AN AWAKENED CONSCIENCE.
MR. SHAFTO could not sleep that night. Generally his sleep was sound
and long, lasting far into the morning, after his wife had been up for
an hour or two, and was busy with her sewing. But to-night he heard the
clock strike again and again; yet his brain would not rest. Neither
would his conscience, for it kept filling his brain with accusing
and tormenting thoughts. He saw himself as he had never done before,
worthless, indolent, and selfish; depending for the very bread that
kept him alive upon the woman whom he had once professed to love.
The memory of his children came back to him; how unloving he had been
to them; how peevish when they were noisy; how indifferent when they
were ill; and how he had been almost glad to know they would need no
more provision made for them, save a coffin and a grave. All Johnny's
life seemed to pass before him, so full of pain, and empty of all
boyish pleasures; but full also of love, and patience, and quiet trust
in God, and empty of selfishness and repining, as if he had been sent
into the world to be a complete contrast to his father.
Then the thought of Sandy came to reproach him; a lad picked out of the
gutter, who knew not a word about God and the love of Christ; yet this
boy had a love in him deeper than all his ignorance and wretchedness,
which proved him to be a truer child of the Heavenly Father than he
was with all his learning. How could he sleep When he did not know
where Sandy was sheltering; when a small still voice was saying to him,
"Inasmuch as ye did it not to him, ye did it not to Me"?
He could scarcely wait for the fire to be kindled the next morning, but
was downstairs before John and Mrs. Shafto had begun their breakfast.
He felt awkward, and his face grew red, as John made haste to quit his
easy-chair, in the warmest corner; the chair that had been kept for him
ever since John could remember.
"Sit still, Johnny, sit still," he said; "another chair will do for me."
He took a seat by the table, on a hard, straight-backed chair, such as
his wife was used to sit upon. There was an embarrassing silence among
them, which was broken by Mrs. Shafto, who spoke in a forced tone.
"Is there anything the matter with you, Mr. Shafto?" she enquired.
He liked her to call him Mr. Shafto; it sounded more respectful; but he
wished she had said John to him just then.
"No, my dear, no," he answered, "nothing that you can set right."
"Are you ready for your breakfast?" she asked. "Shall I do a little
rasher of bacon for you?"
"I'll have what you are having," he said.
He saw the next moment that it was dry bread she was eating, though
Johnny had a little butter upon his. He took a crust of bread, and
ate it; every morsel threatening to choke him. He had never troubled
himself to ask what sort of a meal his wife and boy had, an hour or two
before he took his own comfortable and tasty breakfast, at which he had
so often grumbled. He could not look much about him, for he was afraid
of meeting the eyes of either of them; and all the three were very
quiet, scarcely speaking a word to one another.
"Mary," he said, as soon as breakfast was over, "I think, as there is
nothing for me to do, I'll go and see if I can find Sandy, and look
about a bit for little Gip."
Mrs. Shafto could not believe she had heard him aright. It was so long
since he had cared to go out into the streets, except on a Sunday, when
he had his black suit on, and went to chapel, that she felt sure she
was mistaking what he said. She stood at the table, with his empty cup
in her hand, gazing at him in bewilderment; and as he happened to look
up, once more his face grew red.
"I have been thinking of Sandy all night," he said; "and as there's
nothing for me to do at home, I'll go and see if I can meet with the
boy about the Mansion House or one of the stations. Don't soil your
hands with my boots, Mary; I'll brush them myself."
Again Mrs. Shafto could not trust her own ears. She had cleaned her
husband's boots for him every day ever since they were married, even
when her work was very pressing; and he had never offered to brush them
before. Now she saw him carry them away into the little scullery behind
the kitchen, and presently he returned with them on his feet. He held
himself more upright than usual, and there was a light in his eyes, as
if they really saw what was lying before them.
"You're sure there's nothing amiss with you, Mr. Shafto?" she said
again, with more anxiety than before.
"Nothing that you can set right," he answered; "but, please God, it
will come right by-and-by. Good morning, my dear; don't expect me to
dinner. Good-bye, Johnny."
They followed him to the shop door, and watched him crossing the
grave-yard with a firmer and brisker step than John Shafto could ever
remember in his father. But Mr. Shafto felt almost dazed when he
turned into the bustling, working-day streets. He had remained so long
indolently at home, except on a Sunday, that it was altogether a new
thing to be pushed and jostled about as he threaded his way slowly
along the crowded pavement. More than once he felt that he must give up
his purpose, and go back to his quiet corner and his easy arm-chair,
where he could stretch his tired legs across the hearth, and be warm
and comfortable. The noise and hurry wearied him; and his head ached
with the constant rattle and roll of wheels along the streets. What he
was doing would be of no benefit to himself, or to any one belonging to
him. A strong temptation came over him to return. What was Sandy, or
what was little GIP to him, after all?
"What were you to Christ?" asked the still small voice that haunted
him. "What were you to Him, that He should seek after you? Was it any
benefit to Him that you should be found and brought back to God? Did He
leave nothing, give up nothing, to save you? Was all the world pleasant
and smooth to Him whilst He sought you? Go home to your own ease and
comfort, if you will; but do not think He will own you as one of His.
Remember what He said, 'Not every one that saith unto Me, Lord! Lord!
shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of
my Father which is in heaven.'"
Mr. Shafto plodded on through the noisy and dirty streets, in spite of
his weary limbs and aching head. He pursued his way resolutely amid
the throngs of people and conveyances, looking carefully through his
short-sighted, dim eyes at every boy who was selling fusees, and asking
one now and then if he knew anything of Sandy Carroll. None of them
knew Sandy Carroll, though, if he had enquired for "Carrots," many
could have given him the information he wanted. There seemed to him a
vast army of fusee boys and newspaper boys, who quickly caught his eye
turned upon them, and pursued him instantly as a possible customer. He
felt badgered and worried, but he would not give up his search.
