Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles

by Mrs. Henry Wood

"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?"