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.
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