He turned at last towards the neighbourhood where Sandy had lived, and
wound his way in and out among the back slums and alleys, asking many
a question of the terrible-looking women dawdling about them. There
was something in his solemn face and voice which impressed them, as if
they thought him some important personage going about in disguise, and
they were mostly eager to tell him all they knew and suspected of Nancy
Carroll. There was not very much doubt among them that she had made
away with Gipsy, perhaps in a drunken fit, scarcely knowing what she
was about. But she had quite disappeared from her old haunts, and Sandy
had not been seen since Sunday evening.
The policeman on that beat knew nothing more than the neighbours; for
since Sandy had positively sworn that the murdered child was not his
sister, the enquiry after his mother had ceased. "There was no chance,"
he said, "of finding the missing child now that more than a week had
passed by with no news of her. She was dead, without doubt, by this
time, whether she was murdered or no."
It was quite late in the afternoon when Mr. Shafto reached home again,
so worn-out with his unusual exertions that he could scarcely drag one
foot after the other. Heart sore, as well as foot sore, he was. He
had seen strange sights that day—women lying drunk upon the pavement,
unable to reach their own miserable homes, and hide there; children
shivering with cold, and starved almost to skeletons. Once when he had
sat down on a doorstep, too weary to go farther without resting a few
minutes, a child had called to him through a broken cellar window,
begging for a morsel of bread. He had made a pilgrimage through some
of the dreariest places in the great city; and he went home forgetting
himself in the thought of the sin and misery seething about him.
He was very quiet as he sat in his arm-chair, watching Mrs. Shafto get
ready the tea. Both she and John guessed he had no good news about
Sandy; and they did not venture to ask him where he had been looking
for him, lest he should answer in a vexed and angry manner. But he did
not stretch out his tired legs so as to take up all the hearth; and he
smiled faintly, as if it were a difficult thing to smile, at his wife's
attention to him.
"Johnny," he said, "don't you hear a little noise in the chapel yard?"
John Shafto had heard a slight, very slight sound about the shop
window, as if a dog were prowling round it. But, until his father
spoke, he had not liked to move, lest it should disturb him. Now he
drew his crutches to him with readiness, and started off to see what
this unusual noise might mean.
He returned in a few minutes, his face glowing with pleasure, but with
a little hesitation in his manner. Mr. Shafto had just begun his tea;
but he put down his knife and fork, as though he would not listen to
John's intelligence whilst he was eating. His wife could not understand
what this change might mean.
"It's Sandy, father," said John; "he won't come in."
"But he must come in!" exclaimed Mr. Shafto, eagerly. "Mary, my love,
do you go and make him come in. Perhaps he would give me the slip if I
went, and I could never catch him if he took to running. We must have
him in."
Mrs. Shafto had not waited to hear all he said, but was already at the
shop door, with her hand on Sandy's arm, urging him to come inside,
and not listening to any objection from the boy. Not that he wished
to make any objection, for he had been longing to have a look at John
Shafto and a word with him all day. He followed her with timid steps
and hanging head into the kitchen, where Mr. Shafto was sitting.
"Come up to the fire, my boy," said Mr. Shafto, cordially; "there's
plenty of room for us all. And, Mary, pour him out a cup of hot tea to
warm him. He's welcome to it. Johnny, sit down to the table, and let us
all be comfortable together."
Sandy hardly knew what to do; but at a quiet sign from Mrs. Shafto,
he sat down on a stool near the fire, and took a large cupful of tea
from her, without a word. All this was quite different from what he
had expected when he had stolen across the grave-yard, and scratched
against the window, and whined like a dog, in the hope that John Shafto
would come out; ready, if Mr. Shafto appeared, to hide behind one of
the tall head-stones. It was so different, too, from hanging about the
bakers' shop windows till they were closed, and then going to sleep in
a cask. So different! He wished it could only last.
"Sandy," said Mr. Shafto, when tea was over, "I've been searching for
you all day to tell you that it is all true what my Mary and Johnny
believe. It is true that God sees and hears all, and that He loves you
as much as He loves the Queen upon her throne. It is true that the
Lord Jesus Christ is seeking to save you, and your mother, and little
Gip, as much as if you were as rich and learned as anybody in London.
He's been seeking me many and many a long year, but I've been keeping
back from Him; I did not want Him to find me out in my selfishness and
idleness. But He has found me to-day, and shown me what I am; and I
believe He sent you here to help me to find myself out. It is not much
that we can do for you, at any rate, till I can get some work; but what
we have, we will give to you; and please God, Sandy, we'll help you to
find both Christ and little Gip."
Mrs. Shafto was wiping away her tears quietly; and John pressed close
to his father's side, and slipped his thin hand into his. It was one of
the happiest evenings they had ever known, whilst they discussed ways
and means of how Sandy could be clothed, and taught, and put into some
way of getting his living, less uncertain than selling fusees.
"Mary, my love," said Mr. Shafto, as bed-time drew near, "would it do
for Sandy's mattress to go into Johnny's room, beside his bed? For we
are not going to let him live in the streets again. I'll come upstairs
with you, and see what can be done."
That night Sandy slept in a corner between John's bed and the wall,
where the low roof slanted over him. If John lay awake in the night,
he would never again feel lonely; and if Sandy roused up out of his
sound slumbers, he would know that John was close beside him. Both the
boys were filled with delight at this arrangement; but it was John who,
during the sleepless and painful hours of the night, thanked God again
and again for having given him Sandy for a companion and friend.
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