"Have you seen anything of our Sammul?" These words were addressed in a
very excited voice to a tall rough-looking collier, who, with Davy-lamp
in hand, was dressed ready for the night-shift in the Bank Pit of the
Langhurst Colliery. Langhurst was a populous village in the south of
Lancashire. The speaker was a woman, the regularity of whose features
showed that she had once been good-looking, but from whose face every
trace of beauty had been scorched out by intemperance. Her hair
uncombed, and prematurely grey, straggled out into the wind. Her dress,
all patches, scarcely served for decent covering; while her poor half-
naked feet seemed rather galled than protected by the miserable slippers
in which she clattered along the pavement, and which just revealed some
filthy fragments of stockings.
"No, Alice," was the man's reply; "I haven't seen anything of your
Sammul." He was turning away towards the pit, when he looked back and
added, "I've heard that you and Thomas are for making him break his
teetottal; have a care, Alice, have a care--you'll lose him for good and
all if you don't mind."
She made him no answer, but turning to another collier, who had lately
come from his work, and was sauntering across the road, she repeated her
question,--
"Jim, have _you_ seen anything of our Sammul?"
"No, I know nothing about him; but what's amiss, Alice? you're not
afraid that he's slipped off to the `George'?"
"The `George!' no, Jim, but I can't make it out; there must be summut
wrong, he came home about an hour since, and stripped and washed him,
then he goes right up into the chamber, and after a bit comes down into
the house with his best shoes and cap on. `Where art going, Sammul?'
says I. He says nothing, but crouches him down by the hearth-stone, and
stares into the fire as if he seed summat strange there. Then he looks
all about him, just as if he were reckoning up the odd bits of things;
still he says nothing. `Sammul,' said I, `won't you take your tea,
lad?' for it were all ready for him on the table. Still he doesn't
speak, but just gets up and goes to the door, and then to the hearth-
stone, and then he claps his head on his hands as though he were
fretting o'er summat. `Aren't you well, Sammul?' says I. `Quite well,
mother,' says he, very short like. So I just turns me round to go out,
when he jumps up and says, `Mother:' and I could see by the tears in his
eyes that he were very full. `Mother,' says he again, and then he
crouches him down again. You wouldn't believe, how strange I felt--you
might have knocked me down with a feather; so I just goes across to old
Jenny's to ax her to come and look at him, for I thought he mightn't be
right in his head. I wasn't gone many minutes, but when I got back our
Sammul were not there, but close by where he were sitting I seed summat
lapped up in a piece of papper, lying on the table. I opened it, and
there were a five-shilling piece and a bit of his hair, and he'd writ on
the papper, `From Sammul, for dear mother.' Oh, what _must_ I do--what
_must_ I do? I shall ne'er see our Sammul any more," and the poor woman
sobbed as if her heart would break.
Before Jim had time to answer, a coarse-looking man of middle height,
his hands thrust deep into his pockets, a pipe in his mouth, and his
whole appearance bespeaking one who, in his best moments, was never
thoroughly sober, strode up to the unhappy mother, and shouted out,--
"What's up now? what's all this about?"
"Your Sammul's run away--that's what it's about," said Jim.
"Run away!" cried the other; "I'll teach him to run away--I'll break
every bone in his body when I get him home again."
"Ay, but you must catch him _first_," said Jim, drily.
"Alice, what's all this?" said Johnson, for that was the father's name,
turning fiercely on his wife.
She repeated her story. Johnson was staggered. Samuel was a quiet lad
of fourteen, who had borne with moderate patience many a hard word and
harder blow from both parents. He had worked steadily for them, even
beyond his strength, and had seen the wages which ought to have found
him sufficiency of food and clothing squandered in drink by both father
and mother. Johnson was staggered, because he knew that Samuel _could_
have a will of his own; he had felt a force in his son's character which
he could not thoroughly understand; he had seen at times a decision
which showed that, boy as he was, he could break sooner than bend.
