In that hour when Sheila, flinging herself into his arms, cried out to
Ted, "Tell me again that motherhood is the greatest thing. I want to
believe it!" she struck a high note that, during the succeeding days
and weeks and months, she could not always sustain. And yet, from the
moment when she attempted to reconcile her will to Nature's, she did
begin to perceive that her sacrifice would have its recompense.
Perhaps she perceived it the more clearly because it was given to her
to see what motherhood meant to other women. For she was enough like
the rest of humanity to value what others held precious.
On the day after her interview with Mrs. North, Sheila went to confide
her expectation of maternity to her grandmother. She found Mrs.
Caldwell in her sitting-room, a peaceful, lonely figure, lifted, at
last, above the stress and surge of life--and above all its sweet
hazards, its young delight. She turned a pleased face to Sheila:
"Dear! Ah, what would I do without my child?"
At the words, Sheila's news rushed to her lips:
"Grandmother--grandmother--_I_ am going to have a child!" And then she
was on her knees, and her face was hidden against Mrs. Caldwell's
breast.
There was an instant of silence. Then: "How happy you and Ted must
be!" murmured Mrs. Caldwell, "how happy!" And something in her tone
touched Sheila more nearly than even her close-clinging arms, something
that was at once joy for Sheila's joy and a measureless regret for
herself. Suddenly the girl, trembling in the fold of those gentle old
arms, realized how far behind her grandmother lay all youth's dear
hopes and adventures. And she realized, too, that she herself held
treasures in her hands--the treasures of youth and youth's warm love.
After all, even if she must lay her work aside, she was happy. Youth
and love were hers--youth and love!
Nor was it only from her grandmother that she received confirmation of
her fortunate estate. A few days later came Charlotte, to congratulate
her upon Mrs. North's belief in her gift.
"Alice North says that you have a wonderful future before you," she
told Sheila glowingly. "I'm so glad for you!--so proud of you!"
"Mrs. North said I had a future before me _if I did not have
children_," corrected Sheila. "She thinks I can't be a writer and a
mother, too."
"Ah," remarked Charlotte reflectively, "then that _was_ why--" She
paused a moment, leaving the significant sentence unfinished, and then
went on more earnestly, "Sheila, she was wrong! Don't be persuaded to
her views. She judged you by herself. Probably she couldn't be both
writer and mother--she isn't really strong, you know. But that is not
true for all women. Why, there have always been women who have done
great things intellectually and had children, too! Don't be
discouraged; don't let yourself believe that you need lose your art if
you should have a child. You'd be all the finer artist for it.
And--you are going to have a child, aren't you, Sheila?"
Sheila had been passionately shy about her expectancy of motherhood,
but the grave directness of Charlotte's inquiry disarmed her, and she
answered as frankly and simply: "Yes, I am going to have a child."
Charlotte looked at her with an expression new to the shrewd blue eyes
that were habitually so cool and smiling. Then, with an impetuous and
lovely gesture, she drew Sheila to her: "I'm so glad for you, dear!--so
glad!"
A little while before she had been glad for the promise in Sheila's
work. Now she used the same word, but how differently! For her mind
had spoken before, and now speech leaped from her very heart.
"I have never loved a man," she said presently, in her outspoken way,
"I have never loved a man, but I hope that I may some day--and that I
may have a little child for him."
So Mrs. Caldwell was not alone in her attitude toward love's
consummation! The desire for motherhood possessed not only the women
of yesterday, of old-fashioned standards and ideals, but Charlotte,
too; Charlotte, the "modern" woman incarnate, who had always appeared
so self-sufficient, so bright and serene and cold, even so hard. It
seemed incredible that she should have confessed to the dreams of
softer women, of women less mentally preoccupied and competent.
Sheila stared at her: "_You_ feel that way? You--with your music, your
chances to study, to make a career for yourself?"
"Of course I feel that way! Every real woman does. I want my music
and motherhood, too, but--if I ever have to choose between them--do you
doubt that I'll take motherhood?"
