I
In a little hall bedroom in a big city lay a little woman in a big
trouble. She had taken the room under an assumed name, and a visitor had
come to her there--to little her in the big city, from the bigger
unknown.
She had taken the room as "Mrs. Emerton." The landlady, Mrs. Rotch, had
had her doubts. But then she was liberal-minded--folks had to be in that
street. Still, she made it an invariable rule that "no visitors was
never allowed in rooms," a parlor being kept for the purpose up to ten
o'clock, when the landlady went to bed in it, "her having to have her
sleep as well as anybody."
But, in spite of the rules, a visitor had come to "Mrs. Emerton's"
room--a very, very young man. His only name as yet was "the Baby." She
dared not give the young man his father's name, for then people would
know, and she had come to the city to keep people from knowing. She had
come to the wicked city from the sweet, wholesome country, where,
according to fiction, there is no evil, but where, according to fact,
people are still people and moonlight is still madness. In the country,
love could be concealed but not its consequence.
Her coadjutor in the ceremony of summoning this little spirit from the
vasty deep had not followed her to the city where the miracle was
achieved. He was poor, and his parents would have been brokenhearted; his
employer in the village would have taken away his seven-dollar-a-week job.
So the boy sent the girl to town alone, with what money he had saved up
and what little he could borrow; and he stayed in the village to earn
more.
The girl's name was Lightfoot--Hilda Lightfoot--a curiously prophetic
name for her progress in the primrose path, though she had gone
heavy-footed enough afterward. And now she could hardly walk at all.
Hilda Lightfoot had come to the city in no mood to enjoy its
frivolities, and with no means. She had climbed the four flights to her
room a few days ago for the last time. In all the weeks and weeks she
had never had a caller, except, the other day, a doctor and a nurse, who
had taken away most of her money and left her this little clamorous
youth, whose victim she was as he was hers.
To-night she was desperately lonely. Even the baby's eternal demands and
uproars were hushed in sleep. She felt strong enough now to go out into
the wonderful air of the city; the breeze was as soft and moonseeped as
the blithe night wind that blew across the meadows at home.
The crowds went by the window and teased her like a circus parade
marching past a school.
But she could not go to circuses--she had no money. All she had was a
nameless, restless baby.
She grew frantically lonely. She went almost out of her head from her
solitude, the jail-like loneliness, with no one to talk to except her
little fellow-prisoner who could not talk.
Her homesick heart ran back to the home life she was exiled from. She
was thinking of the village. It was prayer-meeting night, and the moon
would wait outside the church like Mary's white-fleeced lamb till the
service was over, and then it would follow the couples home, gamboling
after them when they walked, and, when they paused, waiting patiently
about.
The moon was a lone white lamb on a shadowy hill all spotted with
daisies. Everything in the world was beautiful except her fate, her
prison, her poverty, and her loneliness.
If only she could go down from this dungeon into the streets! If only
she had some clothes to wear and knew somebody who would take her
somewhere where there was light and music! It was not much to ask.
Hundreds of thousands of girls were having fun in the theaters and the
restaurants and the streets. Hundreds of thousands of fellows were
taking their best girls places.
If only Webster Edie would come and take her out for a walk! She had
been his best girl, and he had been her fellow. Why must he send her
here, alone? It was his duty to be with her, now of all times. A woman
had a right to a little petting, now of all times. She had written him
so yesterday, begging him to come to her at any cost. But her letter
must have crossed his letter, and in that he said that he could not get
away and could not send her any money for at least another week, and
then not much.
She was doomed to loneliness--indefinitely. If only some one would come
in and talk to her! The landlady never came except about the bill. The
little slattern who brought her meals had gone to bed. She knew
nobody--only voices, the voices of other boarders who went up and down
the stairs and sometimes paused outside her door to talk and laugh or
exchange gossip. She had caught a few names from occasional greeting or
exclamation: "Good morning, Miss Marland!" "Why, Mrs. Elsbree!" "How was
the show last night, Miss Bessett?" "Oh, Mrs. Teed, would you mind
mailing these letters as you go out?" "Not at all, Mrs. Braywood."
