JOHNNY'S SUNDAY SUIT.
IT was strange how the thought of little Gip took possession of John Shafto's mind. The winter days, dark and cold, had fairly set in, and he could not creep along the streets with his crutches, looking wistfully at the ragged children whom he found in numbers about them. Yet if the summer warmth had filled the air, he could no longer have gone in search of her, for the little strength remaining to him was slowly ebbing away; and he was surely going down to the grave, the dark passage through which he was to reach his Father's house beyond.
But he scarcely seemed to feel the painful steps of the journey he was making, so full was his mind of little Gip. Perhaps it was because he and Sandy talked of little else; or because there was always a faint vague hope in his heart that when Sandy came in from his work in an evening, he would bring the joyful news that Gip was found. With this hope stirring in him, he never missed watching for Sandy's return; and when the usual hour would come, he turned the gas in the shop window higher, so that Sandy might see his face looking out beside the hatchment as soon as he turned into the grave-yard.
A whistle would bring him to the door in time to open it as Sandy reached it; and he always looked to see if there were not a little tattered figure standing beside him in the darkness. But Gip was never found; and the hearts of both boys grew hopeless and very sorrowful about her.
Mrs. Shafto thought but little of Gip in comparison with her boy, who was so soon to be lost to her. She kept her kitchen cheery and cosy, and wore blue ribbons in her cap, and tried to wear a smile upon her face for Johnny's sake; but no one knew how heavy and sad her heart was at times. She must keep up, she said to herself, lest she should make her boy miserable and low-spirited on her account; but it was very hard work. Mr. Shafto could not master himself as she did, having had no long practice in self-denial; and often he would sink down in his easy-chair, hide his face in his hands, and groan aloud when he thought how soon John would be gone away, and he should never more hear the tap of his crutches about the house.
Sandy was the greatest comfort they had, coming in fresh from his work, with all sorts of bits of news picked up in the street or at the wood-yard, and with curious questions to ask, which diverted them all from their own sorrow. The evenings, when he was sitting with them by their fire, were far less sad than the dark days.
At last the time came when John Shafto had not strength to rise from his bed and come downstairs to the cheery little kitchen, which had been kept so bright for him. He could only lie still now in the low room, with its shelving roof and the dormer window, from which he could see the gravestones. The change frightened Sandy, though he could not bring himself to believe that Johnny was going to die, while his face was so happy and cheerful, and his weak voice so pleasant. When the warm weather came again, he said, Johnny would be sure to feel better, and get about once more. He could not bear to think of losing him as well as little Gip.
"Mother," said John Shafto one Sunday morning, after he had lain in bed some days, and knew that he would never more get up and walk about upon his crutches, "mother, you'll take to Sandy, instead of me? I'm always saying to myself, Sandy 'ill be like a son to her, and she'll be his mother when I'm gone."
"You're not gone yet, dear heart!" she said, stroking the soft hair from his forehead, and speaking as calmly as she could.
"No, but I'm going, mother," he answered; "and I like to think of you having Sandy to take my place."
"He'll never take your place, Johnny," sobbed his mother.
"Not just at first, but by-and-by he'll be like your own son," continued John Shafto; "he'll be a good boy, I know, for he loves to hear me tell him of Jesus Christ, and he's beginning to understand it all better now. Mother," and John put his arm fondly round her neck, "I want you to let Sandy have my Sunday clothes, and let me see him go to chapel with father. I could watch them go across the grave-yard together, if you'd only raise me up in your arms for a minute."
"Oh, Johnny, Johnny! I cannot!" she cried, falling on her knees, and hiding her face on her boy's pillow.
He stroked her cheek tenderly with his wasted fingers, whispering, "Poor mother, poor mother!"
It was a long while before she could recover herself, or finish a sentence when she began to speak it, but at last she conquered her tears and sobs.
"Do you wish it very much, dear heart?" she asked. "It would be hard to see Sandy in your Sunday suit, but if you really wish it—"
"Oh, mother, I do," he said: "it's as if Sandy was my own brother, and little Gip my sister. I think of them so when I lie awake of nights. I feel as if I almost knew how Jesus longs to find those who are lost, and have them with Him in heaven. I found Sandy, and now it seems as if he belonged to me, and must share all I have. If we could only find little Gip before I die!"
It was a very sore trial for Mrs. Shafto, but she went through it bravely for Johnny's sake. She brought out his Sunday suit from the drawer in her own room, where she kept it neatly brushed and folded up; and she looked for a clean collar and a necktie, such as John Shafto had been used to wear. It seemed almost as bad as stitching Johnny's shroud—a sorrowful task that would fall upon her before the spring was over. She laid them on his bed; and then went downstairs to find Sandy, and bid him go and dress himself in her boy's best suit.
This was a very important and difficult business to Sandy, and John Shafto lay watching him with quiet but very great delight. His old rags had disappeared one by one, and he had learned to keep himself clean and tidy; but he had never put on any clothes at all to be compared with these, though they were rubbed a little at the elbows and knees, and all the seams were somewhat frayed. He brushed his hair before the small looking glass, and tried anxiously to part his rough, strong curls as smoothly as John Shafto's fine and thin hair. Very carefully and slowly he put on the clean white collar, and did his best to fasten the blue necktie under his chin as neatly as John would have done. But, after all his efforts, he felt sure he did not look like him, and he was almost ready to cry with vexation and disappointment. His brown healthy face and rough hands were very different from John's delicate appearance.
"Come here, Sandy," said John Shafto, in his low, feeble voice: "come here, and kiss me."
He had never asked him to kiss him before, and Sandy felt frightened. But he bent over the pale, sunken face, and touched it as softly with his lips as he had been used to kiss little Gip when she was asleep.
