Woman's Trials

A few weeks later, and the contemplated change was made.  The family removed into a moderate-sized house, at a lower rent, and prepared to test the new mode of obtaining a livelihood.  A good portion of their furniture had been sold, besides three gold watches and some valuable jewelry belonging to Mrs. Darlington and her two eldest daughters, in order to make up a sum sufficient to pay off the debt contracted during the last few months of the boarding-house experiment.  The real loss sustained by the widow in this experiment fell little short of a thousand dollars.

“How many scholars have you now?” asked Mrs. Darlington of Edith, two months after the school was opened, as they sat at tea one evening, each member of the family wearing a cheerful face.

“Twenty,” replied Edith.  “We received two new ones to-day.  Mrs. Wilmot came and entered two of her children; and she said that Mrs. Armond was going to send her Florence so soon as her quarter expired in the school she is now attending.”

“How much will you receive from your present number of scholars?” inquired Henry.

“I made the estimate to-day,” returned Edith, “and find that the bills will come to something like a hundred and twenty-five dollars a quarter.”

“Five hundred dollars a year,” said Henry; “and my five hundred added to that will make a thousand.  Can’t we live on a thousand dollars, mother?”

“We may, by the closest economy.”

“Our school will increase,” remarked Edith; and every increase will add to our income.  Oh! it looks so much brighter ahead! and we have so much real comfort in the present!  What a scene of trial have we passed through!”

“How I ever bore up under it is more than I can now tell,” said Mrs. Darlington, with an involuntary shudder.  “And the toil, and suffering, and danger through which we have come!  I cannot be sufficiently thankful that we are safe from the dreadful ordeal, and with so few marks of the fire upon us.”

A silence followed this, in which two hearts, at least, were humbled, yet thankful, in their self-communion—­the hearts of Henry and Miriam.  Through what perilous ways had they come!  How near had they been to shipwreck!

“Poor Mrs. Marion!” said Edith, breaking the silence, at length.  “How often I think of her!  And the thought brings a feeling of condemnation.  Was it right for us to thrust her forth as we did?”

“Can she still be in?”

“Oh no, no!” spoke up Henry, interrupting his mother.  I forgot to tell you that I met her and her husband on the street to-day.”

“Are you certain?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did you speak to them?”

“No.  They saw me, but instantly averted their faces.  Mrs. Marion looked very pale, as if she had been sick.”

“Poor woman!  She has had heart-sickness enough,” said Mrs. Darlington.  “I shall never forgive myself for turning her out of the house.  If I had known where she was going!”

“But we did not know that, mother,” said Edith.

“We knew that she had neither friends nor a home,” replied the mother.  “Ah me! when our own troubles press heavily upon us, we lose our sympathy for others!”

“It was not so in this case,” remarked Edith.  “Deeply did we sympathize with Mrs. Marion.  But we could not bear the weight without going under ourselves.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Darlington, half to herself.  “We might have kept up with her a little longer.  But I am glad from my heart that her husband has come back.  If he will be kind to his wife, I will forgive all his indebtedness to me.”

A few weeks subsequent to this time, as Miriam sat reading the morning paper, she came upon a brief account of the arrest, in New Orleans, of a “noted gambler,” as it said, named Burton, on the charge of bigamy.  The paper dropped to the floor, and Miriam, with clasped hands and eyes instantly overflowing with tears, looked upward, and murmured her thanks to Heaven.

“What an escape!” fell tremblingly from her lips, as she arose and went to her room to hold communion with her own thoughts.

Three years have passed, and what has been the result of the widow’s new experiment?  The school prospered from the beginning.  The spirit with which Edith and Miriam went to work made success certain.  Parents who sent their children were so much pleased with the progress they made, that they spoke of the new school to their friends, and thus gave it a reputation, that, ere a year had elapsed, crowded the rooms of the sisters.  Mrs. Darlington was a woman who had herself received a superior education.  Seeing that the number of scholars increased rapidly, and made the pressure on her daughters too great, she gave a portion of her time each day to the instruction of certain classes, and soon became much interested in the work.  From that time she associated herself in the school with Edith and Miriam.

Three years, as we said, have passed, and now the profits on the school are more than sufficient to meet all expenses.  Henry has left his clerkship, and is a member of the bar.  Of course he has little or no practice—­only a few months having elapsed since his admission; but his mother and sisters are fully able to sustain him until he could sustain himself.

“How much better this is than keeping boarders!” said Edith, as she sat conversing with her mother and uncle about the prospects of the school.

“And how much more useful and honourable!” remarked Mr. Ellis.  “In the one case, you fed only the body, but now you are dispensing food to the immortal mind.  You are moreover independent in your own house.  When the day’s work is done, you come together as one family, and shut out the intruding world.”

“Yes, it is better, far better,” replied Mrs. Darlington.  “Ah, that first mistake of mine was a sad one!”

“Yet out of it has come good,” said Mr. Ellis.  “That painful experience corrected many false views, and gave to all your characters a new and higher impulse.  It is through disappointment, trial, and suffering, that we grow wise here; and true wisdom is worth the highest price we are ever called upon to pay for it.”

Yes, it is so.  Through fiery trials are we purified.  At times, in our suffering, we feel as if every good thing in us was about being consumed.  But this never happens.  No good in our characters is ever lost in affliction or trouble; and we come out of these states of pain wiser and better than when we entered them, and more fitted and more willing to act usefully our part in the world.