Chapter XI: A Parting Word About Ambition

"Workman of God! Oh, lose not heart,
But learn what God is like;
And in the darkest battle-field
Thou shalt know where to strike."
ANON.

WHEN the first days with their dull weight of blinding grief had passed, and the fresh earth lay over the beloved form of the husband and father, it became necessary for the widow to consider her position and think of ways and means.

Through the kindness of her brother-in-law, whose heart had been opened by the warning voice of death, her husband had been laid with the remains of his father, and the funeral conducted free of expense. But although her own life seemed buried with the dead, the living remained to be thought of.

Joseph Adams had been an eminently steady man; and had saved a good deal since his marriage. A portion of his son's weekly earnings, too, had always been placed in the Savings Bank. But though this money would go some way towards eking out future earnings, it was a comparatively small sum, and would soon be swallowed up unless some further source of income were devised.

Joseph and his mother had many a conversation on the subject.

Mrs. Adams' sewing-machine would be a great assistance, if she happened to be fortunate in obtaining work. And Joseph was at an age when the apprenticeship which he had served under his father would stand him in good stead. But, somehow, both he and his mother felt that to depend upon his uncle's favour would be to lean upon a broken reed. It was imperative that he should not only be assured of regular work, but that he should stand a fair chance of bettering himself. But no other opening seemed at hand.

The summer passed, and pinch as they might, the savings had to be largely drawn upon for the rent. This state of things could not last long; but which way to turn they knew not.

Joseph's Greek books had lain neglected on the shelf ever since the night his father died; for they could bring in no money, and he had no heart for mere self-cultivation now. His dream was at an end, and stern life had commenced for him. No outlook but the carpenter's bench to the day of his death.

Of his cousins, he had seen nothing. Neville had taken a severe cold, and they had been at St. Leonards ever since, in order that his health might be thoroughly re-established by the beginning of October term, when his Oxford career was to commence. Walter had quite deserted him for Tom Rawlinson and Annie Cleveland's brother; and he did not care to seek other acquaintances. After work hours, he gave himself up to the cultivation of the garden, which was henceforward to be devoted to crops of a useful nature. And early morning often saw him, though tired alike in body and spirit, doing a thousand and one little things for his mother, in order that he might lessen her labours for the day.

The Sunday class was given up, so that he might spend the afternoon reading to her while she rested on the couch, and he had scarcely seen Mr. Girling since the day when the latter came to offer his condolences on the subject of their bereavement.

One Saturday evening, however, on going to answer a knock, Joseph found him at the door.

His face brightened at the sight of his old friend, and he conducted him to the keeping-room with genuine pleasure.

Mr. Girling's conversation was grave, though cheerful. It was meet he should be serious in that darkened home, but there was an entire absence in his manner of that complimentary gloom so offensive to deep grief. He was not the man to hold his tender-heartedness up to view by showing off his funeral paces. He sympathized as truly as an outsider can, for he had known the same trouble; but his sympathy was of that practical kind which strives to lighten the cloud, rather than to draw it up in denser mist. He even refrained, with well-bred delicacy, from referring to their loss until they spoke of it; and then his words were so free from pious cant, so full of feeling and strong religious hope, that the load seemed lighter for having been shared with him.

Before long they had even taken him into confidence with regard to their anxiety for the future.

"I only know of one plan," he said, after listening attentively to all the details of their position; "and that I hardly like to propose."

The scheme he had in view was as follows:—That Joseph should leave home and enter into the employment of a friend of his—a builder in London—who, if he knew the necessitous circumstances of the case, would be certain to interest himself in the lad's advancement.

The widow was startled, and the tears came into her eyes. Joseph had been such a support to her in her trial, and at the idea of his going right away, many thoughts rushed into her mind,—her own loneliness, the emptiness of the home, the dangers of a London life. Still, if it must be, she would not be the one to stand in his way.

"But he has been so much to me," she said.

"And will be more yet," rejoined Mr. Girling warmly. "But think my proposition over quietly together," he added; "and if you wish it, I will see my friend about it. Next week, I leave here for London myself."

"Leave here!" cried Joseph. "You are not going away?"

"Yes," he replied. "My turn has come at last. I have obtained the post for which I have been working. My term here ends this week, and on Monday I leave, to spend a little while with my mother and sister until my new duties commence."

"You have a mother and sister, too, then?" said the lad.

"A widowed mother,—yes, I have known just your trouble, Joseph;—only my sister is not the hearty lass your Ruth is. Our poor little Ellen has not moved from off her back since her tenth year, and she is one and twenty now. Poor Nellie! She will be glad to have me nearer."

Joseph was silent. Here was trouble heavier than his own; yet how strong the man had been in bearing it. He said something to that effect.

"Not so strong as Nellie," Mr. Girling replied. "Twelve years on that couch, and not so much as a murmur. Time was when I used to pray God to take her; but I thank Him now that He has spared her to us. For when we were weak, she was brave; and it was her words and her example that inspired me with the ambition for which I live."

The twilight had deepened into dusk, and they could not see each other's faces; but Mr. Girling's voice was full of emotion, and Mrs. Adams was deeply touched.

"God bless you for telling me that!" she murmured. "I had forgotten that I had blessings as well as trials."

"So I have come to say good-bye," Mr. Girling said, after a long pause, rising and taking his hat. "And if I can be of any service to you, you will not fail to let me know. This address will always find me."

The widow took the envelope which he held out, and again thanking him as she returned the cordial pressure of his hand, she proceeded to light her lamp, whilst Joseph went with him to the door.

Here Mr. Girling paused. He wanted to say something more to the lad than a mere good-bye.

"I shall hear from you soon," he said; "and whether you decide to remain here or to make a fresh start, I shall hope for news of your prosperity. In the meantime, keep a good heart. You see ambition has not played me false; it has held me to my work until I have beaten out a better track."

"And I have had to give mine up," said Joseph bitterly.

"Nay, my friend," returned the schoolmaster, "no need to do that!"

"No help for it," replied Joseph. "There is no prospect for me now but the workshop and the carpenter's bench."

"And the 'crown of righteousness that fadeth not away,'" added his friend. "And remember this, Joseph, ambition which has not that for its aim is a dead and useless thing. Let yours be—as mine has been—to glorify the God-man, Christ Jesus, who sanctified all human work by handling those tools in the workshop at Nazareth; let your life be the copy of His: lowly pure, and true; ever faithful to present duty; and be your path what it may, you have nothing to fear. It is marked out for you, and will lead to an eternal rest."

Joseph wrung his friend's hand in silence, and they parted.