"Why, nobody 'ud know you now," said John, looking at him with critical and admiring eyes. "I don't believe your mother 'ud think who it was if she met you in the streets dressed like this."
"But little Gip 'ud never know me!" cried Sandy, dejectedly. He was proud of his new clothes; but if they were to stand in the way of his finding Gip, he would rather return to his old rags. He began to think that perhaps he was out of the way of finding her, now that he had been lifted out of their old life. What good would it be to him if he lived well, and had a comfortable bed to sleep on, and wore fine clothes, if his little Gip were starved, and cold, and almost naked? He would give up all, even Mrs. Shafto and his friend Johnny, and go back and down to the former degradation and misery, if he could only save Gip by doing so.
"But you'll know little Gip," answered John Shafto: "you couldn't pass by her, and not know her."
"Ay!" said Sandy: "I'd know her if there were thousands and thousands of little gels; I'd pick her out among 'em all."
"That's how it is," murmured John Shafto; "we don't know Jesus Christ, but He knows us. I see plainer how it is. He is seeking us just as you are seeking Gip. All the world is like little Gip to Him, lost, and miserable, and starving; and He couldn't be happy, even in heaven, till He has found us. I think He must be troubled, like you are, about Gip; but he will find us all some day, though we do not wish Him to find us."
"But can He find us when He likes?" asked Sandy, lifting up his sorrowful face to look at John.
"Not when He likes," answered John, "or all the world would be safe and happy now. It's like as if little Gip kept running away from you, and hiding herself anywhere she could out of your sight. That would be very hard for you, wouldn't it?"
"Ay!" said Sandy, with a heavy sigh. "But little Gip 'ud never do that with Sandy."
"But that's what we do with the Lord Jesus Christ," continued John Shafto, solemnly; "we run away from Him, and hide anywhere, anywhere so that He should not find us. Oh! Sandy, if all the world would only be found by Him!"
"I'll be found!" cried Sandy. "See, Lord Jesus! I'm lost from You like little Gip from me. Find me, wherever You are: find me, and let me never be lost again. And when You've found me, please let me find my little Gip."
"Amen!" whispered John Shafto, his face smiling brightly. "He'll find you, Sandy, never fear; and little Gip as well. Now go down, and I'll watch you and father walk together across the yard to chapel."
Sandy stole slowly downstairs, half ashamed of his new costume; but when he stepped into the kitchen, and saw Mrs. Shafto at the sight of him fall into a chair, and cover her face with her apron, he forgot all about it, and ran to her side.
"Has anythink hurt you?" he asked earnestly. "Isn't there nothink as I can do for you? I'm very strong, and I'd do anythink in the world for you and Johnny. Only you say the word. What are I to do?"
"Nothing!" she answered, still sobbing, and laying her head upon his shoulder, upon Johnny's jacket.
Whilst Sandy, in utter amazement, ventured to touch her blue ribbons gently with his finger.
"Nothing, my boy. Only I saw you come down in these clothes, and you looked partly like Johnny, and yet so very, very different! It's not all trouble, dear heart! that I'm crying for. I know where he's going to, and I'm sure you'll be a good boy; but I can't help crying a little. There, you must go now; Mr. Shafto's quite ready, and it's high time you were off; and I'll run upstairs, and hold Johnny so as he can see you."
So John Shafto, held up in his mother's arms, watched Sandy and his father walk together side by side across the grave-yard. When they reached the tablet on the chapel wall, Mr. Shafto paused a moment, and Sandy, turning round, waved his cap for John to see him, though it was impossible for him to catch a glimpse of John in the dark, low room.
"He'll be a good boy, I know," murmured John Shafto; "and now, if he could only find little Gip!"
———◆———
PASSING AWAY.
BUT all this time, while John Shafto was drawing nearer and nearer to the grave, and what lay beyond it, Sandy had never realized the fact. He had often seen people as ill, who lay on comfortless beds in crowded rooms, with faces quite as worn and pale, but without the pleasant smile that always shone in John Shafto's eyes whenever he looked at him. More than this, though John sometimes spoke of dying, it was always as of something so familiar to him, and so little dreaded by him, that it never seemed as if he meant the same gloomy thing as death was when it came into the dark homes Sandy had known, and carried away one after another to nothing else but the pauper coffin and the forgotten grave.
The truth broke upon Sandy at last, with the shock of a great surprise and bitter sorrow. He had bid Johnny good-bye in the morning, and gone away whistling merrily to his work, dreading no trouble during the day.
But when he reached home again in the evening, he found Mr. Shafto weeping bitterly, with his face hidden upon his hands, and his head resting on the little table, round which they had been used to sit together. The fire had burned low, and the ashes were strewn about the hearth—all the room looked as if some sudden calamity had fallen upon the house. The only light came through the door into the shop which he had left open, through which could be seen the child's coffin lying on the counter, and the rusty plumes hanging heavy and dark against the wall. Mr. Shafto was groaning heavy heart-breaking groans, which made Sandy shrink and shiver with a feeling of dread.
"Is there anythink very bad the matter?" he ventured to ask, after standing silent for a little while.
"Is that you, Sandy?" asked Mr. Shafto, in a broken voice.
"Ay, it's me!" he answered. "Can I do anythink?"
"Johnny's wanting you," said Mr. Shafto; "he's been asking all the afternoon how long it would be before you came home."
Sandy scarcely heard the last words, for he was already mounting the winding staircase with a swift though quiet footstep. The low room where he and John slept was lighter than the kitchen below, though dim enough with only the light of one candle. But he could see John's face, white and shining, with a brightness in the eyes such as he had never seen there before, and a look which seemed all at once as if it must break Sandy's heart.
"Oh, Johnny!" he cried. "Little Gip's lost; and now you're goin' to die and leave me!"
