"No letter yet from our Sammul," cried Betty, wearily and sadly, as she
came from the mill on a dreary night in the November after her brother's
sudden departure. "I thought as how he'd have been sure to write to me.
Well, I suppose we must make ourselves content till he's got over the
sea. But oh, it'll be weary work till we've heard summat from him."
"Hush, hush, there's a good bairn," said her mother, though the tears
were all the while running down her own cheeks as she spoke; "don't take
on so; you'll drive your fayther clean crazy. He's down in the mouth
enough already. Come, don't fret in that fashion, Thomas; Sammul'll
come back afore long: you've been crouching down by the hearth-stone
long enough. If you'll be guided by me, you'll just take a drop of good
ale, it'll liven you up a bit; you want summat of the sort, or you'll
shrivel up till you've nothing but skin on your bones."
"Ale!" cried Thomas, indignantly; "ale'll not make me better--ale won't
make me forget--ale won't bring back our Sammul, it's driven him far
enough away."
"Well," said his wife, soothingly, "you must go your own way; only, if
you keep a-fretting of that fashion, you'll not be able to do your work
gradely, and then we shall all have to starve, and that'll be worse for
you still."
"Better starve," replied her husband moodily, "nor ruin body and soul
with the drink; I'll have no more of it."
"Well, you can please yourself;" replied Alice, "so long as you don't
take me with you. But I must have my drop of beer and my pipe, I can't
live without 'em; and so you may rest content with that; it's the truth,
it is for sure."
"Mother," said Betty, mournfully, "can you really talk in that fashion
to fayther, when you know how the drink's been the cause of all the
misery in our house, till it's driven our poor Sammul away to crouch him
down on other folk's hearth-stones in foreign parts? I should have
thought we might all have learnt a lesson by this time."
"It's no use talking, child," replied her mother; "you go your way, and
take your fayther with you if he's a mind, but don't think to come over
me with your talk; I'm not a babe, I can take care of myself. The
drink's good enough in moderation, and I'm going to be moderate. But
lads and wenches is so proud now-a-days that mothers has to hearken and
childer does the teaching."
Poor Betty! she sighed, and said no more. Johnson also saw that it was
no use reasoning with his wife. Her appetite for the drink was
unquenchable. It was clear that she loved it better than husband,
children, home, conscience, soul. Alas! poor Thomas's was a heavy
burden indeed. Could he only have been sure that his son was alive and
well, he could have borne his troubles better; but now he seemed crushed
to the very earth. And yet, strange as it might seem, he did not feel
tempted to fly to the drink again for consolation; he rather shrank from
the very sight and thought of it. Ah, there were many prayers being
offered up for him; unseen hands were guiding him, and in his home was
the daily presence of one who was indeed a help and comfort to him. He
clung to Betty now, and she to him, with a peculiar tenderness. _Her_
heart was full of the warm glow of unselfish love, and his was learning
to expand and unfold under the influence of her bright example. Theirs
was a common sorrow and a common hope, as far as Samuel was concerned.
Why had he not written to them from Liverpool, or from whatever port he
had sailed from? That he _had_ gone beyond the sea, they were both
firmly convinced. Betty, of course, had her own special sorrow. She
could not forget that terrible night--she could not forget the knife and
the blood--though she was still fully persuaded that her brother had not
laid violent hands on himself. But oh, if he would only write, what a
load of misery would be taken off both their hearts; yet no letter came.
November wore away, December came and went, the new year began, still
there was no news of Samuel. Ned Brierley did all he could to console
the unhappy father and daughter, and with some success. He was very
urgent with Thomas to sign the pledge, and thus openly join himself to
the little band of total abstainers, and Thomas had pretty nearly made
up his mind to do so. He had hesitated, not so much because he dreaded
the sneers and jeers of his companions--he had become callous to those--
but he shrank from encountering the daily, wearing, gnawing trial of his
wife's taunts and reproaches; for the restless uneasiness of a
conscience not yet quite seared into utter insensibility made the
unhappy woman doubly bitter in her attacks upon abstinence and
abstainers. And thus matters were when February opened.
It was on a clear frosty evening in the beginning of that month that
Betty was returning from the mill. They were running short time that
week, and she was coming home about an hour earlier than usual. The
ground was hard and crisp, and the setting sun sank a misty red, while a
greyish-yellow tint overspread the whole horizon. Betty toiled slowly
and listlessly up the hill, the old weight still on her heart. She had
nearly reached her home, when a sound fearfully loud and awful, like the
discharge of the cannon of two conflicting armies underground in one
vast but muffled roar, made her heart almost stand still with terror.
The next instant a huge body of sulphurous smoke leaped high into the
air from one of the pit-mouths. In a moment the dreadful cry arose,
"The pit's fired!"