Samuel, moreover, was an only son, and his father loved him as dearly as
a drunkard's selfishness would let him love anything. His very heart
sickened at his wife's story, and not without cause. They had but two
children, Samuel and Betty. Samuel worked in the pits; his sister, who
was a year younger, was employed at the factory. Poor children! their
lot had been a sad one indeed. As a neighbour said, "yon lad and wench
of Johnson's haven't been _brought_ up, they've been _dragged_ up." It
was too true; half fed and worse clothed, a good constitution struggled
up against neglect and bad usage; no prayer was ever taught them by a
mother's lips; they never knew the wholesome stimulant of a sober
father's smile; their scanty stock of learning had been picked up
chiefly at a night-school; in the Sunday school they had learned to read
their Bibles, though but imperfectly, and were never more happy than
when singing with their companions the hymns which they had practised
together. They were specially dear to one another; and in one thing had
ever been in the strictest agreement, they would never taste that drink
which had made their own home so miserable and desolate.
About a fortnight before our story opens, Langhurst had been placarded
with bills announcing that an able and well-known total abstinence
advocate would give an address in the parish schoolroom. Many went to
hear, and among them Samuel and Betty Johnson. Young and old were urged
to sign the pledge. The speaker pictured powerfully a drunkard's home--
he showed how the drink enticed its victims to their ruin like a
cheating fiend plucking the sword of resistance from their grasp while
it smiled upon them. He urged the young to begin at once, to put the
barrier of the pledge between themselves and the peculiar and subtle
array of tempters and temptations which hedged them in on all sides. In
the pledge they had something to point to which could serve as an answer
to those who could not or would not hear reason. He showed the _joy_ of
a home into which the drink had never found an entrance--total
abstinence was safety--"never to taste" was "never to crave." He
painted the vigour of a mind unclouded from earliest years by alcoholic
stimulants; he pointed to the blessing under God of a child's steady
practical protest, as a Christian abstainer, against the fearful sin
which deluged our land with misery and crime, and swept away every spark
of joy and peace from the hearthstones of thousands of English homes.
Every word went deep into the hearts of Samuel and his sister: the
drunkard's home was their own, the drink was ever before their eyes, the
daily sin and misery that it caused they knew by sharp experience--time
after time had they been urged to take the drink by those very parents
whose substance, whose strength, whose peace had all withered down to
the very ground under its fatal poison. How hard had been the struggle
to resist! but now, if they became pledged abstainers, they would have
something more to say which could give additional strength to their
refusal.
The speaker stood pen in hand when he had closed his address.
"Come--which of you young people will sign?"
Samuel made his way to the table.
"I don't mind if _I_ do," he said; and then turning to Betty, when he
had written his name, "come, Betty," he cried, "you'll sign too--come,
stick to the pen."
"Well, I might do worse, I reckon," said Betty, and she also signed. A
few more followed, and shortly afterwards the meeting broke up.
But a storm was now brewing, which the brother and sister had not
calculated for. Johnson and three or four kindred spirits were sitting
round a neighbour's fire smoking and drinking while the meeting was
going on. A short time after it had closed, a man thrust open the door
of the house where Johnson was sitting, and peeping round, said with a
grin,--
"I say, Tommy Jacky," (the nickname by which Johnson was familiarly
known), "your Sammul and Betty have just been signing Teetottal Pledge."
"Eh! what do you say?" exclaimed Johnson in a furious tone, and
springing to his feet; "signed the pledge! I'll see about that;" and
hurrying out of the house, he half ran half staggered to his own
miserable dwelling. He was tolerably sobered when he got there. Samuel
was sitting by the fire near his mother, who was frying some bacon for
supper. Betty had just thrown aside on to the couch the handkerchief
which she had used instead of a bonnet, and was preparing to help her
mother. Johnson sat down in the old rickety rocking-chair at the
opposite side of the fire to Samuel, and stooping down, unbuckled his
clogs, which he kicked off savagely; then he looked up at his son, and
said in a voice of suppressed passion,--
"So, my lad, you've been and signed teetottal."
"Yes, I have," was the reply.
"And _you've_ signed too," he cried in a louder voice, turning fiercely
upon Betty.
"Ay, fayther, I have," said Betty, quietly.
"Well, now," said Johnson, clenching his teeth, "you just mind _me_,
I'll have nothing of the sort in _my_ house. I hate your nasty, mean,
sneaking teetottallers--we'll have none of that sort here. D'ye hear?"
he shouted.