He fell down on his knees at the foot of the bed, and buried his face in the clothes. Was it not too dreadful to be true? The love he had felt for little Gip had been transferred to John Shafto. After losing her, his heart, which had been hungry for something to love, had turned to him and clung to him as it had done to her. Very gradually he had been comforted for her loss, though he had never ceased to think of her; and now he was going away too! He did not see how he himself could continue to live in a world where there was neither little Gip nor John Shafto.
"Sandy!" said a very feeble, very low voice. "Sandy!"
"I can't let you go!" cried Sandy, "don't you die, Johnny. Don't you go away and leave me. What am I to do if you die, and I can't see you again, never? Oh, Johnny! don't you die, and leave me."
"Sandy," said John's failing voice again, "I must die; and you'll have mother, you know. She's promised me to be like your own mother, and I want you to promise you'll be like me to her. You must take my place. Oh, Sandy! I shall die happier if you promise always to love mother, and be like a son to her."
"I can't be like you," answered Sandy; "I'm not good, like you. I don't know hardly anythink yet about God, and Jesus, and heaven. If it hadn't been for you, I shouldn't have known anythink about it; and I'm afeard I shall forget it all if you die, and go away."
He could not bear the thought that he should forget God; yet it seemed in this hour of darkness that if John Shafto died, he must fall back into the old ignorance and wickedness, and know nothing more than the sin and misery of this world. Who was to teach him as John had done? Who would there be to tell him so plainly and so surely that the Lord Jesus Christ, who was seeking him, was ready at every moment to take care of him? He could not see Christ, nor hear Him; and if John were gone, how could he feel certain that it was all true?
"Sandy," said John Shafto, "you love me?"
"Ay!" sobbed Sandy.
"You believe what I tell you?" he said again.
"Ay!" he answered.
"By-and-by," continued the faint, low voice, "You'll feel like that towards Jesus Christ. It's just the same thing. You'll love me and believe me after I'm gone, when you can't see me or hear me. And you must love and believe in Him exactly the same, though you can't see or hear Him. He loves you more than I do, a hundred times, a thousand times more. I don't think it's a different kind of love, only it's a thousand times more and better. He's done everything I've asked Him for you, save one."
"What's that?" asked Sandy, lifting up his head to look with dimmed eyes into John's face.
"I did so want you to find Gip before I died," he whispered; "poor little Gip! I'd like to see her. And you'd have been so happy, it wouldn't have been half the trouble to you for me to die. If she's in heaven, I shall see her there; and perhaps Jesus Himself will show me which one of the little children she is. I should tell her all about you, Sandy. But if she's not dead, I did so want to see her just for once."
"I've almost forgot what she's like," said Sandy, with some bitterness in his tone; "I ought to have found her afore this, if I are to know her again."
"Perhaps she's in heaven!" murmured John, and then his voice was silent, and his languid eyes closed.
A shiver of dread ran through Sandy; but John had only fallen asleep through weakness for a few minutes, and Mrs. Shafto, whom he had not noticed before, leaned forward, and held up her hand to warn him not to make any noise. He did not stir, and scarcely dared to breathe, but knelt still, watching John with intent, eager eyes, as if he could not bear to look away, and lose sight for one moment of that dear face, which was so soon to be hidden from him.
"Sandy!" said John, waking and speaking again suddenly, as if he had not been sleeping at all. "Do you see my mother?"
"Ay!" he answered, glancing towards her for a moment.
"You'll be a good son to her?" he said.
Sandy could not speak again, but he covered his face once more with his hard brown hands.
John Shafto turned to his mother with a tender smile.
"I'll promise for him," he said; "he'll be a good son to you, and some day you'll wear blue ribbons for him and be very happy again. Look at him, mother. Why! isn't it something like what Jesus said upon the cross to John? 'Behold thy mother!' And to His mother, 'Behold thy son!' It is something like that. 'And from that hour that disciple took her to his own home.' Sandy's sure to be a good son to you, mother."
"I'll take him in your place," said Mrs. Shafto; "but oh, Johnny, Johnny! if the Lord had only spared you to me!"
They were silent again for a minute or two; and John Shafto, with his feeble fingers, drew his mother's hand across his lips, and kissed it tenderly.
"I'm not going just yet," he said soothingly; "we shall still have a little while together. Mother, I wish I could see Mr. Mason again; but, if I do, it must be soon. It will be too late to-morrow."
"I'll run and fetch him," cried Sandy; "he were askin' after you only this mornin, and he'll be glad to come. Only don't you go while I'm away."
He stopped for one moment to kiss John Shafto, with a sharp pang of fear lest he should never see him alive again. Then he ran downstairs, and rushed away through the dark street, at a swifter pace than he had ever run before, crying to himself over and over again, half aloud, "Johnny 'ill be dead afore I can get back again."
———◆———
FOUND AT LAST.
IT was nearly a mile to the street where Mr. Mason lived; but Sandy did not pause to take breath in his rapid race. He tore along the pavement, and dashed over the crossings, as he might have done if a policeman had been in chase of him. When he reached Mr. Mason's house, he knocked at the door with an earnestness that procured an immediate attention.
"I'm come for Mr. Mason!" he gasped. "John Shafto's dyin', and he wants to see him."
"Master's not at home," said the servant; "he went out at six o'clock."
"Where's he gone to?" enquired Sandy, with a blank feeling of dismay.
"I'll go and ask," answered the servant, leaving him on the doorstep, panting for breath, and sitting down to take rest for one minute.
It was very hard to find Mr. Mason gone out; for if he were not back quickly, perhaps John Shafto would be dead, and he would never, never hear him speak again. Would it not be best to return at once with the news that Mr. Mason was not at home? But then John was so fond of him, whom he had known and loved years before he had picked up Sandy in the streets. And Mr. Mason would be deeply grieved if he found John dead, without any good-bye between them. It would be a sore disappointment to them both. Yet suppose neither he nor Mr. Mason could be in time, and each of them lost the sad pleasure of seeing Johnny once more! Surely it would not be wrong to go back at once, and make sure of it for himself!
