The Diary of Mattie Spenser

by Sandra Dallas

  April 11, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Luke was much pleased with the jelly cake, but I could not eat it, for my state of sadness had returned. I was not fit company. One moment, I am industrious and cheerful, the next, overcome with lassitude. It is an alternative to anger, which I keep under control, sometimes only with great effort. I have just completed the wash and am fatigued from the heavy work of lifting and scrubbing. I dropped one of Luke’s shirts on the ground and cried when faced with having to begin on it again. I shall be sorely tried on my resolve to take up housewifely responsibilities cheerfully.

  My mood improved when Tom called with the first dandelion of the season, which he presented to me with as much flourish as if it had been a dozen roses. He stayed to supper, making it seem like old times. Moses urges Tom to give up the land and take his chance in the gold camps. I advised him he is more farmer than miner and said we should miss him keenly if he left. Tom says he gives a change more thought than he had expected.

  Luke has asked whether I want him to remove Johnnie’s bed, which takes up much space in our cramped house, but I cannot yet bear to see the room without it and the little Postage Stamp quilt Baby loved so much. I waited until Luke had gone out before sitting down on the little fellow’s tick and giving way to tears.

  April 15, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Luke proposes to add a wooden floor to our soddy, saying we have lived long enough as “cavemen.” When the harvest is over, he will cut sod to add a second room. He asked what I would think of writing home for a slip of honeysuckle to plant beside it.

  Here is an odd thing: We have never again talked of Persia, except for Luke saying he had burned her letters and all other reminders of her. Luke has put her out of his mind. I wish I could do the same. I think I can forgive him the adultry, but will I ever overcome the greater betrayal of the private part of me?

  The yellow rose beside the house made it through the winter and is sending out green leaves.

  April 20, 1868. Prairie Home.

  On impulse, Luke announced he would drive to Mingo and invited me to accompany him. As he has not been to town since his trip with Johnnie, he has much to accomplish there, including the purchase of lumber for our floor. I have not seen Mingo in many months and thought the air would do me good. But upon reflection, I declined, for I am not yet up to an examination by townspeople who know of Persia. Luke left very late, after dinner, just as large flakes of snow began to fall. I have heard of these heavy spring storms, called “willow-benders” in Colorado—though not here on the plains, as there are no big willow trees. So I begged Luke to postpone the trip. He replied his mind was made up, but that if the storm turned bad, he would respect it by seeking a bed in town. He inquired whether I would be safe if left to myself overnight. He does not remember that he was not concerned about leaving his wife alone for many nights two years ago, when he returned to Fort Madison.

  I believe a night alone will be good for both of us, for we have been too much in each other’s company. Still, I do not like being by myself in this blizzard, which puts me quite as much on edge as the thunderstorms of summer.

  April 21, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Hearing a noise without and thinking Luke had braved the heavy storm after all, I threw open the door, to discover Tom, covered with snow and nearly frozen. I helped him into the house, ordering him to remove his wet clothing while I put his horse into the barn.

  Upon return, I found Tom wrapped in a blanket, his clothes spread over the stove to dry. As he was chilled and I feared he would take a fever, I got out the little supply of medicinal whiskey Mr. Bondurant had given us and poured a dram into a teacup. On impulse, I poured some for Self, and using the old chipped cups, we toasted each other with as much style as if we were drinking from the finest crystal.

  Tom and Mr. Bondurant had been on the road home from Mingo, when they encountered Luke on his way there. The storm being very bad, Husband had already concluded to spend the night in town and requested that one of them inform me of his plans. I told Tom he should not have taken the trouble but that I was pleased he had done so, for I was glad of his company. The storm had affected my nerves, and I was in need of companionship. “I am greatly afraid of thunder,” I told him, then laughed at myself, for there is not much thunder in a blizzard.

  “I suppose we’re all afraid of something, even when our brains tell us it makes no sense,” he said, to my surprise, for it is my experience that men do not show much sympathy for feminine weakness.

