ANDREW'S PRAYER.
Philip and Hugh, with their cousin Dick, passed the long vacation at
Brackenburn. These young men did their best to make a companion of
Martin; but he could not understand their friendly efforts. He was
willing to accept Philip as his master, and to obey his commands; but
he could not, even for his sake, accept the shackles of a civilized
life. To bask all day long in the sunshine, with as little clothing on
as possible, to have a large plateful of food served to him out of
doors two or three times a day, and at nightfall to steal quietly into
some dark outbuilding and sleep all night upon sweet-scented hay, was
his ideal of well-being. Anything more was irksome to him.
Sometimes, in obedience to Philip's call, he went with them when they
were shooting on the moors, shambling behind them with his awkward
gait, and seeing and hearing nothing, unless a far-off speck in the
sky, all but invisible to them, caught his eye, and filled him with
excitement in the fancy that it was a vulture. If they came upon the
track of any wild creature, a track altogether imperceptible to them,
he could follow it with unerring skill till they traced it to its lair;
then Martin laughed with an uncouth and cruel laugh, and with savage
eagerness and incredible rapidity the animal was caught, and killed,
and skinned before their eyes. At all other times his face bore an
expression of deep melancholy. He was content only in Philip's close
vicinity. As long as Philip was in the Hall he lounged at his ease in
the sunny forecourt; but when Philip was absent, as he was occasionally
for a day for two, Martin grew restless and anxious, and moped about
the empty rooms vainly seeking for his master.
But this could not go on much longer. Philip's life must not be
sacrificed to Martin; and it was not practicable for him to take Martin
to London.
Sidney had not yet felt courage enough to see his eldest son again, and
Margaret shrank from urging him to it. He was greatly changed these
last few months. The air of prosperity that had been wont to sit so
lightly and so becomingly upon him, the happy graciousness of his
manner, his felicitous speeches, his confidence in himself, and his
successful career--all these had passed away. He grew silent, and
cared little for his life in town, seeking more and more, though he
felt her farther from him, the constant companionship of his wife.
It was late one evening, after all the shops were closed, when Sidney
and Margaret together knocked at Andrew Goldsmith's door. It was
opened softly by Mary, and they stepped inside the dark shop, standing
there while she stole back and knelt down at a chair just within the
kitchen door. Old Andrew was at prayer, and as soon as Mary re-entered
his quavering voice resumed its solemn petition.
"We beseech Thee, O Lord," he said, "to take under the shadow of Thy
wings that poor child of mine, my lost girl's son, who is now in sore
straits and great trouble. He has no friend save Thee; there is
nothing in him to make folks love him. But nothing has been done for
him, Thou knowest. The man that deserted my girl deserted his own
flesh and blood. And he is no better than a heathen, worshiping stocks
and stones. Let us see Thine arm stretched out to save him, and to
punish that man, his father, who left him to perish, body and soul.
Vengeance, O Lord; let us see Thy vengeance on him."
Sidney heard nothing more. It was a terrible thing to hear a
fellow-man appealing to God against him. Margaret's heart was melted
with pity toward them both. If only either of them knew the infinite
love of God; if they could but realize how small a moment in their
endless life the brief passage through this world was to every soul of
man; if they could only understand how much closer God is to every soul
he creates than we are to one another--what need would there be to pray
in this manner, even for Martin?
"We are come to answer your prayer, Andrew," she said, stepping forward
as soon as he had finished; "not your prayer for vengeance, but for
your grandson. He is my husband's son, and mine. We all care for him.
My dear boy Philip is doing all he can for him; and now we want you and
Mary to help us."
"What can we do, my lady?" he asked, despondently; "the past is past.
He can never be like Mr. Philip and Mr. Hugh."
"Not like them," she answered; "but do you suppose he is less precious
to God than they are? God makes no difference between them. Christ
died for him as truly as for them. You are too much troubled about
small things, Andrew. But you can help Martin. Listen to our plans
for him. It is best for him to live at Brackenburn, because that place
will always be his own; and we want you and Mary to go and live there
with him as master and mistress of his household. You will naturally
care for him more than anyone else can do; and you know it is not
possible for us to go to live at Brackenburn; it is too far from
London. We think, too, of getting somebody who will be a sort of tutor
to him, who will teach him all he is able to learn."
She paused a moment, but Andrew did not speak.
"You will make this sacrifice for Sophy's sake," she resumed. "Your
grandson has suffered a great wrong, not altogether from my husband's
fault, and we must all do what we can to set it right. My husband did
not know of the existence of this son."
"Not know of him!" repeated Andrew.
"He knew only that Sophy was dead," said Margaret.
"But you knew she was dead!" he cried, turning fiercely upon Sidney;
"you knew it while you were pretending to comfort me, you scoundrel!
you hypocrite! You made promises to me of searching for her, and
making inquiries, and all the time you knew she was in her grave. God
grant I may see you punished!"
The impotent anger of the old man was painful to witness. His white
head shook as if with palsy, and his trembling hands clutched the back
of a chair for support. Mary ran to his side as if afraid of his
falling to the floor.
"I am punished, Goldsmith," said Sidney. "Do you think it is nothing
to be branded, as you have branded me, with infamy? But I have come to
ask your forgiveness, and your aid in saving Martin from further
consequences of my sin."
"Forgive you!" he answered. "I cannot, neither in this life nor the
life to come. But I'll do what Miss Margaret asks. I'll quit my old
house, and go away, and die among strangers, as my poor Sophy did; and
every time you go up and down the street you'll see how desolate you've
made my house. I've got a long lease of it, and it shan't be let to
anybody else. We'll put up the shutters and leave it empty, and every
time you see it you'll remember Sophy and my curse on you."
"Andrew!" said Margaret, "you are casting yourself away, out of the
light of God's love, and all your path will be dark to you. You will
cease to know him as he is; and you will find how terrible he can be in
his anger."
"I repent bitterly of my sins against you," urged Sidney, "and I own
how treacherous they were. But, Goldsmith, believe me when I say that
I am changed, that I could not sin against you now as I did then."
"Changed!" said the old man scornfully, "changed! How can you show it
to me? You've been found out; and we are changed toward you. But I
can see no difference in you. You've not lost your riches and your
lands. You're not punished in any way that I can see. Yes, you are a
grand son-in-law for an old saddler like me."
"Let us go away," said Margaret sadly.
She took her husband's arm, and walked silently along the streets and
up the long avenue, so familiar to them through many happy years. But
now their hearts were heavy and cast down. The difficulty had come to
Sidney which comes upon men whose outward life has been at variance
with the inner. There was no mode by which he could prove to his
fellow-men the reality of the change within him. He had seemed to be a
Christian so long that there was no way of manifestly throwing off the
cloak of hypocrisy. He must wear the livery of Judas to the end.