II
These occasional absences of from three days to over a week made complications in Slim Girl’s arrangements with her American. His trips in to town from his ranch were made on business that was, as often as not, conjured up to excuse himself to himself for seeing her. Each rendezvous would be arranged the time before, or by a note left in the little house, which she was supposed to visit at fixed intervals. Now it was occurring, as never before, that he would demand her presence on a certain date, only to be told it was impossible. Increasingly, as her love for her husband gained upon her, he suspected part of the truth, and tormented himself with jealousy. That husband, whom he had always regarded as rather mythical, seemed in the past few months to have become exacting. In moments of honesty towards himself, he writhed at the acid thought of being used by a squaw for the benefit of herself and some low, presumably drunken, Indian.
He rode into Los Palos through the bottomless mud and wet of a spring thaw, only to find a note on the table:
Dear George
My husband make me go too dance I will come day after tomorrow afternoon, pleas not mind.
The poor fool cursed, got drunk, and waited over.
That had been a very pleasant dance; they had ridden part of the way home with as likable a crowd as the one that rode from T’o Tlakai to the trading post. She still tasted the flavour of it as she changed into her Sears-Roebuck dress and set out for Los Palos. Laughing Boy had surprised on her face, once or twice, that look of triumphant hatred when she returned. He would have been astonished could he have seen her now.
She looked back on their house, on the corral and the still leafless young peach trees, visualizing the dance, her people, and him. Her face was tender, almost yearning. Then she turned away towards the town, and braced her shoulders. For a moment she smiled, a warpath smile, and she was hard. Her upper lip curled back, showing her small, even, white teeth. Then her expression was blank; that passive look upon her oval face that made one turn to it again and again, wondering what deep, strong thoughts were going on behind the lovely mask.
He was in the house before her. She braced herself again at the door, then blotted everything from her eyes, becoming a happy, pretty woman with nothing on her mind. He rose as she entered. He did not answer her smile or move to touch her; that meant there would be a scene. Oh, well!
“Look here, Lillian, this is getting too thick. Here I come in here just to see you—we made the date, didn’t we?—and you’ve gone prancing off to some dance. It won’t do. I don’t ask so much of you, but you’ve got to keep your dates, do you see? Don’t make me suspect you …”
She hated scenes, loud voices, turmoil, protestations. God damn this man. Juthla hago hode shonh. She sat still, looking at him with wide, hurt eyes and drooping mouth. By and by he ran down.
“You tink lak dat about me! You tink I forget everyting! What for you tink dose tings, hey? I’m sorry I go away. I do it because I got to, you see? My husban’, he tink someting bad, I tink. So he act mean, dat man. But you know.”
“The trouble is I don’t know. I wonder about you. I wonder if you try at all, or just do what’s handiest for you. I’ve got some consideration coming to me, you know.”
The man was truly jealous, he was miserable, she had him right in the palm of her hand. She didn’t have to say much, just let him do it. After he’d got rid of all this, the fact remained that he loved her, and that was all that mattered.
He drew her towards him, she sat on his knees, her hands on his shoulders. He bent her face back and stared into her eyes. They were deep, deep, and swimming. There was a look in them that thrilled him, a look that must be true. Now there was an imprint of real truth in her words and gestures, and the fierceness of her kiss.
She was not acting any longer, she did not have to pretend this. There was no more falseness in it than there is in an arrow leaving a bow. She hated him. On him she had concentrated all her feelings towards Americans in general, everything that she had ever suffered. In him she was revenging herself upon them all. Her kisses were weapons, her tendernesses were blows struck in the full heat of battle. She was revenging herself, and she was acquiring the means to her perfect life.
Bound by those hours of happiness, he could not break away. These days, he gave her more money than he ever had before, more than he could well afford, seeking to bind her to him, knowing that that was no way to arrive at truth, but craving, if she were lying to him, to be lied to so well he would be convinced. He made many efforts to improve her, feeling how remarkable a woman she was. He wanted her to read books, but her distaste for them was deep and sincere; he wanted to make a superior American out of her. He would have liked to raise her to a position in which he could respect himself if he married her.
She was afraid always that he would ask her that, but he was not quite so lost. She kept him at tension, administering happiness and unhappiness carefully, accepted his increased gifts, and in her mind shortened the time of waiting. But it did not make a smooth road to travel.