Neither Samuel nor Betty spoke.
"Hush, hush, Tom," broke in his wife; "you mustn't scold the childer so.
I'm no fonder nor you of the teetottallers, but childer will not be
driven. Come, Sammul--come, Betty, you mustn't be obstinate; you know
fayther means what he says."
"Ay that I do," said her husband. "And now, you listen: I'd sooner see
you both in your graves, nor have you sticking up your pledge cards
about the house, and turning up the whites of your eyes at your own
fayther and mother, as if we were not good enough for the likes of you.
Me and mine have ever loved our pipe and our pot, the whole brood of us,
and we ne'er said `no' to a chap when he asked for a drop of drink--it
shall never be said of me or mine, `They give 'em nothing in yon house
but tea and cold water!'"
"Ay, ay; you're light, Thomas," said his wife; "I'm not for seeing our
bairns beginning of such newfangled ways. Come, childer, just clap the
foolish bits of papper behind the fire, and sit ye down to your supper."
"Mother," said Betty, in a sad but decided voice, "we have seen enough
in _this_ house to make us rue that ever a drop of the drink crossed our
door-step. We've toiled hard early and late for you and fayther, but
the drink has taken it all. You may scold us if you will, but Sammul
and I _must_ keep our pledge, and keep it gradely too."
"And _I_ say," cried her father, striking his hand violently on the
table, "I'll make you both break afore ye're a day older; ye've pleased
yourselves long enough, but ye shall please _me_ now. I never said
nothing afore, though mother nor me didn't like to see ye scowling at
the drink as if it were poison; a drop now and then would have done ye
no harm, but ye were like to please yourselves--but it's different now.
We'll have none of your pledges here, ye may make yourselves sure of
that."
"You can't help yourself fayther," said Samuel doggedly: "pledged we
are, and pledged we're bound to be, but--"
Before he could say more, Johnson had snatched up one of his heavy clogs
and had hurled it at the head of his son, fortunately without striking
him; then catching up both clogs, and hastily buckling them, he strode
to the door, and pausing for a moment, gasped out, "I've said it, and
I'll stick to it; ye shall both break your teetottal afore this time to-
morrow, as I'm a living man."
He was gone, and was seen no more at home that night.
This scene occurred the evening before that on which our story
commences. We have seen that Johnson, miserable and abandoned drunkard
as he was, was utterly staggered at the flight of his son when coupled
with his parting gift to his mother. Was he really gone, and gone for
ever? Had his own father driven him, by his cruel threats, to
desperation, perhaps to self-destruction? Unhappy man! he stood the
very picture of dismay. At last he said,--
"Perhaps he mayn't have got very far. I'll just step over, Alice, to
your brother John's; maybe he'll have looked in there for a bit."
"Ay, do, Thomas," cried his wife; "and you must just tell him that he
mustn't heed what you said to him and Betty last night; it were only a
bit of a breeze. Oh, what'll our Betty say when she finds our Sammul
gone; she _will_ fret, poor thing. She just stepped out at the edge-o'-
dark, [see note 1] and she'll be back again just now. Make haste,
Thomas, and tell the poor lad he may please himself about the
teetottal."
"Ay, ay, Alice," said poor Johnson dejectedly; "that cursed drink'll be
the ruin of us both--body and soul," and he went on his sorrowful way.
