TWILIGHT
A sweet rain freshened the summer afternoon, drawing a good smell from
the baking pavements. Our wild-rose, who perhaps was changing into a
red, red rose of the gardens, she was so womanly grave and wise, stole
forth to see Nell Rast. She did not use her umbrella, for the rain was
sweet on her face, and she had on old clothes. And so she glided along,
among the playing children and the serious idle old men and women,
fresh as the rain, rich as the summer.
She had given up her job; there was much sewing to be done--linen
to be initialed, and a modest trousseau to be wrought. She had said
good-by to the boss, who, spite of his grim ways, showed his sorrow
in a little check. She had said good-by to Jonas Zug, and told him
so cordially that he must call after she was married, that he could
not speak. And now the long, long summer days were hers--what dreams,
what schemes, what happy business! Her mother took on new life as they
discussed stitches and soups and furniture. And Nell, meeting her
marketing, basket on arm, had told her to call. Nell was very sensitive
about people. Almost intuitively she knew them. She could not let this
innocent girl go ignorantly into marriage.
And so Edith glided into the cool, dark hallway and knocked at the
kitchen. Nell opened the door.
“Why, it’s Edith,” she laughed, and kissed her. “It’s sweet of you to
come!”
Edith laughed softly, and stepped in. Davy was tagging at his mother’s
skirt.
“Mother! Mother! Mother!”
“Well, son?”
“Where _are_ you?”
Nell and Edith looked at each other laughingly. The woman and the
girl made a pretty contrast--Nell with her large brown eyes, her
hair parted in center and soft over her forehead, her olive-tinted
cheeks, and Edith with lighted blue eyes and light hair and wild-rose
cheeks--the one, blooming in womanhood, yet graceful and exquisite; the
other, just brimming over girlhood, wild in her beauty. Yet they were
both of a size.
“You little boy,” cried the mother, and plucked him up and pushed his
face close to Edith’s. “Give the pretty lady a kiss! Give Aunt Edith a
kiss!”
But Davy only stared, and pushed off.
“Don’t you love me?” asked Edith.
“No,” he cried, “I _can’t_ love you; I only like you.”
The distinction was a fine one, and Edith laughed.
“Whom do you love?”
“I love Mother! Mother,” he cried, “where _are_ you?”
“Here, son!”
“Then, please, dear darling Mother dear, I want to be a little helper!”
And he began pulling roguishly at her hair.
“Stop!” she cried. “Shall I put ink on your hand?”
“Don’t you do that!” he warned her.
“Naughty boy! Now you can’t be a helper!”
She set him on the floor, and he drew down the corners of his lips like
a bow pulled round, and spoke slowly with stifled sobs:
“I didn’t mean it! I was only teasing you! I couldn’t help it!”
“Surely?”
“Please, please, dear Mother dear!”
“And you’ll never do it again?”
“No!”
So Nell took from the table a bowl of cake dough still in the pasty
state and put it on a chair, and the young man danced with delight,
took a big metal spoon and worked vigorously, like the laborer he was.
Nell put two kitchen chairs side by side.
“I want you near me,” she said, in a low voice.
Edith took off her hat and sat down.
“You’re sure I’m not keeping you from your work?”
Nell only laughed and sat next her and took her two hands.
“Dear,” she said sweetly, “I think you’re getting more beautiful every
day.”
The wild-rose blushed.
“When is he coming back?”
“To-morrow.”
Nell put an arm about the girl.
“Edith,” she said, “I want you to be very happy in your marriage. I
have been in mine.”
“I know,” murmured Edith.
“We have had many troubles,” her voice shook a little. “Davy has had
his sicknesses. Sometimes the work seems like drudgery. Sometimes I
get a bit heart-sick because I don’t see enough of my husband. You
see he is a very busy man. Just now, for instance, there’s a roomful
of patients in front and he won’t be finished till supper time. And
then,” her voice lowered, “we’ve had money-troubles. Marriage isn’t
easy, dear, even when there’s love. There are so many disappointments,
so many ruined hopes, so much wasted strength and time. And one has to
make allowances.”