Sandy had not quite made up his mind, when the door was opened again by the servant; and he sprang to his feet to hear what she had to tell him.
"Masters only gone to a farewell tea-meeting at Miss Murray's," she said. "She's going to start for Canada to-morrow with a lot of children; and master's sending out two of the boys from his Refuge, so he's gone to see them for the last time. It's about twenty minutes from here, the place is."
"I know the place," interrupted Sandy; "we took a load of wood there this mornin' for Miss Murray's boys to chop up."
"That's where master is at this moment," said the servant.
She shut the door again, leaving Sandy on the step, still uncertain what to do.
It was a mile farther on, a long mile: and every step would increase the distance between himself and John Shafto. He started back towards home, and ran swiftly to the end of the street, feeling that he could not go the other way. But he paused again there. How grieved John would be! And Mr. Mason, what would he say when he heard John Shafto was dead, without one word of good-bye? Would he suffer anything like the sorrow he was feeling? Suddenly Sandy set off again in the opposite direction, and did not waste another instant, or pause again, until he reached the place where he would find Mr. Mason.
It was a large building—a home for destitute children, who found their way to it from all parts of London. Every window was lighted up, and there was a great stir about it, of people passing in and out busily. To-morrow a number of orphan boys and girls, taken out of the very gutters of the City, were about to start for a new home in Canada; and many of their friends had met for the purpose of bidding them good-bye, and giving them little keepsakes for them to remember the old country by in after-life.
Sandy made his way to the entrance of the large room, where they were assembled, but he could not push in at first, for the crowd in the doorway. He could hear Mr. Mason's voice speaking; and he listened impatiently. But he did not know that he might not be hustled out, if he interrupted his speech, and perhaps be given in charge of the policeman he had seen near the outer door.
By degrees Sandy pressed into the room, eager to catch Mr. Mason's eye, and stop him in his long farewell speech to the boys and girls, which was eating away the little time left to John Shafto and himself. He could see the emigrants now; boys, like himself, who had known the worst of the City life, and who had starved, and shivered in rags, and slept out in the cold, and trodden the pavement barefoot never knowing from day to day what they should eat, or where they should lay their heads. And there were girls too, whose lives had been as bad; but who were now sitting together in warm scarlet hoods and blue dresses, making so bright a spot amid the dingy crowd that they drew Sandy's eyes to them. He glanced at them for a moment, thinking how pretty little Gip would look dressed so; and then he pushed still nearer to Mr. Mason.
Now he could see Miss Murray herself, with a very little girl upon her lap, the smallest and the youngest by far of the emigrants; a child in a scarlet hood and blue frock like the others.
Sandy's eyes were fastened upon her; and he stood as still as if he had been turned into stone, every other object vanishing quite out of his sight. This little girl had her face towards him, a tiny face, but not pinched like Gip's; a rosy face, with bright black eyes, and pretty black hair curling under the scarlet hood. It could not be Gip! Was it possible that it could be his little Gip? He dared not breathe or move. But all at once she raised her little hands to her face, and peeped through the open fingers at the people around her; just one of Gip's pretty tricks, the very one he had taught her himself! No. It could not be any other child than Gip!
"Gip!" he shouted suddenly, at the highest pitch of his voice, till the roof rang again; "Gip! My little Gip!"
Mr. Mason stopped in his speech, and every eye was turned upon Sandy. But he did not see a single face about him; no face but little Gip's, with wide-open, searching, wondering eyes, gazing everywhere in search of him. He heard no sound, except Gip's shrill little voice, calling, "Here I are, Dandy! Here little Gip are. Where's Dandy?"
In another second, Sandy had forced his way to the front, and held out his arms to Gip, who ran into them, with a shrill scream of delight.
image007
In another second Sandy had forced his way to the front,and held out his arms to Gip, who ran into them,with a shrill scream of delight.
He sat down on the floor, with her on his lap, and hid his face on the little scarlet hood, scarcely knowing whether they had not both died, and gone into that heaven of which he had only heard since he had lost her.
"Oh! Dandy, Dandy!" cried little Gip, clinging to him with all her strength. "Dandy's come back again to Gip!"
Sandy did not notice how quiet every one was around them. There was no sound, except that of deep-drawn sobs; for many of the people who had gathered round were in tears. Mr. Mason came down from the little platform, where he had been standing, and laid his hand on Sandy's head.
"Is it your lost little Gip?" he asked.
"Ay!" answered Sandy, holding her tightly in his arms, and looking anxiously about him to see if he could make his escape from the room with her; "ay! it's my little Gip. Nobody mustn't take her away from me again, you know. She belongs to me, and I'll take care of her now. She mustn't be took off to Canada away from me."
"No, no," said Mr. Mason, "we will not take Gip from you, my boy. If she goes, you shall go. But stand up, Sandy, and tell Miss Murray all about her."
He rose to his feet very slowly and reluctantly, not loosening for an instant his hold of Gip. All he could see was an indistinct ring of faces of people closing him in, so that he could not get away; but he spoke out in a loud, clear voice.
"Mother was always a-gettin' drunk," he said, "and one bitter night she lost little Gip in the streets; and I've been searchin' for her up and down, everywhere, ever since. If it hadn't been for Johnny Shafto, I'd have died maybe. But I want you to let me take her, and keep her; and I'll be very good to her. Gip 'ud never be happy without me; and Mrs. Shafto and Johnny 'll be very good to her. Oh! if you please, Johnny's dyin', and he sent me to ask you to come d'reckly."