  Tom’s clothing needed time to dry, and I knew he was hungry after his long, cold ride for my sake. So I got out the waffle iron to make a treat, remembering from Tom’s visits during the days Luke was in Fort Madison that waffles were his favorite. Preparing the familiar supper brought to mind those happier days of two years ago. I had not been in such high spirits since before Sallie’s death, as we chattered of all manner of things, settling several questions of social and political importance. As we dined, Tom became serious, saying he had almost concluded to join Moses in Middle Swan, a gold camp on the Swan River, high in the Rocky Mountains.

  “O, Tom, I could not bear it if you left. I have no close friend here but you,” I told him. “Why would you go?”

  I thought Tom would respond with a sally, as he often does in order to avoid serious discussions, but instead, he was silent for a moment, as if thinking over his reply. Then he said, “How could I not go? It’s not easy to batch. I can’t stand the loneliness. Sometimes, it is so still at my place that I think the world around me has died, and I talk to myself out loud just to hear the sound of a human voice. I’m surprised I made it through this winter, and I know I can’t spend another alone.”

  “Why, you’re not alone, Tom. You have us, and I need you more than ever now.”

  “That’s why I’ve stayed so long. Ever since Mrs. Talmadge’s first visit, when I saw how things stood with Luke, I knew you needed me. But there is nothing I can do for you now, and I cannot bear to see you so unhappy. Don’t you know the truth of my feelings?”

  Until that instant, I had thought of Tom as only a dear friend. But as I looked at him over the teacup, I saw a different man, one who had come to my support again and again when I had been neglected by Husband. I could not think how to reply.

  “I can see you didn’t know. Well, that’s no surprise to me. You are too fine to think me capable of any but the most respectable feelings for you. Now that you see how it is, you know I cannot stay.” Tom rose and came to my side, and before I could stop him, he had knelt beside me, his arms around me, his face against me. I stroked his hair, which is not coarse and honey-colored like Luke’s, but fine and almost black, with threads of gray running through it. “Say you care a little for me, Mattie.”

  “Of course I do. You have been so good to me.”

  “Say I mean more than that.” Tom stood and pulled me to my feet, his arms around me. “I think of this when I cannot sleep,” he said, and kissed me with far greater tenderness than Luke ever had. He kissed my neck and my eyes and the top of my head, and as he did, I felt the sorrow and pain of the last few weeks slip from my body. I held tight to him as he pushed me gently to the bed.

  I was loved better last night than in three years of marriage, finding satisfaction in union that I did not know was available to me. For a few hours, there was neither sadness nor guilt, but only love, and when it was done, I felt as if my body and soul were whole once more.

  Tom rode off before dawn into a starry night clear of snow. As he left, he asked me to go with him to the Swan River. He says his mind is made up, for after the night, he has no choice but to leave. If I remain with Luke, Tom does not want to be about, and if we are to be together, as he hopes, it cannot be here. So there is another course open to me, after all, one I never dreamed of.

  I no longer love Luke, and I care for Tom very much, but do I love him enough to live my life under the condemnation of others? Could Tom and I find happiness when we have acted contrar
y to all moral dictates? Was my union with him one of love, or was it a way of seeking to even the score with Luke? There is no one whose advice I can ask, so I write all down in my precious book, hoping, as I do so, that I can see my way to a decision.

  The sun had not long broken the horizon when Mr. Bondurant shouted from without, inquiring how we had weathered the storm. I quickly put away my journal and opened the door, replying I had been warm and snug.

  “The trip home must have pret’ near used up your husband,” he said.

  “No, he spent the night in Mingo. Tom came by to tell me before going back into the storm. I hope he is safely home,” I replied brazenly. Tom and I had agreed to say he had stopped for only a few minutes.

  Mr. Bondurant eyed me strangely, then turned toward the barn, where a single set of tracks made by Tom’s horse led from its door to our house and thence to the horizon. “I’ll check on the livestock.” Mr. Bondurant urged his horse forward, riding over the tracks as if to obliterate them.

