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."
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