I’ve been thinking a great deal over what’s happened this last week or so. And I’ve been trying to reorganize my life, the same as you put a house to rights after a funeral. But it wasn’t a well-ordered funeral, in this case, and I was denied even the tempered satisfaction of the bereaved after the finality of a smoothly conducted burial. For nothing has been settled. It’s merely that Time has been trying to encyst what it can not absorb. I felt, for a day or two, that I had nothing much to live for. I felt like a feather-weight who’d faced a knock-out. I saw Pride go to the mat, and take the count, and if I was dazed, for a while, I suppose it was mostly convalescence from shock. Then I tightened my belt, and reminded myself that it wasn’t the first wallop Fate had given me, and remembered that in this life you have to adjust yourself to your environment or be eliminated from the game. And life, I suppose, has tamed me, as a man who once loved me said it would do. The older I get the more tolerant I try 13 to be, and the more I know of this world the more I realize that Right is seldom all on one side and Wrong on the other. It’s a matter of give and take, this problem of traveling in double-harness. I can even smile a little, as I remember that college day in my teens when Matilda-Anne and Katrina and Fanny-Rain-in-the-Face and myself solemnly discussed man and his make-up, over a three-pound box of Maillard’s, and resolutely agreed that we would surrender our hearts to no suitor over twenty-six and marry no male who’d ever loved another woman—not, at least, unless the situation had become compensatingly romanticized by the death of any such lady preceding us in our loved one’s favor. Little we knew of men and ourselves and the humiliations with which life breaks the spirit of arrogant youth! For even now, knowing what I know, I’ve been doing my best to cooper together a case for my unstable old Dinky-Dunk. I’ve been trying to keep the thought of poor dead Lady Alicia out of my head. I’ve been wondering if there’s any truth in what Dinky-Dunk said, a few weeks ago, about a mere father being like the male of the warrior-spider whom the female of the species stands ready to dine upon, once she’s assured of her progeny. 14

I suppose I have given most of my time and attention to my children. And it’s as perilous, I suppose, to give your heart to a man and then take it even partly away again as it is to give a trellis to a rose-bush and then expect it to stand alone. My husband, too, has been restless and dissatisfied with prairie life during the last year or so, has been rocking in his own doldrums of inertia where the sight of even the humblest ship—and the Wandering Sail in this case always seemed to me as soft and shapeless as a boned squab-pigeon!—could promptly elicit an answering signal.

But I strike a snag there, for Alsina has not been so boneless as I anticipated. There was an unlooked-for intensity in her eyes and a mild sort of tragedy in her voice when she came and told me that she was going to another school in the Knee-Hill country and asked if I could have her taken in to Buckhorn the next morning. Some one, of course, had to go. There was one too many in this prairie home that must always remain so like an island dotting the lonely wastes of a lonely sea. And triangles, oddly enough, seem to flourish best in city squares. But much as I wanted to talk to Alsina, I was compelled to respect her reserve. I even told her that 15 Dinkie would miss her a great deal. She replied, with a choke in her voice, that he was a wonderful child. That, of course, was music to the ears of his mother, and my respect for the tremulous Miss Teeswater went up at least ten degrees. But when she added, without meeting my eye, that she was really fond of the boy, I couldn’t escape the impression that she was edging out on very thin ice. It was, I think, only the silent misery in her half-averted face which kept me from inquiring if she hadn’t rather made it a family affair. But that, second thought promptly told me, would seem too much like striking the fallen. And we both seemed to feel, thereafter, that silence was best.

Practically nothing passed between us, in fact, until we reached the station. I could see that she was dreading the ordeal of saying good-by. That unnamed sixth sense peculiar to cab-drivers and waiters and married women told me that every moment on the bald little platform was being a torture to her. As the big engine came lumbering up to a standstill she gave me one quick and searching look. It was a look I shall never forget. For, in it was a question and something more than a question. An unworded appeal was there, and also an unworded 16 protest. It got past my outposts of reason, in some way. It came to me in my bitterness like the smell of lilacs into a sick-room. I couldn’t be cruel to that poor crushed outcast who had suffered quite as much from the whole ignoble affair as I had suffered. I suddenly held out my hand to her, and she took it, with that hungry questioning look still on her face.

