“Thank you, sir; it’s very kind of you to say so, but I shan’t say anything to Jane about it. I don’t want to raise hopes in her, as I can’t see much like a foundation for ’em; so I shall only tell her about Lydia’s getting the situation, which she’ll be very pleased to hear, and that it’s your wish I should see her safe to London. But if I do find the bag, and all safe in it, you shall hear, sir, afore I get back.”
Tuesday evening, 6 p.m. A telegram for Reverend Ernest Maltby from London. The vicar opened it; it was signed TB, and was as follows:—“All right—I have got it—hurrah!—Tell Jane.”
An hour later found the vicar in Thomas Bradly’s comfortable kitchen, and seated by his sister.
“Jane,” he began, “I have often brought you the best of all good news, the gospel’s glad tidings; perhaps you won’t be sorry to hear a little of this world’s good news from me.”
“What is it?” she asked, turning rather pale.
“Jane, the Lord has been very good—the bag is found; your brother has got it all right.”
Poor Jane! She thought that she had risen out of the reach of all strong emotion on this subject; but it was not so. “Patience had indeed had her perfect work in her,” yet the pressure and strain of her sorrow had never really wholly left her. And now the news brought by the vicar caused a rush of joy that for a few moments was almost intolerable. But her habitual self-control did not even then desert her, and she was enabled in a little while to listen with composure to the explanation of her clergyman, while her tears now flowed freely and calmly, bringing happy relief to her gentle spirit. And then, at her request, Mr Maltby knelt by her side, and uttered a fervent thanksgiving on her behalf to Him who had at length scattered the dark clouds which had long hung over the heart of the meek and patient sufferer. And now, oh what a joy it was to feel that the heavy burden was gone; that she who had borne it would be able to show her late mistress, Lady Morville, that she was innocent of the charge laid against her, and had never swerved from the paths of uprightness in her earthly service. As she thought on these things, and bright smiles shone through her tears, the vicar was deeply touched to hear her, as she quietly bowed her head upon her hands, implore pardon of her heavenly Father for her impatience and want of faith. He waited, however, till she again turned towards him her face full of sweet peace, and then he said,—
“‘Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye do much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
With blessings on your head.’
“Yes, Jane, your trial has indeed been a sharp one; but the Lord knew that you could stand that trial. And now he has brought you out of it as gold purified in the furnace.”
“I don’t know, dear sir,” was her reply; “I can see plenty of the dross in myself, but yet I do hope and trust that the chastening has not been altogether in vain.”