From the Relief Society Magazine, 1925 –

Resting Time for Mother

By Mary Hale Woolsey

Part I

“Bobbie! Bessie! Jane!”

“Yoo-hoo!” came the answer, in three shrill childish voices; simultaneously three heads rose to visibility above the fresh green of the currant bushes at the edge of the orchard, and three small figures emerged and advanced towards the house.

On the front porch, Mrs, Martha Knox, affectionately known to nearly everyone as Mother Knox, (but to these three little ones as “Aunt Marthy”) waited for them. She held an opened letter in her hand; her face wore an expression of mingled expectancy and regret. The trio approached; Janie, seven-year-old youngest, climbed into her lap.

She drew the little form close to her.

“Daddy’s coming, children.”

Shrieks of delight ensued. “When, Aunt Marthy? — To stay? —Oh, goodie!”

“Coming tomorrow. No, not to stay. But to take you away with him.”

“And will you go, too?” demanded Bessie.

She shook her head, smiling. “No, dear. — You see, Daddy
has — has found a sweet, new mother for you — someone you’ll love, I know. Is not that fine?” ,

“‘Tain’t fine!” denied Bobby, with all the emphasis his nine years could express; while his twin regarded him admiringly. “Who want’s a new mother? I’d like t’ know! I’d ruther have Aunt Marthy, any time!”

Aunt Marthy hugged them all at once.

“Aw, gee!” protested Bobby, wiggling free. “You don’t want us to go, do you?”

“Why, of course, I’d like to keep you always, dear. But I’m thinking of your Daddy — how lonely he’s been; wishing his boy and girls could be at home when he comes at night; wishing you were there to play with him sometimes. And the new mother is going to be so sweet — ”

Induced into wide-eyed seriousness by her tone, they stood silent for awhile; Bessie was the first to speak.

“I think,” she said very wisely, “I think perhaps we ought to try to love New Mother. I don’t want Daddy to be lonely, Aunt Marthy. — Will you be lonely if we go away?”

“Yes, of course,” admitted her aunt readily. “But you see, fathers and mothers are best for boys and girls.”

“Better than aunties?”

“Better than aunties,” she assured them. The twins sat slowly down on the steps; chins cupped in hands, to puzzle over this new problem. Janie, secure on Aunt Marthy’s lap, maintained an awed silence; Aunt Marthy herself sat all but motionless. She seemed to have come suddenly against a high wall, beyond which she could not see. What would she do after these children had gone away?

They had come to her six years previously, motherless, frightened little mites of humanity; helpless, left in her capable hands by her brother, after the death of their young mother. Swiftly she grew to love them; for Martha Knox was one of those women whose hearts are all mother-heart, reaching out hungrily for babies, babies, more babies; little children instinctively trusted her, loved her, idolized her. It seemed no time at all until these three little ones were as her very own — although she was always conscious of a feeling that some day their father would probably claim them again.

Her own four had highly resented the coming of the small nieces and nephew; they thought it an “imposition,” and said so in no uncertain terms; discussed “the task wished onto poor Mother by Uncle Bob’s asking her to care for his babies. As if Mother hadn’t done her share of this world’s work when she’d reared her own (James, the eldest, had already married and settled in the city, seventy-five miles away, and the others were at college.) Just when things were getting so that she could take life easy — ” And so on, and so on, until Mother had pleaded, coaxed, and fairly shamed them into silence and a somewhat grudging acceptance of the duty they owed those helpless little ones.

Six years had passed — on lightning wings. One after the other, Mother’s children had become a definite, permanent part of the great city. James had acquired ownership of two factories, a large income, a fine home, servants, three children. Rilla had married, kept an expensive apartment, went in for clubs and society to fill the days of her childless existence. Pauline, earnestly applying herself to study and practice of painting and drawing, had launched upon a promising career as an artist and illustrator. Alvin had completed college and was well advanced in his chosen medical course. A family to be proud of, people said. And back in little old Greenfields town, Mother remained, caring for Bobbie and Bessie and Janie — supremely content.

Janie, at last, wriggled quietly from her lap and coaxed the twins back to their play among the currant-bushes. Mother watched them go while something like panic took possession of her. She rose hurriedly, and went into the house to resume her work, as if being busy might restore her to her usual calm. But again and again the question returned: what would she do without these charges of hers — alone in her empty house?

“New Mother,” as Bessie had so quaintly termed her — would she be good to them? Mother felt a twinge of jealousy — and promptly administered unto herself a sound scolding. After that she shed a few tears; and began anew with increased vigor her preparations for the expected guests.

