him to me a thousandtimes a day, so fearful am I that he too may go to join infinitude. 

You ask me to come back to New York. I must refuse your request. Icannot--I cannot leave my home--the only place worthy of the name thatI have ever possessed! Some day, maybe, but not now--it is all too dearand consoling to breathe the same air that sustained me in my perfecthappiness. 

How can you say: "Don't regret. " What do you mean? Regret the only joythat my poor starved soul has ever known? No atom of regret enters mygrief--only a great unbounded gratitude to God, to the world, to Nature, that one perfect year has been saved from out the wreck of time!

 Gratefully, MARIANNE. 

 The Black Hills, September 20. 

Two marvelous things have come to me today dear; my son took his firsttrembling steps alone, and a letter came to me from the man who was myhusband. I am trembling with joy over the first and still dazed withlack of understanding of the second. I enclose the letter as I have longsince given up trying to think clearly, and must depend upon you, todecide for me any matters of grave import. I am plunged in perplexity;advise me after reading the enclosed letter. 

 Lovingly, MARIANNE. 

 New York, Sept. 16. 

Dear Marianne:

Six years ago, I found myself, though fond of you, glad when businesstook me away. We spent that summer in different places, but aboutOctober lived together again. I was still fond of you, but at that timefound Vera, whose company was very pleasing to me. You and I seemed tobe drawn away from each other and we decided to separate at the end ofDecember, when I started on my long cruise. 

I felt very, very sorry to leave you, but something told me that it wasbetter to do so. I remember you seemed to feel the same, and we kissedeach other goodbye as though we were both sorry for something that hadto be. 

Leaving the question of dual or multiple personality aside, and puttingthe matter very simply, I believe that my soul made a right choice inyou my wife. I believe that alcohol was necessary for a while to put mybody, even at its expense, into a state of conductivity, so that mysoul, when I was somewhat alcoholized, could gain some expression; givesome glimpses of itself and suggest the trend of my powers. For thisreason I believe that some men are made to drink and drug--but that isanother subject which I hope to take up with you more fully at somefuture time. 

My soul self has always wanted my wife's soul self, and I believe thatif I could have you back, my conquered body self would never need towander from home. A little more pliability--all you ever lacked, andwhich your trouble should have brought you, could make it so that wecould live together in very perfect harmony. Then I could release a lotof good plays and good writings, much of which I know already has beencompleted by my subliminal self. I get frequent glimpses of parts ofplays, plots and ideas. 

You cannot but feel proud of the success of my last book, which ought toshow you that I'm getting a grip of myself. My mother and I were _enrapport_ and under the dual personality theory, it is reasonable tosuppose that I have been guided by her since her death. I certainly havebeen guided by God or by her, and it is reasonable to believe that sheis God's instrument of my guidance. 

A young man makes whole ranges of mountains out of tiny mole hillswhich, when he has learned sense, he will spread under his foot withoutnoticing them. Most of our differences were mere mole hills, dear, whichcouldn't thwart us now. For we are too big now, to be so easilythwarted. Can't we give each other the chance to prove this to eachother?

If you will permit me I will love your child as my own--as every realman ought to love every child, dear little unfinished human beings. Formerly I thought I knew a good deal; but God knew better and took meaway from you to teach me a few lessons. For they were lessons that Ialone needed and God did not want you to undergo them as well as me. They were lessons calling for chastisement and you didn't needchastising. 

I've taken God's punishment dear, and thanked Him for it. And I believeI'm fit company for you now. 

I am coming next Monday to Custer, four miles from where you are, and onTuesday morning, starting at eight, I shall walk toward your bungalow byway of the path by the river. I am familiar with every inch of the road, as you know I wrote "Treasure-trove" at the Wilson ranch near yourcanon. 

Will you and your little son meet me if only a few yards from your homeso that you may judge for yourself if I am fit company for you now. 

If you do not meet me--then the will of Allah be done, for I shall turnback. 

 DONALD. 

 October 10. 

Your message came too late, dear; already at eight o'clock Tokacon, withmy son in his arms, and I were far along on the river path that leadsout to the world. Our progress was slow with only the croonings andgurglings of my beautiful child to interrupt the silences of nature, ashe clung affectionately to the neck of our red man protector, whosesolemnity, though he knew not my mission was superb. 