Oh, what a crowd of thoughts came crushing into the heart of the
wretched man, as he hurried along the path which he supposed his son to
have taken. He thought of the day when he was married, and what a
bright creature his Alice was then; but even over _that_ day there hung
a cloud, for it was begun in intemperance and ended in riot. He thought
of the hour when he first looked on his boy, and had felt as proud as if
no other man had ever had a bonny bairn but he. He thought with
shuddering self-reproach of long years of base neglect and wrong towards
the children whose strength and peace his own words and deeds had
smitten down as with blows of iron. He thought of the days and years of
utter selfishness which had drained away every drop of comfort from the
cup which might have overflowed with domestic happiness. He thought how
he had ever been his own children's tempters beckoning them on towards
hell in every hour's example; and then he thought upon the life beyond
the grave, but recoiled with horror from that dark and lurid future, and
shuddered back to earth again. Oh, was there in all the world a more
miserable wretch than he! But on he went; anything was better than
rest. His road lay down a steep brow after he had passed along one
field which separated the village from a wooded gorge. Here all had
once been green and beautiful in spring and summertime; but now, for
many years past, thick clouds of smoke from coal-pit engines and iron
furnaces had given to trees and shrubs a sickly hue. Nature had striven
in vain against the hot black breath of reeking chimneys. Right down
among the stunted trees of this ravine went the foot-track which Johnson
followed. Darkness had now gathered all around, yet here and there were
wild lights struggling with the gloom. Just on the right, where the
path came out on to the dusty road, and a little way down a bank, a row
of blazing coke-ovens threw a ghastly glare over the scene, casting
fantastic shadows as their waves of fiery vapour flickered in the
breeze. A little farther on he passed a busy forge, from whose blinding
light and wild uproarious mirth, mingling with the banging of the
hammers, he was glad to escape into the darkness beyond--what would he
not have given could he have as easily escaped from the stingings of his
own keen remorse. On he went, but nothing could he see of his son. A
mile more of rapid walking, and he reached his brother-in-law's cottage.
"Eh, Thomas, is it you?" cried John's wife. "Don't stand on the door-
step, man, but come in."
"Have you seen our Sammul?" asked Johnson, in an agitated voice.
"Your Sammul? no, he hasn't been here. But what ails you, Thomas?" The
other could not speak, but sinking down into a chair, buried his face in
his hands.
"Summat ails you, I'm sure," said the kind woman.
"Oh, Jenny," replied the unhappy father, "our Sammul's gone off--gone
off for good and all. I black-guarded him last night about yon
teetottal chap as come a-lecturing and got our Sammul and Betty to sign
the pledge, so just about an hour since he slips out in his Sunday hat
and shoes, when Alice were down the yard, and when she comes back she
finds a bit of papper on the table with a five-shilling piece and a bit
of his hair lapped up in it, and there was writ on it, `From Sammul, for
dear mother.' Oh, Jenny, I'm afraid for my life he's gone off to
Americay; or, worse still, he may have drowned or hanged himself."
"Nay, nay; don't say so, Thomas," said Jenny; "he'll think better of it;
you'll see him back again in the morning. Don't fret, man; he's a good
lad, and he'll turn up again all right, take my word for it. He'd ne'er
have taken his Sunday shoes if he'd meant to drown or hang himself; he
could have done it just as well in his clogs."
But Johnson could not be comforted.
"I must be going," he said. "I guess there'll be rare crying at our
house if Sammul's gone off for good; it'll drive Alice and our Betty
clean crazy."
With a sorrowful "good night" he stepped out again into the darkness,
and set his face homewards. He had not gone many paces when a sudden
thought seemed to strike him, and he turned out of the road by which he
had come, and crossing by a little foot-bridge a stream which ran at the
bottom of a high bank on his right hand, climbed up some steep ground on
the other side, and emerged into a field, from which a footpath led
along the border of several meadows into the upper part of Langhurst.
Here he paused and looked around him--the darkness had begun to yield to
the pale beams of the moon. His whole frame shook with emotion as he
stood gazing on the trees and shrubs around him; and no wonder, for
memory was now busy again, and brought up before him a life-like picture
of his strolls in springtime with his boy, when Samuel was but a tiny
lad. 'Twas in this very field, among these very trees, that he had
gathered bluebells for him, and had filled his little hands with their
lovely flowers. Oh, there was something more human in him then!
Drunkard he was, but not the wretched degraded creature into which
intemperance had kneaded and moulded him, till it left him now stiffened
into a walking vessel of clay, just living day by day to absorb strong
drink. Yet was he not even _now_ utterly hardened, for his tears fell
like rain upon that moonlit grass--thoughts of the past made his whole
being tremble. He thought of what his boy had been to him; he thought
of what he had been to his boy. He seemed to see his past life acted
out before him in a moving picture, and in all he saw himself a curse
and not a blessing--time, money, health, peace, character, soul, all
squandered. And still the picture moved on, and passed into the future:
he saw his utterly desolate home--no boy was there; he saw two empty
chairs--his Betty was gone, dead of want and a broken heart. The
picture still moved on: now he was quite alone, the whole hearth-stone
was his; he sat there very old and very grey, cold and hunger-bitten; a
little while, and a pauper's funeral passed from that hearth into the
street--it was his own--and what of his soul? He started as if bitten
by a serpent, and hurried on.