  When he had finished and returned to the house, he said not a single word about the tracks, but sat down to a breakfast of “slap-jacks,” as he calls them, and talked about the storm. By the time he left, the sun was hard at work melting the snow, and the telltale prints were gone.

  I am confident Mr. Bondurant will never reveal what he saw, but he forced me into deception, and so that is what things have come to. Now I wonder how I shall face Luke.

  May 12, 1868. Prairie Home.

  As the weather has been poor, Luke is much underfoot, giving me no time to be alone with journal or thoughts. I maintain a calm surface, but I am in turmoil within. I tell myself what I did was recompense for Luke’s perfidy, but a woman’s lapse from virtue always seems the greater sin. Luke knows nothing of my wrongdoing, does not even suspect it.

  Tom has visited twice, and he was so agitated and pale that Luke remarked on it. Husband stayed by Tom’s side during both visits, giving us two only a few precious minutes together.

  “Luke isn’t worthy of you,” Tom whispered, but I put my finger to his lips, for I would not let him speak ill of Luke, even under the circumstances. So Tom inquired if I was all right and whether Luke knew what had happened between us.

  “Yes to the first, no to the second,” I replied.

  “I will never forgive myself for the wrong I did you.”

  Luke returned just then, so I could not reply.

  May 16, 1868. Prairie Home.

  When I heard the horse riding hard, I thought Tom had come again, but it was Mr. Bondurant, who tied his animal to our hitching rail and burst through the door. Skipping the formalities, he blurted out, “Tom’s gone. He’s riding to Denver to join up with Moses. Then them two and Jessie heads for the gold fields. The durn fool. I told him he ought not to go until he sold out, but no, by ginger, he were in a hurry and said he’d made up his mind.”

  “Without telling us? Without saying farewell?” I asked, for I could not believe what I had heard.

  “He’s some pumpkins, Tom is. He told me to say it for him.”

  “Tom’s been strange lately, but it’s not like him to act impulsively. He’s always been a cautious man,” Luke said.

  I did not hear Mr. Bondurant’s reply, for I went outside to sit on the bench, as I was greatly confused, wondering whether Tom thought my lack of a reply to his proposal meant I had turned him down. Perhaps he had not meant his declaration of love after all and had spoken only in the heat of passion.

  I sat impatiently, hoping Tom had given Mr. Bondurant a message to be delivered to me, and when at last he came without, I whispered, “Is there a word for me?”

  Mr. Bondurant turned his face so that I could see only the blind eye and said softly, “Tom don’t think he’d be able to say good-bye to you. He says to tell you he’ll write.”

  That was not a satisfying answer, because I had hoped to receive instructions for going to Tom. Yes, I have made up my mind to join my future with Tom’s. It is not my decision; I believe it has been made for me.

  May 19, 1868. Prairie Home.

  In hopes of finding a letter from Tom, I persuaded Luke to carry me to Mingo, saying I needed several purchases that could not wait. Now that Luke no longer expects letters from Persia, he is not so anxious to go to town, and he was surprised at my insistence. Still, he seemed pleased to make the trip for my sake.

  There was no letter, and I am frantic to hear from Tom, for a reason that I do not care to put down on paper.

  May 22, 1868. Prairie Home.

  When Mr. Bondurant called, I inquired whether he had heard from “our absent friend.” He replied that he had not but would come immediately if he received a letter, for Tom’s handwriting is poor, and Mr. Bondurant will need someone to read it to him. I have never seen Tom’s handwriting.

  Yesterday, I heard Luke whistle “When Johnny Comes Marching Home,” and I was taken with a great fit of weaping for my own Johnnie, and for myself, too. I am surer than ever that I am enceinte, and that is the reason I must go to Tom. He does not know, of course, else he would write for me immediately.

  Luke brought me a bird’s nest he found on the prairie. Skillfully woven within was a tiny little curl. I believe it to be one of those that Johnnie had thrown to the wind when I cut his hair last year.