She hesitated a moment.
“Don’t you think the Doctor a splendid man?”
“He’s perfect,” whispered the wild-rose.
Nell laughed softly.
“No, dear, not perfect. Splendid, but very human. I want to tell you
something, Edith; I want to make one thing clear to avoid a mistake on
your part.”
“What is that?”
“No two human beings,” said Nell, “no matter how good they are and how
much they love, can live together without now and then getting tired of
each other or jarring on one another.”
“Oh, but it’s different----” Edith began.
“No, it isn’t,” laughed Nell. “Don’t believe me now, but when the time
comes, you will remember and be wise. That is the time for making
allowances, for making sacrifices.”
The wild-rose didn’t believe a word.
“And then,” Nell went on, “remember, too, that love changes.
Everything changes. We change and our lives and our passions change.
The enchantment that comes before marriage fades afterward; fades,
vanishes, to give way for something deeper, more durable, more sacred.
There will even come a time when you will wonder if you love your
husband--no, don’t stop me--and then you will find that it is but the
pain of growth. A better love is taking its place.”
The wild-rose protested that never in her life would she cease for a
moment to love her husband.
At this juncture groans arose from the son of the family.
“Oh! Oh!” he groaned.
“What’s the matter?” cried Nell.
“I’m putting pepper and salt in!”
“Pepper and salt?” Nell arose in horror. “What have _you_ been doing?”
She strode over to a scene of ruin.
“Edith,” she exclaimed, and then shook with wild laughter. “Look at
this! The rogue’s taken his father’s tobacco-can and sprinkled the
cake! You scamp! You rogue!”
She seized the young man by the arm, and again he made a mouth:
“I’m only putting pepper and salt in!”
“You’ve ruined my nice cake, you scamp!”
Edith doubled up with laughter. There was nothing to be done, so his
lordship had his way, and mixed in what ingredients he could find,
finally sweeping bread crumbs from the table and making neat designs on
the paste.
Then Nell sat down again and went on, gently and simply as any mother.
She spoke of the need of a woman keeping young--not by devices of hair
and dress so much--but by extending her life beyond her home.
“Don’t be shut in four walls; don’t narrow down to three rooms and a
street; get out; get into other activities; see people; study, read, go
to theater--anything. And keep pace with your husband. Don’t let him
grow away from you. Know his work; his ambition. Understand and help.”
She tried to impress on Edith the need of growth; the need of an open
mind and heart; a receptivity to the unfamiliar; a courage in making
experiments in life, in testing out new theories by actual living. And
then by slow degrees their talk drifted into the deepest theme of life;
the theme that is blood and breath of woman’s existence--creation.
Edith grew breathless. Now was she stirred to the very soul. Now was
her thirst for knowledge to be quenched, her darkness irradiated with
light. Nell put it very simply--how children are born--but the facts
went crashing through the girl’s ignorance like gusts of lightning.
“You see,” said Nell, “mothers don’t tell their daughters, and the
young girls go into the greatest and most vital things of their life
without knowing, without knowing. I want you to know.”
Edith clung to her; she felt the burden of a new responsibility; she
felt as if there were to be put in her hands a godlike power; the power
of creating new life on the earth; that the very strength of the suns
and the might of God would pass through her.
And then Nell went on to speak of men, and the perils of marriage.
She spoke of the double-standard, under which men freely go with women
before marriage, and girls remain innocent.
“Oh,” cried Edith, staring with large eyes, “but not all men. Not all!”
“Most of them,” said Nell sadly.
“It can’t be,” cried Edith. And suddenly she remembered Zug’s words,
and grew very pale.
Darkness was beginning to spread up on her horizon. Better to remain
ignorant and happy!
Nell saw the look in her eyes.
“Dear,” she cried, “don’t feel that way about it. It’s no dishonor for
a boy to go wrong to-day--really it isn’t. They, too, are ignorant.
