The Broken Heart CHAPTER 7.
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Upon a careful examination into the state of her affairs after the death of her husband, Mrs. Morrison found that she had not twenty dollars in money, besides her scanty household furniture. This was a startling discovery, and for a time she gave way to a feeling of despair which was indeed terrible. Not a single ray glimmered through the darkness and hopelessness of her thoughts, obscured as they were by a sense of weakness and ignorance of the world, and by a shrinking dread of the shame and disgrace of actual labor for money. But no suffering child of humanity is ever left to the dominion of idle and despairing thoughts, in the day of strong trial. The way of relief is not only always at hand, but there are invisible messengers of good ever ready, not only to stir the thoughts to inquiry, but to guide them aright, if there exists also, even a latent willingness to do the right. Nor did Mrs. Morrison long remain bowed down and hopeless.
Gradually, something like a faint light seemed to dart its feeble rays from afar off — true, it was again obscured, and all seemed darkness and doubt and despair. But steadily did she continue to fix her eye in the direction whence the kind ray had seemed to come; and soon a light, so dim, so faint that nothing could be seen, was diffused around her. Eagerly looking still, she could now distinctly see whence the light of hope had come. For the first time, she felt confidence within her.
Bringing out at once, her newly formed hopes and resolutions into action, she prudently set about disposing of everything which was really useless to her, or that would be useless in a single room. At auction, she obtained one hundred and fifty dollars for these. All of her jewelry had been retained at the time of her husband's failure, though the greater part of it had been subsequently disposed of; still, she had enough, with a watch, to sell readily for one hundred and fifty dollars more. Two hundred and fifty of this sum were deposited in the Savings' Bank, and with the balance in possession for immediate needs, she dismissed her servant, and moved into a comfortable room at a rent of three dollars a month. This was done before she had yet resolved upon any certain means of earning a support for herself and child. But she had acted wisely in beginning to do just what she saw to be right — without sitting down in despair to think about what she could not do.
It must not be supposed that after she had removed to her humble abode, that she did not keenly feel the heartless desertion of the friends of her better days. Sometimes in looking back, it seemed as if her feelings would drive her mad; nor could she gain any relief by trying to penetrate the future. Only in the present, was there a temporary repose of mind. But the bias of wrong habits of feeling and action had so warped her original character, that it was not now possible for any sudden change, to correct at once her evils. She would have to suffer much and suffer long, before a healthy reaction could possibly take place.
One day, some weeks after she had entered upon her new mode of living, in conversation with the woman from whom she rented her room, and who had proved a more sincere friend than she had found since she left her mother's house — she expressed a desire to do something by which she could earn enough to buy food for herself and child, and thus enable her to leave her money in the Savings' Bank untouched.
"What do you think you could do, child?" said the woman, in answer.
"Indeed, Mrs. Winter, I do not know. I have thought and thought, but I really know of nothing that I could do."
The old woman mused for some time. "Can you sew well?" she at length inquired.
"Yes ma'am. At least I can do fine work."
"Fine work, you will not be able to get all at once. But as you seem so willing, I think something can be gotten for you to do."
Little did Mrs. Morrison think, a few months before, that such words of encouragement, from such a source, would have been so soothing to her feelings. But now they were as oil to the troubled waters of her spirit.
"You cannot," continued Mrs. Winter, "make pantaloons for the tailors; neither can you make and fit dresses; nor do millinery work, nor bind shoes, nor hats. But still you might learn one of these trades, and after awhile be able to do very well for yourself."
"But how long would it take me to learn to do some of these?" she inquired eagerly.
"Why, child, when anyone is very motivated, they can easily learn to do almost anything."
"Well, what would you advise me to do, Mrs. Winter?"
"That I can hardly tell just now. I must think a little first, and look about me to see what can be done."
"How good you are!" said Mrs. Morrison almost involuntarily, her eyes filling with tears.
"I try to do unto others, my child — as I would like them to do unto me. It does me no injury to think a little for you, and assist you with my advice. You help me by renting my room, and thus lightening my burdens — so if I can help you a little with my advice, why we will be even, on the score of obligations. But this is not the proper light in which to look at these things. There is no situation in life in which we may be placed, where we cannot be useful to others; and the delight arising from the love of being useful to others, is the highest state of happiness to which the human mind is capable of advancing."
Mrs. Morrison listened to her kind adviser with a new feeling of interest. The sentiments uttered by her were so evidently true, that her mind almost appreciated them at once — yet they were so new, that she almost wondered if they were not spoken by inspiration.
"You have seen better days, Mrs. Winter?" she said, after musing for some moments over the last uttered sentiments.
"I cannot say that I have, Mrs. Morrison," she replied, "I have seen days of more worldly prosperity, it is true, but I cannot call them better days. I was once as familiar as you have been, with gaiety and dissipation — but it pleased Divine Providence, which is ever doing what is best for us, to cut off the springs of worldly splendor, and lo! the streams became suddenly dry. It was a sad trial to be forced out from among the old familiar friends, and to miss the old familiar faces — to meet those with whom I had been on terms of the closest intimacy, and find myself unrecognized. But in the school of adversity I learned wisdom, and found comfort where peace and contentment can alone be found; I mean, in a perfect, or, as far as possible, a perfect acknowledgment of the goodness and wisdom of the Divine Providence, and a calm trust in its operations towards me. I soon discovered, that, for years, I had been drinking at an impure fountain — and that my whole moral nature had become poisoned. Could I, in such a state, be happy? Your own experience will answer the question."
