TROUBLED THOUGHTS.
"FATHER, it's my birthday to-day;" and Phil Mellor stole his hand into
his father's, as he sat moodily over the fire one Sunday morning in
December.
"Is it, Phil? Well, 'twould have been a good thing for me and you too
if you'd never had a birthday."
"Oh, father!" and the boy's eyes filled with tears, "would you just as
soon be without me? Don't you care one bit about me, father?"
A strange look came over Stephen Mellor's face, as he glanced down at
the lad kneeling beside him.
"I didn't say that, Phil; but you've had a rough time of it, and—yes,
I do wish you'd never been born; not that I want to be rid of you; but
when I think of what—" and then he stopped. "But there, I don't wish to
think. Let me see, how old are you?"
"Thirteen, father; and I was thinking lots of boys have good times on
their birthday, and presents of all sorts, and I've never had that; and
so I wondered to-day if you'd let me have a birthday treat."
Stephen Mellor stared. "Treat, indeed; I don't see much likelihood of
that, Phil."
"Oh yes, I could, father; something I want so much; and you can do it
for me."
"Out with it, then. What is it?"
"Oh, father, will you come up to the Mission Hall to-night?" And Phil
took both his father's hands, and looked pleadingly into the troubled,
restless face before him.
For a moment there was a struggle. In his sober moments Mellor
had a father's heart, and just now it was rather drawn out to the
bright-faced boy before him, whose life he had made so sad. Surely it
was a little thing to do, and the Mission Hall folk had been kind to
the lads. Why shouldn't he go for once? He'd never done much to give
his boys pleasure yet. Phil's birthday!
How well he remembered the day he was born, in that comfortable home
away in the North, when he was a well-to-do man, earning a good salary,
and living in ease! But now—and he glanced round the wretched room,
with its miserable belongings—at his boy, with the ragged, shabby
clothes—at himself. Ay, that was the worst look of all; for it was he,
Stephen Mellor, who, by his own sin and folly, had brought all this
want and misery on his wife and boys. And as he sat there, crushed and
hopeless, the tears forced themselves down between his fingers and on
to Phil's hand.
The boy was startled. "Why, father, what is it? Are you ill?"
"No, Phil, no; don't talk to me. Yes, I'll go with you to-night;
anywhere for a change;" and the man rose from his seat, and walked
restlessly to and fro.
And so the cherished desire of Phil and Rob was fulfilled at last, and
that same evening Stephen Mellor was seen in the Mission Hall, sitting
on the very back seat in the farthest corner, between his two boys, who
with the most important air were pointing out everybody and everything.
But just as the service commenced Mellor gave a sudden start, as he saw
a policeman enter the room and make straight for the corner in which he
sat.
"Phil, why is that man corning here? What does he want?"
"Why, father, it's only Mr. Forbes. He lives close here, and takes care
of the place, and he's just going to shut the window."
"Are you sure, Phil?" And though reassured when he saw Forbes give a
kindly nod to the boys and pass on, it was yet some time before he
recovered himself sufficiently to pay any heed to the service.
Hymns were sung, prayers offered, and Scripture read, without much
effect upon him. But then a tall, earnest-looking man ascended the
platform, and in a clear voice said, "I've a very short text to-night,
friends, only four words; and you'll find it in Daniel v. 6, 'His
thoughts troubled him.'"
In an instant Mellor was arrested, and leaning forward he gazed
earnestly at the preacher, as he narrated the familiar story of
Belshazzar's feast, with the mysterious writing on the wall that put so
sudden an end to all the festivities, and turned the gay, light-hearted
king, who had been the leader of all the merriment, into a pale,
trembling, awestruck man.
"Ah, my friends, it only needs a very short message from God to put a
stop to all earth's pleasures; and so it was that night when there went
home to Belshazzar's heart a consciousness that he was wrong, and so
'his thoughts troubled him.'"
"I think the same might be said of a good many here to-night, and
there's nothing has more power to trouble a man than his own thoughts.
Poverty, pain, sorrow, all are easier to bear than an accusing
conscience, a haunting memory, a condemning thought, for it's a trouble
you can't get away from. Some have bad homes, and they leave them;
trying situations, and they give notice; bad husbands or wives, and
maybe they get a separation; but you can't get a separation from your
thoughts, or give them notice to quit, for, go where you will, your
thoughts go too, and you've wished you needn't think, and the cry of
many a heart is, 'Oh, if I could only forget.' Perhaps you've tried to
drown your thoughts in drink, but they won't be drowned; or to banish
them by pleasure, but they don't go; and now to-night, in this very
hall, they are troubling you. Yes, thoughts of sin committed against
God or man. And shall I tell you why they trouble you? Because God
is saying to you as to Israel of old, 'I know your thoughts and your
works. I know the things that come into your mind, every one of them.'
Ah, friends, it's because God knows what you know, that you are uneasy."
