In the still house, the big clock in the lower hall struck the hour.
The man in his lonely room listened, counting the
strokes--nine--ten--eleven--twelve.
It was Christmas.
* * * * *
And the woman, also, when she had passed safely through her trial,
looked out upon Life from a point higher than she had ever reached
before. Never before had Life, to her, looked so wide.
But the woman did not feel stronger after the crisis through which she
had passed; she felt, more keenly than before, her weakness. More than
ever, she felt the need of a strength that she could not find within
herself. More than ever, she was afraid of the Life, that, from where
she now stood, seemed so wide. Nor did she feel a kinship with all
Life. She stood on higher ground, indeed, but the wideness of the
view, to her, only emphasized her loneliness. She sadly felt herself
as one apart--as one denied the right of fellowship. More keenly than
ever before, she felt, in the heart of her womanhood, the humiliation
of the life that sets a price upon the things of womanhood while it
refuses to recognize womanhood itself. More than ever, in her woman
heart, she was ashamed. Neither could she feel that she was doing her
part in Life--that she was taking her place--that she was a link
joining the ages of the past to the ages that would come. She felt
herself, rather, a parasite, attached to Life--not a part of--not
belonging to--but feeding upon.
This woman who knew herself to be a woman saw, more clearly than ever
before, that one thing, only, could give her full fellowship with the
race. She saw that one thing, only, could make her a link between the
ages that were gone and the ages that were to come. That one thing,
only, could satisfy her woman heart--could make her feel that she was
not alone.
That one thing which the woman recognized as supreme is the thing
which the Master of Life has committed peculiarly to womanhood. Not to
woman's skillful hands; not to her ready brain; not to the things of
her womanhood upon which the world into which she goes alone to labor
puts a price has the Master of Life committed this supreme thing; but
to her _womanhood_--her sex. In the womanhood that is denied by
the world that receives womankind alone, is wealth that may not be
bought by any price that the world can pay. In the womanhood of women
is that supreme thing without which human life would perish from the
earth. The exercise of this power alone can give to woman the high
place in Life that belongs to her by right divine. The woman saw that,
for her, all other work in the world would be but a makeshift--a
substitute; and, because of this, while Life had, never before seemed
so large, she had, never before felt so small--so useless.
But still, for the woman, there was peace in her loneliness--there was
a peace that she had not had before--there was a calmness, a
quietness, that was not hers before her trial. It was the peace of the
lonely mountain top to which one climbs from out a noisy, clamoring,
village; the calmness of the deep sky uncrossed by cloud or marked by
smoke of human industry; the quietness of the wide prairie, untouched
by man's improvements. And this tranquil rest was hers because she
knew--deep in her woman's heart she knew--that she had done well; that
she had not been untrue to the soul of her womanhood.
The woman knew that she had done well because she had come to
understand that, while life is placed peculiarly in the care and
keeping of her sex, her sex has been endowed, for the protection,
perfection, and perpetuation of Life, with peculiar instincts. She had
come to understand that, while woman has been made the giver and
guardian of Life, she, for that reason, is subject to laws that are
not to be broken save with immeasurable loss to the race. To her sex
is given, by Life itself, the divine right of selection that the
future of the race may be assured. To her sex is given an instinct
superior to reason that her choice may perfect human kind. For her,
and for the Life of her kind, there is the law that if she permits aught
but her woman instinct to influence her in selecting her mate
her children and the children of her children shall mourn.
In the crisis of her life the woman had heard many voices--bold and
tempting, pleading and subtle--urging her to say: "Yes." But always
her instinct--her woman heart--had whispered: "No. This man is not
your mate. This is not the man you would choose to be the father of
your children. Better, far better, contribute nothing to the race than
break the law of your womanhood. Better, far better, never cross the
threshold of that open door than cross it with one who, in your heart
of hearts you know, to be not the right one."
So the woman had peace. Even in her loneliness, she had peace--knowing
that she had done well.
And the woman tried, now, to interest herself in the things that so
many of the women of her day seemed to find so interesting. She
listened to brave lectures by stalwart women on woman's place and
sphere in the world's work. She heard bold talks by militant women
about woman's emancipation and freedom. She attended lectures by
intellectual women on the higher life, and the new thought, and the
advanced ideas. She read pamphlets and books written by modern women
on the work of women in the social, political and industrial fields.
She became acquainted with many "new" women who, striving mightily
with all their strength of body and soul for careers, looked with a
kind of lofty disdain or pitying contempt upon those old-fashioned
mothers whose children interfere with the duty that "new" women think
they owe the world.
But this woman who knew herself to be a woman could not interest
herself in these things to which she tried to give attention. She felt
that in giving herself to these things she would betray Life. She felt
the hollowness, the shallowness, the emptyness of it all in comparison
with that which is divinely committed to womankind. She could not but
wonder: what would be the racial outcome? When women have long enough
substituted other ideals for the ideals of motherhood--other passions
for the passions of their sex--other ambitions for the ambition to
produce and to perfect Life--other desires for the desire to keep that
which Life has committed to them--what then? "How," she asked herself,
"would the world get along without mothers? Or how could the race
advance if the best of women refused to bear children?" And then came
the inevitable thought: are the _best_ women, after all, refusing
to bear children? Might it not be that the wisdom of Mother Nature is
in this also, and that the refusal of a woman to bear children is the
best evidence in the world that she is unfit to be a mother? Is it not
better that the mothers of the race should be those who hold no ideal,
ambition, desire, aim, or purpose in life higher than motherhood? Such
women--such mothers--have, thus far, through their sons and daughters,
won every victory in Life. It is they who have made every advance of
the race possible. Will it not continue to be so, even unto the end?
