If you do not meet me—then the will of Allah be done, for I shall turn back.
October 10.
Your message came too late, dear; already at eight o'clock Tokacon, with my son in his arms, and I were far along on the river path that leads out to the world. Our progress was slow with only the croonings and gurglings of my beautiful child to interrupt the silences of nature, as he clung affectionately to the neck of our red man protector, whose solemnity, though he knew not my mission was superb.
Half way, where Tokacon has built an exquisite rustic bower, we stopped and waited while the Indian returned to the bungalow.
What a strange hour I spent waiting with my baby, who had fallen asleep in my arms. Thousands of rebellious thoughts burned themselves upon the retina of my brain, as I sat planning and wondering. I want to be just before I'm generous, or I'm afraid I'll never have the chance to be generous. I sat staring like one at strife with a memory—and then he came, slowly, resignedly. His hair is quite white and there are strange, deep lines on his forehead, and marked parentheses round his mouth which can be but the foot-prints of pain and thought. He could not see us in our secluded shelter and I could not make my mouth utter his name—he who 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 I called "Don," as I used to do when I loved him, and he stopped suddenly and listened with his hand to his ear. Again I called "Don." He turned and saw us. Slowly and with the dignity that he cannot lose, he came back to where we sat. He could not speak, but knelt beside us and kissed the baby's lips; my infant opened his innocent eyes and put his arms around Donald's neck, as much at ease as though he had known him all of his dear little life. Awake and rested, he must needs be tumbled about and played with, which our visitor seemed pleased to do. The strain would have been more than terrible, had it not been for the sweet influence 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 to the sensations of drowning—every ugly scene of our married life flashed across my brain, also every kindness that he had done me became equally prominent in my memory, that faculty one cannot cast away as one throws down a serviette at table.
Twilight found us still without words for each other, but when the back logs were lighted (these October nights are cold in the Black Hills) our thoughts came more freely. I find that I care for him as I would for something long dead and half forgotten, but I am grateful for that, as I was half afraid that I couldn't be even patient with him. However the tolerance that we learn through suffering is the most beautiful offspring of real grief.