The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXV, Issue 19, 9 May 1907, Page 3

The Storyteller

MOTHER MORTON'S DAUGHTER

llt looks as if you were having a second Christmas, Sister,' I could not help observing, as I made my way through the boxes and packages that the expressman was delivering. The old nun shook her head i, and as she lod me down the hall to the Little office she said, very solemnly : ' God works by mystealous ways sometimes, my child.' _- Which statement I was not inclined to doubt ; for Sister Pauline had told me some truly wonderfsu'l tales during the couise of our acquaintance. 1 suppose iwe all could do the same thing, if we were observant— if we held the effect long enough in our mind to discover the cause. But we are in too much of a hurry to take cognizance of this even in 'our own lives, h&neei we need not be expected to look for it in others. As a result, when we are told of a happening foy a contemplative, we call it strange', and we wonder why such events never fall under our eyes. Sister Pauline was always seeing things, which was in its-elf remarkable, as she never stirred from the big brick house where, with some seventeen ' or eighteen of her Sisters in religion, she ministered to the neeCs of the two hundred old men and women— wrecks, most? of them, on the ocean of life. Some of those human ships had been wrecked by the adverse winds of Fat©, others by the bad management of the captain ; and still others by mutin.y abroad. How -.often they had teen rescuefcl and refit te{. and started -anew on the voyage, the Master-Builder only knows ; but in the^ end here they were, piled up on the shore, 'useless, broken. And yet your heart stirs strangely with love as you giaze upon them, and your eyes grow moist with pity; for tjhere is something in the old timbers that tells of " the "leaping heart of youth ; and if there -is any silvery head that is or was dear to you, you will make excuses' far these olrl folk more readily than they, perhaps, mate them for themselves. ' I did not know, Sister, you bought French confectionary in such quantities,' 1 remarked, as I took the proffered chair. The smile on the wise old face deepened. Always in watching Sister Pauline's face, I think of the* admonition gi\en us to be wary as serpents, simple as doves. I do not believe the shrewdest person that ever practised the fine art of deception could deceive this woman, who since her sixteenth year had looked on life from her narrow convent window ; and yet the children ran to her as to a companion. ' Tell me the story, Sister.'- ' Maybe-you won't fnd it much of a story,' she saiid, the smile still on her lips and playing around the mystical eyes. 'It hasn't the regulation pair of lovers whose hopes were crosses and as for plot — why, there isn't any to speak of.' ' Nevertheless', I should like very much to hear it, I said. "The sight, of the hall excited my curiosity, which you have certainly not diminished. Tell me your story, Sister, and then I shall pass judgment on it,' I concluded. ' It is about Mjrs. Morton, ' Sister Pauline began. ' Old Mother. Morton !' I exclaimed. clt isnt't possible that at length sfae has been gathered to her fathers ? And you found a will which proved that the mysterious old woman was owner of vast wealth, which she left to you ; and you, with customary prodigality, straightway invested a portion of it in goodies for your old men and woimen ? And you said I should mot find such a story interesting ! You have slight opinion of my bump of appreciation, Sister Pauline.' ' You are nearly as clever at " guessing; " as a Yankee ! ' she crre.fl. ' There are a few mistakes, however ; for one, Mother Morton is not dead.' "I certainly arm g'la»d to hear that/ I answered. 1 The Home would not be the same without her.' ' But shia has. left us,' she safid ; and, to my infinite surprise, I caught the suspicion of a tear in Sister Pauline's eyes. - I'C sobered me instantly, the while it let in a, new light on the woman before me. I knew that she ministered to these old people with a devotion that had marked her face with the beauty of high and perfect service ; but not until how had I seen that filial affection was mingled largely with' that devotion. The human and divine were again beautifully uniited, following the great command, ' Learn of Me.'

