Gradually there dawned upon his mind some recollection of a struggle, then a desire to get home, then a belief that he should never be found till the morning, when his corpse would be carried to his mother. So confused was John's brain from the shock which it had sustained, that even this idea was more like a half-waking dream, than an actual effort of reasoning powers. The sufferer could not fix his thoughts upon anything, not even on the awful probability that he was on the very verge of an eternity for which he was not prepared. Here lay the only son of the widow, the child of so many fond prayers, likely, before the night should have passed away, to be summoned before his Maker, yet unable even to utter the cry—
"God be merciful to me, a sinner!"
[CHAPTER IV.]
The Watcher.
IN the meantime, Widow Carey sat hour after hour in her little cottage, watching and waiting for the return of her son. She had laid the supper ready, the home-made loaf on the spotless cloth, the red herrings which she had bought that afternoon as a dainty for John after his long tiring walk. Though Mrs. Carey had had no refreshment since noon but a cup of weak tea, she would not taste the food before her, till John should be present to share it.
Many a time Widow Carey rose, went to the door, and looked down the lane, hoping to see the tall form which she knew so well ascending the hill; many a time she fancied that she heard his blithe whistle in the distance, and stirred her little fire, and put on the kettle, that John might have something warm to drink after being out so long in the damp night air.
A very long time Widow Carey waited, and it was to her all the longer from the anxious thoughts which were her companions. Hard as she tried to draw comfort from prayer, to assure herself that God would direct her and her son, and bring everything right in the end, the shadow of approaching troubles lay heavy that night on the widow. She could not help picturing to herself John at the bar of the "Jolly Ploughboys," constantly associating with a man of Brace's loose and dangerous views, and a girl who never so much as gave a thought to religion. Mrs. Carey pictured John gradually becoming more careless and worldly, more cold in his affection towards herself, more neglectful of his duty towards God. The widow dreaded her son's being exposed to temptations from which she had no power to guard him, temptations to which his easy, unsuspicious nature would especially expose him.
"Oh! If I could but have the comfort of knowing that my boy had given himself, heart and soul, to his God—I think I could bear any hardship or trial!" sighed the widow, as she sat thinking, with her hand pressed over her eyes.
"He's such a loving son, such a brave, noble, generous man, he has kept so steady, he has worked so hard, I don't wonder that he feels less than others might feel the need of a Saviour to forgive, and of the Holy Spirit to guide him. But there's only one path that leads us to Heaven, and the Lord Himself has told us that that path is a narrow one. We can't walk on it, yet go on our own way, we can't follow two guides at once who would take us in opposite directions; and oh! If we wilfully stray but ever so little from the path which God has marked out, 'tis in the nature of things that we should wander off farther and farther. There's no standing still in the journey of life; our course each day must be upward or downward, and I'm afraid, how sorely afraid, that my darling is entering upon one that will not have a blessing upon it."
Time passed on, midnight was near; Mrs. Carey grew a little alarmed. Certainly John might have been tempted to tarry for the night in London, which offered so many amusements, but she had never known him do so before. He might have been persuaded by Dick Brace to join some jovial party, and sit drinking to a late hour; the widow had never known John give way to intemperance, but the doubt which would rise in her mind, made her more uneasy and restless than ever.