When Thomas Johnson signed the pledge, a storm of persecution broke upon
him which would have rather staggered an ordinary man; but, as we have
said before, Thomas was no ordinary character, but one of those men who
are born to do good service under whatever banner they may range
themselves. He had long served in Satan's army, and had worked well for
him. But now he had chosen another Captain, even the Lord Jesus Christ
himself, and he was prepared to throw all the energy and decision of his
character into his work for his new and heavenly Master, and to endure
hardness as a good soldier of the Captain of his salvation. For he had
need indeed to count the cost. He might have done anything else he
pleased, except give up the drink and turn real Christian, and no one
would have quarrelled with him. He might have turned his wife and
daughter out to starve in the streets, and his old boon-companions would
have forgotten all about it over a pot of beer. But to sign the
pledge?--this was indeed unpardonable. And why? Because the drunkard
cannot afford to let a fellow-victim escape: he has himself lost peace,
hope, character, home, happiness, and is drinking his soul into hell,
and every fellow-drunkard reformed and removed from his side makes his
conscience more bare, and exposed to the glare of that eternal wrath
which he tries to shut out from his consciousness, and partly succeeds,
as he gathers about him those like-minded with himself. So every petty
insult and annoyance was heaped upon Johnson by his former companions:
they ridiculed his principles, they questioned his sincerity, they
scoffed at the idea of his continuing firm, they attributed all sorts of
base motives to him. He was often sorely provoked, but he acted upon
the advice of that holy man who tells us that, when people throw mud at
us, our wisdom is to leave it to dry, when it will fall off of itself,
and not to smear our clothes by trying of ourselves to wipe it off. He
had hearty helpers in Ned Brierley and his family; Ned himself being a
special support, for the persecutors were all afraid of him. But his
chief earthly comforter was Betty. Oh, how she rejoiced in her father's
conversion and in his signing the pledge! Oh, if Samuel would only
write, how happy she should be! She would write back and tell him of
the great and blessed change wrought by grace in their father, and maybe
he would come back again to them when he heard it. But he came not, he
wrote not; and this was the bitterest sorrow to both Betty and her
father. Johnson knew that his own sin had driven his son away, and he
tried therefore to take the trial patiently, as from the hand of a
Father who was chastening him in love. Betty longed for her brother's
return, or at least to hear from him, with a sickening intensity, which
grew day by day; for though she was really convinced that he had not
destroyed himself, yet dreadful misgivings would cross her mind from
time to time. The knife, with its discoloured blade, was still in her
possession, and the mystery about it remained entirely unexplained. But
she too prayed for patience, and God gave it to her; for hers was the
simple prayer of a loving, trusting, and believing heart. Perhaps,
however, the sorest trial to both Johnson and his daughter was the
conduct of Alice. She was bitterly incensed at her husband's signing
the pledge. No foul language was too bad for him; and as for Betty, she
could hardly give her a civil word. They both, however, bore it
patiently. At one time she would be furious, at another moodily silent
and sulky for days. But what made the miserable woman most outrageous
was the fact that her husband would not trust her with any money, but
put his wages into the hands of Betty, to purchase what was wanted for
the family, and to pay off old scores. She was therefore at her wits'
end how to get the drink, for the drink she would have. Johnson, with
his characteristic decision, had gone round to the different publicans
in Langhurst and the neighbourhood, taking Ned Brierley with him as
witness, and had plainly given them to understand that he would pay for
no more drink on his wife's account. He then came home and told her
what he had done, when he was alone with her and Betty. Poor miserable
woman! She became perfectly livid with passion, and was about to pour
out her rage in a torrent of furious abuse, when Johnson rose from his
seat, and looking her steadily in the face, said in a moderately loud
and very determined voice,--
"Alice, sit you down and hearken to me."
