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.