CHAPTER XVIII.

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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