Mary Waller - A Cry in the Wilderness

And what more I saw in the Vision I may scarcely write down; for, therein, I was shown for these same women both unfathomable depths and scarce attainable heights, both degradation and transfiguration, the human bestial and the humanly divine—the Vampire, the Angel.

And I was shown in that Vision the Calvaries of maternity common to all, whether the conception be immaculate, so-called if within the law, or maculate, so-called if without the law. I saw, also, the Gethsemanes of motherhood common to all. I saw, moreover, the three Dolorous Ways which their feet—and the feet of all women, because women—are treading, have ever trod, must ever tread, that the seed which shall propagate the Race may be trodden deep for germination.

Moreover, I saw in that Vision the women treading the seed in the Ways. One of the Ways was stony, and those therein walked with bleeding feet for their labor was in vain; the land was sterile. And the second was deeply rutted with sand, and those therein labored heavily with sweat and toil; the fruition was but for a day. And the third Way was heavy with deeply-furrowed fertile soil, and those that trod it toiled long and late that the seed might not fail of abundant harvest.

Furthermore, I saw that every woman was treading one of these three Ways; and silk, and chiffon, or velvet gown, opera cloaks of sable and satin, diamond tiaras and jewelled necklaces could avail them naught. Trammelled by these or by rags—it matters not which—they must tread the Ways.

I pressed my hand over my eyes to clear them of this Vision; for, at last, I understood. I knew that I, too, being a woman, must tread one of the three Dolorous Ways even as my mother had trodden one before me. But which?

I could bear it no longer. "Come away, Johnny," I said abruptly.

April, 1909. I am beginning to be so tired of the confusion of the streets. The work at the Library has become irksome. I am tired of reading, too, and feel as if my last prop had been taken from under me, when I have no longer the desire to read.

I handle the books, place them, record dates, handle books again, place them, record dates, handle books again—the very smell of the booky atmosphere is sickening to me.

I suppose I need rest. But how can I rest when I have my daily living to earn? I won't touch those hundred and seventy-five dollars if I never have a vacation. I should lose all my courage if I had to spend a dollar of that money, except for the final end—nine years hence. Even the thought of stopping work makes me feel weary.

July 1. So the money is gone! I have been trying to face this fact the last hour. The long sickness of ten weeks has taken it all, for I was too proud to go to the hospital without paying my way. I let no one know how matters stood with me. I have come out of St. Luke's feeling so weak, so indifferent to life, to everything I thought made my own small life worth living.—And it is so hot here! So breathless! A great longing has come upon me to get away somewhere. Since I have been so sick things look different to me. The energy of life seems to have gone out of me, and I want to creep away into some place far, far away from this city, where I can live a more normal life.

But how can I make the break? Where can I go? How begin all over again in this awful struggle to get work, and succeed in anything? My courage has failed me.

I closed the books. I was wondering if I should destroy them and in this fashion burn all my bridges behind me.

"No," I spoke aloud; "I 'll save them, but I will never keep another journal."

I opened to a blank page, took pen and ink and wrote on it:

September 18th, 1909. I have decided to accept a place at service (at last!) on a farm in Canada, Province of Quebec, Seigniory of Lamoral (?). Wages twenty-five dollars a month, besides room and board.

And underneath:

12 midnight. My last word in this book. Within the past six hours I have experienced something of what I call "heaven and hell". I have travelled a long road since I came to this city on November 4, 1902.

A few evenings afterwards Delia Beaseley came up to see me. She brought the passage money and a note of instruction. It was directly to the point: I was to take a sleeping car on the Montreal express; then the day local boat down the St. Lawrence to Richelieu-en-Bas. At the landing I was to enquire for Mrs. Macleod, and someone would be there to meet me. A time-table was enclosed. The note was signed "Janet Macleod ".

"This must be the 'elderly Scotchwoman,' Delia," I said after reading the note twice.

"I'm thinking it's her—but then you never can tell."

"How did she send the passage money?"

"By post office order. It would n't have hurt her to send a bit of a welcome word, to my thinking." She spoke rather grimly.

"I 'm not going for the welcome, you know; it's work and a change I want—and right thankful I am to get the chance."

"Well you may be, my dear, in these times," she said, softening at once.

"I shall write you, Delia, all about everything; you know you want to hear all about things."

"Would I own to being a woman if I did n't?" She laughed her hearty laugh; then, with a little hesitancy: "And, my dear, I 'd think kindly of you for writing me, and I 'd like to know that all is going well with you, but you know there's Doctor Rugvie to reckon with, and he won't hold to much correspondence, I 'm thinking, between me and—what's the name of that place? I can't pronounce it—"

"Richelieu-en-Bas."

"Rich—I can't get the twist of it round my English tongue; say it again, and may be I 'll catch it."

I repeated it twice for her, but her results were not equal to her efforts. We both laughed.

"Never mind, Delia; and don't tell me Doctor Rugvie is going to say to whom I shall write or to whom I shan't—especially if it's my friend, Delia Beaseley."

"Well, I can't say, my dear; but I 'll speak to him about it when he gets home—"

"Now, no nonsense from a sensible woman, Delia Beaseley; I should think I was going into a land of mysteries to hear you talk."

She laughed again. "I don't say as it's a mystery, but I can't help thinking he wants to keep the matter quiet like, you see."

"But I don't see—and I don't intend to," I said obstinately.

Delia changed the subject. "It's well you 've got your passage money. It's quite dear travelling that way."

"Never was in a Pullman in my life, Delia, but you may believe I shall enjoy it."

She beamed on me. "That's right, my dear, take all the pleasure you can, and, of course, if Doctor Rugvie did n't mind—well, I must own up to it that I 'd like to hear from you, and what you make of it up there."

"So you shall, Delia; no secrets between you and me; there can't be; we 've known each other too long—ever since I was born into the world."

She looked a little mystified at my statement, but accepted it evidently with appreciation.

"Jane or me 'll be down to the station to see you off," she said as she bade me good night.

During the next two weeks and at odd times, I did a good bit of reference work on my own account in looking up the histories of the Canadian "Seigniories"; but at the end of that time I was ready to set out for that other country only a little wiser for my research.

A week later, Delia Beaseley was at the Grand Central to see me start on my journey northwards.

"I feel as if I were setting out on a real series of adventures, Delia!" I exclaimed when I met her. I took both her hands in mine. "If only I were a man I should take stick and knapsack and find my way on foot. I 'd camp on the shore of the Tappan Zee, wander through the Catskills, and stop over night at the old Dutch farmhouses, follow the shores of Lake Champlain and cross the border high of heart, even if footweary!"