There was indignation in her tone; evidently she was wounded that
Sheila had misjudged her--so strong was the mother-instinct, the sense
of maternity's supreme worth, within her. Realizing this, it appeared
to Sheila that no one but herself--no woman in all the world--was
reluctant for maternity. After all, Ted had only asked of her that she
should share the universal hope and joy of wifehood. It was she who
had demanded the exceptional lot; not he who had imposed a unique
obligation upon her.
With this conviction, the last flicker of her resentment toward him was
extinguished, leaving her gratefully at peace with him, not only in the
high moments, but even in those occasionally recurrent ones of
rebellion and fear. In the latter, indeed, she turned to Ted now for
courage and strength, and in the fullness and tenderness of his
response she felt herself more his than she had ever been. But her
resolve not to tell him about her talk with Alice North persisted. It
had been, at first, the resolution of a determined opposition to his
views, but it endured through motives more generous. Ted should have
his happiness in approaching parenthood unspoiled. He should not be
hurt by knowing that she had ever looked forward to it with a divided
heart. She could at least conceal that she was unlike other women, and
perhaps, in time, a miracle might be wrought upon her and she be made
wholly like her sisters.
Perhaps, too, in the fullness of time, her work and her motherhood
might be adjusted to each other in her life. As Charlotte had said,
there were women--many of them--who were both artists and mothers. She
herself might be such a woman--some day. She might convert Ted to
this, and go forward to a destiny of complete fulfillment.
But just now, with a sudden and intense accession of conscience, she
yielded herself entirely to the new life that had sprung up within her.
The sum of her strength belonged to it, she told herself, and she could
give herself as completely as other women, whatever the difference
between her mental attitude and theirs. All the while, too, she prayed
for her miracle; prayed that she might become altogether like other
women, altogether like those glad mothers of the race.
She did not pray in vain. There came a day when, with her little son
upon her arms, she whispered, "Oh, I _am_ glad! I am _glad_--glad!"
Glad? Ah, that was a poor, colorless word for the rapture that
descended upon her. Never was the ecstasy of motherhood granted a
woman more utterly. It was like an angel's finger on her lips,
answering her questionings, satisfying her longings, silencing her
discontents. _This_ was life, and it was not cruel and tyrannous, as
she had thought, but infinitely gracious and benevolent. It had used
her, but it had used her for her own happiness. For upon her arm lay
her son!
That she ever could have wanted to escape motherhood, that she ever
could have resented it, now seemed to her unbelievable. She admitted
it to be worth any renunciation, and she gave not one regret to the
renunciation that she had made for it--the temporary renunciation of
her work. It absorbed her fully and gloriously; it flowed through her
with her blood; it was a part of her body and the very fiber of her
soul. And it shone through her like a light: it was in the softer
touch of her hand, the deeper note of her voice, the more brooding
sweetness of her eyes. She _was_ motherhood, indeed; a young madonna
whose halo was visible even to unimaginative Ted.
Had the question occurred to him then, Ted would have said that no
artist could surrender herself thus to maternity. Peter Burnett,
reverently watching, did say, "No one but a poet could be a mother like
that!"
Sheila had been very ill at the time of the child's birth, and a year
passed before she regained her natural vigor. It was, perhaps, the
happiest year of her life. Every now and then in the course of a
lifetime, there come seasons of pure, untroubled joy, when all the
practical concerns of ordinary existence pause for a little while, and
the petty cares and worries make way, and even the commonplace
pleasures stand aside, abashed. Such a season of joy was Sheila's
then. She could never recollect it afterward without a quickening and
lifting of her heart, and she knew at the time--Oh, very surely--that
she had drawn down heaven to herself.
Of course it did not last. As her strength increased and the every day
business of living became more and more her affair, she dropped to the
level of a normal contentment, and thus to the interests that had
occupied her before the miracle was accomplished.
Eric, her little son, was well into his second year, however, before
she felt the urging restlessness of her gift, and even then she denied
the creative impulses stirring within her; she put them from her--while
she longed to yield herself to them instead. "Go away!" she said to
them fiercely. "Oh, go away before you spoil my beautiful peace!" But
for every time that she drove them forth, they returned the stronger,
as if they would proclaim: "You can't be rid of us! You may narcotize
us with the sedative of your content. You may banish us altogether.
