The Prairie Child. Stringer Arthur

of seven thousand Chinks in Yangchow on to the 28 interests of your immortal offspring. And I suppose Rome really came into being for the one ultimate end that an immortal young Dinkie might possess his full degree of Dinkiness and the glory that was Greece must have been merely the tom-toms tuning up for the finished dance of our Dinkie’s grandeur. Day and night, it’s Dinkie, just Dinkie!”

      I waited until he was through. I waited, heavy of heart, until his foolish fires of revolt had burned themselves out. And it didn’t seem to add to his satisfaction to find that I could inspect him with a quiet and slightly commiserative eye.

      “You are accusing me,” I finally told him, “of something I’m proud of. And I’m afraid I’ll always be guilty of caring for my own son.”

      He turned on me with a sort of heavy triumph.

      “Well, it’s something that you’ll jolly well pay the piper for, some day,” he announced.

      “What do you mean by that?” I demanded.

      “I mean that nothing much is ever gained by letting the maternal instinct run over. And that’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to tie Dinkie to your side, when you can no more tie him up than you can tie up a sunbeam. You could keep him close enough to you, of course, when he was small. 29 But he’s bound to grow away from you as he gets bigger, just as I grew away from my mother and you once grew away from yours. It’s a natural law, and there’s no use crocking your knees on it. The boy’s got his own life to live, and you can’t live it for him. It won’t be long, now, before you begin to notice those quiet withdrawals, those slippings-back into his own shell of self-interest. And unless you realize what it means, it’s going to hurt. And unless you reckon on that in the way you order your life you’re not only going to be a very lonely old lady but you’re going to bump into a big hole where you thought the going was smoothest!”

      I sat thinking this over, with a ton of lead where my heart should have been.

      “I’ve already bumped into a big hole where I thought the going was smoothest,” I finally observed.

      My husband looked at me and then looked away again.

      “I was hoping we could fill that up and forget it,” he ventured in a valorously timid tone which made it hard, for reasons I couldn’t quite fathom, to keep my throat from tightening. But I sat there, shaking my head from side to side. 30

      “I’ve got to love something,” I found myself protesting. “And the children seem all that is left.”

      “How about me?” asked my husband, with his acidulated and slightly one-sided smile.

      “You’ve changed, Dinky-Dunk,” was all I could say.

      “But some day,” he contended, “you may wake up to the fact that I’m still a human being.”

      “I’ve wakened up to the fact that you’re a different sort of human being than I had thought.”

      “Oh, we’re all very much alike, once you get our number,” asserted my husband.

      “You mean men are,” I amended.

      “I mean that if men can’t get a little warmth and color and sympathy in the home-circle they’re going to edge about until they find a substitute for it, no matter how shoddy it may be,” contended Dinky-Dunk.

      “But isn’t that a hard and bitter way of writing life down to one’s own level?” I asked, trying to swallow the choke that wouldn’t stay down in my throat.

      “Well, I can’t see that we get much ahead by trying to sentimentalize the situation,” he said, with a gesture that seemed one of frustration. 31

      We sat staring at each other, and again I had the feeling of abysmal gulfs of space intervening between us.

      “Is that all you can say about it?” I asked, with a foolish little gulp I couldn’t control.

      “Isn’t it enough?” demanded Dinky-Dunk. And I knew that nothing was to be gained, that night, by the foolish and futile clash of words.

      32

Tuesday the Twenty-Third

       Table of Contents

      I’ve been doing a good deal of thinking over what Dinky-Dunk said. I have been trying to see things from his standpoint. By a sort of mental ju-jutsu I’ve even been trying to justify what I can’t quite understand in him. But it’s no use. There’s one bald, hard fact I can’t escape, no matter how I dig my old ostrich-beak of instinct under the sands of self-deception. There’s one cold-blooded truth that will have to be faced. My husband is no longer in love with me. Whatever else may have happened, I have lost my heart-hold on Duncan Argyll McKail. I am still his wife, in the eyes of the law, and the mother of his children. We still live together, and, from force of habit, if from nothing else, go through the familiar old rites of daily communion. He sits across the table from me when I eat, and talks casually enough of the trivially momentous problems of the minute, or he reads in his slippers before the fire while I do my sewing within a spool-toss of him. But a row of invisible assegais stand leveled between his 33 heart and mine. A slow glacier of green-iced indifferency shoulders in between us; and gone forever is the wild-flower aroma of youth, the singing spirit of April, the mysterious light that touched our world with wonder. He is merely a man, drawing on to middle age, and I am a woman, no longer young. Gone now are the spring floods that once swept us together. Gone now is the flame of adoration that burned clean our altar of daily intercourse and left us blind to the weaknesses we were too happy to remember. For there was a time when we loved each other. I know that as well as Duncan does. But it died away, that ghostly flame. It went out like a neglected fire. And blowing on dead ashes can never revive the old-time glow.

      “So they were married and lived happy ever afterward!” That is the familiar ending to the fairy-tales I read over and over again to my Dinkie and Poppsy. But they are fairy-tales. For who lives happy ever afterward? First love chloroforms us, for a time, and we try to hug to our bosoms the illusion that Heaven itself is only a sort of endless honeymoon presided over by Lohengrin marches. But the anesthetic wears away and we find that life isn’t a bed of roses but a rough field that rewards us 34 as we till it, with here and there the cornflower of happiness laughing unexpectedly up at us out of our sober acres of sober wheat. And often enough we don’t know happiness when we see it. We assuredly find it least where we look for it most. I can’t even understand why we’re equipped with such a hunger for it. But I find myself trending more and more to that cynic philosophy which defines happiness as the absence of pain. The absence of pain—that is a lot to ask for, in this life!

      I wonder if Dinky-Dunk is right in his implication that I am getting hard? There are times, I know, when I grate on him, when he would probably give anything to get away from me. Yet here we are, linked together like two convicts. And I don’t believe I’m as hard as my husband accuses me of being. However macadamized they may have made life for me, there’s at least one soft spot in my heart, one garden under the walls of granite. And that’s the spot which my two children fill, which my children keep green, which my children keep holy. It’s them I think of, when I think of the future—when I should at least be thinking a little of my grammar and remembering that the verb “to be” takes the nominative, just as discontented husbands seem to take 35 the initiative! That’s why I can’t quite find the courage to ask for freedom. I have seen enough of life to know what the smash-up of a family means to its toddlers. And I want my children to have a chance. They can’t have that chance without at least two things. One is the guardianship of home life, and the other is that curse of modern times known as money. We haven’t prospered as we had hoped to, but heaven knows I’ve kept an eagle eye on that savings-account of mine, in that absurdly new and resplendent red-brick bank in Buckhorn. Patiently I’ve fed it with my butter and egg money, joyfully I’ve seen it grow with my meager Nitrate dividends, and grimly I’ve