"Wait one minute," said Miss Murray, as Mr. Mason was about to hurry away. "I must tell my friends here how this little girl came under my care. She was found crying in the streets one night by a girl who had a sister in this Home; and she brought her direct to me. None of us could learn from her either her name, or where she lived; and we kept her with us, whilst I made every enquiry I could. I shall be sorry to go to Canada without my little girl to-morrow; but Mr. Mason will take care of them both, and perhaps they will come out with me next time."
Sandy heard very few of these words; for now his terror lest John Shafto should be dead awoke again with greater force. If he were still alive, he would see little Gip after all! He was all impatience to be off; and in a few minutes he found himself, with Gip still in his arms, sitting beside Mr. Mason in a cab, the driver of which had been ordered to go as fast as he could to Mr. Shafto's house.
———◆———
GONE.
THEY had to leave the cab in the street, and walk across the chapel yard. A bright light shone through John Shafto's window, and fell upon the gravestones and the almost level graves, covered with rank grass. What a quiet place to live or die in, in the very heart of the City!
Mr. Mason trod softly, as if his step might already disturb the dying boy; and Sandy tenderly hushed Gip, who was chattering merrily in his arms. The kitchen was dark and empty, for Mr. Shafto was no longer in the arm-chair in the warmest corner; and they passed through, and very gently climbed up the old staircase. The door of John's room was open, and they could see him before they entered, his head lying against his mother's shoulder, and her arm about him, while the tears stole slowly down her cheeks. John's white face still wore a smile lingering about the mouth, though his eyes were closed. Mr. Shafto stood at the foot of the bed watching him, as if he could not bear to lose one moment of the few that were left in which he could see his boy's living face.
"John!" said Mr. Mason, very quietly, as he drew nearer to him, "John!"
"Sandy's found you!" murmured John, opening his heavy eyelids; "I thought it would be too late. Where is Sandy?"
"I'm here, Johnny!" cried Sandy from the doorway. "Me and little Gip. Little Gip's found at last, Johnny!"
"Little Gip!" he said, rousing himself. "Bring her to me for one moment, Sandy."
"Gip must be very good," said Sandy, coaxingly, and pulling back the scarlet hood from her small face, "Gip must love Johnny, and kiss him, and say good-bye."
"Me be good," promised Gip, looking about her without any shyness; "me kiss everybody, and say good-bye. Me go across the great sea to-morrow."
"No, no," cried Sandy, "little Gip's not going away; it's Johnny that's goin'; and she must put her little arms round his neck, and kiss him; there's a good little gel!"
He laid her down on the bed by Johnny, and the dying boy turned his face towards her, while she put her arms round his neck, and kissed his cheek gently, as if she knew how ill he was. He took her small, soft, warm hand into his own chilly one, and held it fast, while Sandy stood by, scarcely knowing whether joy or sorrow was nearest to him at that moment.
"I'm so glad!" whispered John Shafto. "It's all true, every word of it."
"What is true, my boy?" asked Mr. Mason.
"That about Him leaving the rest, who are safe, and coming after that which is lost," he said, compelled to pause often between the words to gather strength to speak again; "and when He finds us, He is so glad! He's more glad than I am! And He calls all the angels to Him, and says, 'Rejoice with me.' All the world's like little Gip; but He'll be gladder than we are some day when He finds us. It's all true."
"All true!" repeated Mr. Mason.
Sandy fell on his knees beside John Shafto, and stretched his arm over him to feel little Gip.
Johnny's eyes rested on his face with a look of unutterable tenderness.
"He's taken care of little Gip for you," he said; "you must never forget that, or leave off loving Him, though you cannot see Him. You'll be like a son to mother; I'm leaving her to you."
"Oh! Johnny! Johnny!" said Mr. Shafto, in a lamentable voice, "I've been a poor father to you, and a very poor husband to Mary; but say a word to me, as if I'd been all I should have been. Can Christ save me from my idleness and selfishness? If you could but live, and see what a father I would be!"
"Have you been a poor father?" asked Johnny, smiling. "I never thought that, never. But perhaps I've loved mother most; she's been so good to me. She'll be good to Sandy and little Gip now."
There was so deep a stillness for some minutes after that, that all the indistinct sounds from the busy streets seemed to grow and come nearer. Gip lifted up her little head to look about her; but when Sandy held up his hand, she laid it down quietly again on the pillow beside Johnny's white, still face. His fingers dropped her tiny hand. Which of them was Sandy to gaze at? Gip's rosy cheeks and glittering eyes, or John Shafto's pale, cold face, with a film creeping over his sight, and the smile dying away from his lips?
"Oh, Johnny!" he sobbed. "Couldn't you stay just a little bit longer? Wouldn't you like to stay with little Gip just for one day? Don't die to-day, Johnny, just when I've found my little Gip."
"I'm very glad she's found," he whispered, his lips so near to Sandy that he could catch every word; "but I cannot stay. Lost and found! Dead and alive again! Rejoice with me! He is saying that."
"Who says that?" asked Sandy; but there was no answer.
They were all looking at Johnny's face; even little Gip's black eyes were fastened upon it, for it shone with a strange light. His lips moved slowly, though Sandy himself could not hear what they were speaking. His eyes shone with a steady beam of gladness. Then his head fell lower upon his mother's breast; and she uttered a single cry of great anguish, for she knew that he was dead.
———◆———
A VISION.
LITTLE Gip's curly head was still resting very quietly on Johnny's pillow, and Sandy's arm was stretched across his friend to touch Gip's soft hand. But now Mr. Mason lifted the child from the bed, and told him in a whisper to take her away.
