It was eleven o'clock on a mid-April morning--she never in after-life
forgot the day or the hour--that Clarissa Charleroy saw to the depths
of her daughter's mind.
Clarissa awoke that morning with a severe neuralgia. She had given two
parlor-talks the day before, and was now paying the penalty of
overexertion. To lie flat was sickening, yet to rise was impossible.
Marvel promptly took the case in {188} hand. The pillows were piled
high; one hot-water bag was slipped under that aching spot at the back
of her neck, and another placed at her chilly feet. Marvel knew that a
hot bag must be covered with linen; Marvel knew that an alcohol rub
changes even a neuralgic's outlook. Marvel was perfectly familiar with
the latest non-depressant remedy for neuralgia, hunted up the empty
box, telephoned the druggist, and had the prescription filled and
ready to administer in half an hour; when she left the room it was
only to reappear with a cretonne-and-mahogany tray, fresh toast, and
weak tea, at the very psychological moment when the thought of food
ceased to be a horror.
Under these ministrations, what had promised to be an all-day siege
gave way so satisfactorily that by eleven {189} o'clock Clarissa,
arrayed in Marvel's blue negligee, was temporarily reposing on the
lounge in the living-room, while her own room was airing. She was in
that delicious, drowsy, yet stimulated, state which follows the
cessation of suffering.
For April, the day was unusually warm. The windows were open; the sun
was pouring happily in, contending in gayety with a great jar of
daffodils covering the low table at Clarissa's side. Marvel in a
dull-blue house dress, white-braided, sat across the room darning a
stocking, with an expression of severity. Mending was one of the
domestic duties for which she had little taste. Owing to her constant
activities as housekeeper and secretary for Clarissa, she had not yet
begun to attend lectures at the University. Her mother, I fear, was
{190} serenely blind to the implications of this fact.
Clarissa, lying high among pillows, in the peace that follows pain,
regarded her daughter with a profound pleasure. There was something
about her--was it the length of curling lashes veiling her eyes? or
the tendrils of fair hair the warm wind lifted on her forehead? or the
exquisite color that came and went in her cheeks? or the slender
roundness of her erect young body?--there was a something, at all
events, a dearness, an interest, a charm, unlike all other girls of
twenty-three! Not for the first or the second, but for the hundreth
time, that winter, Clarissa was conscious of an unutterable hunger for
the years she had foregone. She seldom looked at Marvel's bloom
without remembering that she had no mental picture of her girlish
charm, {191} her maiden magic. How was it possible to grow old without
such memories to feed her withering heart upon?
She must not think that the locust had eaten these years! The thought
pierced her like a knife, and she put it away from her with all her
might. Had she not chosen the better, though more barren, part? Had
she not fought a good fight? And for this hour, at least, she was
happy.
Leaving Marvel's face, her gaze traveled round the room. The actual
alterations were not many, yet they had produced harmony. The
apartment was restful now. The very walls seemed to encompass and
caress her. Perhaps it was only just, Clarissa reflected, that a woman
who had poured out her years and her strength in working and planning
for an obdurate world, should have, when her energy {192} was spent,
some such warm and tender shelter, some equable spot all flowers and
sunshine, wherein she might be tended as Marvel was tending her, so
that she might gather strength to go forth to other battles.
She turned her eyes again upon her daughter. Marvel, feeling the long
look, glanced up.
"Are you comfy? Is there anything more you want, mother?" the girl
inquired.
Clarissa shook her head. "No, nothing. Really, child, you are an
excellent nurse. Quite a--quite a Marvel! Were you born so? Where did
you get it? Not from Paul or me!"
Marvel smiled faintly to herself.
"Where did I get that name?" she parried. "I have often wondered about
that. Father could n't, or would n't, tell me."
{193}
The slow, difficult color came to Clarissa's cheeks. How many years
since she had recalled the naming of her daughter!
"There is no secret about it," she said. "When the nurse first laid
you on my arm, I saw what seemed to me such a wonder-child that I
said, Every baby in the world ought to be named Marvel. Mine shall be.--
That's all. It was just a fancy. Your father wanted to name you
Clarissa Josephine. Where did those daffodils come from? Did the Herr
Professor send them?"