The children hailed their father with delight. Towards “New Mother” they exhibited a grave shyness which quite captivated her, and before the second day was ended she had won them quite completely. Mrs. Knox decided, relievedly, that her brother’s new young wife was entirely sincere and would truly be a mother to his children, a good wife to him.

All too soon, they were gone — joyfully, noisily. And deadly quiet settled over the house, through which Mother moved, wreched with loneliness. When she could bear it no longer, she put on her hat, locked the doors, and went to visit her best friend, Tildy Howe, She came home at twilight, fed the chickens, milked the friendly Moo-Cow, gave tomcat Buster a great saucer full of the foaming milk. Minutes seemed like hours — it was as if bedtime would never arrive. Lonely tears threatened.

And then, suddenly there was a joyous honking at the front gate, and James and Rilla and Pauline and Alvin Durst upon her. The tears that had threatened, spilled over, and had to be concealed behind a lot of laughter and foolish remarks about nothing. But at last dignity was restored — and then the “children” explained the real object of their visit.

They expressed regret that they had been unable to come in time to see Uncle Bob and his bride. Had Mother liked — her?

Yes — Mother liked Aunt Jessie.

“Well,” sighed Rilla, “it’s much better for him — don’t you think? These years must have been lonely for him; he loved the children so — and his home. I’m glad he’s married again, and I hope they’ll be happy.”

The others murmured agreement.

“And now, Mother, you’ll be coming to the city to live with us, now that you’re free?”

“Why, I— I hadn’t thought of it — ” Mother was plainly startled.

“But, of course, you will think of it. That’s what we came down here for — to take you with us.”

“It’s the only thing to do, Mother.” Pauline assured her as Mrs. Knox sat in silence. “You shouldn’t stay away down here alone, you know.”

“Why not?” demanded Mother.

“There’s far too much work for you here, dear. It’s high time you were taking things easy, Mother.” This from Rilla; from the others, more murmurs of approval.

“But I like the work,” protested Mother. “And I don’t want to leave my home. Why — I’ve lived in Greenfields all my life. I don’t want to go away.”

“Oh, we’re not denying that Greenfields is the garden spot of the earth,” Alvin spoke amusedly. “But after all, I’ve a hunch you’d like old Weston city pretty well after you’ve been there awhile.”

“You’ll find city life most interesting,” added James.

“And you’ll be where we can look after you, and not have to worry whether you’re all right,” contributed Pauline.

“We’ll make things pleasant for you, Mother” — Rilla again. “We want to make up to you for all these years of toil and sacrifice. You have worked so hard, it’s resting-time for you now.”

“But, good land;” ejaculated Mother, “old age hasn’t claimed me yet! Why, I’m only forty-eight, and I’m strong as an ox, and healthy as — as — ” she paused helplessly, then went on: “I’m not ready to settle down to lavender and old lace and smelling-salts and rheumatism yet — not by a good many years!”

Through their laughter, Pauline spoke soothingly.

“Of course not, Mother Goosey dear — no one wants you to; that isn’t done at all nowadays. It will be tailor-mades and women’s clubs, and golf, and things like that. You’ll like them.”

“I’m not so sure — ” began Mother. Whereupon they all started talking at once — entreating, arguing, — until Mother was hopelessly confused and bewildered.

In the end they had their way — except that Mrs. Knox refused to arrange for the immediate sale of her home. Instead, she prevailed upon a neighbor’s boy to look after things while she went to the city to “visit,” as she insisted. But confidently, triumphantly, the children bore her away.

They had planned for her with care and completeness, she found. A room in Rilla’s apartment had been fitted up for her, and was to be her “headquarters,” her home. But she was to feel equally welcome at James’ house or Pauline’s studio; Alvin, who lived at a club, would take a major share of looking after the “entertainment.” Between them all, it appeared that every waking moment would be filled.

For awhile she found in the new mode of living, a mild enjoyment. In her former visits she had seen but little of the city itself; now the children delighted in taking her out sight-seeing, again and again, until there remained hardly any place of interest which she had not visited. Then there were the big stores — veritable mazes of such wonderful, beautiful things she had not dreamed could exist; the theatres, where she was all admiring eyes and ears, marveled at the ease with which her sons and daughters discussed the technicalities of plays which to her were simply a mysterious form of entertainment; the libraries, with rows and rows of books and magazines calling to her to enter their world of make-believe. She learned to find her way about by herself, and set out determinedly to become familiar with the things that interested her beloved children.