He carried her downstairs into the dark and desolate kitchen below, where the grey ashes of the dead fire held no spark of light or heat. Could all that he had passed through that evening be really true? Was this indeed lost Gip whom he held so closely to his heart? Little Gip, for whom he had searched, with a heavy heart and a spirit bowed down by dread, through so many long months, and in so many miserable places? If it were true, why was he not leaping and shouting for joy? What was it that made him sink down on the solitary hearth, with no other light than the glimmer of the gas, burning amid the funeral plumes in the shop beyond the kitchen, and hide his face on Gip's head, and break out into deep sorrowful sobs? Oh, if John Shafto could only have lived one day longer!
"Gip's goin' across the great sea to-morrow," muttered Gip, in a very sleepy tone, as she nestled down comfortably on Sandy's lap.
He knew well that he was not about to lose her again in such a way, but where was Johnny gone? What great sea had he crossed over? What strange country had he gone to, where none could follow him at his own choice and will? Sandy had learned by this time that the deep grave swallowed up no portion of the real life, and that it was nothing more than the poor shell of the body which was buried away out of sight. John Shafto himself had already entered into some new, unknown dwelling-place; and even whilst he was but stepping over the threshold of it, whilst he was lingering for a moment longer with his mother and Sandy, he had caught a glimpse of a face, and heard the first sound of a voice that he loved more than he loved theirs.
Then, in the gloom and dusk, there came before Sandy a kind of vision of what Johnny's friend must be—that Lord whom he had loved so deeply. The face seemed to him to be something like John's face, with the same tender, patient, even suffering look upon it, but with so divine a smile lighting it up, that the suffering itself seemed to be a gladness. He fancied, too, that he heard a very low and quiet voice, saying, but whether in his ear or in his heart he could not tell, "Sandy, I have taken care of little Gip for you, and given her back to you; now I will take care of him until you see him again. Only love Me."
And Sandy whispered back into the gloom, "Lord, I will love You! Only make me as good as Johnny."
Perhaps he was sleeping then, or he must have fallen asleep directly afterwards on the hearth before the fireless grate, with Gip slumbering soundly in his arms; for after a long while, he woke up suddenly, and saw Mrs. Shafto coming quietly down the narrow staircase, with a light in her hand. Her face was very white and sad, though there was no trace of tears in her eyes. Sandy could hear the loud, heavy groans of Mr. Shafto in the room overhead; but Johnny's mother did not sob: and but for the whiteness of her cheeks, and the set sorrowful line of her mouth, there was no sign to be seen of her grief. She came close to him, and looked down pitifully upon little Gip. Then she stooped, and lifted her gently into her arms.
"Poor little heart!" she said. "Poor dear little heart!" But there her voice failed her, and her silent tearlessness passed away. She sat down with Gip pressed closely to her, and rocked herself to and fro, and cried out, with a passion of tears, "Oh! Johnny! Johnny! Oh! my last child!"
Sandy did not know how to comfort her, or what to say to her. He stood beside her, and put his arm about her neck, as he had often seen John do, and drew her head to lean upon his shoulder. When her sobs grew quieter, after a long spell of weeping, he ventured to speak at last.
"Mother," he said, thinking to himself that John Shafto would like him to call her mother, "me and little Gip between us 'ill perhaps be as good as Johnny to you. I'm going to try to be like him, I am; and I'll teach little Gip everything as he's taught me. I promised him I'd work for you, and take care of you, when you are too old to work any longer. He used to say he were glad I were so strong; and not like him in that. But I'm going to do all I can to be like him in everything else."
It was as much as Sandy's trembling lips could do to say all this.
And Mrs. Shafto, after another burst of tears, drew his face down to hers, and kissed it silently. Then she undressed little Gip very tenderly, not to wake her from her sound sleep, and Sandy carried a light upstairs for her when she went to lay the child softly in her own bed.
The door into the other room was half open, and he could see John Shafto's head lying on his pillow, silent and still, yet with a smile about his lips. And here was little Gip's round and rosy face, with the eyelashes quivering as If she were just about to open her bright eyes, resting peacefully on his mother's pillow!
It was a trying time for Sandy until the body of his friend was buried out of his sight. To see little Gip playing about Mrs. Shafto, whilst she was stitching John's shroud, was such a mingling of great pleasure and great pain to him, that he could scarcely bear it. To hear Gip's voice calling him from the dull grave-yard, and to find her watching for him, and running to meet him, instead of John, with his pale face and slow tread upon his crutches, made the coming home each evening a moment of tangled trouble and delight.
But after the funeral was over, when the deaf and dumb and blind corpse had vanished from the house, by little and little, he grew accustomed to John's absence, and could take a pleasure in the merry presence of Gip, with her pretty tricks and funny little ways, which often won a smile into Mrs. Shafto's sad eyes. Mr. Shafto himself learned to play with Gip, after his own grave and solemn fashion, and even taught her to call him father. As for little Gip, she had altogether forgotten her drunken mother, and knew of no other parents than these who had adopted her.
But it was very disheartening to Mr. Shafto to be quite unable to find any work for which he was fit. He had so long allowed younger men to push him out of his place, that now he really wished to exert himself, there seemed no room for him in the bustling city. He had grown rusty through long indulgence in selfishness and indolence; and a hard fight would it be to thrust his way into the crowded ranks of busy men. Sandy could not yet gain more than his own living; and it seemed as if Mrs. Shafto must continue to work hard, from early in the morning until late into the night, to earn food for her husband and little Gip.
———◆———
LEAVING THE OLD HOME.
IT was a little sooner than usual one evening when Sandy returned from the wood-yard, with a bundle of wood under his arm, which Mr. Mason had sent for Mrs. Shafto. Gip was not yet waiting for him at the street corner, ready to jump about him gleefully along the narrow pavement which led across the grave-yard; and Sandy loitered for a minute to give her time to see him.
