jane looked around her—looked at all the terrors of her situation. the first burst of grief over, and a day or two gone on, she could only look at it. she did not know which way to turn or what to do. it is true she placed implicit trust in god—in the light spoken of by her husband when he was passing away. throughout her life she had borne an ever-present, lively trust in god's unchanging care; and she had incessantly striven to implant the same trust in the minds of her children. but in this season of dread anxiety, of hopeless bereavement, you will not think less well of her for hearing that she did give way to despondency, almost to despair.
from tears for him who had been the dear partner of her life, to anxiety for the future of his children—from anxiety for them, to pecuniary distress and embarrassment—so passed on her hours from christmas night. calm she had contrived to be in the presence of others; but it was the calm of an aching heart. she dreaded her own reflections. when she rose in the morning she said, "how shall i bear up through the day?" and when she went to her bed, it would be, "how shall i drag through the right?" tossing, turning, moaning; walking the room in the darkness when no eye was upon her; kneeling, almost without hope, to pour forth her tribulations to god—who would believe that, in the daytime, before others, she could be so apparently serene? only once did she give way, and that was the day before the funeral.
patience sympathised with her in a reasoning sort of way. it had been next to impossible for jane to keep her pecuniary anxiety from patience, who advised and assisted her in making the various arrangements. it was necessary to go to work in the most sparing manner possible; and it ended in jane's taking patience into her full confidence.
"if thee can but keep a house over thy head, so as to retain thy children with thee, thee wilt get along. do not be cast down."
"oh, patience, that is what i have been thinking about—how am i to keep the house together. i do not see that i can do it."
"the furniture is thine," observed patience. "thee might let two or three of thy rooms, so as to cover the rent."
"i have thought all that over and over again to myself," sighed jane. "but, patience—allowing that the rent were made in that way—how are we to live?"
"thee must occupy thy time in some way. thee can sew! dost thee know dress-making?"
"no—only sufficient of it to make my own plain gowns and jane's frocks. as to plain sewing, i could never earn food at it—it is so badly paid. and there will be the education of my boys, and their clothing."
"thee hast anxiety before thee—i see it," said patience, in a grave tone. "still, i would not have thee be cast down. thee will make thyself ill, and that will not be the way to mend thy condition."
jane sat down, her hands clasped on her knees, her mind viewing her dark troubles. "if i were but clear, i should have better hope," she said, lifting her face in its sad sorrow. "patience, we owe half a year's rent; and there will be the funeral expenses besides."
"hast thee no kindred that would aid thee in thy strait?"
jane shook her head. the only "kindred" she possessed in the whole world was one who had barely enough for his own poor wants—her brother francis.
"hast thee no little property to dispose of?" continued patience. "watches, or things of that kind?"
there was her husband's watch. but jane's pale face crimsoned at the idea of parting with it in that manner. it was a good watch, and had long ago been promised to william.
"i can understand thy flush of aversion," said patience, kindly. "i would not be the one to suggest aught to hurt thy feelings; but thy necessities may leave no alternative."
a conviction that they would leave none was already stealing over jane. she possessed a few trinkets herself, not of much value, and a little silver. all might have to go, not excepting the watch. "would there be a difficulty in disposing of them, patience?" she asked aloud.
"none at all: there is the pawn-shop," said the plain-speaking quakeress. "i do not know what many would do without it. i can tell thee that some of the great ones of this city send their plate to it on occasion. thee would not like to go to such a place thyself, but thy servant's mother, elizabeth carter, is a discreet woman: she would render thee this little service. as i tell thee, if thee can only surmount present difficulties, so as to secure a start, thee may get on."
surmount present difficulties! it seemed to jane next door to an impossibility. she had the merest trifle of money left, was in debt, and without means, so far as she saw, of earning even food. she paid her last night visit to the room which contained the coffin, and went thence up to her bed, to toss the night through on her wet pillow, with a burning brow and an aching heart.
it was a sad funeral to see, and one of the plainest of the plain. the clerk of the church, who had condescended to come up to escort it—a condescension he did not often vouchsafe to poor funerals, for they afforded nothing good to eat and drink—walked first, without a hatband. then came the coffin, covered with a pall, and william and frank behind it. jane had not sent gar, poor little fellow! she thought he might be better away. that was all; there were no attendants: the clerk, the two boys, the coffin, and the men who bore it.
it was sad to see. the people stopped to look as it went along the streets, following with their eyes the poor fatherless children. one young man stood aside, raised his hat, and held it in his hand until the coffin had passed. but the young man had lived in foreign countries, where it is the custom to remain uncovered whilst a funeral goes by.
he was buried at st. martin's church; and, singular to say, the officiating minister was the rev. mr. peach. mr. peach did not know who he was interring: he had taken the service for st. martin's rector. william heard his name: how many times had he heard his poor father mention the name in connection with his hopeful prospects! he burst into wailing sobs at the thought. mr. peach glanced off his book to look compassionately at the sobbing boy.
the funeral was over, the last word of the service spoken, the first shovel of earth flung rattling on to the coffin. the clerk did not pay the compliment of his escort back again; indeed, there was nothing to escort but the two boys. they walked alone, with no company but their hatbands.
in the evening, at dusk, they were gathered together—jane and all the children. tears seemed to have a respite: they had been shed of late all too plentifully.