Is not this indeed the law of Life? If there be any work for women
greater or of more value to the human race than the work of motherhood
then, indeed, is the end of the world, for mankind, at hand.
From where she lay, the woman, when she first awoke that Christmas
morning, could see the sun just touching the topmost branches of the
tall trees that grew across the street.
It was a beautiful day. But the woman did not at first remember that
it was Christmas. Idly, as one sometimes will when awakening out of a
deep sleep, she looked at the sunshine on the trees and thought that
the day promised to be clear and bright. Then, looking at the clock in
the chubby arms of the fat cupid on the mantle, she noticed the time
with a start of dismay. She must arise at once or she would be late to
her work. Why, she wondered, had not someone called her. Then, a
crumpled sheet of tissue paper and a bit of narrow ribbon on the
floor, near the table, caught her eye and she remembered.
It was Christmas.
The woman dropped back upon her pillow. She need not go to work that
day. She had not been called because it was a holiday. Dully she told
herself again that it was Christmas.
The house was very quiet. There were no bare feet pattering down the
hall to see what Santa Claus had left from his pack. No exulting
shouts had awakened her. In the rooms below, there was no cheerful
litter of toys and games and pop corn and candy and nuts with bits of
string and crumpled paper from hastily opened parcels and shining
scraps of tinsel from the tree. There were no stockings hanging on the
mantle. At breakfast, there would be a few friendly gifts and, later,
the postman would bring letters and cards with the season's greetings.
That was all.
The sun, climbing higher above the tall buildings down town, peeped
through the window and saw the woman lying very still. And the sun
must have thought that the woman was asleep for her eyes were closed
and upon her face there was the wistful smile of a child.
But the woman was not asleep though she was dreaming. She had escaped
from the silent, childless, house and had fled far, far, away to a
land of golden memories. She had gone back into her Yesterdays--to a
Christmas in her Yesterdays.
Once again a little girl, she lived those happy, busy, days of
preparation when she had asked herself a thousand times each day: what
would the boy give her for Christmas? And always, as she wondered, the
little girl had tried not to wish that it would be a doll lest she
should be disappointed. And always she was unable to wish, half so
earnestly, for anything else. Again she spent the hours learning the
song that she was to sing at the church on Christmas eve and wondered,
often, if _he_ would like her new dress that mother was making
for the occasion. And then, as the day drew near, there was that merry
trip to the woods to bring the tree, followed by that afternoon at the
church. The little girl wondered, that night of the entertainment, if
the boy guessed how frightened she was for him lest he forget the
words of his part; or, when she was singing before the crowd of people
that filled the church, did he know that she saw only him? And then
the triumph--the beautiful triumph--of that Christmas morning!
The little girl in the Yesterdays needed no one to remind her what day
it was. As soon as it was light, she opened her eyes, and, wide awake
in an instant, slipped from her bed to steal down stairs while the
rest of the household still slept. And there, in the gray of the
winter morning, she found his gift. It was so beautiful, so lifelike,
with its rosy cheeks and brown hair that, almost, the little girl was
afraid that she was not awake after all; and she caught her breath
with a gasp of delight when she finally convinced herself that it was
real. She knew that it was from the boy--she _knew_. Quickly she
clasped it in her arms, with a kiss and a mother hug; and then, back
again she ran to her warm bed lest dolly catch cold. The other
presents could wait until it was really, truly, daylight and uncle had
made a fire; and she drew the covers carefully up under the dimpled
chin of her treasure that lay in the hollow of her arm, close to her
own soft little breast, as natural as life--as natural, indeed, as the
mother life that throbbed in the heart of the little girl.
For women also it is written: "Except ye become as little children."
If only women would understand!
All the other gifts of that Christmas time were as nothing to the
little girl beside that gift from the boy. The other things she would
enjoy all the more because the supreme wish of her heart had been
granted; but, had she been disappointed in _that_, all _else_ would
have had little power to please. Under all her Christmas pleasure
there would have been a longing for something more. Her Christmas
would not have satisfied. Her cup of happiness would not have been
full. So, all the treasures that the world can lay at woman's feet will
never satisfy if the one gift be lacking. And that woman who has felt
in her arms a tiny form moulded of her own flesh--who has drawn close
to her breast a soft little cheek and felt upon her neck the touch of
a baby hand--that woman knows that I put down the truth when I write
that those women who deny the mother instinct of their hearts and, for
social position, pleasure, public notice, wealth, or fame, kill their
love for children, are to be pitied above all creatures for they deny
themselves the heaven that is their inheritance.
Eagerly, that morning, the little girl watched for the coming of the
boy for she knew that he would not long delay; and, when she saw him
wading through the snow, flung open wide the door to shout her
greeting as she proudly held his gift close to her heart; while on her
face and in her eyes was the light divine. And great fun they had,
that Christmas day, with their toys and games and books; but never for
long was the new doll far from the little girl's arms. Nor did she
need many words to make her happiness in his gift understood to the
boy.
The sun was shining full in the window now; quite determined that the
woman should sleep no longer. Regretfully, as one who has little heart
for the day, she arose just as footsteps sounded outside her door.
Then came a sharp rap upon the panel and--"Merry Christmas"--called
her uncle's hearty voice.
Bravely the woman who knew herself to be a woman answered: "Merry
Christmas."