The MotherBy Mrs. Emmaline Pethick-Lawrence(In “Votes for Women.”)(See page 180)
By Mrs. Emmaline Pethick-Lawrence
(In “Votes for Women.”)
(See page 180)
In a small room, dimly lighted, sat a woman making collars. Above the humming of her sewing machine the clock of a neighboring church struck ten. The woman lifted her head, and, gathering up her work, folded it together. She crossed the room and looked down upon the faces of two boys sleeping. “Christmas Eve!” she sighed.
She went back to cover up the machine. Sitting wearily, she leant her weight upon it and her head sank upon her arms. Last year it had all been so different! She had to be both father and mother now, since the bread-winner had been cut down by the hand of death falling with an awful suddenness. And within her body there slept, soon to waken to life, a child. “Pray God it be a boy,” she moaned. “If not, pray God it may die! It is too terrible to be a woman.”
She thought of the girl on the second floor who had been taken that day to the workhouse infirmary; she knew her story. The girl had been a waitress in a tea shop. She earned her food and five shillings a week. She could not live alone in the world on that wage. She had accepted the “protection” of a man more than twice her age. When her trouble came he had tired of her. He had left her. She did not know where he was now. Would that child who was to be born in the workhouse be a girl, too? She hoped not. She prayed that it might be a boy.
She remembered the old woman who had tried to drown herself last week. The old woman’s husband had died; that was a year ago. The widow had taken in work for an army clothing establishment. But the money she earned had hardly paid the rent. The case had made something of a sensation in the police court. The papers had taken it up for a day or two. The employer said it was the Government that was to blame. The Government would not allow its contracts to be carried out by the sweated laborof men, but the sweating of women did not matter. Women did not seem to matter to anybody. When her husband was alive she had not realized it. She realized it now. She remembered, though, that even in these days—
Suddenly her room seemed full of light. Afar off she heard a burst of song. It came nearer. Never had she listened to such music. The woman lifted her head. The window was gone, the whole of the outside wall had fallen noiselessly away, and the sky was filled with a glory that was not of the sun nor of the moon. The light seemed to come from a cloud, and the singing, too. No, it was not a cloud, it was a host of radiant forms, for, as she looked, those shining ones came nearer to her, and she could hear their voices: “Good tidings of great joy!”
So that was what they were singing! Where had she heard it before? The words seemed so familiar to her that, though she wondered, she was not overwhelmed with surprise. Then came a rapturous outburst: “They that dwell in the land of the shadow of death—upon them hath the light shined.” The light! How wonderful it was! How amazing! It seemed to the woman like a glorious sea upon which her spirit floated—a flood which drowned her senses, so that for a moment or two she lost consciousness of all else. Then once again her attention was arrested by the singing, because she heard these words: “For unto us a child is born.” “Pray God it is a boy,” she murmured.
She wanted to hear more, and listened breathlesslynow. Nearer and nearer to her came the voices, and she heard a new refrain that seemed to fill both heaven and earth with ringing joy: “To set at liberty—them that are bruised.”
Suddenly that triumphant chanting became a lament. “No room! No room!” wailed that multitude of voices. “The door of the mother’s heart is shut. She prays that the child may die!” Then the woman knew that it was the child who stirred within her, whose coming the angels had heralded. The woman child! Yes, for she had prayed that it might die, and her heart stood still with fear.
And it seemed to the woman that the wall had been built up and the room was dark again, save for the light of one small lamp. But in her heart she heard still the echo of the song: “They that dwell in the land of the shadow of death”—that was the girl in the workhouse infirmary; that was the old woman in the police court charged with attempted suicide; that was herself—upon them “hath the light shined.” “For unto us a child is born, a Saviour, which”—Then she understood. It was her own child. The child that moved under her heart. What was it came next? Ah! It came back to her now; she seemed to hear again that burst of joy that filled the sky with song: “To set at liberty them that are bruised.”
Who were the bruised? Some one had told her a story a few hours ago. It was about the poor creature at the corner of the street; her husband had come back last Saturday and demanded money; hadknocked her down and kicked her; the magistrate had made a joke about it in court, and everybody had laughed except the woman. She had wept bitterly. But nobody seemed to care. “To set at liberty them that are bruised.” The poor thing was horribly bruised, they said. But was she not “at liberty?” No, she was in bondage—cruel bondage. Were all women in bondage? If so, some of the fetters were made of gold. Were fetters of gold light? Some one was going to break the fetters. And that some one was—her own child. “No! No!” she cried, in agony. “It is she—my child—who will be broken! Rather let her die now, before she has become acquainted with grief.”
Then the woman felt herself folded in a purple mantle, so that she could not see, but she was not afraid, rather comforted, as if with a sense of deep security. “I am destiny,” she heard; “your child will be safe with me. I will cover her with my arm. I will hide her in the secret place of the Most High. She shall break in pieces the fetters of those who are in bondage.”
“Then she shall not herself be broken?” faltered the mother.
“She shall be broken,” answered Destiny, “yet not her spirit. That shall return victorious to God, who sends it forth.”
“Tell me one thing,” pleaded the mother, “Shall the joy of my child outweigh her sorrow?”
“The angels sang at the birth of One who was destined to be crucified for the world. Did the joy of the crucified outweigh the sorrow?”
“I do not know,” she answered.
“According to her strength her joy shall be like unto His joy, and her sorrow like unto His sorrow.”
And the mother said, “God’s will be done.”
And when the veil was removed it seemed as though the little room was full of those shining presences who had drawn near to her from the singing hosts of heaven.
“I am Wisdom,” said one, and laid a hand upon the woman’s head. “I give to your child what is mine.” “I am Vision,” cried another, kissing her eyes, saying, “For the child’s sake.” And Love was revealed, as Love reverently touched the child where she lay beneath the mother’s heart, saying: “It is I who give to women the courage that amazes strong men.” “Take from me for the child that shall be born, my double-edged sword, the spirit and the word,” said one: “My name is Inspiration.”
Then once more there was wafted upon the air the singing of the heavenly host—and the outside wall had disappeared again, and the garret was open to the sky. And the heart of the woman sang with the joy of the angels: “For unto us a child is born.” ...
A peal of bells rang out from the church. One of the boys stirred, sat up, and cried out, “Mother!” She lifted her head. “Hush!” she said, “Hush, the angels are singing.” She rose and walked to the window, drawing aside the curtain. A star shone brilliantly; it seemed to shoot a shaft of light into the room. The Christmas chimes clamored their tidings.She went back and knelt by the startled child. “Kiss mother,” she said, as she put her arms about him. “It is Christmas morning.”