THE POOR WIDOW.
The next morning, in accordance with his children's wishes, Mr Maurice
accompanied Harry to the residence of the poor woman they had seen at Mr
T.'s shop. It was a miserable hovel, but after all there was an air of
cleanliness and comfort about it, that the most abject poverty can
seldom of itself destroy. A white curtain, mended it is true, in very
many places, yet looking quite respectable, still shaded the only window
of the apartment. There were a few coals, on which was laid a single
stick of wood, in the open fire-place, but it sent forth but a small
quantity of heat, and the room felt damp and chilly. On a narrow bed
drawn close to the fire lay the sick child, and beside it sat the mother
plying her needle steadily, and every now and then casting an anxious
eye upon her babe. She arose when Mr Maurice and Harry entered, and her
reception of the boy was truly affecting. She told again and again of
his following her the day before, and how kindly he had inquired if he
could do anything for her, and then bursting into loud sobs, and leaning
over the bed, she said nobody could do anything unless it was to cure
her baby. Mr Maurice took the hand of the little sufferer, but it was
burning hot, and the face, which was the day before pale, was now so
flushed that Harry could scarcely recognise it.
'He has a fever,' said Mr Maurice.
'A fever! oh don't say so,' shrieked the poor woman, 'it was of that his
father died--it is a cold, nothing but a cold! Oh, how could I be so
foolish as to take him out!'
What could Mr Maurice do, but soothe her, and promise to be the child's
physician? In a few moments she became calmer, and then she told him
that her baby had been failing for a long time--day by day she could see
that he grew poorer, but she could not tell why, till at last a cough
had come, and concluding that it was occasioned by a cold, she had given
the usual remedies, but without effect. The day before, having no one
with whom to leave him, she had taken him out, and the fever that ensued
was the result.
'Do you think I have killed my baby, sir?' she inquired mournfully; and
she looked so long and earnestly into Mr Maurice's face for an answer,
that he was obliged to reply 'No.' It was easy for him to discern that
the death-blow was before received.
'Oh thank you,' replied the poor mother, joyfully, 'I was sure he must
get well.' Mr Maurice was about to speak, but interrupted
himself--should he undeceive her? Should he tear from her her last hope?
perhaps it was weakness, but he could not do it. The blow was too
sudden, too heavy, and it must be softened to her. She said nothing of
poverty, but he knew by the rapidity with which she plied her needle in
the intervals of conversation that she was toiling for her bread and
fuel, and he secretly resolved to place her in a condition to devote
herself entirely to the care of the child.
As Mr Maurice glanced around the room, noting each article it
contained, and gaining from thence some item of knowledge concerning the
character of its owner, his eye fell upon a shelf on which lay a few
tracts, a Bible, and a hymn-book. 'I see,' said he, pointing to them,
'that whatever trial you may be called to pass through, you are provided
with a better comforter than any earthly friend.'
The poor woman shook her head, 'They were my husband's, sir.'
'Your husband was a pious man, then?'
'He used to read the Bible and have family worship. Sometimes I went
with him on Sunday to hear the minister, but I was always tired and
drowsy, and could not keep awake.'
'I suppose you don't go at all now?'
'No, sir'
'Nor read the Bible?'
'No, not very often--I don't get time.'
'You surely have time on the Sabbath-day?'
'Oh, sir, that is the only leisure day I have, and then I like to take
little James, and go with him to his father's grave, and when I get
back, there's tea to make, (I never have tea but on Sundays, sir,) and
somehow the time slips away till dark, when I go to bed. I can't afford
to light a candle on Sunday nights.'
'Do you never visit your neighbours on that day?'
'Oh no, sir, since my husband died, I have not cared for going out, and
a lone woman like me is but poor company for others, so they never come
to see me.'
'You tell me of visiting your husband's grave--when you stand over it,
do you ever think of the time you will meet him again?'
'Not often; he used to talk to me about it, but I never can think of
anything but _him_, just as he lived, and I remember a great many kind
things he used to say, and speak them over to the baby (little James--he
was named for his father, sir,) in his own words.' And the poor woman
bent over her work, and plied her needle faster than ever.
'It is natural,' said Mr Maurice, kindly, 'that you should remember your
husband as he was when living, but it is strange that you so seldom
think of seeing him again.'
'Oh, sir, that looks like a dream to me, I can't more than half believe
it, but I know the other to be reality.'
'Yet one is as true as the other.' The woman sighed, and her countenance
looked troubled, but she made no answer.