' Shiei left us tire day before yesterday,' said the Sister, after a little pause. 'It doesn't really seem like home without her — she has been with us so many years. I will tell you about it. We had not - been here very long and we were terribly poor. I was qiuit© young— the youngest of the little baud that had left our dear France to 'establish our work in this faroff city, stcangers among strangers. I was portress ; anl this day, when the bell rang; and I opened- the door, I saw before me a hale, hearty woman of middle age. Never supposing she was an applicant, ,1 asked her if she wished to see any one. " No," she sai i, " I have come to stay. I am poor and old, so they told' me at home. 1 was willing to do what I could, but I found I was only in the way. I had- only one child, a daughter. My husband dtied when she was a little ba/by, leaving me poor and alone hi the new country. I was comely, too, and young and healthy, and could have married again ; but for the sake of my child I would not. It wouid have been much easier for me to make a living for us if I had put her in some orphan asylum, but 1 wouldn't. I did" not want it to be thrown in her face afterward that she' bad ,beein raised on charity. I rented a room and took in wasMntg, in order to be with her, to raise her independently. When she was old enough I sent her to bchool, paying the regular amount for her. When she finished in the parochial school, I sent her to the academy ; for I wanted to make a lady out of her. The Sisters did all they could to make her a true woman; 1 , but I suppose., in my foolish pride and love," I spoiled all their good work. ' ">' When she finished, she secured a~ position as teacher in one of the city schools. She was a beautiful girl, though it is her mother who says it. One of the members of the Board of Education fell in love with her ; she returned his affection, and so they were married. I was hisjhly rejoiced, for 1 saw that my efforts for her had been richly rewarded. I had fitted her for a high place in society, and" she.ha/d gone straight to it. Her husband was well-to-do, and of goad family ; a,«d when they took me to their new home, I thought all my cares were over and done with. But I soon learned that I was not in my right pla^e. When I saw that my daughter and her husband were ashamed of me, I thought! my heart would break. I asked them to let me go to some other place, and she said I was*, too poor»; when I said- I could wiork for my living, she said I was too old. My, son-in-law w,as better to me than my daughter— men haven't such little meannesses as women have. She didn't mis'trcat me ; I had enough to eat and to wear, but I knew she di'dn't want me. I knew she would be gliad if I were dead ; and I also knew that before I would die she mi^ht be -an old woman herself, for we come of healthy slock. '"'She had a little child, a lo<ely girl; and I knew she was ambitious her daughter should fjet into the best society. I reflected that I would constantly be a drawback to the child as w r ell as to the mother ; and I knew uhat they and all her husband's people thought the same filing. 'So the other day I told her I would leave the city and go to some convesnit of the Little Sisters of the Poor. She pretended the sugigiesi^on made her angry, but I was shrewd enough to see that she would be glad if I put my threat into execution. I did. I have come here. Ido not intend ever to tell you my name or where I came from. You may, of course, refuse 1o give me admittance. If you do, my death will be on your head ; for I tell you you are looking on a desperate woman. I am not old and I am strong r I can do the work of two persons like you. I can work for you or I can beg for you, but you must not turn me away." c I assure you I was thoroughly alarmed by the woman's words and looks, and I hastened for Reverend Mothjer. I do not know what argument she used with Reverend Mother, but the upshot of it was that Mrs. Mofcton, as she called herself, stayed at the Home. She was a most capable woman, and she soon became as happy 'here as the Sisters, and they were not m»re interested in I'he work thmn she was. We all loved her, and so did the old people. ■'A few weeks ago, you know, our Home Hn Dallas street was so badly injured by the storm, the Sisters had to sen-d all "Their old women into us, until the damage could be repaired. We made room for them, stofwiß them the lower floor. Of course Mother Morton felt it incumbent on her to tro down occasionally and see if -the visitors were receiving proner attention and were comfortable in their new quarters. After one >such visit I found her standing in the hall, her face " as white as her cap. 1 i' For the love of God, Sister," she cried " what is the name of that woman with a breastpin at her

