Thus ended a life that had commenced with bright possibilities, when Stephen Mellor was clerk in a Manchester warehouse, with a good salary and a comfortable home. But, not content with his honest earnings, he was induced by bad companions to try his luck at gambling, and this seemed such an easy way of making money, until the losses began to exceed the gains. Then came dishonesty, and Mellor's employer was robbed to pay the "debts of honour," as he called them, by way of satisfying his conscience. Forgery followed; the discovery of which necessitated a hasty and secret flight. And so, pursued by justice, haunted by bitter memories, covered with disgrace, disowned by relatives, and surrounded by poverty and shame, for seven years the man had wandered, barely avoiding detection, and living he hardly knew how; thus bringing, not only on himself, but on his wife and innocent boys, dreadful wretchedness and destitution.
But all was over now, and it was with almost a sense of relief that his wife turned away from the Infirmary and went back to Preece's Place. No more fear of detection, no more need to support her husband's falsehoods by her own—and her cheek burned with shame as she thought of the life of deceit that for his sake she had lived. No more angry threats or blows, no more cruelty to the boys. All was ended now, and for the future, she, with Phil and Rob, might know far more of peace and happiness than for long years before.
But to Phil the thought of his father's death was very terrible; for though there was no grief at his loss (how could there be?) there was an awful fear that death had found him wholly unprepared for the great change. Nay, something more than a fear; a sad certainty, as it seemed, for the last days were days of unconsciousness, and how could he pray then? There was only one ray of comfort; he and Rob had been praying for him, and perhaps God had heard and answered their prayers. But they could not even do that now, and it seemed so strange the first night after the father's death, when he and Rob knelt (as always) to say their evening prayers, not to pray for him.
Rob, through force of habit, was just beginning to do so, when Phil stopped him.
"It's no use now, Rob, to pray for father! You see he's dead;" and the lad hesitated, as if hardly knowing what more to say. A kind of shudder passed through him as he recalled the cold, lifeless form which lay in the silence of death up at the Infirmary.
"Where do you think father is now, Phil?"
The words came very softly and tremblingly from Rob, who could hardly realize as yet that the father whom he had always feared was gone for ever.
"I don't know, Rob; it's very dreadful, but—but—I don't see how he can be in heaven, because there's nobody there who hasn't been washed in the blood of Jesus, and who doesn't love Him; and I'm afraid father didn't do that!"
Rob trembled. "Oh, Phil, I'd rather he was back here, even if he did thrash us, wouldn't you? It's so dreadful to think that if he isn't in heaven he must be—" and the child stopped, as if afraid to utter the dreadful alternative, and clung closer to his brother.
"There, Rob, we won't talk any more about it. But I tell you what, we'll pray a great deal more for mother. I expect she'll be different now; for I'm sure father used to make her do lots of things she didn't want to, and we'll try to be very good and kind to her. Perhaps she will come up to the Mission Hall with us again, and hear all about Jesus. And, oh, Rob, if she learns to love Him too, shan't we all be happy here!"