The Washerwoman | AdventAI

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Mar 12, 1885

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 11, No. 11.

The Washerwoman.

"I HAVE half a mind to put this bed-quilt into the wash to-day. It does not really need to go; but I think I will send it down."

"Why will you put it in, Mary, if it does not need to go?" asked her aunt, in her quiet, expressive way.

"Why, aunt, we have but a small wash to-day; so small that Susan will get through by one o'clock at the latest, and I shall have to pay her the same as though she worked till night; so—"

"Stop a moment, dear," said the old lady, gently, "stop a moment and think. Suppose you were in the situation poor Susan is, obliged, you tell me, to toil over the wash-tub six days out of the seven, for the bare necessaries of life; would you not be glad, now and then, to get through before night, to have a few hours of daylight to labor for yourself and family; or, better still, a few hours to rest? It is a hard way for a woman to earn a living; grudge not the poor creature an easy day. This is the fourth day in succession she has risen by candle light and plodded through the cold here and there to her customers' houses, and toiled away existence. Let her go home at noon if she gets through; who knows but she may have come from the sick-bed of some loved one, and she counts the hours, yes, the minutes, till she can return, fearing that she may be one minute too late? Put the quilt back on the bed, and sit down here while I tell you what one poor washerwoman endured, because her employer did as you would to make out the wash." And the old lady took off her glasses and wiped away the tears that for some cause had gathered in her aged eyes, and then with a tremulous voice related the promised story:—

"There never was a more blithesome bridal than that of Ada R. None ever had higher hopes, more blissful anticipations. Wedding the man of her choice, one of whom any woman might be proud, few, indeed, had a sunnier life in prospect than she had.

"For ten years there fell no shadow on her path. Her home was one of beauty and rare comfort; her husband the same kind, gentle, loving man as in the days of courtship, winning laurels every year in his profession, adding new comforts to his home, and new joys to his fireside. And besides these blessings, God had given another; a little crib stood by the bedside, its tenant a golden-haired baby-boy, the image of its noble father, and dearer than aught else that earth could offer.

"But I must not dwell on those happy days; my story has to do with other ones. It was with Ada and her husband as it has often been with others,—just when the cup was sweetest, it was dashed away. A series of misfortunes and reverses occurred with startling rapidity, and swept away from them everything but love and their babe. Spared to each other and to that, they bore a brave heart, and in a distant city began a new fortune. Well and strongly did they struggle, and at length began once more to see the sunlight of prosperity shine upon their home. But a little while it stayed, and then the shadows fell. The husband sickened, and lay for many a month upon a weary couch, languishing, not only with mental and bodily pain, but often for food and medicines. All that she could do, the wife performed with a faithful hand. She went from one thing to another, till, at length, she who had worn a satin dress upon her bridal day, toiled at the wash-tub for the scantiest living.

"In a dreary winter, long before light, she would rise morning after morning, and labor for the dear ones of her lowly home. Often she had to set off through the cold, deep snow, and grope her way to kitchens, which were sometimes smoky and gloomy, and toil there at rubbing, rinsing, starching, not infrequently wading knee-deep in the drifts to hang out the clothes, that froze even before she had fastened them to the line. And when night came, with her scanty earnings, she would again grope through the cold and snow to her oftentimes fireless and lightless home; for her husband was too sick, much of the time, even to tend the fire or strike a light. And, oh, with what a shivering heart she would draw near, fearing ever she would be too late! For six weeks, at one time, she never saw the face of her husband or her child save by lamplight, except on the Sabbath. How glad she would have been to have had, now and then, a small washing gathered for her!

"One dark winter morning, as she was preparing the frugal breakfast and getting everything ready before she left, her husband called her to the bedside.

"‘Ada,’ he said, in almost a whisper, ‘I want you to come home early to-night; be here before the light goes; do, Ada.’"

"‘I’ll try,’ she answered with a choked utterance."

"‘I have a strange desire to see your face by daylight; to-day is Friday; I have not seen it since Sabbath. I must look upon it once again.’"

"‘Do you feel worse?’ she asked, anxiously, feeling his pulse as she spoke."

"‘No, no, I think not; but I do want to see your face once more by sunlight. I cannot wait till Sabbath.’"

"Gladly would she have tarried by his bedside till the sunlight had stolen through their little window; but it might not be. Money was needed, and she must go forth to labor. She reached the kitchen of her employer, and with a troubled look waited for the basket to be brought. A smile played over her wan face as she assorted its contents. She could get through easily by two o'clock; yes, and if she hurried, perhaps by one. Love and anxiety lent new strength to her weary arms; and five minutes after the clock struck one she hung the last garment on the line, and was just emptying her tubs, when the mistress came in with two bed-quilts, saying:—"

"‘As you have so small a wash to-day, Ada, I think you may do these yet.’" After the mistress had turned her back; a cry of agony, wrung from the deepest fountain of the washerwoman's heart, gushed to her lips. Smothering it as best she could, she set to work again, and rubbed, rinsed, and hung out. It was half-past three when she started for home, an hour too late! and the aged narrator sobbed.

"‘An hour too late,’" she continued, after a long pause. "‘Her husband was dying; yes, almost gone! He had strength given him to whisper a few words to his half-frantic wife, to tell her how he had longed to look upon her face; that he could not see her then, as he lay in the shadow of death. One hour she pillowed his head upon her suffering heart; and then—he was at rest!’"

"Mary, Mary dear," and there was a soul-touching emphasis in the aged woman's words, "be kind to your washerwoman; instead of striving to make her day's work as long as may be, shorten it, lighten it. Few women will go out to wash daily, unless their needs are pressing. No woman on her bridal day expects to labor in that way; and be sure, my niece, if she is constrained to do so, it is the last resort. That poor woman, laboring now so hard for you, has not always been a washerwoman. She has seen better days. She has passed through terrible trials too. I can read her story in her sad, pale face. Be kind to her; pay her what she asks, and let her go home as early as she can."

"You have finished in good time to-day, Susan," said Mrs. M. as the washerwoman entered the pleasant room to get the money she had earned.

"Yes, ma'am, I have; and my heart is relieved of a heavy load, too. I was afraid I should be kept till night, and I am needed at home."

"Is there sickness?" inquired the old aunt kindly.

Tears gushed to the woman's eyes as she answered:—

"Ah, ma'am, I left my baby most dead this morning; he will be quite so to-morrow. I know it, I have seen it too many times; and none but a child of nine years to attend him. Oh, I must go, and quickly." And grasping the money she had toiled for while her babe was dying, she hurried to the dreary home.

Shortly after, they followed her—the young wife who had scarcely known a sorrow, and the aged matron whose hair was white with trouble. Together they went to the dreary home of the drunkard's wife, the drunkard's babes. She was not too late. The little dying boy knew his mother. At midnight he died, and then kind hands took from the sorrowing mother the breathless form, closed the bright eyes, straightened the tiny limbs, bathed the cold clay, and folded above it the pure white shroud; yes, and did more—they gave what the poor so seldom have, time to weep.

"Oh, aunt!" said Mrs. M., with tears in her eyes, "if my heart blesses you, how much more must poor Susan's! Had it not been for you she would have been too late. This was a sad yet holy lesson. I shall never forget it. But, aunt, was the story you told me a true one—all true, I mean?"

"The reality of that story whitened this head when it had seen but thirty summers; and the memory of it has been one of my keenest sorrows. It is not strange that I should pity the poor washerwoman."—Sel.