Too True! by The Guide

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jul 12, 1883

Too True!

By The Guide

SHE could not become a burden to others. She had outlived her usefulness, perhaps, but she had by no means outlived her self-respect, or her desire to be a factor, however unimportant, in the world's wide field of product.

So when her boys—there had been two, and they had become men, and had taken to themselves wives—emigrated to the far Southwest, and the girls—they were women now—wondered how they were to crowd any more than they were crowding, in order to spare a room for mother, who had just been burned out of house and home, and had come first to Julia and then to Jessie, to see if she could find a home with either—when these things came to pass, the old lady, who had never before realized how old she was, began to feel aged and weary, and very lonely, yet as never before determined to make for herself a place in the world, where by her own efforts she could live and maintain herself.

It had grieved her to see her home, with all its earthly treasures, flame up and flare and fade into ashes before her eyes, as she stood alone and helpless on that fatal night. But she had consoled her bereaved heart, saying, "After all, the care of these things, my house, and garden, and cow, and chickens, prevented me from doing much for the girls; now there is an end. I will sell the cow and fowls, and replace my lost clothing, and go to Jessie and Julia. I can live by turns with them, and help them on in many ways."

Poor heart. She had been a good mother, and had done a good part by her children. The thought that she could be anything else than a help to those whom she had always helped, ah, with what loving, unselfish helpfulness, never occurred to her. Yet as she stood, homeless and destitute, in her daughter's house that bright October morning, and heard Julia's husband remark that there wasn't enough room in the house for those rightfully belonging to it, "grandma had better go up to Jessie's," the poor mother felt a strange, unnatural tremor shake her frame. The road between Julia's and Jessie's seemed twice as long as ever before.

"Did you save nothing, mother?" Jessie asked. "And how much insurance had you? To think, we never heard a word of it till ten minutes ago. Jule sent up to say she saw you coming over the hill, and as they had no room for you I'd have to manage somehow. I couldn't make out what it meant, till the young one said you'd been burned out. How soon do you suppose the insurance will rebuild you? We can crowd up for a few weeks by letting Andrew give you his cot. He can sleep in the dining-room. Of course you'll have to be in the room with little Jim and Isabella. Did you save all your things?"

How weak she grew as she sat and listened to her daughter's half-peevish questions. She scarcely knew her own voice as she answered:—

"The insurance expired and I neglected to renew it. I saved nothing but my clothes and my tin box with my papers, and watch, and a few trinkets in it. There were five gold dollars in the box. It is all the money I have now. The lot, the cow, and the chickens, are all that is left to me."

"Why, mother," interrupted the daughter, vexedly, "how could you be so neglectful? You must be in your second childhood. All your nice bedding, and furniture, and the china! Dear me! There must have been at least a thousand dollar's worth of property destroyed."

"And I am homeless and destitute indeed," said her mother quietly, in a very sad voice.

"And all through your own culpable carelessness, I declare," said Jessie.

"And what in the world you are going to do, I don't know, I'm sure. We're crowded enough, mercy knows. And I was just thinking of sending little Jim up to you for a month. The air is so much purer over where you lived, the other side of the hill, and he is so cross and troublesome. Dear me! And to think of there being no insurance. You might as well have thrown your home away, and your things, and done with it."

Not a word of sympathy or of encouragement from Julia. Reproaches from Jessie.

Were these the babies whom she had borne, and nursed, and fondled, and served so willingly, so patiently, so gladly? Were these the daughters for whom she had toiled, and striven, and planned? Was it not all a hideous dream?

Her blood seemed turning to ice in her veins. She rose with rigid limbs and turned to the door.

"I will walk over to tell your Uncle Dick," she said. "I may not return to-day. Andrew need not give up his cot to grandma, at least not to-night. Good-bye, children." And she closed the door slowly and with trembling hand, as she went out from her daughter's house, to return no more.

"There is no welcome for me in my children's homes," she said; "their bread would choke me. And, oh, I love them so!"

