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.