LEAVING THE OLD HOME.
IT was a little sooner than usual one evening when Sandy returned from
the wood-yard, with a bundle of wood under his arm, which Mr. Mason had
sent for Mrs. Shafto. Gip was not yet waiting for him at the street
corner, ready to jump about him gleefully along the narrow pavement
which led across the grave-yard; and Sandy loitered for a minute to
give her time to see him.
The place had grown into a dear home for him. He knew every blackened
tombstone, and could read all the English words on the tablet in memory
of Mr. Shafto's grandfather. What a quiet spot it was! how little Gip's
laugh echoed round the high walls! And the fleeting beam of sunshine
that peeped round the angle of the tallest chimney, just about the time
when he reached the house, how bright it always seemed! He had ceased
to think that he had ever lived anywhere else. The small house, too,
looked more cheerful than it used to do; for the hatchment was gone,
and the plumes, and the child's coffin, which had so much distressed
little Gip that it had been disposed of immediately. The shop window
was quite empty now, except for the single announcement of "Pinking
done here."
Sandy was looking wistfully at this home of his, when Gip caught sight
of him, and ran to meet him with merry shouts and laughter.
But all that evening Mr. Shafto's face was more serious even than
ordinary. True, he nursed Gip on his knee, and at her urgent request
gave her one brief ride upon it; but it was evident that his thoughts
were elsewhere. Mrs. Shafto watched him anxiously, though it was a
long while before she ventured to speak; for she had not yet grown
accustomed to her husband's change of character.
"Is there anything the matter, Mr. Shafto?" she enquired at length.
"Mary, my love," he answered, hesitatingly, "what would you say to us
all four going across the sea to Canada next time Miss Murray goes?"
"Oh! no, John," she cried. She was thinking of her children's graves,
and of the old house where they had all been born, and had died. How
could she leave them?
"My love," he continued, "I wouldn't mention it if it could be helped.
But you must be told sooner or later; and perhaps it is better sooner
than later. I've been turning things over and over in my head, and I
don't see what we can do better than go to Canada, and buy a farm; and
all work upon it ourselves, you and me and Sandy."
"Buy a farm!" exclaimed Mrs. Shafto, while Sandy's face shone at the
mere mention of such a magnificent scheme.
"Dear me!" said Mr. Shafto. "After all I've begun to tell you at the
wrong end. Why, my dear, be brave now, and bear it like a woman! The
fact is, a railway is coming right through our grave-yard, and the
chapel, and our poor little house; so we are compelled to turn out and
leave it, you see. I'm to have £400 for my house and business; and with
that we could cross the sea, buy a small farm, and settle on it, all
four of us. You were born and bred on a farm, my love, and know how to
make excellent cheese and butter, and manage cows and poultry. Sandy
can chop timber famously, and he hasn't one idle bone in his body, nor
little Gip—I'll answer for her. And, please God, I'll turn my hand and
my head to doing anything that has to be done."
It was no wonder that both Mrs. Shafto and Sandy should be bewildered
at the sudden turn in their affairs. The house must be quitted; there
was no question about that, for they could not set a railway company
at defiance if they wished it. If, then, they were compelled to give
up the old home, why not make the change complete, and leave the noisy
streets of London for some quiet country home in the great new land
beyond the sea? The farm would be their own;—a place for Sandy and Gip
to grow up in, and live in perhaps for years after both Mr. and Mrs.
Shafto were dead.
When she came to think it over, Mrs. Shafto felt herself growing young
again at the prospect of having cows and poultry to look after, and
cheese and butter to make.
In three months' time, everything was arranged; their berths were taken
on board the ship that was to take out Miss Murray with another band
of destitute children. The goods they were carrying away with them
were all packed up—among them Johnny's crutches, which were to be kept
in some open place in their new home, where they would be always in
sight. The last day was come, and Sandy had been busy since very early
in the morning, journeying to and fro between their old home and the
Refuge, from which Miss Murray's emigrants were to start the next day.
It was evening now, and he was returning to sleep once more under the
roof that had given him shelter in the hour of his deepest sorrow and
despair.
The east wind was whistling shrilly down the narrow streets, and
meeting him with a biting chill in it round every corner; for it was
scarcely spring-time yet, and only the darkness of the winter was gone,
whilst the cold still lingered. Yet it could not make Sandy shiver, so
warmly wrapped up was he in the thick greatcoat Mr. Shafto had bought
for him in anticipation of the severe winters of the country they were
going to.
But the ill-clad people whom he met looked pinched and blue, and
slouched along close to the houses, as he could recollect doing in
the old times, which had almost passed away out of his mind. The
spirit-vaults were all full to the doors, as though every one who could
find a penny or two had crept into them for warmth; and Sandy felt a
vague sort of dread as he ran by, as he had done when he first went
to the wood-yard for work, before little Gip was found. But surely
his mother would never know him again for the ragged, barefoot, and
bare-headed fusee boy he was when she forsook him!
His vague fears quickened his pace, and he was running rapidly across
the grave-yard, when his quick eye caught sight of a figure sitting on
the ground under the chapel wall. His feet felt heavy as though they
would not move another step, and his heart seemed to stand still, for
a throb or two, and then beat painfully, till he could hardly breathe.