"Perhaps it is not thoughts of the past only, but of the future, when
you know you will have to meet God in judgment, and you say, 'I don't
like to think about death.' Well, now, I'll tell you how to get rid
of these troubling thoughts. Instead of keeping away from God, go and
tell Him all about it. You see, He won't be surprised at any startling
revelations of evil, because He knows it all now; only, before He can
help you, you must take Him into your confidence, and, oh! you will
find Him a friend indeed. Your sin against Himself He will forgive, for
'if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us'; and
won't it be better to get rid of it by confession than to seek to cover
it up? And if I have wronged my neighbour, there must be confession to
him too. God's Word is very plain about this. He won't forgive unless
we ask forgiveness also from the one whom we have wronged; and so, by
confession to God and man, there will come pardon for all that is past,
and your thoughts will cease to trouble you."
"You see, the writing on the wall didn't trouble Daniel one bit, but
he was the only one in that vast assembly who was at rest. And why? He
was a sinner indeed, but a forgiven sinner. And so, my friends, it may
be with you. And then God's messages shall no more alarm you, not even
when the last one comes to bid you meet your God, for, washed in the
blood of Jesus, you will be ready to meet Him without fear."
"But one word in closing. God knows your thoughts, but do you know His?
Oh, listen. 'I know the thoughts that I think towards you, saith the
Lord; thoughts of peace, and not of evil.' Yes, however black your past
may be with sin, God has thoughts of peace about it; for Jesus has made
peace by the blood of His cross, and He offers that peace to you now.
Peace for your conscience, peace for your heart. Will you accept it?
Will you come to Him as a poor sinner for whom Jesus died? If so, He
will say to you as to one of old, 'Go in peace; thy sins are forgiven
thee.' 'Let not your heart be troubled.'"
For a moment there was silence ere the speaker closed in prayer, and
then, while every head was bowed, the choir sang softly,—
"Sinner, now thy heart is troubled;
God is coming very near;
Do not hide that deep emotion,
Do not check that falling tear.
Oh, be saved, His grace is free; oh, be saved, He died
for thee."
"Jesus now is bending o'er thee;
Jesus, lowly, meek, and mild;
To the Friend who died to save thee
Wilt thou not be reconciled?"
"With a lowly, contrite spirit,
Bending at the Saviour's feet,
Thou may'st feel this very moment
Pardon, precious, pure, and sweet.
Oh, be saved, His grace is free; oh, be saved, He died
for thee."
The music ceased, and the meeting was closed with earnest prayer; but
any who wished to stay behind were asked to do so.
"Will you stop, father?" The question came timidly from Phil.
"No; I've had enough. Let me get out of this!" and in a moment Mellor
had slipped from between his boys and was gone. Then finding himself
outside, he paused for a moment, as if hesitating where to go or what
to do; but finally he turned up a side street, and walked with short,
rapid strides up and down.
There was a tremendous struggle going on in his heart just then. The
words at the Mission Hall had gone straight home. His thoughts were
indeed troubling him. But how should he get rid of them—confession
or concealment? For years he had tried the latter, and now once more
conscience was speaking. "Make a clean breast of it to God and man."
How could he? It might mean arrest, imprisonment; and yet his present
life was hardly preferable. Should he? Could he? And up and down the
street he paced with this tremendous struggle going on in his heart.
Christ longing to save, and Satan longing to keep his slave. But the
decision lay with Mellor. At last it came.
"No," he muttered to himself, "I can't face it. It's too hard. I must
go on as I am!" And with this resolve he turned into the public-house
at the corner, there (as Mr. Armstrong had said) to try and drown his
thoughts in drink.
All unknown to Mellor, Phil had been following at a distance, sure
that something unusual was at work in his father's mind, and wondering
what would come of it. When he saw the swing door of the White Horse
open, and his father go in, something very like a sob came from him,
and sitting down on a doorstep he buried his face in his hands and
burst into tears. Poor lad! His father's promise to go to the Hall had
made him quite hopeful all day; but now,—'twas the old story—drink,
drink, drink. Oh, would things never be different? Was life always to
be as now? For some time poor Phil (brave as he generally was) gave way
utterly. The harsh treatment, the wretched home, the constant struggle
for existence, seemed altogether more than he could bear; but presently
the church clock striking roused him, and getting up, he walked away
homeward, passing the public-house in which at that moment his father
sat.
He paused outside. Should he go in and fetch him? It wouldn't be the
first time; and pushing the door gently, he peeped in. There sat his
father, glass in hand, joining in a drunken chorus. No, 'twas no use
to go. So, sadly and wearily he turned away, and with aching heart and
tearful eyes made his way home.
But love awaited him there. Rob was looking out for his brother, and
after a frugal supper of dry bread, the two lads lay down upon their
bed, which was little more than a heap of rags, and with their arms
around each other's necks, and their faces close together, forgot in
sweet sleep all the sorrows and hardships of their young lives.