The next minute men, women, and children poured out from houses and
cottages, horror and dismay on every face. Near two hundred men and
boys were down that pit; scarce a house but had one or more below. Oh,
who could adequately describe the dreadful scene of misery, wailing; and
confusion which followed!
Betty knew that her father was down, and she felt that in him all she
had to cling to on earth was now, perhaps, torn from her for ever. Men
and women rushed past her towards the pit's mouth.
"Lord help us," groaned one poor mother; "our Thomas and Matthew's
down."
"Fayther's there too," wailed Betty. "Oh, the Lord keep him, and bring
him up safe."
"Where's our Bill?--oh, have you seen anything of our Bill?" shrieked
another poor distracted mother.
Then came crowds of men, with overlookers and policemen. Then a hasty
consultation was held as to what must be done.
"Who'll volunteer to go down with me and send the poor fellows up?"
cries the overlooker. Three men come forward, and step with him into
the tub; not a word do they say, but they look quite calm and self-
possessed--they have a work to do, and they will do it. And now the
women are clustered round on the pit-bank in haggard expectation, the
very picture of woe, some wild in their cries, others rocking themselves
to and fro to still, if it may be, their misery; and others bowed down
to the earth, the very image of mute despair. And now the wheels
rapidly revolve, the rope runs swiftly, at last it slackens speed. The
tub reaches the top--two ghastly forms are lifted from it--the women,
with straining eyes, pressing forward to look. Oh, what a sight! the
fiery stream has scorched the faces and limbs of the poor men almost out
of knowledge. Again the tub descends, again other sufferers are raised,
and still the same sad work continues hour after hour, far into the
night. Some of those brought up are quite dead, poor blackened corpses;
others still live, and are borne home, moaning piteously. From the
limbs of many the skin peels with a touch. Some, less terribly injured,
run and leap like madmen when they reach the open fresh air; some come
up utterly blinded. And oh, what a vale of tears is that village of
Langhurst the livelong night! Some call in vain for fathers, husbands,
brothers; they have not yet been found. Some wring their hands over
bodies which can never live again till the resurrection morning; some
lovingly tend those who lie racked with agony on their beds, every limb
writhing with fiery anguish; while some poor victims are so scorched and
blackened that none can be found to claim them--one can only be known by
his watch-chain, so completely is he burnt out of all remembrance. And
what of poor Johnson? Hour after hour Betty and her mother watched near
the pit's mouth, sick with sorrow and suspense, pressing forward as each
fresh tub-load landed its miserable burden, still to be disappointed;
while the wailings, the cries, the tears of those who claimed the dead,
the dying, the scorched, on every fresh arrival, only added fuel to
their burning grief. At last, about midnight, three men were brought up
and laid on the bank, all apparently lifeless.
"Oh, there's fayther!"
"Oh, there's Thomas!" burst from the lips of Betty and her mother.
"Oh, take him home, take him home, live or dead," entreated Betty.
He was placed accordingly on a shutter, and carried by four men to his
home. There they laid the body down on the couch, and left it alone
with the mother and daughter. Alice wrung her hands in the bitterest
distress.
"Oh, he's dead, he's dead; he'll never speak to us any more."
"Mother, hush!" said Betty, softly; "he's not dead, I can see his lips
move and his breast heave. Maybe the Lord'll be merciful to us, and
spare him. O Father in heaven," she cried, throwing herself on her
knees, "do hear us, and spare poor fayther, for Jesus' sake."
The sufferer uttered a deep groan.
"Ay, ay, Betty," cried her mother, "the Lord be praised, there's life in
him yet. Run to old Jenny's, and ask her to come and help us. Her
master's all right; she'll be glad to give a helping hand to a neighbour
in trouble."
But there was no need to send for assistance, for in a minute after, the
cottage was filled with women, eager to use both hands and tongues in
the sufferer's service. They carried him to his bed, and gently removed
his clothes from him, though not without great difficulty, for he was
fearfully burnt; and the act of taking off his clothing caused him great
agony, as the skin came away with some of his inner garments. At last
he was made as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances, till
the doctor should come and dress his burns. Betty sat watching him,
while her mother and the other women gathered round the fire below, with
their pipes and their drink, trying to drown sorrow. She, poor girl,
knew where to seek a better consolation; she sought, and found it. At
last her mother's step was again on the stairs; she came up unsteadily,
and with flushed face approached the bed where her husband lay. She had
a mug of spirits in her hand.
"I'll give him a drop of this," she said thickly; "it'll put life into
him in no time."
"Oh, mother," cried Betty, "you mustn't do it; it's wrong, you'll be the
death of him."
But Alice would not heed her. She put some of the spirits in a spoon to
the poor sufferer's lips. She was astonished to find him perfectly
conscious, for he closed his mouth tightly, and shook his scarred face
from side to side.