They were as formless to her as ghosts, but she could not help imagining
bodies and faces and clothes to fit the voices. She could not help
forming likes and dislikes. She would have been glad to have any of them
come to see her, to ask how she was or admire the baby, or to borrow a
pin or lend a book.
If somebody did not come to see her she would go mad. If only she dared,
she would leave the baby and steal down the stairs and out of the front
door and slip along the streets. They called her; they beckoned to her
and promised her happiness. She was like a little yacht held fast in a
cove by a little anchor. The breeze was full of summons and nudgings;
the water in the bay was dancing, every ripple a giggle. Only her anchor
held her, such a little anchor, such a gripping anchor!
If only some one would come in! If only the baby could talk, or even
listen with understanding! She was afraid to be alone any longer, lest
she do something insane and fearful. She sat at the window, with one arm
stretched out across the sill and her chin across it, and stared off
into the city's well of white lights. Then she bent her head, hid her
hot face in the hollow of her elbow, and clenched her eyelids to shut
away the torment. She was loneliest staring at the city, but she was
unendurably lonely with her eyes shut. She would go crazy if somebody
did not come.
There was a knock at the door. It startled her.
She sat up and listened. The knock was repeated softly. She turned her
head and stared at the door. Then she murmured, "Come in."
The door whispered open, and a woman in soft black skirts whispered in.
The room was lighted only by the radiance from the sky, and the
mysterious woman was mysteriously vague against the dimly illuminated
hall.
She closed the door after her and stood, a shadow in a shadow. Even her
face was a mere glimmer, like a patch of moonlight on the door, and her
voice was stealthy as a breeze. It was something like the voice she
heard called "Mrs. Elsbree."
Hilda started to rise, but a faint, white hand pressed her back and the
voice said:
"Don't rise, my dear. I know how weak you are, what you have gone
through, alone, here in this dreary place. I know what pain you have
endured, and the shame you have felt, the shame that faces you outside
in the world. It is a cruel world. To women--oh, but it is cruel! It has
no mercy for a woman who loves too well.
"If you had a lot of money you might fight it with its own weapon. Money
is the one weapon it respects. But you haven't any money, have you, my
dear? If you had, you wouldn't be here in the dark alone, would you?
"I'm afraid there is nothing ahead of you, either, but darkness, my
dear. The man you loved has deserted you, hasn't he? He is a poor, weak
thing, anyway. Even if he married you, you would probably part. He'd
always hate you. Nobody else will want you for a wife, you poor child;
you know that, don't you? And nobody will help you, because of the baby.
You couldn't find work and keep the baby with you, could you? And you
couldn't leave it. It is a weight about your neck; it will drown you in
deep waters.
"Even if it lived, it would have only misery ahead of it, for your story
would follow it through life. The older it grew, the more it would
suffer. It would despise you and itself. How much happier you would be
not to be alive at all, both of you, you poor, unwelcome things!
"There are many problems ahead of you, my dear; and you'll never solve
them, except in one way. If you were dead and asleep in your grave with
your poor little one at your breast, all your troubles would be over
then, wouldn't they? People would feel sorry for you; they wouldn't
sneer at you then. And you wouldn't mind loneliness or hunger or
pointing fingers or anything.
"Take my advice, dearie, and end it now. There are so many ways; so many
things to buy at drug-stores. And that's the river you can just see over
there. It is very peaceful in its depths. Its cool, dark waters will
wash away your sorrows. Or if that is too far for you to go, there's the
window. You could climb out on the ledge with your baby in your arms and
just step off into--peace. Take my advice, poor, lonely, little thing.
It's the one way; I know. The world will forgive you, and Heaven will be
merciful. Didn't Christ take the Magdalen into His own company and His
mother's? He will take you up into heaven, if you go now. Good-by. Don't
be afraid. Good-by. Don't be afraid."