The place had grown into a dear home for him. He knew every blackened tombstone, and could read all the English words on the tablet in memory of Mr. Shafto's grandfather. What a quiet spot it was! how little Gip's laugh echoed round the high walls! And the fleeting beam of sunshine that peeped round the angle of the tallest chimney, just about the time when he reached the house, how bright it always seemed! He had ceased to think that he had ever lived anywhere else. The small house, too, looked more cheerful than it used to do; for the hatchment was gone, and the plumes, and the child's coffin, which had so much distressed little Gip that it had been disposed of immediately. The shop window was quite empty now, except for the single announcement of "Pinking done here."
Sandy was looking wistfully at this home of his, when Gip caught sight of him, and ran to meet him with merry shouts and laughter.
But all that evening Mr. Shafto's face was more serious even than ordinary. True, he nursed Gip on his knee, and at her urgent request gave her one brief ride upon it; but it was evident that his thoughts were elsewhere. Mrs. Shafto watched him anxiously, though it was a long while before she ventured to speak; for she had not yet grown accustomed to her husband's change of character.
"Is there anything the matter, Mr. Shafto?" she enquired at length.
"Mary, my love," he answered, hesitatingly, "what would you say to us all four going across the sea to Canada next time Miss Murray goes?"
"Oh! no, John," she cried. She was thinking of her children's graves, and of the old house where they had all been born, and had died. How could she leave them?
"My love," he continued, "I wouldn't mention it if it could be helped. But you must be told sooner or later; and perhaps it is better sooner than later. I've been turning things over and over in my head, and I don't see what we can do better than go to Canada, and buy a farm; and all work upon it ourselves, you and me and Sandy."
"Buy a farm!" exclaimed Mrs. Shafto, while Sandy's face shone at the mere mention of such a magnificent scheme.
"Dear me!" said Mr. Shafto. "After all I've begun to tell you at the wrong end. Why, my dear, be brave now, and bear it like a woman! The fact is, a railway is coming right through our grave-yard, and the chapel, and our poor little house; so we are compelled to turn out and leave it, you see. I'm to have £400 for my house and business; and with that we could cross the sea, buy a small farm, and settle on it, all four of us. You were born and bred on a farm, my love, and know how to make excellent cheese and butter, and manage cows and poultry. Sandy can chop timber famously, and he hasn't one idle bone in his body, nor little Gip—I'll answer for her. And, please God, I'll turn my hand and my head to doing anything that has to be done."
It was no wonder that both Mrs. Shafto and Sandy should be bewildered at the sudden turn in their affairs. The house must be quitted; there was no question about that, for they could not set a railway company at defiance if they wished it. If, then, they were compelled to give up the old home, why not make the change complete, and leave the noisy streets of London for some quiet country home in the great new land beyond the sea? The farm would be their own;—a place for Sandy and Gip to grow up in, and live in perhaps for years after both Mr. and Mrs. Shafto were dead.
When she came to think it over, Mrs. Shafto felt herself growing young again at the prospect of having cows and poultry to look after, and cheese and butter to make.
In three months' time, everything was arranged; their berths were taken on board the ship that was to take out Miss Murray with another band of destitute children. The goods they were carrying away with them were all packed up—among them Johnny's crutches, which were to be kept in some open place in their new home, where they would be always in sight. The last day was come, and Sandy had been busy since very early in the morning, journeying to and fro between their old home and the Refuge, from which Miss Murray's emigrants were to start the next day. It was evening now, and he was returning to sleep once more under the roof that had given him shelter in the hour of his deepest sorrow and despair.
The east wind was whistling shrilly down the narrow streets, and meeting him with a biting chill in it round every corner; for it was scarcely spring-time yet, and only the darkness of the winter was gone, whilst the cold still lingered. Yet it could not make Sandy shiver, so warmly wrapped up was he in the thick greatcoat Mr. Shafto had bought for him in anticipation of the severe winters of the country they were going to.
But the ill-clad people whom he met looked pinched and blue, and slouched along close to the houses, as he could recollect doing in the old times, which had almost passed away out of his mind. The spirit-vaults were all full to the doors, as though every one who could find a penny or two had crept into them for warmth; and Sandy felt a vague sort of dread as he ran by, as he had done when he first went to the wood-yard for work, before little Gip was found. But surely his mother would never know him again for the ragged, barefoot, and bare-headed fusee boy he was when she forsook him!
His vague fears quickened his pace, and he was running rapidly across the grave-yard, when his quick eye caught sight of a figure sitting on the ground under the chapel wall. His feet felt heavy as though they would not move another step, and his heart seemed to stand still, for a throb or two, and then beat painfully, till he could hardly breathe. He felt that some great calamity to little Gip and himself was close at hand. He did not turn quite round so as to face the figure, but he took a stealthy sidelong look at it; and then stole softly onwards to the shelter of the house, as he had been wont to creep cunningly away round some street corner, whenever he saw his mother appear in sight.
There could be no mistake that the tattered and wretched woman, who was half lying and half sitting on the rank grass, with her head resting against the wall just below old Mr. Shafto's tablet, was his mother. Sandy felt giddy and frightened. She had found out him and little Gip at the last moment. Was she come to claim them both, and drag them back to their old misery and degradation? She looked as though she were asleep, for her head had fallen forward, and her thin bony arms hung helplessly at her side. If she were drunk now, she would perhaps forget what had brought her there, and crawl off to some of her old haunts as soon as she was roused up again. The best thing he could do was to go on noiselessly, so as not to disturb her, and close the door between him and the hateful and dreaded sight. Then he must think how he could save little Gip and himself.
Little Gip was nursing a doll on the warm hearth, where a bright fire was burning for the last night; and Mrs. Shafto was busily packing the bags they were to take on board with them for the voyage. It was twelve months since Johnny had left them, and her face had grown happy again, and her smile came almost as readily as it had done when he was about the house. Sandy stood in the doorway, gazing at her with a great sorrow and yearning of heart. Oh! if his mother had only been like John Shafto's mother!