He felt that some great calamity to little Gip and himself was close at
hand. He did not turn quite round so as to face the figure, but he took
a stealthy sidelong look at it; and then stole softly onwards to the
shelter of the house, as he had been wont to creep cunningly away round
some street corner, whenever he saw his mother appear in sight.
There could be no mistake that the tattered and wretched woman, who was
half lying and half sitting on the rank grass, with her head resting
against the wall just below old Mr. Shafto's tablet, was his mother.
Sandy felt giddy and frightened. She had found out him and little Gip
at the last moment. Was she come to claim them both, and drag them back
to their old misery and degradation? She looked as though she were
asleep, for her head had fallen forward, and her thin bony arms hung
helplessly at her side. If she were drunk now, she would perhaps forget
what had brought her there, and crawl off to some of her old haunts as
soon as she was roused up again. The best thing he could do was to go
on noiselessly, so as not to disturb her, and close the door between
him and the hateful and dreaded sight. Then he must think how he could
save little Gip and himself.
Little Gip was nursing a doll on the warm hearth, where a bright fire
was burning for the last night; and Mrs. Shafto was busily packing
the bags they were to take on board with them for the voyage. It was
twelve months since Johnny had left them, and her face had grown happy
again, and her smile came almost as readily as it had done when he was
about the house. Sandy stood in the doorway, gazing at her with a great
sorrow and yearning of heart. Oh! if his mother had only been like John
Shafto's mother!
How he would have loved her, and worked for her!
But he could not get the sight of her as she was out of his head,
though he had shut the door and bolted it so carefully between her and
them. He could see her still, ragged and starved-looking, with her
withered face half hidden by the old black bonnet he recollected so
well. And the east wind was wailing through every crevice, and bringing
even a touch of chill to their pleasant fireside. His mother! He tried
to forget her as he played with little Gip; but he was on the alert all
the time; his eye upon the door, and his ear strained to catch every
sound. What ought he to do? What would John Shafto, what would the Lord
Jesus Christ, have him to do?
He went out into the shop after a while, and peeped through the window,
half hoping that she might be gone away. The night had set in by this
time, and it was quite dark; but a lamp at the corner of the chapel
had been lit, and he could see she was yet in the same place, and in
the same posture. Well, whatever must be done, little Gip must be
saved, even if he himself had to go away and dwell once more in the old
haunts. Gip must not be taken from Mrs. Shafto, though, maybe, he would
be compelled to remain behind in London to work for their drunken and
miserable mother.
But, by-and-by, as Sandy stood with his eyes fastened upon the
motionless figure, thinking bitter thoughts, another kind of fear crept
over him, which made him tremble so much that he could hardly walk
across the shop again and open the kitchen door.
"Mrs. Shafto," he called, in a husky voice. He had always said mother
to her since Johnny died, but he could not call her that now.
Mrs. Shafto came to him at once, with a look of great surprise on her
pleasant face.
"Hush!" he said. "Shut the door. Don't let little Gip know. Mother's
there, out in the yard, and I'm scared to death almost. What must I do?
She hasn't stirred since I came in more than an hour ago; and I'm more
scared now than when I first see her sitting agen the wall there."
"Are you sure it's your mother?" asked Mrs. Shafto, looking through the
window at the miserable creature.
"Ay, I'm sure and certain," he answered, bitterly. "She's found us
just at the last, and she's come to hinder little Gip and me going to
Canada. If she'd only leave Gip alone, I'd stay behind; but I could
never go without little Gip."
"No, no," said Mrs. Shafto, "she'll never hinder you from going with
us. I know how a mother feels; and the worst of mothers wouldn't do
such a thing as that. We'll go and talk to her; and we'll tell her
Mr. Mason will help her, and take care of her. And if she can give up
drink, we'll send money for her to come after us by-and-by; and, it may
be, some day you'll be proud of your own mother yet, Sandy."
She had opened the outer door, and was leading him across the
grave-yard to the corner where his mother lay asleep. Sandy almost
resisted the gentle force of her hand upon his arm; but when they were
quite close to the figure, and it did not move, though the wind ruffled
the ragged shawl a little, the vague fear that had taken possession of
him grew stronger, and began to have a definite meaning. Even a drunken
sleep was seldom as death-like as this.
"Mother!" he cried in a voice that trembled, "Mother!"
There was no answer. His mother did not lift up her fallen head.
Mrs. Shafto stooped, and laid her hand upon the thin shrivelled fingers
which hung down by the woman's side.
"Sandy! Why, Sandy!" she said quickly, "your mother's dead!"
Sandy's heart gave a great bound of relief. All his fear and dread were
gone in an instant. Little Gip was safe now for evermore. From this
time both she and himself would belong to Mrs. Shafto only, and could
call her mother, with no one else to have any claim upon them.
Yet the next minute he felt a sort of sorrow, very faint and fleeting,
as if, after all her wickedness, there was a little natural love for
his mother lingering in his heart. He knelt down by her, and drew the
old shawl more closely round her, as though she could even yet feel the
east wind blowing coldly about her.
"Don't let little Gip see her," he said, mournfully; "don't let little
Gip ever know. I'll run and fetch Mr. Mason, and he'll know what to do.
But I'd liked to have told her as she might come after us to Canada, if
she'd only give up the drink."
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