She was gone so softly that Hilda did not see her go. She had been
staring off into that ocean of space, and when she turned her head the
woman was gone. But her influence was left in the very air. Her words
went on whispering about the room. Under their influence the girl rose,
tottered to the bed, gathered the sleeping baby to her young bosom,
kissed his brow without waking him, and stumbled to the window.
She pushed it as high as it would go and knelt on the ledge, peering
down into the street. It was a fearful distance to the walk.
She hoped she would not strike the stone steps or the area rail. And yet
what difference would it make? It would only assure her peace the
quicker. She must wait for those people below to walk past. But they
were not gone before others were there. She could not hurl herself upon
them.
As she waited, it grew terrible to take the plunge. She had always been
afraid of high places. She grew dizzy now, and must cling hard to keep
from falling before she said her prayers and was ready. And, now the
pavement was clear. She kissed her baby again. She drew in a deep
breath, her last sip of the breath of life. How good it was, this clear,
cool air flowing across this great, beautiful, heartless city that she
should never see again! And now--
There was a knock at the door. It checked her. She lost impulse and
impetus and crept back and sank into a chair. She was pretending to be
rocking the baby to sleep when she murmured, "Come in."
Perhaps it would be Mrs. Elsbree, returned to reproach her for her
cowardice and her delay. But when she dared to look up it was another
woman. At least it was another voice--perhaps Miss Marland's.
"I've been meaning to call on you, Mrs. Emerton, but I haven't had a
free moment. Of course I've known all along why you were here. We all
have. There's been a good deal of backbiting. But that's the
boarding-house of it. This evening, at dinner, there was some mention of
you at the table, and some of the women were ridiculing you and some
were condemning you. Oh, don't wince, my dear; everybody is always being
ridiculed or condemned or both for something. If you were one of the
saints they would burn you at the stake or put you to the torture.
"Anyway, I spoke up and told them that the only one who had a right to
cast a stone at you was one without sin, and I despaired of finding such
a person in this boarding-house--or outside, either, for that matter. I
spoke up and told them that you were no worse than the others. They all
had their scandals, and I know most of them. There's some scandal about
everybody. We're all sinners--if you want to call it sin to follow your
most sacred instincts.
"Why should you be afraid of a little gossip or a few jokes or a little
abuse from a few hypocrites? They're all sinners--worse than you, too,
most of them, if the truth were known.
"Why blame yourself and call yourself a criminal? You loved the
boy--loved him too much, that's all. If you had been really wicked you
would have refused to love him or to give yourself up to his plea. If
you had been really bad you'd have known too much to have this child.
You'd have got rid of it at all costs.
"You are really a very good little woman with a passion for being a
mother. It's the world outside that's bad. Don't be ashamed before it.
Hold your head up. The world owes you a living, and it will pay it if
you demand it. It will pay for you and your child, too. Just demand your
rights. You'll soon find a place. You're too young and beautiful to be
neglected. You're young and beautiful and passionate. You can make some
man awfully happy. He'll be glad to have your baby and you--disgrace and
all. He may be very rich, too. Go find him. The baby may grow up to be a
wonderful man. You could make enough to give the boy every advantage and
a fine start in the world.
"The world is yours, if you'll only take it. Remember the Bible, 'Ask
and it shall be given unto you.' Think it over, my dear. Don't do
anything foolish or rash. You're too young and too beautiful. And now I
must ran along. Good-by and good luck."
While Hilda was breathing deep of this wine of hope and courage the
woman was gone.
Hilda glanced out of the window again. She shuddered. A moment more and
she would have been lying below there, broken, mangled,
unsightly--perhaps not dead, only crippled for life and arrested as a
suicide that failed; perhaps as a murderess, since the fall would surely
have killed her child--her precious child. She held him close, her great
man-baby, her son; he laughed, beat the air with his hands, chuckled,
and smote her cheek with palms like white roses. She would take him from
this gloomy place. She would go out and demand money, fine clothes,
attention.
She put on her hat, a very shabby little hat. She began to wrap the baby
in a heavy shawl. They would have finer things soon.