But when the novelty began to wear away somewhat, she became conscious that, after all, this was a superficial, a purposeless existence. No one was dependent upon her for anything; her own wants were taken care of entirely by others. She longed to cook, to bake — and was warned by Rilla that the maids would misinterpret and resent her presence in the kitchen. When she visited James and his wife and wished to romp and play a bit with her little grandchildren — she remembered in time that romping would be rather detrimental to beautifully marcelled hair and a stylish silk frock; besides, she stood almost in awe of their exceedingly competent French nurse who watched over them constantly. She tried a club or two; that helped, but did not materially lessen the increasing emptiness of her days, which grew longer and longer.

The children, aware of her low-spiritedness, doubled their efforts to keep her happily occupied; but how could they guess, when she did not know herself, that what Mother needed was not more strenuous play, but a judicious amount of that good old leavening agent, work?

Then she discovered Jennings’ Park: its green coolness, its kindly shade for hot afternoons, its wide lawns, its lovely flowerbeds, and finally — its playground. She was with Pauline that day, in a shiny black little coupe, rolling leisurely over the smooth driveways, when a sudden turn brought them directly opposite that children’s paradise. Mother sat bolt upright.

“Pauline! Stop!” she almost gasped.

The unexpected command startled the younger woman; the coupe stopped with a jerk.

“Oh, my dear!” in dismay, “I didn’t mean to frighten you! I just wanted to stay here awhile to — to watch the children playing.”

Pauline’s relief amounted almost to vexation, but she quickly controlled herself.

“I’ll admit you did startle me; I thought I must be about to run over someone — or someone’s child — or puppy-dog. I am immensely relieved.”

Mother did not answer; her delighted gaze was riveted on the scene before her. Children — in action — everywhere. Swings — slides— teeter-boards — a swimming-pool and a wading-pond.

“It is interesting, isn’t it?” observed Pauline. “I like to watch them, myself. Such a wealth of color! A living rainbow — or an animated flower garden. I’ve been here many times, sketching. I painted the ‘Up in a Swing’ you liked so well, from a drawing I made out here. Children at play offer unlimited artistic subjects and opportunities.”

In such vein Pauline talked on; but Mother hardly heard her. Children were not “artistic subjects” to Mother Knox; they were living, breathing human beings, men and women in miniature, meant to be loved and played with, cared for and guided. A lump rose in her throat. Children! Why could she not always have them about her? — To attend to their demands, play with them, caress them. No wonder these last months had seemed so empty; She, Martha Knox, one of those women whose only hobby, only passion, is home and children — trying to fit into a life of leisure! Idleness! A laugh — not of amusement — escaped her. Pauline looked around inquiringly.

“Perhaps we’d better go now,” suggested Mother.

Glad to get back to her room, to be alone, she sank into a chair; mechanically removed her hat and gloves, and, without rising, laid them on the dressing-table near by. She closed her eyes, thinking — thinking.

At last she knew the reason for the failure of her feverish efforts to take up contentedly the life her sons and daughters would have her live; the explanation of laggard hours even though every moment were occupied. Leisure — the “resting-time” which the children maintained she had earned, and which they wished to assure for her — suddenly she seemed to see it as a long, long road through the coming years; a straight, easy, monotonous, often lonely, road down which she would journey — all but alone — trying to amuse herself. And this — this — was what would be called, “resting-time.”

She saw now, plainly, clearly — that it would never do. Her forty-eight years had dealt with her lightly; left her with unusual strength and vigor; the “activites” which her children’s world would offer her, might fill her hours, but they would never fill her hands nor her heart.

On the other hand — she thought of her home at Greenfields, remembered how still the house had been after her brother’s family had departed. How much better would it be? At least, came the swift answer, at least there would be the housekeeping, the cooking, cleaning, gardening that she loved. And for the remaining hours — what?

“There’s got to be a way for me,” she whispered that night as she lay in the darkness waiting for sleep. “Lord, help me to find the way!” she prayed. And having thus voiced her appeal to the One who would never fail to understand, she felt better and soon was deep in dreamless slumber.

An impulse which she could not overcome lured her again, a day or two afterward, to Jennings’ Park and a shady seat from which she could watch the fascinating scene that was the playground. She leaned back silently, dreamily, trying to imagine that somewhere among those happy youngsters might be Bobbie, Bessie, Janie — or other little ones who loved her and would presently come running to her to tell some gleeful tale.

A bright-hued rubber ball, half rolling, half bouncing, across the grass, struck against her foot. She picked it up and held it outstretched towards the little girl who came running to get it. She flashed at Mother Knox an adorable smile.

“It tried to run away, didn’t it?”

“That’s what it did,” Mother answered.

“But we won’t let it, will we?”

“We surely won’t. It’s a pretty ball isn’t it?” Mother was delighted to have the child close to her. She edged closer now to display her treasure.