How he would have loved her, and worked for her!
But he could not get the sight of her as she was out of his head, though he had shut the door and bolted it so carefully between her and them. He could see her still, ragged and starved-looking, with her withered face half hidden by the old black bonnet he recollected so well. And the east wind was wailing through every crevice, and bringing even a touch of chill to their pleasant fireside. His mother! He tried to forget her as he played with little Gip; but he was on the alert all the time; his eye upon the door, and his ear strained to catch every sound. What ought he to do? What would John Shafto, what would the Lord Jesus Christ, have him to do?
He went out into the shop after a while, and peeped through the window, half hoping that she might be gone away. The night had set in by this time, and it was quite dark; but a lamp at the corner of the chapel had been lit, and he could see she was yet in the same place, and in the same posture. Well, whatever must be done, little Gip must be saved, even if he himself had to go away and dwell once more in the old haunts. Gip must not be taken from Mrs. Shafto, though, maybe, he would be compelled to remain behind in London to work for their drunken and miserable mother.
But, by-and-by, as Sandy stood with his eyes fastened upon the motionless figure, thinking bitter thoughts, another kind of fear crept over him, which made him tremble so much that he could hardly walk across the shop again and open the kitchen door.
"Mrs. Shafto," he called, in a husky voice. He had always said mother to her since Johnny died, but he could not call her that now.
Mrs. Shafto came to him at once, with a look of great surprise on her pleasant face.
"Hush!" he said. "Shut the door. Don't let little Gip know. Mother's there, out in the yard, and I'm scared to death almost. What must I do? She hasn't stirred since I came in more than an hour ago; and I'm more scared now than when I first see her sitting agen the wall there."
"Are you sure it's your mother?" asked Mrs. Shafto, looking through the window at the miserable creature.
"Ay, I'm sure and certain," he answered, bitterly. "She's found us just at the last, and she's come to hinder little Gip and me going to Canada. If she'd only leave Gip alone, I'd stay behind; but I could never go without little Gip."
"No, no," said Mrs. Shafto, "she'll never hinder you from going with us. I know how a mother feels; and the worst of mothers wouldn't do such a thing as that. We'll go and talk to her; and we'll tell her Mr. Mason will help her, and take care of her. And if she can give up drink, we'll send money for her to come after us by-and-by; and, it may be, some day you'll be proud of your own mother yet, Sandy."
She had opened the outer door, and was leading him across the grave-yard to the corner where his mother lay asleep. Sandy almost resisted the gentle force of her hand upon his arm; but when they were quite close to the figure, and it did not move, though the wind ruffled the ragged shawl a little, the vague fear that had taken possession of him grew stronger, and began to have a definite meaning. Even a drunken sleep was seldom as death-like as this.
"Mother!" he cried in a voice that trembled, "Mother!"
There was no answer. His mother did not lift up her fallen head.
Mrs. Shafto stooped, and laid her hand upon the thin shrivelled fingers which hung down by the woman's side.
"Sandy! Why, Sandy!" she said quickly, "your mother's dead!"
Sandy's heart gave a great bound of relief. All his fear and dread were gone in an instant. Little Gip was safe now for evermore. From this time both she and himself would belong to Mrs. Shafto only, and could call her mother, with no one else to have any claim upon them.
Yet the next minute he felt a sort of sorrow, very faint and fleeting, as if, after all her wickedness, there was a little natural love for his mother lingering in his heart. He knelt down by her, and drew the old shawl more closely round her, as though she could even yet feel the east wind blowing coldly about her.
"Don't let little Gip see her," he said, mournfully; "don't let little Gip ever know. I'll run and fetch Mr. Mason, and he'll know what to do. But I'd liked to have told her as she might come after us to Canada, if she'd only give up the drink."
———◆———
THE END.
NEXT day the Shaftos, with Sandy and little Gip, left London for Liverpool, whence their ship was to sail. There were a hundred other children, from the streets of our large cities going out to settle in new homes in Canada. And Mrs. Shafto found so much to do among these little ones, that she had not time to fret over the thought of Johnny's grave, which she was leaving farther and farther behind her.
Mr. Shafto also had a good trial as to whether he was really conquering his old besetting sin of selfishness and idleness, and he passed through it triumphantly, to his own secret delight and the great gladness of his wife.
Gip was the life of the party, growing prettier and merrier every day, and Sandy's happiness was complete. A farm had been found and bought for Mr. Shafto, by a friend of Miss Murray's; and before the autumn came, they were settled in a log-house of their own, within sound of the lapping of the waves of the Lake Huron.
The last time Sandy was seen by any of his English friends, he was driving a yoke of oxen in a strong substantial waggon, with Mrs. Shafto and little Gip seated comfortably in the back of it. He and Mr. Shafto were taking it in turns to walk at the head of the oxen, and urge them on over the rough roads. It was Mr. Shafto's turn to walk, and he was striding along cheerfully, as though he had been used to hard work all his life; his face was brown and sun-burnt, and the palms of his hands were hard.
It was noticed that Mrs. Shafto had blue ribbons in her cap, and that her cheeks were almost as rosy as little Gip's. Sandy had grown into a strong, active boy, with a bright and happy expression on his face.
"Have you any message to send to Mr. Mason?" asked the friend from England.
"Ay! tell him," said Sandy, "as I'm trying to be as good as John Shafto. And tell him I'll never forget hearing him preach about the Lord Jesus being lost, like little Gip. Father bought me the verse when he went to Montreal, and it's printed in scarlet and blue and gold, and hangs over our chimney-piece at home: 'The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which is lost.'"
———————————————————————————————Watson and Hazel, Printers, London and Aylesbury.