I have just crept in to take a look at my precious Dinkie, fast asleep in the old cast-iron crib that is growing so small for him he has to lie catercornered on his mattress. He seemed so big, stretched out there, that he frightened me with the thought he couldn’t be a child much longer. There are no babies left now in my home circle. And I still have a shamefaced sort of hankering to hold a baby in my arms again!
Wednesday the Thirty-First
Susie has promised to stay with us until after Christmas. And the holidays, I realize, are only a few weeks away. Struthers is knitting a sweater of flaming red and rather grimly acknowledged, when I pinned her down, that it was for Whinstane Sandy. There was a snow-flurry Sunday, and Gershom took Susie riding in the old cutter, scratching grittily along the half-covered trails but apparently enjoying it. My poor little Poppsy, who rather idolizes Gershom, is transparently jealous of his attentions to Susie. Yet Gershom, I know, is nice to Susie and nothing more. He is still my loyal but carefully restrained knight. It’s a shame, I suppose, to bobweasel him the way I occasionally do. But I can’t quite help it. His goody-goodiness is as provocative to my baser nature as a red flag to an Andulasian bull. And a woman who was once reckoned as a heart-breaker has to keep her hand in with something. I’ve got to convince myself that the last shot hasn’t gone from the locker which Duncan 246 Argyll McKail once rifled. I spoiled Gershom’s supper for him the other night by asking what it was made some people have such a mysterious influence over other people. And I caught him up short, last Sunday morning, when he tried to argue that I was a sort of paragon in petticoats.
“Don’t you run away with the idea I’m that kind of an angel,” I promptly assured him. “I’m an outlaw, from saddle to sougan, and I can buck like a bear fightin’ bees. I’m a she-devil crow-hopping around in skirts. And I could bu’st every commandment slap-bang across my knee, once I got started, and leave a trail of crime across the fair face of nature that would make an old Bow-Gun vaquero’s back-hair stand up. I’m just a woman, Gershom, a little lonely and a little loony, and there’s so much backed-up bad in me that once the dam gives way there’ll be a hell-roaring old whoop-up along these dusty old trails!”
Gershom turned white.
“But there’s your little ones to think of,” he quaveringly reminded me.
“Yes, there’s my little ones to think of,” I echoed, wondering where I’d heard that familiar old refrain before. My bark, after all, is much worse than my 247 bite. About all I can do is take things out in talk. I’m only a faded beauty, brooding over my antique adventures as a heart-breaker. But I know of one heart I’d still like to break—if I had the power. No; not break; but bend up to the cracking point!