Marvel nodded carelessly. This was so common a matter as to be
undeserving of comment.
Clarissa resumed her train of thought. What tact the girl had shown!
She had slipped into her mother's life easily. At the beginning she
had taken her little stand, assumed {194} her pose. "I am not a
believer in your panaceas," her manner always, and her lips once or
twice, had said, "but nothing human is alien to me. Pray shatter
society to bits and remould it nearer to the heart's desire--if you
can."
Clarissa saw no reason why Marvel should not remain with her. A couple
of legacies had increased her small income to the point where she
might have dispensed with her irregular and uncertain earnings, had
these not represented an effort that was the essence of life to her.
She could even afford, for a time, the inconsistent luxury of an idle
daughter; but if Marvel desired to exercise her teacher's gift, why
not do so in Chicago?
"How comfortable we are!" said Clarissa, drowsily and happily. "That
blue dress is very becoming to you, {195} child. I believe we can't do
better than to keep this flat for next winter. I wonder if we could
n't arrange with Myra Ann to come back in the fall? We could pay her
half-wages while we were out of town. Her cooking seems to agree with
my stomach better than I dared suppose any home cooking could!"
"Why, mother! You forget I am still an instructor-elect at Midwest. I
must go to my work in September."
Clarissa started up against her pillows and spoke with her usual
vehemence and directness.
"I do not wish you to go back to Midwest, Marvel. I want you to stay
with me. I have had too little of my daughter's society in my life."
The girl dropped her work and faced her mother. "That, mother, is
hardly my fault."
{196}
Their glances met and crossed, rapier-like, with the words.
Apprehension seized Clarissa. She did not fathom the meaning of Marvel's
gaze.
"Do you mean it is my fault, Marvel?"
Her daughter kept silence. For almost the first time in her life, the
older woman felt herself compelled to valiant self-defense.
"My work has justified itself, Marvel. I am not boasting when I say
that I truthfully believe the good day of release from servitude is
nearer for all women because I had the courage to leave my home and go
into the wilderness, preaching the coming of the Woman's Age and
furthering, even though feebly, all the good causes that will help it
on."
Marvel still kept silence. She knew so many things to say! Was it not
better to utter none of them?
{197}
"I wanted," continued Clarissa, "to give my mite toward making this a
better world for girl-babies like you to be born into."
Her face wore the deep, wistful look that marked her highest moments;
this was the reason upon which in her secret soul she relied for
justification--but her daughter was not touched by it at all!
"Well, Marvel?"
"Really, mother," said the girl crisply, driven to make answer, "don't
you realize that you would never have gone in for Humanity if you had
n't hated cooking?"
"Why cook when I hated it?" Clarissa, up-in-arms, flashed back.
"Why, indeed?--but why drag in Humanity? And why should I give up my
work to stay here? I felt I ought to come--for a while--when you {198}
asked it. I could see that father and Evelyn thought I ought. But now
that I have put the flat in shape and trained Myra Ann,--she wants to
stay with you, by the way,--things will run smoothly. I can come up
occasionally to see how it goes."
At this assumption that her need of her child was purely practical,
something, some tangible, iron thing, seemed to strike Clarissa's
heart. She could feel its impact, feel the distressful shudder along
all her nerves, the explosion in her palms. She looked down at them
curiously. It almost seemed to her that she would behold them
shattered by the pain!
She turned her eyes away and they fell upon the bowl of daffodils.
Daffodils burning in an April sun. In what long-forgotten hour of
stress had she once seen the flame of daffodils burn {199} bright
against an April sun? Slowly her brain made the association. Ah, yes!
That day she told Paul she would leave him, he had brought her
daffodils.--Had _Paul_ felt like this?
Clarissa--Clarissa who had never before either asked or given quarter
--heard her own voice, tense with feeling, say, "Marvel, I can't let
you go, not yet!"
"Why, mother! I can't stay longer than June. Of all people in the
world, you ought to admit that I must do my work! Of course I know you
need a home as much as any one, though you never own it. That's why
you have liked to have me here this winter because I could help you
make one. You none of you know, you reformers! You are just
air-plants. You have no roots."