They, too, must be taught. But I had to tell you on account of the
dangers. Those dangers can be avoided--a simple matter----”
But she got no further that day. Just then the Doctor came in, in his
white office coat, and the two jumped up like guilty children.
“H’m,” growled the Doctor, “conspiracy?”
Nell said laughingly:
“It’s Edith, dear!”
He shook her hand listlessly.
“Goodness,” he muttered, stretching his arms out, “I’m sick and tired!
Nell, I thought that bunch of aches and pains would never quit.”
“My poor, poor man!” murmured Nell.
“Oh,” cried the Doctor, “I’m sick of it all! Drat it!”
The wild-rose was shocked, and the Doctor laughed.
“Well, Edith,” he muttered, trying hard to be less tired, “where’s the
man?”
“Away.”
But the Doctor was too tired; he sat down on a chair.
“I’d better go,” said Edith.
“But you must come in a day or two,” cried Nell eagerly, “remember,
there is something I _must_ tell you!”
They kissed each other; Davy submitted a cheek; the Doctor nodded his
head, and the wild-rose wandered home through the late day.
A tumult of new passions possessed her all the evening and deep into
the night. Facts are aggressive. They leap up at us, sting us, batter
a breach, drive into the mind, tear old beliefs to tatters, root
themselves, throw up defenses, and so become part of our lives. Edith
felt her old life slipping away from her; the vision of the world
changed; she was no more what she had been. She could not be a young
girl any more. She went through the birth-throes of womanhood.
She began to see that marriage is not the end of life, but rather
the beginning of a new life; that she was called upon to shoulder
vast responsibilities; that it was more than a matter of love; it was
life-work. She must prepare herself for pain and stubborn struggle and
obstinate difficulties. She sat that night looking into the vastness of
life. Torn away was the enchantment. This was serious business; this
was life and death.
And yet far within her there was a strange sense of joy--the feeling
that she was no longer to be shut out from the common experiences of
mankind. It is no blessing to be ignorantly innocent; such a state is
shallow; the very terror of the deep crises of life have a wonder in
them no real man or woman would forego. Each wants life to the full,
the bitter and the sweet, the fire as well as the light.
Many such thoughts surged dimly or clearly through her mind, and mixed
with them were strange new passions concerning the man who was to be
her husband. The intimate relationships to be frightened her; and
now, in the light of her new knowledge he loomed a different man. She
thought she had known him; she had not. He was a power that would work
on all her life; he was a stranger. Nell had spoken of dangers to be
avoided. What danger could there be? How could Frank be dangerous?
Common sense came back and laughed at the notion. Dear Frank! Did he
not truly love her; did she not love him? That was enough. Where then
was the danger? Frank was true as steel; and how he had changed.
Ever was he getting gentler and nobler--more attentive, more kind and
loving. He would do anything for her. Such a man dangerous?
And then the last few months came up again, the lightning bolt that
spring night in the Playground Park; the golden eighty days; the first
kiss in the sound of the sea; the sweet tenderness; his letters.
Instinct told her that all was well.
“Nevertheless,” said the wise little wild-rose, “he and I shall have a
candid talk!”
Blessings on the wild-rose!
She was beginning to breathe happily again, and snuggle up in her soft
night-gown, inviting sleep, when a strange noise stirred her. It was
her mother gasping.
“Mother!” she cried, sitting up, “Mother!”
The cry rang sharp from her heart. Her mother tried to rise, fell back,
gasped, choked.
“Mother!” cried Edith frantically, clutching her hand.
Then, at last her mother spoke:
“All right! all right! Get the Doctor!”
“Oh, but are you sure you’re all right!”
“Ya, ya--run and get the Doctor!”
Edith bolted from bed, groped out and out, trembling with fear, found a
match, struck it and lit a small light. She leaned over her mother, and
saw her purple face, the rolling eyes. She felt as if the sight would
drive her crazy. She was utterly alone; so helpless. Then she flung
open the door to the adjoining room, and cried:
“Sam! Marc! Sam!”