“It’s my very newest ball, and my Uncle Ted gave it to me. It has pictures on it; see? — This is Little Boy Blue, blowing his horn to make the cows and sheep come home. And this is Bo-Peep, looking for her pretty, white lambs. And this is Mistress Mary in her garden. — I have a little garden; have you?”

Mother nodded.

“Is it a nice one like mine, with pansies and daisies and lilies in it? — Mister Jack takes care of mine mostly, ’cause he knows just how; but sometimes Mama lets me help him, and I get nice black dirt all over me. And then Mister Jack says — ”

“May Margaret!” called a voice impatiently.

“Oh, there’s my Nursie calling me. Goodbye, nice lady,” and with a parting smile she was gone. Mother could hear the nurse saying crossly,

“May Margaret, how often must you be told not to talk to strangers? Some day somebody will steal you and take you away, and you’ll never see your dear, sweet mama again.” And May Margaret was hurried away as if from some hideous danger.

Mother flushed hotly, indignantly. The words of the nurse kept ringing in her ears; they spoiled the pleasure she had felt in being where she was, and presently, feeling unduly tired and alone, she decided to go home.

A number of people were waiting to take the street-car, and, shyly, Mother Knox stood back from the crowd. The car stopped, they moved closer; she was near the entrance. Then she saw Billy.

Just what it was that made her stop still, looking at Billy, she could not tell. Perhaps it was the thinness of him, the raggedness of his clothing; or was it the silent pathos, the hopelessness that looked out of his big brown eyes, his too-old face? Perhaps it was not any of these; it may have been the tenderness with which he was helping a little girl, undoubtedly his sister, from the car. She was every bit as ragged, as uncared-for, as he; and it gave Mother a distinct shock to see how exceedingly skinny it was possible for a child to be. She could not take her eyes from this pair of waifs.

“Billy.”

The boy turned instantly to face a sour-looking woman whose face was visible av an open window of the street-car.

“Billy, don’t you fooi ’round here too long. You get back ‘n time ta help, or you get nothin’ ta eat. And don’t lose yer ticket.”

“I’ll be careful, Mrs. Wayne,” he promised. “I just want to take Margery over to the swings awhile.”

“See she don’t get hurt, neither. I’ve got troubles ‘nuf ‘thout no accidents ta look after.”

“I’ll be just awful careful,” Billy called as the car moved away. Mother Knox let it go; she had no desire to get back home at once, anyway — what she wanted, more than anything else, was to find out something about this Billy who touched her so strangely. She wanted to speak to him, but her recent experience with May Margaret had made her afraid; so she merely followed the two, at a descreet distance, as they went slowly through the park.

The boy’s devotion to the little Margery was apparent; no one could have been more gentle, more solicitous of her pleasure. When he had swung her, and see-sawed her, and let her wade a little while, and taken her down the slide, he led her to the merry-go-round and stood holding her hand as she watched the course of the gayly-painted wooden steeds. Quite unobserved, Mother approached and stood near them.

“Wist we could ride on ’em,” Margery said wistfully. “Why can’t we, Billy?”

Mother’s hand involuntarily sought her handbag; but while she hesitated, Billy suddenly turned to Margery a brightening face.

“Why, maybe I can fix it so you can, Margy. Say, listen, would you sit right here, and not move till I come back, if I give you a ride when I come back?”

“Course, I will.”

He found a seat for her and hastened over to a nearby refreshment stand. He spoke to the man in charge, “Say, mister, — anything a feller can do to earn a nickel?”

The man grinned.

“Whatcha want a nickel fer, Buddy?”

“To give my little sister a ride on the merry-go-round.”

“Where is she?”

Billy pointed her out.

“Well, I’ll tell you whatcha can do. See them tables over there?” indicating with a sweep of his arm. “Go clean away all them papers ‘n’ things folks left around ’em on the grass; then come back here.”

Billy made short work of the task set for him. “Plucky little scamp!” Mother applauded him silently. In a surprisingly few minutes he was on his way to Margery, his face shining, the nickel held fast in his hand.

“Now you can have a ride, honey,” he exulted. “Right now!”

“You, too, Billy?”

“No — just you,” he smiled.

Mother waited no longer. From her purse she took a bright new coin.

“Billy!” she said gently.

Startled, he wheeled about.

“Here, Billy — take this — Margery would like you to go with her.”

He stared a moment in frank amazement. Then, “Why thank you, ma’am. Oh, thanks!” and hurried to get aboard.

Mother stood near, smiling through misty eyes each time they passed her. She remembered the tremor that had been in his voice as he thanked her; she was aware now of his wide-eyed curious gaze in response to her smiles.

(To be continued)