A thousand years ago—or maybe it wasn't so long, I can't clearly remember things any more, time isn't of any consequence, but it was the day 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, and floated down the river to breathe confidences. Far away on the horizon was a misty hedge of cypress trees darkly traced on a canvas of lavenders and blues, overhung by extravagant yards of cloudy chiffon. Nearby the tall alders were all bent to the southward, from the bitter winds, and looked like huge giants on the march with heavy burdens on their shoulders. They swayed at times and seemed likely to fall with their loads. On and on we floated, and on and on they marched.
The country was as tremulous as a bride, and to us nothing seemed impossible. In such magic moments when enjoyment sheds its reflection on the future the soul foresees nothing but happiness.
Toward sunset we moored our boat to a tree in a little backwater where the current was barely felt and mutely watched the changes in the great turquoise satin tent above us that seemed held aloft by the hills to shelter the landscape of barley and corn and wheat that swished and swished like feminine music of taffeta petticoats.
We felt reasons all around us why we should be happy—the trees were greens and browns—no one like the other, blended in the harmonious colorings of an old French tapestry stolen from a deserted chateau.
All the earth seemed so sweet and so pure, and we were enjoying the world as a clean open-air playground. A few fluffy clouds began to appear, but old Boreas blew them away as soon as the west wind brought them up.
Suddenly his gaze betrayed remembrance and he drew me into his arms and our lips met. Thus we remained, languidly content, until long after the sky man had studded the heavens with millions of silver nails. And there, near a field of cattle, like Paul Potter painted, under a sky worthy of Raphael, in a cove overhung with trees like a picture by Hobbema, he asked me to be his wife. And then the sweetest ceremony that ever was solemnized under God's loving eyes was fulfilled there in the stillness of the night. He said: "I love you," and for answer I said: "I love you too," and on my finger was placed a cool new band, which reads within: "For all eternity." As old and worldly as I am, I felt all the instinct of chastity and delicacy which is the very material of a first love. Our wedding feast was spread out in the bottom of the craft, with no effulgence of light save the reflection of God's own lanterns.
All sorts of night things chirped and sang of our joy, and trout leaped from the water in answer to the bread that I crumbled for them.
Our boat rocked and swayed as the current reached us more directly, and leaves and sticks and weeds went floating by with turgid little whirlpools swirling aft. We were lazy lurdans, nestling there in the moonlight, but time is the precious gift of the Almighty and man may gamble it away if he chooses. Finally dawn found us floating homeward in the mists of awakening morn.
Months and months have passed since then—strange new mother instincts have arisen in my soul, and he still presses me to his heart and whispers: "For all eternity."
You could not discover my whereabouts, as I left no address in Sioux Falls. I did not want the world nor society, not even you, but just solitude—and my husband. Now we want you to know that in this beautiful wilderness we have a home—a mountain home with placid Indian servants, who glide in and out and serve noiselessly and speechlessly: I must confess that I am only one-half brave, as the world, all but you, thinks that a minister has mumbled over us for a second time.