“It’s all right,” I started to say. But her head suddenly went down between her hunched-up shoulders. Her body began to shake and tears gushed from her eyes. I had to help her to the car steps.

“It was all my fault,” she said in a strangled voice, between her helpless little sobs.

It was brave of her, of course, and she meant it for the best. But I wish she hadn’t said it. Instead of making everything easier for me, as she intended, she only made it harder. She left me disturbingly conscious of ghostly heroisms which transposed what I had tried to regard as essentially ignoble into some higher and purer key. And she made it harder for me to look at my husband, when I got home, with a calm and collected eye. I felt suspiciously like Lady Macbeth after the second murder. I felt that we were fellow-sharers of a guilty secret 17 it would never do to drag too often into the light of every-day life.

But it will no more stay under cover, I find, than a dab-chick will stay under water. It bobs up in the most unexpected places, as it did last night, when Dinkie publicly proclaimed that he was going to marry his Mummy when he got big.

“It would be well, my son, not to repeat the mistakes of your father!” observed Dinky-Dunk. And having said it, he relighted his quarantining pipe and refused to meet my eye. But it didn’t take a surgical operation to get what he meant into my head. It hurt, in more ways than one, for it struck me as suspiciously like a stone embodied in a snowball—and even our offspring recognized this as no fair manner of fighting.

“Then it impresses you as a mistake?” I demanded, seeing red, for the coyote in me, I’m afraid, will never entirely become house-dog.

“Isn’t that the way you regard it?” he asked, inspecting me with a non-committal eye.

I had to bite my lip, to keep from flinging out at him the things that were huddled back in my heart. But it was no time for making big war medicine. So I got the lid on, and held it there. 18

“My dear Dinky-Dunk,” I said with an effort at a gesture of weariness, “I’ve long since learned that life can’t be made clean, like a cat’s body, by the use of the tongue alone!”

Dinky-Dunk did not look at me. Instead, he turned to the boy who was watching that scene with a small frown of perplexity on his none too approving face.

“You go up to the nursery,” commanded my husband, with more curtness than usual.

But before Dinkie went he slowly crossed the room and kissed me. He did so with a quiet resoluteness which was not without its tacit touch of challenge.

“You may feel that way about the use of the tongue,” said my husband as soon as we were alone, “but I’m going to unload a few things I’ve been keeping under cover.”

He waited for me to say something. But I preferred remaining silent.

“Of course,” he floundered on, “I don’t want to stop you martyrizing yourself in making a mountain out of a mole-hill. But I’m getting a trifle tired of this holier-than-thou attitude. And––”

“And?” I prompted, when he came to a stop and sat pushing up his brindled front-hair until it made 19 me think of the Corean lion on the library mantel, the lion in pottery which we invariably spoke of as the Dog of Fo. My wintry smile at that resemblance seemed to exasperate him.

“What were you going to say?” I quietly inquired.

“Oh, hell!” he exclaimed, with quite unexpected vigor.

“I hope the children are out of hearing,” I reminded him, solemn-eyed.

“Yes, the children!” he cried, catching at the word exactly as a drowning man catches at a lifebelt. “The children! That’s just the root of the whole intolerable situation. This hasn’t been a home for the last three or four years; it’s been nothing but a nursery. And about all I’ve been is a retriever for a crÈche, a clod-hopper to tiptoe about the sacred circle and see to it there’s enough flannel to cover their backs and enough food to put into their stomachs. I’m an accident, of course, an intruder to be faced with fortitude and borne with patience.”

“This sounds quite disturbing,” I interrupted. “It almost leaves me suspicious that you are about to emulate the rabbit and devour your young.”