Although Mrs. Morrison could not possibly perceive the perfect beauty of Mrs. Winter's system of ethics — yet enough was apparent, to make her in love with it. But she had not yet put away from her the strong love of self which had ruled her for years, and consequently could not act from a pure love of the neighbor, at once. Still the desire to do so, was the beginning; and if brought out into action whenever occasion offered, would eventually tend to change the ruling affection from a love of self — to a love of neighbor.
True to her promise, Mrs. Winter thought carefully over many plans by which she might assist her new friend, in whom she felt a lively interest. She mentioned her situation to others whenever it seemed to promise any good result, and in various ways, endeavored to obtain for her some suitable employment.
"Mrs. Wellman was asking me yesterday, if I knew of any one who could do some hemming and ruffling very neatly for her," said a person to whom Mrs. Winter mentioned Mrs. Morrison's desire to obtain work.
"Did you name anyone to her," said Mrs. Winter.
"No, I did not, for I knew of no person who could do it neatly. I do a good deal of common sewing for the family."
"I wish then you would speak for Mrs. Morrison," said Mrs. Winter.
"Certainly. I am going again this afternoon, and will get the work for her."
True to her promise, she brought a large roll of fine laces and muslins, to hem, ruffle, insert, etc. Mrs. Wellman said that "they must be done very nice, and that if they pleased her, she would give her a good deal of work."
How joyfully, how thankfully, and with how patient a spirit, did Mrs. Morrison sit down to her work! In a few days it was all done, and beautifully done, too; at least so said Mrs. Winter.
A new and painful task was now to be performed, that of carrying home her work, and getting the hire of her labor. With keen emotions of pain, she shrank from the bare thought, as it flashed through her mind, for the first time, while surveying her finished task. She knew nothing of the person for whom the work was intended, not having even inquired her name.
On learning the name of the person for whom it was intended, she turned pale, and almost staggered to a chair. A Mrs. Wellman had been one of the most intimate of her former acquaintances. But she experienced a relief of mind from the fact, that the Mrs. Wellman, whose work she had been doing, lived in another part of the town from that where her former acquaintance resided. Much agitated in mind at the similarity of the name, and still fearing that there was but one Mrs. Wellman, she dressed herself in neat but plain attire, corresponding with her new condition, and taking the small bundle in her hand, went with a throbbing heart to carry it home. She pulled the bell of a house on Hanover Street, with a timid hand, which was answered by a servant who had many a time handed her to and from her carriage on her visits to Mrs. Wellman. But he did not recognize her, and to her low-toned inquiry for Mrs. Wellman, was shown into the parlor.
That lady soon made her appearance sweeping into the room with a with a prideful air.
"Here is some work you sent to me by Mrs. Mayfield," she said, in a faint, trembling tone, endeavoring to keep her face as much out of the light as possible.
Mrs. Wellman took the bundle from her hand, looking her steadily in the face for a few moments with a rude stare, and then, as if satisfied with the scrutiny, proceeded to examine the work.
Hem after hem, frill after frill, and even stitch after stitch, were looked into with a long and close examination; during all which time, Mrs. Morrison felt as if she would gladly have sank through the floor.
"This will do very well. I am pleased with your work, and will give you more. What is your name?" she added, looking her intently in the face.
"Morrison," was the reply, in a voice scarcely audible.
"Morrison — Morrison. That's a familiar name. But what's your first name?"
"Mary."
"Well, Mary, how much do you charge for this?"
Two dollars, ma'am."
"That is reasonable enough. Here is the amount. Come tomorrow, and I will have some more work prepared for you. Are you a single woman?"
"I am a widow, ma'am!"
"Ah! you look young. Have you any children?"
"I have one. A little girl about three years old."
"How long has your husband been dead?"
"Only a few months, ma'am."
"Why, I did not know. Did your husband ever do business in this city?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I remember there was a Morrison in the firm of Collins & Co. Was he your husband?"
"He was," quickly replied Mrs. Morrison, looking up with an eager countenance, expecting an instant and sympathizing recognition, by one who had been of her most intimate acquaintances. But Mrs. Wellman looked at her with a countenance expressive of the most perfect composure. No sign of recognition was visible in a single feature.
"I remember," she at length said, in a careless manner, "having heard you spoken of. You must find your change of fortune rather a distressing event."
Mrs. Morrison did not, for she could not, reply. But rose at once to go, saying, as calmly as she could, that she would call on the next day for the promised work.
Mrs. Morrison hardly knew how she arrived at home. But there she was met by one real friend, to whom she could tell all her painful feelings.
"You have much yet to learn of the selfishness and heartlessness of the world," said Mrs. Winter, after she had told her the manner is which Mrs. Wellman had treated her. "But you should think that a kind Providence — which delivered you from false friends, and allowed you to perceive that you were foolishly building your happiness upon the smiles and approval of the wicked or the vain, instead of upon a surer and more abiding foundation."
Thus did this kind friend ever correct, by gentle means, the evils which rendered Mrs. Morrison unfit to be contented in the sphere she now had to move in. And she was successful, far above what she had hoped.
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