Chapter IV: 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.