Dinky-Dunk fixed me with an accusatory finger.

“And the fact that you can get humor out of it 20 shows me just how far it has gone,” he cried with a bitterness which quickly enough made me sober again. “And I could stand being deliberately shut out of your life, and shut out of their lives as far as you can manage it, but I can’t see that it’s doing either them or you any particular good.”

“But I am responsible for the way in which those children grow up,” I said, quite innocent of the double entendre which brought a dark flush to my husband’s none too happy face.

“And I suppose I’m not to contaminate them?” he demanded.

“Haven’t you done enough along that line?” I asked.

He swung about, at that, with something dangerously like hate on his face.

“Whose children are they?” he challenged.

“You are their father,” I quietly acknowledged. It rather startled me to find Dinky-Dunk regarding himself as a fur coat and my offspring as moth-eggs which I had laid deep in the pelt of his life, where we were slowly but surely eating the glory out of that garment and leaving it as bald as a prairie dog’s belly.

“Well, you give very little evidence of it!” 21

“You can’t expect me to turn a cart-wheel, surely, every time I remember it?” was my none too gracious inquiry. Then I sat down. “But what is it you want me to do?” I asked, as I sat studying his face, and I felt sorriest for him because he felt sorry for himself.

“That’s exactly the point,” he averred. “There doesn’t seem anything to do. But this can’t go on forever.”

“No,” I acknowledged. “It seems too much like history repeating itself.”

His head went down, at that, and it was quite a long time before he looked up at me again.

“I don’t suppose you can see it from my side of the fence?” he asked with a disturbing new note of humility in his voice.

“Not when you force me to stay on the fence,” I told him. He seemed to realize, as he sat there slowly moving his head up and down, that no further advance was to be made along that line. So he took a deep breath and sat up.

“Something will have to be done about getting a new teacher for that school,” he said with an appositeness which was only too painfully apparent.

“I’ve already spoken to two of the trustees,” I told 22 him. “They’re getting a teacher from the Peg. It’s to be a man this time.”

Instead of meeting my eye, he merely remarked: “That’ll be better for the boy!”

“In what way?” I inquired.

“Because I don’t think too much petticoat is good for any boy,” responded my lord and master.

“Big or little!” I couldn’t help amending, in spite of all my good intentions.

Dinky-Dunk ignored the thrust, though it plainly took an effort.

“There are times when even kindness can be a sort of cruelty,” he patiently and somewhat platitudinously pursued.

“Then I wish somebody would ill-treat me along that line,” I interjected. And this time he smiled, though it was only for a moment.

“Supposing we stick to the children,” he suggested.

“Of course,” I agreed. “And since you’ve brought the matter up I can’t help telling you that I always felt that my love for my children is the one redeeming thing in my life.”

“Thanks,” said my husband, with a wince.

“Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m merely trying 23 to say that a mother’s love for her children has to be one of the strongest and holiest things in this hard old world of ours. And it seems only natural to me that a woman should consider her children first, and plan for them, and make sacrifices for them, and fight for them if she has to.”

“It’s so natural, in fact,” remarked Dinky-Dunk, “that it has been observed in even the Bengal tigress.”

“It is my turn to thank you,” I acknowledged, after giving his statement a moment or two of thought.

“But we’re getting away from the point again,” proclaimed my husband. “I’ve been trying to tell you that children are like rabbits: It’s only fit and proper they should be cared for, but they can’t thrive, and they can’t even live, if they’re handled too much.”

“I haven’t observed any alarming absence of health in my children,” I found the courage to say. But a tightness gathered about my heart, for I could sniff what was coming.

“They may be all right, as far as that goes,” persisted their lordly parent. “But what I say is, too much cuddling and mollycoddling isn’t good for that boy of yours, or anybody else’s boy.” And he proceeded to explain that my Dinkie was an ordinary, 24 every-day, normal child and should be accepted and treated as such or we’d have a temperamental little bounder on our hands.

