It wanted a few days to Christmas; with nightfall had come a roaring wind and sleety rain; the house-door was locked; within, lamps and fires burned cheerily. At half-past six, Nancy—she occupied the two front rooms—sat in her parlour, resting after the exertion of putting her son to bed. To judge from her countenance, she was well and happy. The furniture about her aimed at nothing but homely comfort; the pictures and books, being beyond dispute her own, had come from Grove Lane.
Save when Tarrant was here, Nancy and Mary of course lived like friends who share a house, eating together and generally sitting together. During an hour or two each day the younger woman desired solitude, for a reason understood by her companion, who then looked after the baby. This present evening Nancy had proposed to spend alone; but, after sitting idly for a few minutes, she opened the door and called Mary—just then occupied in teaching a young servant how to iron.
‘I shall not write, after all,’ she said, when her friend came. ‘I’m too tired. Bring your sewing, or your book, here.’
Mary was never talkative; Nancy kept a longer silence than usual.
‘How,’ she exclaimed at length, ‘do poor women with a lot of children manage? It really is a mystery to me. Here am I with one baby, and with the constant help of two people; yet he tires me out. Not a troublesome baby, either; healthy and good-tempered. Yet the thought and anxiety and downright hard labour for a good twelve hours out of the twenty-four! I feel that a second child would be too much for me.’
She laughed, but looked seriously for the reply.
‘Poor mothers,’ said Mary, ‘can’t give the same care to their children that you give to baby. The little ones grow up, or they don’t grow up—that’s what it comes to.’
‘Yes; that is to say, only the fit survive. A very good thing—when other people’s children are in question. But I should kill myself in taking care of them, if I had a large family.’
‘I have known mothers who did,’ Mary remarked.
‘It comes to this. Nature doesn’t intend a married woman to be anything but a married woman. In the natural state of things, she must either be the slave of husband and children, or defy her duty. She can have no time to herself, no thoughts for herself. It’s a hard saying, but who can doubt that it is Nature’s law? I should like to revolt against it, yet I feel revolt to be silly. One might as well revolt against being born a woman instead of a man.’