But the room was empty. The brothers were still out.
“What shall I do?” she muttered. “What shall I do?”
And, at once, her mind cleared; she was calm and self-possessed, though
blackness showered upon her. She dressed quickly, took a last look at
her mother, stole down the black halls, and then went winging her way
through the deserted streets.
Fear speeded her. She brought up panting at Doctor Rast’s and rang the
night-bell. After what seemed a long time, the Doctor opened the door
on a crack.
“Yes?”
“Come over to my mother--quick!”
“I will!”
The door shut.
She sped back; she climbed the black steps; she burst into the room.
Her mother was still a haggard sight, but breathed easily.
“Mother! Tell me!” cried Edith.
“I’m--I’m a little better! Thank you!”
Edith sank on her knees, head in the covers.
“Oh, Mother,” she sobbed, “Mother! Mother!”
The Doctor found her still sobbing.
Gently he lifted her, and helped her to a chair, and then bent above
the patient.
“Mrs. Kroll!”
The mother opened her eyes, and then smiled wonderfully.
“Ach, Doctor! Good Doctor!”
“Yes, yes!--Pain?”
She sighed:
“It does not matter now!”
He examined her, and then turned and looked at Edith. Poor wild-rose!
Blackness shot his heart, and pity, and love. He touched Edith on the
shoulder.
“Edith!”
She arose, sobbing.
“Come,” he whispered tenderly, “come in the parlor.”
She groped her way blindly, her hand feeling out. The dim light of
the room followed them. Silence, the infinite silence of a sleeping
city lay about them; deepened now by the strange hush of sickness. The
Doctor stood over the girl, and waited.
Then she murmured, on a strangling sob:
“Yes--Doctor.”
“Edith,” he spoke very gently, very slowly, “I am going to trust to
you.”
“Yes----”
“I am going to ask courage and help. I need you to-night.”
He waited.
“Yes----” she cried.
All his heart went out to her; she was so young for sorrow. He spoke in
a voice pure with pity:
“Edith, your mother is very, very sick.”
“Oh, I know”--a wild sob escaped--“don’t you think I know?”
She sobbed bitterly. And what could he do but help her to a chair and
wish she were his own child that he might enfold her and comfort her?
“Listen,” he said hurriedly, “I am going to send a nurse in the
morning. We will take good care of the Mother, Edith--we will do all we
can for her--we will make the pain little as possible. Edith, to-night
you must nurse her--to-night you must go on being brave and strong. You
were brave to come for me. Be brave still. Don’t cry, Edith.”
Her sobbing slowed and died. She wiped her face, rubbed her eyes. She
arose full of gentleness and thoughtfulness.
“That’s over,” she said. “I’ll do anything, Doctor Rast.”
He pressed her tear-wet hand with both of his.
“Fight the good fight!” he said, and quickly he gave her directions.
While they were talking, there was a noise at the kitchen door.
“My brothers!” said Edith. “Quick--they must be quiet!”
She hurried into the dark kitchen, followed by the Doctor. The
sleeping-room light fell dimly, and in that light the brothers stood
bewildered.
“What’s the matter, Sis? Mutter?”
“Ssh!” she said, “Mother’s very, very sick.”
The brothers stood stupid and staring.
Doctor Rast spoke quietly:
“We will get a nurse for her in the morning, and Edith will take care
of her to-night. One of you come for me if anything happens. And be
very quiet. She must not be disturbed.”
Sam spoke roughly:
“I could stay with Mother, Sis. You get some sleep.”
Strange were the words on his lips.
Edith spoke gently:
“No, Sam. You and Marc get your rest. You must work to-morrow, and I
can sleep in the morning.”
Marc tried his best, too.
“If you want anything, Sis, why--call on me.”
A great crisis faced the three and drew them closer together. The
Doctor spoke a last word of courage and went. The brothers tiptoed to
their room, and went to bed in silence. Edith sat by her mother.