I knew that my boy wasn’t abnormal. But I knew, on the other hand, that he was an exceptionally impressionable and sensitive child. And I couldn’t be sorry for that, for if there’s anything I abhor in this world it’s torpor. And whatever he may have been, nothing could shake me in my firm conviction that a child’s own mother is the best person to watch over his growth and shape his character.

“But what is all this leading up to?” I asked, steeling myself for the unwelcome.

“Simply to what I’ve already told you on several occasions,” was my husband’s answer. “That it’s about time this boy of ours was bundled off to a boarding-school.”

I sat back, trying to picture my home and my life without Dinkie. But it was unbearable. It was unthinkable.

“I shall never agree to that,” I quietly retorted.

“Why?” asked my husband, with a note of triumph which I resented.

“For one thing, because he is still a child, because he is too young,” I contended, knowing that I could 25 never agree with Dinky-Dunk in his thoroughly English ideas of education even while I remembered how he had once said that the greatness of England depended on her public-schools, such as Harrow and Eton and Rugby and Winchester, and that she had been the best colonizer in the world because her boys had been taken young and taught not to overvalue home ties, had been made manlier by getting off with their own kind instead of remaining hitched to an apron-string.

“And you prefer keeping him stuck out here on the prairie?” demanded Dinky-Dunk.

“The prairie has been good enough for his parents, this last seven or eight years,” I contended.

“It hasn’t been good enough for me,” my husband cried out with quite unlooked-for passion. “And I’ve about had my fill of it!”

“Where would you prefer going?” I asked, trying to speak as quietly as I could.

“That’s something I’m going to find out as soon as the chance comes,” he retorted with a slow and embittered emphasis which didn’t add any to my peace of mind.

“Then why cross our bridges,” I suggested, “until we come to them?” 26

“But you’re not looking for bridges,” he challenged. “You don’t want to see anything beyond living like Doukhobours out here on the edge of Nowhere and remembering that you’ve got your precious offspring here under your wing and wondering how many bushels of Number-One-Hard it will take to buy your Dinkie a riding pinto!”

“Aren’t you rather tired to-night?” I asked with all the patience I could command.

“Yes, and I’m talking about the thing that makes me tired. For you know as well as I do that you’ve made that boy of yours a sort of anesthetic. You put him on like a nose-cap, and forget the world. He’s about all you remember to think about. Why, when you look at the clock, nowadays, it isn’t ten minutes to twelve. It’s always Dinkie minutes to Dink. When you read a book you’re only reading about what your Dinkie might have done or what your Dinkie is some day to write. When you picture the Prime Minister it’s merely your Dinkie grown big, laying down the law to a House of Parliament made up of other Dinkies, rows and rows of ’em. When the sun shines you’re wondering whether it’s warm enough for your Dinkie to walk in, and when the snow begins to melt you’re wondering whether 27 it’s soft enough for the beloved Dinkie to mold into snowballs. When you see a girl you at once get busy speculating over whether or not she’ll ever be beautiful enough for your Dinkie, and when one of the Crowned Heads of Europe announces the alliance of its youngest princess you fall to pondering if Dinkie wouldn’t have made her a better husband. And when the flowers come out in your window-box you wonder if they’re fair enough to bloom beside your Dinkie. I don’t suppose I ever made a haystack that you didn’t wonder whether it wasn’t going to be a grand place for Dinkie to slide down. And when Dinkie draws a goggle-eyed man on his scribbler you see Michael Angelo totter and Titian turn in his grave. And when Dinkie writes a composition of thirty crooked lines on the landing of Hengist you feel that fate did Hume a mean trick in letting him pass away before inspecting that final word in historical record. And heaven’s just a row of Dinkies with little gold harps tucked under their wings. And you think you’re breathing air, but all you’re breathing is Dinkies, millions and millions of etherealized Dinkies. And when you read about the famine in China you inevitably and adroitly hitch the death 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.