"i must speak to you, children," said jane, lifting her head, and breaking the silence. "i may as well speak now, as let the days go on first. you are young, but you are old enough to understand me. do you know, my darlings, how very sad our position is?"
"in losing papa?" said janey, catching her breath.
"yes, yes, in losing him," wailed jane. "for that includes more than you suspect. but i wish to allude more particularly to the future. my dears, i do not see what is to become of us. we have no money; and we have no one to give us any or to lend us any; no one in the wide world."
the children did not interrupt; only william moved his chair nearer to hers. she looked so young in her widow's cap: nearly as young as when, years ago, she had married him who had that day been put out of her sight for ever.
"if we can only keep a roof over our heads," continued jane, speaking very softly from the effort to subdue her threatening emotion, "we may perhaps struggle on. perhaps. but it will be struggling; and you do not know half that the word implies. we may not have enough to eat. we may be cold and hungry—not once, but constantly; and we shall certainly have to encounter and endure the slights and humiliations attendant on extreme poverty. i do not know that we can retain a home; for we may, in a week or two, be turned from this."
"but why be turned from this, mamma?"
"because there is rent owing, and i have not the means to pay it," she answered. "i have written to your uncle francis, but i do not believe he will be able to help me. he——"
"why can't we go back to london to live?" eagerly interrupted little gar. "it was so nice there! it was a better home than this."
"you forget, gar, that—that——" here she almost broke down, and had to pause a minute—"that our income there was earned by papa. he would not be there to earn it now. no, my dear ones; i have thought the future over in every way—thought until my brain has become confused—and the only possible chance that i can see, of our surmounting difficulties, so as to enable us to exist, is by endeavouring to keep this home. patience suggests that i should let part of it. i had already thought of that; and i shall endeavour to do so. it may cover the rent and taxes. and i must try and do something else that will find us food."
the children looked perfectly thunderstruck, especially the two elder ones, william and jane. "do something to find food!" they uttered, aghast. "mamma, what do you mean?"
it is so difficult to make children understand these unhappy things—those who have been brought up in comfort. jane sighed, and explained further. little desolate hearts they were who listened to her.
"william," she resumed, "your poor papa's watch was to have been yours; but—i scarcely like to tell you—i fear i shall be obliged to dispose of it to help our necessities."
a spasm shot across william's face. but, brave-hearted boy that he was, he would not let his mother see his disappointment, and looked cheerfully at her.
"there is one thought that weighs more heavily on my mind than all—your education. how i shall manage to continue it i do not know. my darlings, i look upon this only in a degree less essential to you than food: you know that learning is better than house and land. i do not yet see my way clear in any way: it is very dark—almost as dark as it can be; and but for one friend, i should despair."
"what friend is that, mamma? do you mean patience?"
"i mean god," replied jane. "i know that he is a sure refuge to those who trust in him. in my saddest moments, when i think how certain that refuge is, a ray of light flashes over me, bright as that glorious light in your papa's dream. oh, my dear children! perhaps we shall be helped to struggle on!"
"who will buy us new clothes?" cried frank, dropping upon another phase of the difficulty. jane sighed: it was all terribly indistinct.
"in all the tribulation that will probably come upon us, the humiliations, the necessities, we must strive for patience to bear them. you do not yet understand the meaning of the term, to bear; but you will learn it all too soon. you must bear not only for your own sakes, because it is your lot, and you cannot go from it; not only for mine, but chiefly because it is the will of god. this affliction could not have come upon us unless god had permitted it, and i am quite sure, therefore, that it is in some way sent for our good. we shall not be utterly miserable if we can keep together in our house. you will aid me in it, will you not?"
"in what way, mamma?" they eagerly asked, as if wishing to begin something then. "what can we do?"
"you can aid me by being dutiful and obedient; by giving me no unnecessary anxiety or trouble; by cheerfully making the best of our privations; and you can strive to retain what you have already learnt by going diligently over your lessons together. all this will aid and comfort me."
william's tears burst forth, and he laid his head on his mother's lap. "oh, mamma dear, i will try and do for you all i can," he sobbed. "i will indeed."
"take comfort, my boy," she whispered, leaning tenderly over him. "remember that your last act to your father was a loving sacrifice, in giving to him the orange that you would have enjoyed. i marked it, william. my darling children, let us all strive to bear on steadfastly to that far-off light, ever looking unto god."