Long was the night. Time and again she glanced at her mother’s face,
and though she had never had a God she created one this night, and
prayed to Him for her mother’s life. No answer came through the still
air. Earth beneath her rolled through the empty star-surrounded
heavens, bearing its precious cargo of life. Out of the earth’s side
new life emerged, old life vanished, an ebb and flow of the vital
tides. In how many other rooms of the planet sprang the new cry of
babes and the last cry of the dying. Swift indeed was the unfolding of
this young girl, through first love, through deeper knowledge, and now
through tragedy. Life deepened about her this night, fraught with a
reality never before suspected.
And as she gazed in the old face, its red and yellow engulfed eyes,
its lines chiseled by the struggles and the joys and the dreams of
years, it seemed to her as if she read there the book of her mother’s
life. How clearly was love and pain written there! And this was her own
mother!
Then, like the cut of a knife in her heart, for the first time she
realized a stupendous fact. She could hardly breathe for the wonder
and terror of it. She--she herself had once lain curled under this
woman’s heart. She was flesh of this flesh, bone of this bone, soul
of this soul. And after she emerged in the world, a separate body,
what if she were still in the mother--in her heart, in her soul? All
these long years enfolded and engulfed in mother-love! How those worn
hands had wrought for her, those lips spoken for her, that soul fought
and labored and endured for her! Oh, so close she was to her mother!
Closer, closer than flesh of flesh. Terrible and miraculous was the
tie. Now she knew what “Mother” meant.
And now if her mother should be swept away, sucked back by the earth,
torn and sundered would be this miraculous tie. She, Edith, would be
alone, alone in this world. What world? Even the Earth that was Mother
of all life. Earth--Mother? Did earth enfold and engulf us with love,
too? Were we flesh of her flesh, spirit of her spirit? Edith felt a
new wonder fill her. She was indeed finding God this night. She looked
about the room with a curious interest; she listened to the night with
an inner ear, and it seemed as if in these walls, these streets, this
air something lived, something real and powerful and wonderful. Peace
stole in her, deep peace, and the great love, the love that swallows in
its vastness the eddying dust of our little human loves, filled her.
Her heart opened--opened out to the invisible--and she was transfigured
with an ineffable glory....
Slow went the hours, and though she arose to her mother’s call, and
fetched and helped and nursed, she moved through tranquility; she
stirred with power. It was the unfolding of the deepest within her.
And how deep are we within! How deeper than thought can reach! Power
beneath power, love beneath love.
Morning came; timid gray light trembling; chirp of sparrows; rattle of
milk-wagon; first stir of feet on the still pavement; light and more
light; and all the world of people woke; talked, ate, went forth, and
the great city thundered with labor and action.
The brothers made their low-voiced inquiries; stood silent at the
foot of the mother’s bed, and took her gentle good morning, and went
out choking. The nurse came at eight, a quiet, neat young woman with
glasses, who took charge with sweet cheer.
“You run right along,” she hustled Edith out. “I don’t want any kids
around. Curl up and go to sleep!”
Edith smiled:
“But Mother may need me, Miss Roth.”
“Nonsense and fiddlesticks! I’ll teach you a thing or two! Go right to
sleep, and don’t bother me!”
Edith curled up on the parlor-sofa, and suddenly the nurse tucked her
up in a blanket and kissed her.
When she awoke it was afternoon; warm, shining, drowsy. Miss Roth was
rocking to and fro. Edith sat up and stared at her.
“Well, child,” cried the nurse, “am I as ugly as all that? The nerve of
you!”
“Oh!” cried Edith, “I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know!” echoed the nurse. “I like that! Well, take a good look.”
Edith laughed softly, and arose.
“But Mother----” she began.
“Your mother’s all right! You just run along and take a bite! Quick!”
“I’m not hungry----”
“What! Are you crossing me? Don’t you say another word, but into the
kitchen with you!”
Miss Roth arose, eyes blazing through her glasses.
“Out with you, quick! I’ll teach these children!”