There was something in his manner which forced her to obey. She dropped
into a chair by the fire, and burst into a hurricane of tears. He let
her spend herself, and then, himself sitting down, he said,--
"Alice, you've known me long enough to be sure that I'm not the sort of
man to be turned from my purpose. You and I have lived together many
years now, and all on 'em's been spent in the service of the devil. I'm
not laying the blame more on you nor on myself. I've been the worse, it
may be, of the two. But I can't go on as I have done. The Lord has
been very merciful to me, or I shouldn't be here now. I've served the
old lad too long by the half, and I mean now to serve a better Mayster,
and to serve him gradely too, if he'll only help me--and our Betty says
she's sure he will, for the Book says so. Now, if I'm to be a gradely
servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, I must be an honest man--I must pay my
way if I can; but I can't pay at all if my brass is to go for the
drink--and you know, Alice, you can't deny it, that you'd spend the
brass in drink if I gave it yourself. But, more nor that, if I'd as
much brass as'd fill the coal-pit, shaft and all, I'd not give my
consent to any on it's going for the drink. I know that you can do
without the drink if you've a mind. I know you'll be all the better by
being without it. I know, and you know yourself, that it's swallowed up
the clothes from your own back, and starved and beggared us all. If
you'll give it up, and live without it like a Christian woman should,
you'll never have an afterthought; and as soon as I see that you can be
trusted with the brass, I'll give it you again with all my heart. Come,
Alice, there's a good wench; you mustn't think me hard. I've been a
hard husband, and fayther too, for years, but I must be different now;
and I'll try and do my duty by you all, and folks may just say what they
please."
Alice did not reply a word; her passion had cooled, and she sat rocking
herself backwards and forwards, with her apron to her eyes, sobbing
bitterly. She knew her husband too well to think of deliberately
attempting to make him change his purpose, yet she was equally resolved
that the drink she would and must have. At last she said, with many
tears,--
"Well, Thomas, you must please yourself. I know well, to my cost, that
I might as well try and turn the hills wrong side out as turn you from
what you've set your heart on. But you know all the while that I can't
do without my little drop of drink. Well, it makes no odds whether I
starve to death or die for want of the drink--there'll be short work
with me one road or the other; and then you and Betty can fill up my
place with some of them teetottal chaps you're both so fond on, when I'm
in the ground."
Johnson made no reply, but shortly after left for his work, as he was in
the night-shift that week.
Alice sat for a long time turning over in her mind what steps to take in
order to get the means for satisfying her miserable appetite. She had
no money; she knew that none of the publicans would trust her any
longer; and as for pawning any articles, she had pawned already
everything that she dared lay her hands on. Her only hope now was in
Betty; she would speak her fair, and see if she could not so work upon
her feelings as to induce her to give her part of her own wages.
"Betty," she said, softly and sadly, "you're all the wenches I have; ay,
and all the childer too, for our Sammul's as good as dead and gone, we
shall never see him no more--ah, he _was_ a good lad to his poor mother;
he'd never have grudged her the brass to buy a drop of drink. You'll
not do as your father's doing--break your old mother's heart, and let
her waste and die out for want of a drop of drink."
"Mother," replied Betty very quietly, but with a great deal of her
father's decision in her manner, "I can't go against what fayther's made
me promise. I've worked for you ever since I were a little wench scarce
higher nor the table; and I'll work for you and fayther still, and you
shall neither on you want meat nor drink while I've an arm to work with;
but I can't give you the brass yourself 'cos it'll only go into the
publican's pocket, and we've nothing to spare for him."
"You might have plenty to spare if you'd a mind," said her mother,
gloomily.
"No, mother; all fayther's brass, and all my brass too, 'll have to go
to pay old debts for many a long week to come."
"Ah, but you might have as much brass as you liked, if you'd only go the
right way to work."
"As much brass as I like. I can't tell what you mean, mother; you must
be dreaming, I think."
"I'm not dreaming," said Alice. "There's Widow Reeves, she's no better
wage nor you, and yet she's always got brass to spare for gin and
baccy."
"Widow Reeves! mother--yes, but it's other folks' brass, and not her
own."
"Well, but she manages to get the brass anyhow," said her mother coolly.
"I know she does, mother, and she's the talk of the whole village.
She's in debt to every shop for miles round, and never pays nowt to
nobody."