Half way, where Tokacon has built an exquisite rustic bower, we stoppedand waited while the Indian returned to the bungalow. 

What a strange hour I spent waiting with my baby, who had fallen asleepin my arms. Thousands of rebellious thoughts burned themselves upon theretina of my brain, as I sat planning and wondering. I want to be justbefore I'm generous, or I'm afraid I'll never have the chance to begenerous. I sat staring like one at strife with a memory--and then hecame, slowly, resignedly. His hair is quite white and there are strange, deep lines on his forehead, and marked parentheses round his mouth whichcan be but the foot-prints of pain and thought. He could not see us inour secluded shelter and I could not make my mouth utter his name--hewho 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 Icalled "Don, " as I used to do when I loved him, and he stopped suddenlyand listened with his hand to his ear. Again I called "Don. " He turnedand saw us. Slowly and with the dignity that he cannot lose, he cameback to where we sat. He could not speak, but knelt beside us and kissedthe baby's lips; my infant opened his innocent eyes and put his armsaround Donald's neck, as much at ease as though he had known him all ofhis dear little life. Awake and rested, he must needs be tumbled aboutand played with, which our visitor seemed pleased to do. The strainwould have been more than terrible, had it not been for the sweetinfluence 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 tothe sensations of drowning--every ugly scene of our married life flashedacross my brain, also every kindness that he had done me became equallyprominent in my memory, that faculty one cannot cast away as one throwsdown a _serviette_ at table. 

Twilight found us still without words for each other, but when the backlogs were lighted (these October nights are cold in the Black Hills) ourthoughts came more freely. I find that I care for him as I would forsomething long dead and half forgotten, but I am grateful for that, as Iwas half afraid that I couldn't be even patient with him. However thetolerance that we learn through suffering is the most beautifuloffspring of real grief. 

It was very difficult for me to speak of Carlton and our wonderful lifethat is buried out there on the mountain side, but he is indeedsympathetic and never interrupted the long and frequent silences that myinmost memory created. The logs burnt in halves and fell with myriadsparks and display to the sides of the fireplace, but we touched themnot. He seemed to realize that Carlton and I were not married in theeyes of the law. How he divined it I do not know, unless it is that hehas an uncanny way of reading one's thoughts. He said that he knew andthat he understood, and further, that I am a stronger and better womanfor all that I have suffered and done. He wants me to leave my West andlive again in New York, where he hopes to recreate in me the old feelingfor 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 needshelp and so do I, and at least, with our past experiences we mightescape some of the ways of wounding each other that married people seemto possess in such unlimited quantities. 

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, withhis head upon my knee. All seems to be grief here on this earth--nothingbut grief! For answer I raised his head and kissed his eyes, thenfetched 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 topass. 

Long into the still night I heard sobs, and opening my door I foundTokacon swaying to and fro near Donald's room. He seems to understandgrief more keenly than any cultivated mind that I have ever known, andhe never intrudes, though it takes a mighty effort for him to suppresshis own sympathy. 

At last it grew quiet and we all rested though we did not sleep. Thenext morning baby and I walked with Donald to the bower where we had methim, and there we parted. Tokacon came and carried the baby back to thebungalow and I followed later on when I felt sufficiently calm to goabout 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 withhim 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 tome in all the universe. My personal things are packed and on the way toCuster. Tokacon is waiting with his torch to set fire to my palace ofdreams. 

I could not return to your world--to my old world if I thought thatother souls than ours were living in my home. The land, I have given tomy Indian with sufficient money to build a home for himself, but not onecorner 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 whereexcept in the smiles of my child. 

Donald has given me back my home and he has taken rooms at theclub--what people think and what people say, mean nothing to me. I shalltry bravely to construct something out of the ashes of three lives thatwill be worthy of the respect of God's elect. I cannot teach myself toforget; I can only await with patience the reawakening which for thesake of Donald and my son, pray God, will not delay too long its coming. I suppose the family cannot be built on a foundation of passion, becausesomething on earth always becomes revengeful when human beings are toohappy. I shall never try to be too happy again. 

Now my memories must lie entombed in the arcana of memory. But some daywhen my son is old enough to understand, I shall come back with him tomy 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 shallnot have loved and cherished in vain. 

 MARIANNE.