Edith laughed, and went out by the hall to the kitchen. She even tried
to eat, though she wanted nothing. Then came a knock on the door, a
knock that sped a wonderful gladness through her. She leaped up, flung
the door wide.
“Oh, Frank!” she cried out; “Frank--sweetheart!”
She girdled him with her arms, clung to him, clung to him. At last! The
man! The strength! He stood silent, struggling with shame and remorse.
She drew back in wild surprise, and saw his white face.
“Oh,” she cried, “you’ve heard!”
“Heard?” he muttered, “heard what?”
“About Mother!”
His voice was queer:
“Your mother?”
“How sick she is!”
“No,” he stammered, “she’s--sick?”
“We have a nurse--she’s very, very sick----”
His lips parted; he stared at her.
“So sick?”
He gave a groan:
“Edith! Edith! Edith!”
Then he clasped her to his heart, and they clung to one another.
“Come,” she said sadly, for the moment grew sweet to her, “come and sit
down and talk with me.”
They sat together at the table.
“It’s so good to have you here,” she said gravely. “I just need you,
dear.”
He patted her hand and glanced at the wild-rose face. It seemed to
him that she had changed since he left. He felt younger than she. She
seemed so wise and womanly.
“It’s so strange,” she went on, “everything’s so strange. But I’ve made
up my mind to be wise and brave, and not make a nuisance of myself.”
Her voice deepened; her eyes filled.
“I never knew I loved my mother so.”
He glanced down; and then her voice came poignantly sad:
“It’s never been very easy for her, Frank. And now----”
There was a deep silence.
“Oh,” she said, from her heart of hearts, “I’m so glad you’re here,
dear.”
He murmured that he, too, was glad. Again there was a deep silence.
“Frank.”
“Yes.”
“Can’t we talk a little? I feel things so deeply to-day. I want to know
you better. I want to know my husband. We mustn’t hide anything from
each other. We must be candid, dear.”
She was speaking more like a mother than a wife. He was puzzled and
disturbed and felt guilty.
“Yes, Edith.”
“May I say things?”
“Why not?”
“Anything I want?”
“Sure--anything.”
“Then listen.”
She spoke very intimately, very sweetly:
“I’ve had a good talk with Mrs. Rast. She told me about marriage----”
then the wild-rose hesitated and was confused; but she tried to go on,
so she looked away and spoke in a low voice: “about how babies are
born....”
Frank was startled.
“Yes....”
“And other things,” Edith went on, still looking away, “about men ...
about the double-standard....”
His voice was very queer.
“Double-standard?”
“Yes ... men,” her cheeks burned, “going around before they are
married....” There was a pause.... “She said most men did....”
The golden-haired one arose before him, and his face flushed. He was
shocked and angry.
“And the dangers....” Edith went on.
He withdrew his hands. Edith turned on him.
“Oh, Frank,” she cried, “is it true? Is it true?”
He arose from the table and spoke in a blaze of anger.
“Never speak of this again! It ain’t a subject for you! What business
has that woman...? I tell you women and men are different! Don’t you
ever again speak of this.”
She, too, arose, a frightful pain in her heart. She had offered him her
dearest confidence; she had offered him her inmost soul: and he had
roughly spurned the offer. She had sought bravely for a true marriage
of mind and heart, and he had shrunk back. This was indeed a new Frank
before her.
She spoke in a low voice:
“You had better go, Frank.”
“Yes,” he cried, “I’d better go!”
He seized up his hat, put it on, and went out. She watched the door
close.
Then she sat down in a stupor, her eyes staring, her face pale. A few
moments before she would have forgiven him anything--no matter what his
past was. But now--well, that was over with! He had come into her life,
and gone out of it. It must be for the best. She felt frozen, stupid,
inert. The blow had stopped her heart.
And then the door opened and Miss Roth came in.
“Your mother wants to speak to you.”
“My mother? Oh, my mother! Miss Roth!”
She arose, groping out with her hands, and Miss Roth drew her to her
heart.
Edith laughed strangely.
“I almost forgot about my mother!”