'You believe the Bible?'
'Ye-es, sir--my James believed it, and so it must be true.'
'Then you will allow me to read you a chapter, I suppose.'
'If you please, sir, but it always seemed to me a very gloomy book, and
I am afraid it will make me low-spirited.'
'No, I think not, it may raise your spirits.' Mr Maurice took down the
Bible, and opened it at the fifteenth chapter of First Corinthians. A
piece of torn paper lay between the opened leaves, and a few of the
verses were marked with a pencil. As Mr Maurice proceeded to read, the
face of the poor woman was gradually lowered till it almost rested on
her bosom, and at last, yielding to the intensity of her feelings, she
buried her face in the bed-clothes, and did not raise it again till the
chapter was finished.
'Oh, many and many is the time he has read it to me!' she exclaimed,
'and he put in the mark only the day before he died, so that I might
find it; but I could not, oh I couldn't bear to read it!'
'And why not?'
'Oh, I know it is true! I know I shall see him again! but, sir, he was a
_Christian_.'
'And so prepared to die, was he not?'
'Yes, sir, and my poor baby--'
'If it is taken away it will go to him in heaven.'
'Oh no, oh no! my baby must not die! My James was good, and has talked
to me hours, and hours, about being ready to die, but I used to laugh at
him--_that_ goes to my heart the worst, sir, to laugh at _him_ who was
as gentle as that baby, _him_ who is in his grave now. Oh if I could
forget _that_! He is in heaven, sir, but I--I shall never get there!
It's of no use to read the Bible to me, and talk to me--James used to
pray for me, but it was of no use, I am too wicked. But if you can save
the baby, sir, if God will let the child live, I shall have a little
comfort.'
Mr Maurice had succeeded in rousing the poor woman's feelings, but he
found that she felt more acutely than he imagined, and he now brought to
his aid the still small voice of the Gospel. He told her of the fountain
in which sin might be washed away, he told her of the place where the
weary might find rest, and pointed her to the Lord Jesus Christ, for
mercy; but though she appeared to listen, her thoughts were evidently
fixed upon her husband and child, and the truths he uttered fell
unheeded on her ear. After talking some time, he again read a portion of
the Bible, prayed with the poor woman, and went away.
'Oh, how I pity her, father,' said Harry, when they were on their way
home. 'Do you really think the little baby will get well?--I do hope it
will.'
'That is a natural wish, my child; but God knows what is best, and if He
should see fit to remove it, we have no right to murmur.'
'No, father, but poor Mrs Gilman will feel so dreadfully, for then she
will be entirely alone. She told us, you know, that before she married
James Gilman she was a poor servant girl, and an orphan, and she don't
know whether she has any relatives or not. It will be very hard for her
to see everything she loves taken from her and buried in the grave.'
'So it will, my dear boy, and she deserves all our sympathy; but it may
be that a kind Heavenly Parent, since she has no earthly ones to guide
her, is using these means to draw the poor widow nearer to Him. If this
chastisement is sent by His hand, it will undoubtedly be in love and
mercy.'
'Do you think, father, that Mrs Gilman loves her little James too well?'
'I will answer your question by asking another, Harry. Do you think her
love for the child interferes with that she owes to God?'
Harry was for a few moments silent. At last he answered, 'She certainly
loves him better than she does God, and that is not right; but you
always told Effie and me that we could not love each other too well.'
'And I told you right, provided _that_ love is made subservient to a
holier one. But your first duty is, in the words of our Saviour, "to
love the Lord thy God with all thy heart." Obedience to this precept
involves a great many other duties, but none of these should interfere
with the great first command.'
'But, father,' inquired Harry, 'if Mrs Gilman should become a Christian,
would she love her baby less.'
'No, she might love it more, but not with the same kind of affection
she bears it now. This is a blind idolatry--her child is her all, and
she cannot bear to part with it, even though it should join her lost
husband, and wear a crown in glory. If she were a Christian, she would
be able to say, "Thy will be done," and to place entire confidence in
the Divine Master, and bow in submission to His requirements, even
though they should call on her to resign this treasure.'
'Oh, how happy we should be, if we loved God better than anything else!'
said Harry.
After they had arrived at home, and while Mrs Maurice was engaged in
preparing some comfortable things for the poor woman, Harry was heard to
whisper in his sister's ear, 'Poor Mrs Gilman makes a god of her baby,
Effie.'