She grew dizzy with excitement and the exertion, and sank back in the
chair a moment, to regain her strength. The chair creaked. No, it was a
knock at the door. It proved what the last woman had said. "Ask, and it
shall be given unto you."
She had wished for some one to call on her. The whole boarding-house was
coming. She was giving a party.
This time it was another voice out of the darkness. It must have been
Miss Bessett's. She spoke in a cold, hard, hasty tone. "Going out, my
dear? Alone, I hope? No, the baby's wrapped up! You're not going to be
so foolish as to lug that baby along? He brands you at once. Nobody will
want you round with a squalling baby. Oh, of course he's a pretty child;
but he's too noisy. He'll ruin every chance you have.
"You're really very pretty, my dear. The landlady said so. If she
noticed it, you must be a beauty, indeed. This is a great town for
pretty girls. There's a steady market for them.
"The light is poor here, but beauty like yours glows even in darkness,
and that's what they want, the men. The world will pay anything for
beauty, if beauty has the brains to ask a high price and not give too
much for it.
"Think of the slaves who have become queens, the mistresses who have
become empresses. There are rich women all over town who came by their
money dishonestly. You should see some of them in the Park with their
automobiles. You'd be ashamed even to let them run over you. Yet, if you
were dressed up, you'd look better than any of the automobile brigade.
"You might be a great singer. I've heard you crooning to the baby. You
find a rich man and make him pay for your lessons, and then you make
eyes at the manager and, before you know it, you'll be engaged for the
opera and earning a thousand dollars a night--more than that, maybe.
"Think how much that means. It would make you mighty glad you didn't
marry that young gawp at home. He's a cheap skate to get you into this
trouble and not help you out.
"But I'll set you in the way of making a mint of money. There's only one
thing: you must give up the baby and never let anybody know you ever had
it. Don't freeze up and turn away. There are so many ways of disposing
of a baby. Send it to a foundling asylum. No questions will be asked.
The baby will have the best of care and grow so strong that some rich
couple will insist on adopting it, or you could come back when you are
married to a rich man and pretend you took a fancy to it and adopt it
yourself.
"And there's a lot of other ways to get rid of a baby. You could give it
the wrong medicine by mistake, or just walk out and forget it. And
there's the river; you could drop it into those black waters. And then
you're free--baby would never know. He would be ever so much better off.
And you would be free.
"You must be free. You must get a little taste of life. You've a right
to it. You lived in a little stupid village all your years--and now
you're in the city. Listen to it! It would be yours for the asking. And
it gives riches and glory to the pretty girls it likes. But you must go
to it as a girl, not as a poor, broken, ragged thing, lugging a sickly
baby with no name. Get rid of the baby, my dear. It will die, anyway. It
will starve and sicken. Put it out of its misery. That medicine on your
wash-stand--an overdose of that and you can say it was a mistake. Who
can prove it wasn't? Then you are free. You'll have hundreds of friends,
and a career, and a motor of your own, and servants, and a beautiful
home. Don't waste your youth, my dear. Invest your beauty where it will
bring big proceeds.
"See those lights off there--the big lights with the name of that woman
in electric letters? She came to town poorer than you and with a worse
name. Now she is rich and famous. And the Countess of--What's-her-name?
She was poor and bad, but she didn't let any old-fashioned ideas of
remorse hold her back. Go on; get rid of the brat. Go on!"
Hilda clutched the baby closer and moved away to shield her from this
grim counselor. When she turned again she was alone. The woman had gone,
but the air trembled with her fierce wisdom. She was ruthless, but how
wise!
The lights flaring up into the sky carried that other woman's name. Her
picture was everywhere. She had been poor and wicked. Now she was a
household word, respected because she was rich. She had succeeded.
There came a lilting of music on a breeze. They were dancing, somewhere.
The tango "coaxed her feet." Her body swayed with it.
If she were there, men would quarrel over her, rush to claim her--as
they had done even in the village before she threw herself away on the
most worthless, shiftless of the lot, who got her into trouble and
deserted her. It was not her business to starve for his baby.
