NOT TO BE TRUSTED.
I WENT to school as usual that afternoon, and I felt very uncomfortable
each time the master came to look at my sum or at my copy. I was afraid
he might ask me some question about the bill; but he never mentioned
it, and at length the weary school-time was done, and I was free again.
I went home very slowly, saying over and over to myself, "What shall I
do?"
But I saw no way out of my trouble. There were only two ways, it seemed
to me, which it was possible for me to take, either to tell father or
my master; and I could not make up my mind to do either.
I resolved at last not to spoil Salome's birthday, but to forget my
loss as far as I could till the next day. It would be time enough then
to decide which was least hard, to tell my father or to tell my master.
Meanwhile I would enjoy myself, and be as merry as a lark.
Mother had made a large cake for tea, and she let Salome cut the first
slice. We all talked very loudly, and laughed a great deal; but though
I joined with the others in their fun, I was thinking all the time of
the lost shilling. It had been easy to say I would be merry; it was not
so easy to carry it out.
After tea we helped mother to clear away the tea-things, and then she
moved the table out of the way, and we played at blindman's buff. I
can remember now what a noise there was, and how much Salome seemed to
enjoy it. But it was a close, hot night, and when we had been playing
for a long time she turned very tired, and was glad to jump on father's
knee when he came in from shutting up the shop, and sit still for a
little time, till mother was ready to put her to bed.
Father put his hand in his pocket, and took out a handful of money for
Salome to spin on the table. He had just cleared the till, and had
brought the money in with him, that he might put it in his cashbox
upstairs when he went to bed. Salome laughed very much at the spinning
half-crowns and shillings and pence; and she and father tried how many
they could keep going at the same time. Sometimes two or three of them
spun over on the floor, and then we had a great hunt for them; and once
Jude, while hunting for a penny, knocked against the table, and sent at
least a dozen pieces on the floor.
When mother came back for Salome, father gathered up his money, and put
it in his pocket again.
"Are you sure you have got it all, John?" she said. "Hadn't you better
count it?"
"I don't know how much there was," father said. "I never count it till
I go upstairs; it's just what I've taken to-day; but if we've left any
on the floor, it will turn up to-morrow when you are sweeping."
Mother said no more, but took Salome upstairs, and put her to bed. She
was asleep when I went to bed, and so was Simon. I had time now to
think of my trouble, and of what I should do. I could not now forget
it. I must settle what was to be done, for the bill must be paid before
school-time the next morning. I was very unhappy; I could not bear to
think that the master would call me untrustworthy and careless, and I
made up my mind at last to tell my father in the morning, and to beg
him to give me a shilling to make up the amount.
It was a very hot night; there did not seem to be a breath of air. I
tossed restlessly on my bed; but I could not sleep. Salome tossed about
also, and, after a time, she woke, sat up in bed, and asked me for
a drink of water. There was no water in the bedroom, so I lighted a
candle, and went downstairs to get some for her.
I had to pass through the kitchen to get to the pump in the little
scullery beyond. As I opened the scullery door, the light of my candle
fell on something shining on the floor, and I stooped down to see what
it was.
It was a shilling! It must have rolled there when Salome was spinning
the money, and, having just gone under the door, we had not seen it. I
picked it up, and at that moment the Tempter put a wicked thought in my
mind. I know now that it came from him, though I did not know it then.
Why should I not take this shilling to make up for the one I had lost?
Father would never know; he had no idea how much money he had taken
that day; he kept no account of ready money taken over the counter.
He would never find out that he was a shilling short. And after all,
I thought he would not lose by it. If I told him in the morning of my
loss, he would be obliged to give me a shilling, and if I took this
one, it would come to just the same thing.
So I carried the shilling upstairs, and wrapped it up in the bill with
the four shillings the master had given me. And the next morning I paid
Betson, and handed the receipt to my master.
"Thank you, Peter," he said; "I knew you were a lad to be trusted!"
Oh, how those words hurt me! A lad to be trusted; so he thought; but I
knew that I was a thief. Yes, a thief!
I had stolen a shilling—conscience showed me that very plainly now.
It had not seemed at all like that the night before, when I was first
tempted to take it; but now that the deed was done, I saw it in its
true light. But Satan often treats us in that way. He wants us to
sin, but he covers the sin over with a pretty covering, and tries to
persuade us that he is asking us to do a very harmless thing. But when
once we have done it, he takes off the covering, and we see the sin in
all its ugliness. And Satan does not mind that; for once done, the deed
cannot be undone.
And so for a few days I was very wretched and miserable. But as time
went by, and no one said anything about the bill, but all went on
just as usual, I began to forget what I had done—at least, it did not
trouble me so much. I had my lessons to learn, and Salome to take care
of, and plenty of things to take up my time and thoughts. Perhaps after
all I had not done such a very wicked thing, I said to myself. Anyhow,
I should never hear of the matter again, and what was past could not be
undone.
So I argued with my conscience; but at night, if I ever happened to
wake when the others were asleep, my conscience was sure to wake too,
and would not be so easily silenced.
It is dreadful to have a secret sin, which will come to your mind in
the dark hours; it is very terrible to have to fight away an uneasy,
troubled thought, to have to drown the voice of an accusing conscience.
Yet each week the sin seemed further away, the thought of it came less
into my mind, and the voice of conscience was less loud. At length the
time came when it hardly ever entered my mind, and conscience was quite
silent.
But all the time my sin was written down in two books, God's book and
my book—the book of God's remembrance, and the book of my remembrance.
God had not forgotten it, and the day was coming when He would remind
me of it. I had not really forgotten it, and the day was coming when
it would be brought before me as clearly as on the very night it was
committed.
And that day, too, was Salome's birthday.
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