But we'll always waken! We'll always come back! For we're a part of
_you_--just as much a part of you as your son is!"
It was true. They were, indeed, a part of her. She would always be
different from other women after all--because of them. She would
always have to reckon with them; to appease them, or to deny them at
her own bitter cost.
And now there came the question: "Why deny them any longer?" Eric had
been a very healthy baby from the first; he had, also, an excellent
nurse, a young mulatto girl who shared her race's enthusiasm for
children. In the kitchen ruled an old cook who brooked no interference
from "Li'l Miss." Obviously, neither her child nor her house demanded
all of Sheila's time. So in the quiet afternoons, when Eric had been
taken outdoors, she began to write for an hour or two. Surely, she
argued, she now had a right to those two hours out of each twenty-four,
especially since she did not take them from her husband, her son, or
her home. It was her own leisure, her own opportunity for rest, that
she sacrificed, if sacrifice there was.
But though she justified herself, she somehow said nothing about the
matter to Ted. She agreed with him now--Oh, warmly enough!--that
motherhood was the greatest thing in life for a woman; but she did not,
she never would, believe with him that it must be the only thing. Nor
should he believe it always, she told herself. She would prove to him
that a woman could be both mother and artist. She would prove it to
him, as she had dreamed of doing--but not just yet. They loved each
other so dearly, they were so happy together, that she shrank from
disturbing their harmony by any discussion or dissension. And
discussion and dissension there would be before Ted could be converted.
Amiable as he was in his healthy, hearty fashion, he would be
intolerant and irritable about this. So she worked on in secret; and
for a couple of months nothing and no one was the worse for it.
Then, when Eric was two years old, he was taken ill; suddenly, swiftly,
terribly, as a little child can be smitten from rosy vigor to death's
very brink. The disease was scarlet fever.
"How can he have gotten it?" Sheila and Ted asked each other,
bewildered and agonized. But soon--only too soon--they knew. Lila,
the nurse, disappeared directly after the verdict was pronounced.
"Afraid!" cried Sheila scornfully, "afraid--though she said she loved
him!"
"Yes'm," agreed old Lucindy, who had come from her kitchen to help
nurse the boy with a loyalty that was in itself a scathing comment on
Lila's defection, "yes'm, she's feared all right--but not ob gittin'
fever."
There was something savage in her tone at sound of which Sheila and Ted
straightened from their little son's crib and looked to her for
explanation.
"She's feared," continued Lucindy, "'cause she knows _she_ done gib dat
chile fever takin' him to dem low-down nigger shanties she's allus
visitin' at. Dat's what Lila's feared ob."
"She took the _baby_ to--?" It was Ted who tried to question Lucindy.
Sheila could not, though she had opened her dry lips for indignant
speech.
"Yassah, she sho did--jes befo' he was took sick. She taken him to 'er
no 'count yaller sister's--an' 'er sister's chillun's got scarlet
fever. I heared it dis mornin'."
"Are you sure, Lucindy? Are you _sure_?" It was still Ted who pursued
the inquiry.
"Deed I'se sho, Marse Ted. She tole me herse'f whar she'd been when
she come back wid de baby, an' 'bout how cute an' sweet dey all say he
is. Course she didn't know 'bout de fever--it hadn' showed up on dem
chillun yit--but she knowed mighty well Miss Sheila wouldn' want our
baby in nigger houses _no-how_. She knowed she was doin' wrong takin'
him. I sho did go fo' dat yaller gal, too! She wouldn' never do it no
mo'--not while Lucindy's a-livin'!"
Ted turned to Sheila, and the expression of her white face startled
him. Much as he loved her, his heart hardened to her as he
looked--hardened with a sudden, instinctive suspicion--and when he
spoke, his voice was stern:
"Did you know where Lila was taking the baby when she had him out?" he
asked. "Sheila, did you know?"