"It is part of the profession. 'Foxes {200} have holes--" Clarissa
retorted, driven to her last defense.
Marvel lifted her head, shocked at the implication.
"I don't believe it is wrong to tell you what I think," she said
abruptly. "You ought to know the other side, my side. Of course I'm
only a girl still. I dare say there is a great deal I do not
understand. But I do know about homes. The attitude of these people
you admire and quote does seem to me so ridiculous! They all admit
that the race lives for the child. But they say--and you follow them--
that the child can be best cared for by specialists, and the house can
be left to itself, while the mothers can, and should, go out and hunt
up some other specialty. It is the idea of a shirk! Loving a child is
a profession in itself. You have to give your mind {201} and soul to
it. I tell you I know. _I know because I was motherless!_ Can't you
see that everything your specialists can do for the child is useless
if you don't give it what it wants and needs the very most of all? Oh,
I think some grown-ups were born grown-up. They don't seem to
remember!"
"Remember--remember what?" Clarissa interjected sharply.
"I don't know that I can make you understand. It is such a simple,
elemental thing. You either know it, or you don't. You may mother
chickens in a brooder, but you must mother children in your arms.
After you left, mother, for four mortal years I was the most miserable
scrap on earth. I was fed and clothed and taught and cared for. I was
petted, too, but it was never _right_. All the while I felt {202} myself
alone. Aunt Josephine did n't count; even father did n't, then. I
could not sleep for loneliness, and I used to wake far in the night,
my eyes all wet with tears. I had been crying in my sleep. The
universe felt desolate and vacant. Just one little girl alone in it!
There was such a weight at my heart! I would cry and cry. It was an
awful, constant hunger for the mother that I did n't have. So I know
how it is with all children. Their hearts must be fed!"
Clarissa listened, astounded.
The girl stood now at the open window, breathing in the soft spring
air in long-drawn, tremulous breaths. The excitement of speech was
upon her. Her eyes were liquid, wonderful. And never, in all her life,
had she looked so like the woman who watched her breathlessly.
{203}
"These are such big things," she went on, "I hardly know how to talk
about them. But I have thought a great deal. I know the world must be
made better, and every one must do his share. But, mother, you can't
save the world in platoons. Even Christ had but twelve disciples. I'm
not denying that thousands of women must work outside the home; I'm
not denying that hundreds may be specially called to do work in and
for the world. But the mothers are not called. They must not go,
unless want drives. They have the homes to make--the part of the homes
that is atmosphere. Oh, don't you know what I mean? The women who
understand can make a home in a boarding-house or in foreign lodgings;
in a camp on the desert or in an eyrie in the mountains. It's the feel
of it! Don't you understand it at {204} all,--the warm, comforted,
easeful feeling that encompasses you when you come in the door, or
raise the tent-flap? Home is the thing that nourishes, that cherishes,
that puts its arms about you and says, Rest here!
"I know--for father and Evelyn made a home for me. Father is like me.
He is lost, shipwrecked, ruined, if his heart is n't sheltered. I
don't know what I think about divorces and re-marriages. It is all so
perplexing. I do not know at all. But I know you broke up a home, and
Evelyn made one. Whatever people do, if they can do that for a child
as father and Evelyn did it for me, I should n't wonder if they are
justified before gods and men!"
The rapid sentences fell like hammer-strokes upon Clarissa's naked
heart. She felt that she ought to be {205} defending her beliefs, but
she could not take her eyes from Marvel's glowing face, and the girl
went swiftly on:--
"The people that you follow--they admit the race lives for the child,
that the mother must risk her life to give it life. Then, they seem to
think, the sacrifice can cease. But if you know about homes, you know
better. As she gives her body to be the matrix of another body, so she
must give her spirit to make a shelter that shall be the matrix of
another spirit. If she refuses to do this, she fails, and all her
labor is in vain. It is very simple. As I see the world, the mothers
must die daily all their lives. There is no other way. It is a part of
life, just as bearing and birth are parts of life. No one denies that
they are hard--hard--hard. But that is the glory of it! Nothing is
worth while that lacks the {206} labor and the danger, the pain and
the difficulty!"