necV? " I told her I did not know the n/ames of a»ny of the old women visitors, and asked her what was the matter. *' Uome with me, Sister ! " she said ; and we went back to the room where several of the strangers were sitting. She led me forward to where one woman, was, with folded arms and bowed head. Heacinig us, she lifted her face, and I saw the saddest countenance upon which my eyes have ever rested. Then, to my surprise, I heard Mother Morton crying, "In the name of God, Helen, what are y_ou doing here ? " To my j .yir^g day I shall not forget tlvat wo-, man as she sprang to her feet, then fell on her knees, " Mother • mother ! " Mother Morton was down beside her, folding her to her breast, crying over hjer, soothing her as only a mother can. • The room was in an uproar, and I hastened to get the two women out and brought' them in here. Then the stranger fell again on her knees and pleaded with Moldner Morton. 1 to forgive her, crying- out that remorse had broken her heart, ruined her life. ' Poor Mother Morton was crying and laughing* at the same time ; and when she could find voice, she began to upbraid the other for being a silly, foolish child. What had she to forgive, she wanted to know.. And then she broke forth into lamentations because her daughter had lost her fortune and had to be a dependent on charity. All the time I was trying to get them quieted, so they could make their explanation - coherently ; and when I finally succeeded, the younger . woman told us her pitiful story of remorse and penitence. ' A few years after her mother left, her husband died, and she was left with ;the child to rear and the, property to look after. She had never had a care in her life ; for^first her mother and then her husband had shouldered it for her. As she stood thus alone, buffeted, by tte world, she began to remejtn-ber her mother's struggles against more adverse conditions- than confronted her. Those struggles, she knew, had been made chiefly for her, as she was now struggling for her ■daughter. And how had she repaid that mother's devotion ? The past was constantly with her ; and of course- her remorse magnified her faults, as remorse always vdoes. She called herself an ingrate, and felt she deserved the severest punishment God could' send. She confidently expected He would take away her child, amid deprive her* of her properly, and turn her adrift even as she had turned her mothe". None of these things befell her, however ; "and when her daughter was entering womanhood, she married a wealthy lawyer. Then she expected that the treatment she and her husband had accorded her mother would be repeated upon her. Again her expectations were not realised. On the contrary, he- son-in-law, who had lost his own mother in early youth, loved her most tenderly, while her daughter was the most loving and devoted of children. ' Had things been different, had they loved her less, she said ' she could have borne it ; but their conduct was so great a contrast to hers, she was crushed by it. She knew that she must expiate her sin or she would go mad. She wrote a letter to her children, confessing her wrongs to her mother, and told them she could not live surrounded by love and plenty while somewhere her mother was the recipient of charity. She left home ami came to this city, and engaged herself as a cook in a wealthy family. Her services were well rewarded; and every cent she earned she 'gave to our other convent in Dallas street, of which her master was also a benefactor. The Siste-s knew of her secret sorrow, and they and the. old people prayed constantly that some time she might have the happiness of finding her mother. ' This summer, while the family was away, she fell ill and ,was taken to the hospital. Our Sisters, of course, went regularly to see her, and when she was convalescent she prayed them to let her come to the Home until she was quite well. So intense was her desire to be w*ith the Little Sisters and the old people, the doctor said it was retarding her recovery ; and so permission was granted to her. Thus it happened sv^e was at the Home when the roof was blown off by the storm ; and was sent here, whe-e her prayers were answered by fin-fling her mother, and obtaining her forgiveness. ' Then, 1 said Sister Pauline, and the grew into a soft laugrh, ' a strange thing happened. Mother Morton began to upbraid her daughter for Tearing her daughter who loved her, "ami declared that she must instantly return and set at rest the anguish that child must be enduring. " I know she is sufficing," said the daughter ; " but I shall never leave you, mother."— '"You'H have to," rejoined Mother Morton ; "for tine Sisters won't keep you here. You are not old and poor, with no one to care for you, and in this city there are many women who are. You would take the

» place from one who ne&ds it." — "Neither a~e you poor and with no one to take care of you !' r cried the daughter. " For if you will only allow me, mother, I will spend the rest of my days in ministering to you. There may be some woman who has no repentant daughter to care for her, whose place you ace ta'kiinig. ' ' ' And ' then poor Mother ' Morton broke down and soWbed like a child. She had grown attached to> the Sisters and the Home, and the thought of leaving was bitter. But love of her chftld and her sense of justice triumphe i ; and, after a little talk with her, I got her consent to allow' me to write to her granddaughter, By the next train after receiving my letter, came the granddaughter and her Lusibaiii ; and such a scene this little office jiever vAtnessed as on that morning. I do notiCnow which the young wife was more gJad to see, her mother or her grandmother. They left that afternoon ; but before they did so, wife and hmsiband, went down to the city and ordered a toligi treat for the old people. It is to take place to-morrow,and now you know the meaning of all those boxes and packages ! ' But Go I was very good to Mother Morton's daughter, 1 finished Sister Pauline; nodding her head wisely. 'It isn't always we have a ohance to make atonememt to the loved one this side of the grave.'— ' Aye Maria.'