  May 25, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Luke has gone to Mingo, and I pray there is word from Tom, even a letter written to both of us with a message between the lines saying where I may join him.

  Luke has become the tenderest of husbands. I would not believe such a change possible in a person if I had not experienced it myself. But it is too late.

  May 26, 1868. Prairie Home.

  No letter. Did God take Johnnie from me because my wickedness was foreordained?

  June 2, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Still no word. Today, I remembered Mother saying a good name is above all price. I no longer have one.

  June 5, 1868. Prairie Home.

  A family named Richards has moved onto Tom’s homestead. I do not know the particulars of how they acquired it. Luke is anxious for me to meet them, for they are an educated couple from Ohio, near to our age, with a little girl of two years. Kathleen Richards (whom Luke declares is as pretty as Carrie) is gently bred and bewildered by the country, and Luke says I can be an inspiration to her. I have, at last, the possibility of a close woman friend, and a husband who has grown far more attentive than I ever dreamed, but I care about none of it. If I did not carry another man’s child, I wonder if things might have worked out between Luke and me. I am paralyzed with self-loathing for my deceitfulness, and I pray to join Tom.

  June 12, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Luke awoke me on my birthday yesterday with a bouquet of wildflowers and said that he had ordered a sewing machine as memento for me. It should arrive before summer is over.

  I said I did not deserve such a fine gift, as indeed, I do not, and Luke replied he hoped it was appropriate for a “mother,” for he believed I had a secret I was keeping from him. I told him he was mistaken.

  June 15, 1868. Prairie Home.

  Mr. Bondurant came for a visit and stayed so long that Luke at last excused himself, saying he had work in the fields. Waiting until Husband was away, Mr. Bondurant withdrew an envelope addressed to him, with a second envelope inside, upon which was written my name. “This come from Tom in my letter, the first letter I ever got. Tom set down in it that I was to give the envelope to you in private,” he said. “It sat in Mingo a week or more, since I ain’t been to town.”

  Knowing I was anxious to read it, Mr. Bondurant withdrew.

  Here is his letter:

  Middle Swan, Colorado

  June 2, 1868

  Beloved Mattie

  Each time the mail arrives, I am first in line at the counter, which is a board laid across two whiskey barrels in a saloon, in expectation of receiving a favor from you. Now my hope is used up, and there is nothing for it but to believe such response has been rendered. If y
ou intended to reply to my previous letter, even to send me on my way, you would have done so by now. I would make the long ride to Mingo if I thought I could change your mind, but I know it would do no good and only cause you embarrassment. I believe I was right in taking the coward’s out by writing for your answer instead of forcing it from you in a personal interview. I chose that way because I could not bear to hear a refusal from your lips.

  Perhaps this is best for us both, for what kind of life do I offer you, beginning as it did with the breaking of a Commandment. I was wrong to ask you to violate your sacred marriage vows, as well. You are too steadfast and good to put aside duty.

  Being fed up with Middle Swan almost at once, as they found the gold used up, Moses and Jessie are determined to seek better prospects, and now that I have given up all hope of receiving a message from you, I say ditto. Ho for Montana! Moses is checking now for news respecting the Indians, and if all is as it should be, we leave at sunup.

  Dearest Mattie, the thing was done. I had one night of purest bliss. Can any man say more? My heart is overcome with tenderness when I think of it. But it is worth my soul to take it back, for I did not intend the act and live in anguish with the knowledge I have caused you pain. You know from my first letter, sent the day after I left, that you have no cause to doubt the sincerity of my feelings for you. That you forgive me and remember me only as one who loves you with tender and exclusive affection is my daily prayer.

  Though I shall not contact you again, you have not heard the last of Tom Earley. I have as much right as any man to discover a rich gold mine, and I will succeed or be found trying. So when you hear of such an event in connection with my name, you will know it is only the second-best thing that ever happened to