For once in her life Clarissa was speechless. Words would not come.
The inherited weapon of her own fluency had been turned against
herself. For as other women had been shaken from their old faiths and
allegiances by Clarissa's gift of tongues, even so had she been shaken
by her child. The girl's young cogency had struck her dumb.
In the long minutes of silence that followed, Clarissa was, perhaps,
more truly a mother than she had been since Marvel first lay in the
circle of her arm. She saw a daughter's point of view at last. She
knew which proclaimed the deeper doctrine, which was the truer prophet
of humanity, her child or she.
Yet when she spoke at last, it was {207} not to discourse of Humanity.
Humanity was forgotten; she and her child were all. Her lips shaped,
unbidden, that old, old demand of the hungry heart.
"Marvel--don't you _love_ me at all?"
Marvel hesitated. Her air of detachment was complete.
"You never tried to make me love you, mother. Even love goes by a kind
of logic. Domestic life gives you one kind of reward; public life
another kind. You get the kind you choose, I take it, and no other. If
you want love, you must choose the love-bringing kind," said this
austere young judge. "And I've found out another thing by myself. You
love ten times as much when you have served with hands and feet as
well as brain. I do not know why. I only know you do. {208} If--if I
love you at all, mother, it is because of the work I have done for you
here--in making it like home!"
Clarissa bowed her head on her hands, in a bitterness made absolute.
This child of hers was her own child. What right, indeed, had she to
expect self-sacrifice, tenderness, cherishing, from the flesh of her
flesh? That which she had given was rendered unto her again in
overflowing measure, and beholding she saw that it was just.
Marvel, standing at the window in the sunshine, a little excited by
her own eloquence and wondering at it still, had no conception of the
havoc she had worked. Indeed, she was innocent of the knowledge that
any one, least of all herself, had the power to move her mother
greatly. She assumed, after the careless fashion of {209} youth, that
her elders were indifferent and unemotional. Suddenly, she heard an
unfamiliar and terrifying sound. Her mother was sobbing with harsh,
rending sobs, tearless and terrible.
Marvel turned in quick alarm and stood confused before this anguish of
her own inflicting. Clarissa's very soul seemed sobbing, and her
daughter did not know how to bear the sound.
The girl wrung her hands helplessly. Something struck her heart and
quivered down her nerves. Then, as she watched this woman, so like,
yet so unlike herself, all at once--she understood! She was suffering
with every painful breath her mother drew. In the heart of her heart
she felt them. They two were bound together there. It was even as
Evelyn had told her,--Evelyn, the beloved, whose truth had never
failed her yet! The primal tie {210} that draws God to his worlds
still holds the woman and her child. It was a wonder and a miracle
unspeakable--but it was true. Throbbing and palpable, she felt the tie.
It was as if her eyelids were anointed, and all the deep and secret
things of life lay clear. Ah, she had not known the half before! How
shallow and complacent she must have seemed! She dropped on her knees
beside the lounge. No eloquence now! She stammered commonplace words
eagerly, pitifully.
"Mother dear! Mother, I didn't mean to hurt you so! I did n't know.
_I did n't know!_ Don't cry! O mother dear, _don't cry!_"
Clarissa lifted a drawn, woeful face, and looked straight into her
daughter's eyes. I cannot tell you what she saw there of wonder and
newborn {211} tenderness. But she drank of that look thirstily, as
might one who had found springs of living water after a desert
drought.
Her own child's hand had struck her down. Yet, in her overthrow, she
read in Marvel's face the sign all mothers seek. Ungentle and
unmerciful the girl had been, yet gentler and more merciful than she!
And by that token she knew her life not wasted utterly. For she had
given to this world--this piteous world for which she had labored
clumsily and ineffectually in alien ways--the best thing that the
woman has to give. Offspring a little better than herself she gave to
it. This child of hers, just now so hard, yet now become so pitiful,
was her own child and more. Of her flesh and of her spirit had been
wrought a finer thing than she.
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_The Riverside Press_
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
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