"He won't have it, mother," said Betty, earnestly.
"Give me a drink of cold water," said the poor man in a low voice.
Betty fetched it him. "Ay, that's it; I want nothing stronger."
Alice slipped down again to her companions below, but her daughter
remained in the chamber.
It was a desolate room, as desolate as poverty and drink could make it;
and now it looked doubly desolate, as the scorched figure of the old
collier lay motionless on the low, comfortless, curtainless bed. A dip
in an old wine bottle standing on a box threw a gloomy light on the
disfigured features, which looked almost unearthly in the clear
moonlight which struggled with the miserable twinkling of the feeble
candle, and fell just across the bed. Betty sat gazing at her father,
full of anxious and sorrowful thoughts. How solemn the contrast between
the stillness of that sick-chamber and the Babel of eager tongues in the
house below! She felt unspeakably wretched, and yet there was a sense
of rebuke in her conscience, for she knew how great a mercy it was that
her father's life was spared. She sighed deeply, and then, suddenly
rising quietly, she lifted the lid of the box, and brought out a well-
worn Bible. She was not much of a scholar, but she could make out a
verse or a passage in the Holy Book with a little pains. She had put
her mark against favourite passages, and now she turned to some of
these.
"`Come, unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest.'"
She paused on each word, uttering it half aloud, as she travelled
carefully from one line to another.
"Ah, that's what I want," she said to herself, but in an audible
whisper. "It means, Come to Jesus, I know."
She turned over several more leaves, and then she read again, and rather
louder,--
"`Be careful for nothing; but in everything, by prayer and supplication,
with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God. And the
peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts
and minds, through Christ Jesus.'
"Oh yes, I must do so myself; I must tell the Lord all my trouble; my
heart'll be lighter, when I've told it all to him."
She stopped, and put the book aside, resting her head on her hands. She
was startled by hearing her father say,--
"It's very good. Read on, Betty, my lass."
"Oh, fayther, I didn't think you could hear me! What shall I read?"
"Read about some poor sinner like me, that got his sins pardoned by
Jesus Christ."
"I can't justly say where it is, fayther; but I know there's one place
where it tells of a sinful man as had his sins pardoned by Jesus Christ,
even when he hung upon the cross. I know well it was when the Lord were
a-dying. Ah, here it is;" and she read,--
"`And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him, saying, If
thou be Christ, save thyself and us. But the other answering, rebuked
him, saying, Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same
condemnation? And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of
our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss. And he said unto
Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. And Jesus
said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with me in
paradise.'"
"Do you think, Betty," asked Johnson very earnestly, "I should go to be
with Jesus, if I were to die now? Oh, if this pain's so bad, what must
hell-fire be?"
"Fayther," replied his daughter quietly, "the Lord's spared you for
summat. I prayed him to spare you, and he'll not cast you off now as
he's heard my prayer. If you take him at his word, he'll not tell you
as you're mistaken--he'll not say he hasn't pardon in his heart for
you."
"I believe it, I will believe it," said the poor man, the tears running
down his cheeks. "O God, be merciful to me a sinner, for Jesus Christ's
sake,"--there was a pause; then, after a while, he added, "I think as
he'll hear me, Betty."
"I am sure he will," she answered; "but you must lie still, fayther, or
maybe you'll do yourself harm. The doctor'll be here just now."
It was a night of darkness and terror, yet even on that sad night there
was glorious light which man's eye could not see, for there was joy in
the presence of the angels of God over at least one penitent sinner in
Langhurst. But how full of gloom to most! Many had been cut off in the
midst of their sins, and those who mourned their loss sorrowed as those
who have no hope. Two of poor Johnson's persecutors were suddenly
snatched away in their impenitence and hardness of heart, a third was
crippled for life. Yet the drink kept firm hold of its victims--the
very night of the explosion the "George" gathered a golden harvest.
Death in its ghastliest forms only seemed to whet the thirst for the
drink. At one house, while the blackened corpse lay in its clothes on
the outside of the bed, preparatory to its being laid out, the dead
man's widow and her female helpers sat refreshing themselves, and
driving away care, with large potations of tea, made palatable with rum,
and that so near the corpse that any one of the party could have touched
it without rising from her seat.
The shock caused by the explosion was a terrible one, but its stunning
effects passed away, only to leave the most who felt that shock harder
and more indifferent than ever. Yet in one house that awful blow was
found to be a messenger of mercy. Thomas Johnson rose from his bed of
pain a changed and penitent man. Oh, what a happy day it was to Ned
Brierley and his little band of stanch Christian abstainers, when Thomas
came forward, as he soon did, and manfully signed the pledge, as
resolved henceforth to be, with God's help, consistent and
uncompromising in his entire renunciation of all intoxicating drinks!