"Maybe she don't," said Alice carelessly, "but she's always brass to
spare in her pocket, and so might you."
"I couldn't do it," cried Betty vehemently, "I couldn't do it, mother.
It's a sin and a shame of Widow Reeves--she takes her brass for a bit to
the last new shop as turns up, and then runs up a long score, and leaves
without paying."
"Well, that's her concern, not mine," said the other; "I'm not saying as
it's just right; you needn't do as she does--but you're not bound to pay
_all_ up at once, you might hold back a little each now and then, and
you'd have summat to spare for your poor old mother."
"But I've promised fayther, and he trusts me."
"Promised fayther!--you need say nowt to your fayther about it--he'll
never be none the wiser."
"O mother, mother, how can you talk so, after all as is come and gone!
How can you ask me to cheat my own poor fayther, as is so changed? he's
trying gradely to get to heaven, and to bring you along with him too,
and you're wanting to pull us all back. Mother, mother, how can you do
it? How can you ask me to go agen fayther when he leaves all to me?
You're acting the devil's part, mother, when you 'tice your own child to
do wrong. Oh, it's cruel, it's cruel, when you know, if I were to
deceive fayther it'd break his heart. But it's the drink that's been
speaking. Oh, the cursed drink! that can pluck a mother's heart out of
her bosom, and make her the tempter of her own child! I must leave you,
mother, now. I durstn't stay. I might say summat as I shouldn't, for I
am your child still. But oh, mother, pray God to forgive you for what
you've said to me this night; and may the Lord indeed forgive you, as I
pray that I may have grace to do myself." So saying, she hastily threw
her handkerchief over her head and left the cottage.
And what were Alice Johnson's thoughts when she was left alone? She sat
still by the fire, and never moved for a long time. Darkness, midnight
darkness, a horror of darkness, was settling down on her soul. She had
no false support now from the drink, and so her physical state added to
her utter depression. Conscience began to speak as it had never spoken
before; and then came pressing on her the horrible craving, which she
had no means now of gratifying. The past and the future fastened upon
her soul like the fiery fangs of two fearful snakes. She saw the wasted
past--her children neglected; her home desolate, empty, foul,
comfortless; her husband and herself wasting life in the indulgence of
their common sin, living without God in the world;--she saw herself the
cause, in part at least, of her son's flight; she remembered how she had
ever set herself against his joining the band of total abstainers;--and
now she beheld herself about the vilest thing on earth--a mother
deliberately tempting her daughter to deceive her father, that herself
might gratify her craving for the drink. Oh, how she loathed herself!
oh, what a horror crept over her soul! Could she really be so utterly
vile? could she really have sunk so low? And then came up before her
the yet more fearful future: her husband no longer a companion with her
in her sin--she must sin alone; her daughter alienated from her by her
own act; and then the drink, for which she had sold herself body and
soul, she must be without it, she must crave and not be satisfied--the
thought was intolerable, it was madness. But there was a farther
future; there was in the far distance the blackness of darkness for
ever, yet rendered visible by the glare of a coming hell. Evening
thickened round her, but she sat on. The air all about her seemed
crowded with spirits of evil; her misery became deeper and deeper; she
did not, she could not repent--and what then?
An hour later Betty returned from Ned Brierley's. Where was Alice?
Betty looked for her, but she was nowhere to be found; she called her,
but there was no answer. She concluded that she had gone into a
neighbour's, and sat down waiting for her till she grew weary: her heart
was softened towards her; she would pray for her, she would try still to
win her back from the bondage of Satan; she was her mother still. Hour
after hour passed, but still her mother did not come. Betty took a
light, and went up into the chamber to fetch her Bible. Something
unusual near the door caught her eye--with a scream of terror she darted
forward. Oh, what a sight! her miserable mother was hanging behind the
door from a beam! Betty's repeated screams brought in the neighbours;
they found the wretched woman quite dead. She had sinned away her day
of grace; and was gone to give in her account of body, soul, time,
talents, utterly wasted, and of her life taken by her own hands; and
all--all under the tyranny of the demon of drink.