The baby began to fret again, to squawk with vicious explosions of ugly
rage; it puled and yowled. It was a nuisance. It caught a fistful of her
hair and wrenched till the tears of pain rushed to her eyes. She
unclasped the little talons, ran to the wash-stand, took up an ugly
bottle and poured out enough to put an end to that nauseating wail.
She bent over to lift the baby to the glass. Its lips touched her bosom.
Its crying turned to a little chortle like a brook's music. It pommeled
her with hands like white roses. The moon rested on its little head and
made its fuzz of hair a halo. She paused, adoring it sacredly like
another Madonna.
A soft tap at the door. She put the fatal glass away and turned
guiltily. A dark little woman was there, and a soft, motherly voice
spoke. It must be Mrs. Braywood's. She could not have suspected, for her
tone was all of affection.
"I heard your child laughing, my dear--and crying. I don't know which
went to my heart deeper. I just had to come to see it. It is so
marvelous to be a mother. I've been married for ten years, and my
husband and I have prayed and waited. But God would not send us a baby.
He saved that honor for you. And such an honor and glory and power! To
be a mother! To be a rose-bush and have a white bud grow upon your stem,
and bloom! Oh, you lucky child, to be selected for such a privilege! You
must have suffered; you must be suffering now; but there's nothing worth
while that doesn't cost pain.
"It occurred to me that--don't misunderstand me, my child, but--well,
the landlady said you were poor; she was in doubt of the room rent; so
I thought--perhaps you might not want the baby as much as I do.
"I hoped you might let me take him. I'd be such a good mother to him.
I'd love him as if he were my own, and my husband would pay you well for
him. We'd give him our own name, and people should never know that
he--that you--that we weren't really his parents. Give him to me, won't
you? Please! I beg you!"
Hilda whirled away from her pleading hands and clenched the baby so hard
that it cried a little. The sound was like that first wail of his she
had ever heard. Again it went into her heart like a little hand seizing
and wringing it.
Mrs. Braywood--if it were Mrs. Braywood--was not angry at the rebuff,
though she was plainly disheartened. She tried to be brave, and sighed.
"Oh, I don't wonder you turn away. I understand. I wouldn't give him up
if I were in your place. The father must come soon. He won't stay away
long. Just let him see the baby and hear its voice and know it is his
baby, and he will stand by you.
"He will come to you. He will hear the voice wherever he is, and he will
make you his wife. And the baby will make a man of him and give him
ambition and inspiration. Babies always provide for themselves, they
say. You will have trouble, and you will suffer from the gibes of
self-righteous people, and you will be cruelly blamed; but there is
only one way to expiate sin, my child, and that is to face its
consequences and pay its penalties in full. The only way to atone for a
wrong deed is to do the next right thing. Take good care of your
precious treasure. Good-by. His father will come soon. He will come.
Good-by. Oh, you enviable thing, you mother!"
And now she was gone. But she had left the baby's value enhanced, and
the mother's, too.
She had offered a price for the baby, and glorified the mother. The
lonely young country girl felt no longer utterly disgraced. She did not
feel that the baby was a mark of Heaven's disfavor, but rather of its
favor. She felt lonely no longer. The streets interested her no more.
Let those idle revelers go their way; let them dance and laugh. They had
no child of their own to adore and to enjoy.
If the baby's father came they would be married. If he delayed--well,
she would stumble on alone. The baby was her cross. She must carry it up
the hill.
Hilda felt entirely content, but very tired, full of hope that Webster
Edie would come to her, but full of contentment, too. She talked to the
baby, and he seemed to understand her now. She could not translate his
language, but he translated hers.
She slipped out of her day clothes and into her nightgown--and so to
bed. She fell asleep with her baby in her arms. Her head drooped back
and her parted lips seemed to pant and glow. The moon reached her
window and sent in a long shaft of light. It found a great tear on her
cheek. It gleamed on her throat bent back; it gleamed on one bare
shoulder where the gown was torn; it gleamed on her breast where the
baby drowsily clung.
There was a benediction in the moonlight.