The village was soon reached; whither should he go? Conscience said,
"home;" but home was desolate. He was soon at the public-house door; he
could meet with a rude sympathy there--he could tell his tale, he could
cheer him with the blaze and the gas, he could stupify down his remorse
with the drink. Conscience again whispered, "Home," but so feebly, that
his own footstep forward quenched its voice. He entered, and sat down
among the drinkers.
And what of his poor wife and daughter?
Johnson had not left his home many minutes when Betty came in.
"Where's Sammul?" she asked, not noticing her mother's agitation; "and
where's fayther? We're like to have weary work in our house just now, I
reckon."
"Betty!"--was all that her mother could say, but in such a voice that
her daughter started round and cried,--
"Eh, mother, what is't? what ails you?"
"See there," replied the poor woman, pointing to the little packet still
lying on the table; "that's what ails me."
Betty took it up; she saw the money and the lock of hair; she read the
words--it was all plain to her in a moment. She stood open-mouthed,
with her eyes staring on the paper as one spell-bound, then she burst
out into a bitter cry,--
"Oh, mother, mother! it cannot be, it cannot be! he wouldn't leave us
so! Oh, Sammul, Sammul, what must we do? It's the drink has done it--
fayther's drink has done it! I shall never see you, Sammul, any more!
Mother," she suddenly added, dropping the apron which she had lifted to
her streaming eyes, "where's fayther? Does _he_ know?"
"Yes; he knows well enough; he's off to your Uncle John's. Oh, what
_shall_ we do if he doesn't bring our Sammul back? But where are you
going, child?" for Betty had thrown her shawl over her head, and was
moving towards the door. "It's no use your going too; tarry by the
hearth-stone till your fayther comes back, and then, if he hasn't heard
anything of Sammul, we'll see what must be done."
"I cannot tarry here, mother; I cannot," was Betty's reply. "Fayther'll
do no good; if Sammul sees him coming, he'll just step out of the road,
or crouch him down behind summat till he's gone by. I must go myself;
he'll not be afraid of me. Oh, sure he'll ne'er go right away without
one `Good-bye' to his own sister! Maybe he'll wait about till he sees
me; and, please the Lord, if I can only light on him, I may bring him
back again. But oh, mother, mother, you and fayther mustn't do by him
as you _have_ done! you'll snap the spring if you strain it too hard;
you must draw our Sammul, you mustn't drive him, or maybe you'll drive
him right away from home, if you haven't driven him now."
So saying, she closed the door with a heavy heart, and took the same
road that her father had gone before her.
Slowly she walked, peering into the darkness on all sides, and fancying
every sound to be her brother's step. She lingered near the coke-ovens
and the forge, thinking that he might be lurking somewhere about, and
might see and recognise her as the fiery glow fell upon her figure. But
she lingered in vain. By the time she reached her uncle's, the moon had
fairly risen; again she lingered before entering the cottage, looking
round with a sickening hope that he might see her from some hiding-place
and come and speak to her, if it were but to say a last farewell. But
he came not. Utterly downcast, she entered the cottage, and heard that
her father had but lately left it, and that nothing had been seen of her
brother. To her aunt's earnest and repeated invitation to "tarry a
while," she replied,--
"No, Aunt Jenny; I mustn't tarry now. I'm wanted at home; I shall be
wanted more nor ever now. I'm gradely [see note 1] sick at heart. I
know it's no use fretting, but oh, I must fret! It were bad enough to
be without meat, without shoes, without clothes, without almost
everything; but it's worse nor all put together to be without our
Sammul."
She turned away, and, with a heavy sigh, took her way home again. The
moon was now shedding her calm light full on the path the poor girl was
treading, leaving in dark shadow a high wooded bank on her left hand.