And as she walked along, gray, ashen shadows settled upon her face, and her look was as one whose death stroke has been felt.

Another mother might have acted differently—even felt differently. Mothers have suffered disappointment in their children and have borne the pain in one way or another, and veiled it from all eyes; even with loving, forgiving affections endeavoring to hide it from their own. Alas!

Perhaps they were less proud-spirited than this mother. Perhaps they were less sensitive. Perhaps they had less self-respect.

When once these mothers realize that the children for whom they had lived, and would gladly die, value them more for what they have than for what they are, battle against the unwelcome conviction as they may, the realization works its sorrowful change in their lives. Some may succeed in making the hideous spectre down, and may persuade themselves, indeed, that 'twas a phantom only. The difference between these and this mother was, that she accepted the truth, and neither tried to deceive herself or others.

As she neared the home of her brother-in-law her resolve was taken. When she entered his house she was outwardly calm, and could talk of her loss and her intentions, with even tones and quiet air.

After arranging with him to dispose of her cow and chickens, she took the cars to the next town, and began to search for employment.

Mamma was visiting friends in that town at the time, and is one who usually follows the leadings of her own instinct, and always regrets when she fails to do so. She was in Mrs. Ludlow's sitting-room when Mrs. Alpen applied for a position, as general assistant, asking only for kind treatment and small wages.

Mrs. Ludlow had no place for her, but mamma felt assured that here was a treasure for some one, and forthwith proposed that if Mrs. Alpen would go with her to her home, two day's journey by rail, she would give her suitable employment at fair wages.

Mamma shortened her visit in order to bring Aunty Alpen home, and she has remained a most valuable helper ever since.

For years we knew nothing of her personal history beyond the fact that she had married children settled in distant places, from whom, at long and irregular intervals, she received letters.

One day it chanced that, as mamma read a paragraph from a newspaper, she smiled and called Aunty Alpen's attention to it.

"It is your name," said mamma. "Rowena Alpen. I wish it were your land also. It would make you independent indeed."

"It is my land," said Mrs. Alpen, quietly.

"But I am independent without it."

And she burst into tears and sank into a chair at mamma's side. We left them alone—mamma and our poor friend in her grief.

It was then that she confided to mamma her story that she said was too pitifully sorrowful to be told.

She had been with us seven years. In all these years never once had her daughters invited her to their homes. They had been glad she had employment and was satisfied with her position. They had even asked her if it was convenient to have a visit from one or more of the children in their summer vacations. But they had never expressed any regret at the separation, or any desire to have her become a member of their families, until now.

The lot on which her home had stood had suddenly become valuable. A coal-vein ran beneath it. The mine was working. The owners of the shaft wished to purchase, and offered a price that astonished those who knew nothing of the real values. Both daughters at once remembered their filial obligations, and at once each offered a home with her own family.

"God pity me if I am unlike what a mother should be," she said. "I loved my children only for love's sake. I hoped that thus my children would love me. Love, love was all I asked or craved. Land cannot buy love or happiness. All that I have is theirs. They shall have no temptation to become impatient for their mother's death. I will give them all now. For myself, when I can no longer work, there remains the poor-house. I will go thither."

Is her story too strangely sad to have been told? I know of other mothers no less keenly stung by that "sharper than a serpent's tooth," filial ingratitude and neglect.

I have but lately been the confidant of a tale as strangely sad from a gray-haired mother of children in a far higher social scale than Aunty Alpen's, yet not one whit above them in filial duty. I know of another mother this hour, snubbed, grudged her attic room and her poor bite and sup, and forced to do her own laundry work in her daughter's house, where rooms, and food, and servants are plenty.

Why do I tell of such shames?

Why, indeed, unless in the hope that some who have eyes to see may see, and who have ears to hear may hear and understand? For these stung hearts of sorrowing mothers are remembered by One who in the day of his power is mighty to avenge.—The Guide.