Just a few feet up this bank, half-way between her uncle's house and her
own home, was the mouth of an old disused coal-pit-shaft. It had been
long abandoned, and was fenced off, though not very securely, by a few
decaying palings. On the bank above it grew a tangled mass of shrubs,
and one or two fine holly bushes. Betty was just in the act of passing
this spot when her eye fell on something that flashed in the moonbeams.
She stooped to see what it was; then with a cry of mingled surprise and
terror she snatched it from the ground. It was an open pocket-knife; on
the buck-horn handle were rudely scratched the letters SJ. It was her
brother's knife; there could not be a moment's question of it, for she
had often both seen and used it. But what was it that sent a chill like
the chill of death through every limb, and made her totter faintly
against the bank? There was something trickling down the blade as she
held it up, and, even in the moonlight, she could see that it was blood.
A world of misery swept with a hurricane force into her heart. Had her
brother, driven to desperation by his father's cruelty, really destroyed
himself? Perhaps he had first partially done the dreadful deed with his
knife, and then thrown himself down that old shaft, so as to complete
the fearful work and leave no trace behind. Poor miserable Betty! she
groaned out a prayer for help, and then she became more calm. Creeping
up close to the edge of the old shaft, she looked into it as far as she
dared; the moonlight was now full upon it; the ferns and brambles that
interlaced across it showed no signs of recent displacement; she
listened in an agony of earnest attention for any sound, but none came
up from those dark and solemn depths. Then she began to think more
collectedly. Hope dawned again upon her heart. If her brother meant to
destroy himself he would scarcely have first used the knife and then
thrown himself down the shaft, leaving the knife behind him as a guide
to discovery. Besides, it seemed exceedingly improbable that he would
have put on his best hat and shoes if bent on so speedy self-
destruction. She therefore abandoned this terrible thought; and yet how
could the presence of the knife on that spot, and the blood on the
blade, be accounted for? She looked carefully about her--then she could
trace evident marks of some sort of scuffle. The bank itself near the
old shaft was torn, and indented with footmarks. Could it have been
that her father had encountered Samuel here as he was returning, that
they had had words, that words had led to blows, and that one or both
had shed blood in the struggle? The thought was madness. Carefully
concealing the knife in her clothes, she hurried home at the top of her
speed; but before she quite reached the door, the thought suddenly smote
full and forcibly on her heart, "If fayther _has_ killed poor Sammul,
what will _he_ be? A murderer!" She grew at once desperately calm, and
walked quietly into the house.
"I haven't heard anything of our Sammul," she said sadly, and with
forced composure. "Where's fayther?"
"I've been looking for him long since," replied her mother; "but I
suppose he's turned into the `George.'"
"The `George!'" exclaimed Betty; "what _now_! surely he cannot--"
Before she could say more, Johnson himself entered. For once in his
life he could find no ease or content among his pot companions. They
pitied, it is true, the trouble which he poured into their ears, but
their own enjoyment was uppermost in their thoughts, and they soon
wearied of his story. He drank, but there was bitterness in every
draught; it did not lull, much less drown the keenness of his self-
upbraidings; so, hastily snatching up his hat, he left the mirth and din
of the drinkers and made his way home--ay, home--but what a home! dark
at the best of times through his own sin, but now darker than ever.
"Well?" exclaimed both Betty and her mother when he entered--they could
say nothing more. He understood too plainly what they meant.
"Our Sammul's not been at your brother John's," he said to his wife;
"what must we do now? The Lord help me; I'm a miserable wretch."
"Fayther," said Betty, greatly relieved, spite of her sorrow, for
Johnson's words and manner assured her at once that he and her brother
had not met. "Fayther, we must hope the best. There's a God above all,
who knows where our Sammul is; he can take care of him, and maybe he'll
bring him back to us again."
No more was said that night. Betty had a double portion of care and
sorrow, but she had resolved to say nothing to any one about the knife,
at any rate for the present. She was satisfied that her brother had not
laid violent hands on himself; and she trusted that, in a few days, a
letter from himself from Liverpool or some other seaport, would clear up
the mystery, and give them at least the sad satisfaction of knowing
whither their Samuel was bound.
------------------------------------------------------------------------