Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Eleven.Abraham Oliphant.“And so you’re my nephew Hubert,” said a tall, middle-aged gentleman, who had come on board as soon as theSabrinareached the port, and was now shaking Hubert warmly by the hand. “A hearty welcome to South Australia. Ah, I see; this is Mr Oldfield. My brother wrote to me about you. You’re heartily welcome too, my young friend, for so I suppose I may call you. Well, you’ve come at a warm time of the year, and I hope we shall be able to give you a warm reception. And how did you leave your dear father, Hubert? You’re very like him; the sight of your face brings back old times to me. And how are your brothers and sister? All well? That’s right. Thank God for it. And now just put a few things together while I speak to the captain. I’ll see that your baggage is cleared and sent up all right after you. My dog-cart’s waiting, and will take your friend and yourself and what things you may want for a few days.”The speaker’s manner was that of a man of good birth and education, with the peculiar tone of independence which characterises the old colonist. Hubert and Frank both felt at their ease with him at once.It was arranged that Jacob Poole should remain with Captain Merryweather for a few days, and should then join his new master in Adelaide. After a very hearty leave-taking with the captain, the young men and Mr Abraham Oliphant were soon on shore.There was no railway from the port to the city in those days, but travellers were conveyed by coaches and port-carts, unless they were driven in some friend’s carriage or other vehicle. Driving tandem was much the fashion, and it was in this way that Hubert and Frank were making their first journey inland.“Now, my dear Hubert, and Mr Oldfield, jump in there; give me your bags; now we’re all right;” and away they started.The first mile or two of their journey was not particularly inviting. They passed through Albert Town, and through a flat country along a very dusty road, trees being few and far between. A mile farther on and they saw a group of natives coming towards them with at least half-a-dozen ragged looking dogs at their heels. The men were lounging along in a lordly sort of way, entirely at their ease; one old fellow, with a grizzly white beard and hair, leaning all his weight on the shoulders of a poor woman, whom he was using as a walking-stick. The other women were all heavily-laden, some with wood, and others with burdens of various sorts, their lords and masters condescending to carry nothing but a couple of light wooden spears, a waddy, or native club, and a boomerang.“Poor creatures!” exclaimed Hubert; “what miserable specimens of humanity; indeed, they hardly look human at all.”“Ah,” said his uncle, “there are some who are only too glad to declare that these poor creatures are only brutes, that they have no souls. I’ve heard a man say he’d as soon shoot a native as a dingo; that is, a wild dog.”“Butyoudon’t think so, dear uncle?”“Think so! no indeed. Their intellects are sharp enough in some things. Yes; it is very easy to take from them their lands, their kangaroo, and their emu, and then talk about their having no souls, just to excuse ourselves from doing anything for them in return. Why, those very men who will talk the most disparagingly of them, do not hesitate to make use of them; ay, and trust them too. They will employ them as shepherds, and even as mounted policemen. But let us stop a moment, and hear what they have to say.”He drew up, and the natives stopped also, grinning from ear to ear. They were very dark, a dusky olive colour; the older ones were hideously ugly, and yet it was impossible not to be taken with the excessive good humour of their laughing faces.“What name you?” cried the foremost to Mr Oliphant.“Abraham,” was the reply.“Ah, very good Abraham,” rejoined the native; “you give me copper, me call you gentleman.”“Them you piccaninnies?” asked one of the women, pointing to Hubert and Frank.“No,” said Mr Oliphant; “there—there are some coppers for you; you must do me some work for them when you come to my sit-down.”“Gammon,” cried the black addressed; “me plenty lazy.”“A sensible fellow,” cried Frank laughing, as they drove on; “he knows how to look after his own interests, clearly enough; surely such as these cannot be past teaching.”“No indeed,” said the other; “we teach them evil fast enough; they learn our vices besides their own. You may be sure they drink when they can. Ah, that curse of drunkenness! Did you think you had run away from it when you left England? Happy for you, Hubert, that you’re an abstainer; and I suppose, Mr Oldfield, that you are one too.”“Not a pledged one,” said Frank, colouring deeply, “but one in practice, I hope, nevertheless.”“Well, I tell you honestly that you’ll find neither beer, wine, or spirits in my house. To everything else you are both heartily welcome.—Ah, that’s not so pleasant,” he exclaimed suddenly.“Is there anything amiss?” asked Hubert.“Oh, nothing serious!” was the reply; “only a little disagreeable; but we may perhaps escape it. We’ll pull up for a moment. There; just look on a few hundred yards.”Ahead of them some little distance, in the centre of the road, a whirling current of air was making the dust revolve in a rapidly enlarging circle. As this circle widened it increased in substance, till at last it became a furious earth-spout, gathering sticks and leaves, and even larger things, into its vortex, and rising higher and higher in the air till it became a vast black moving column, making a strange rustling noise as it approached. Then it left the direct road, and rushed along near them, rising higher and higher in the air, and becoming less and less dense, till its base completely disappeared, and the column spent itself in a fine streak of sand some hundred feet or more above their heads.“A pleasant escape,” said Mr Oliphant; “we shouldn’t have gained either in good looks or comfort if we had got into the thick of it.”“I should think not indeed,” said Frank. “Do people often get into these whirlwinds, or earth-spouts, or whatever they should be called?”“Sometimes they do,” said the other, “and then the results are anything but agreeable. I have seen men go into them white—white jacket, white waistcoat, white trousers, white hat, and come out one universal brown—brown jacket, waistcoat, trousers, hat, eyebrows, whiskers, all brown.”“Anything but pleasant indeed,” said Hubert. “But do they ever do serious mischief?”“Not very serious, as far as I know,” replied his uncle. “Once I knew of a pastry-cook’s man who was caught in one of these whirlwinds; he had a tray of tarts on his head, and the wind caught the tray, and whirled it off, tarts and all. But here we are at the ‘Half-way house;’ people commonly can’t go many miles here without the drink. They fancy that, because we live in a country which is very hot in summer, we want more to drink; but it’s just the reverse. Drink very little of anything in the specially hot days, and you’ll not feel the want of it.”And now, after a further drive of three or four miles, the outskirts of the city of Adelaide were nearly reached, and the distant hills became more plainly visible.“We shall cross the river by the ford at the back of the jail,” said Mr Oliphant, “for there’s very little water in the river now.”“And is this the river Torrens?” asked Hubert, with a slight tone of incredulity in his voice.“You may well ask,” replied his uncle, laughing. “Torrens is certainly an unfortunate name, for it leads a stranger naturally to look for a deep and impetuous stream. Some gentleman from Melbourne, when he first saw it, was highly incensed and disgusted, and exclaimed, ‘Is thiscrack in the earthyour river Torrens?’”“But I suppose,” inquired Frank, “it is not always as shallow as now?”“No indeed,” said the other; “I’ve seen it many a time a real Torrens. When it comes rushing down, swollen by numberless little streams from the hills, it will carry almost everything before it. Bridges, and strong ones too, it has swept away, and you may judge both of its violence and of the height to which it rises at such times, when I tell you that, when a flood has subsided, you may sometimes look up and see a dead horse sticking in the fork of a tree which had for a time been nearly under water. And I’ve often thought that the drink is like this stream; people will scarce credit at first that it can do so much mischief—it’s only a little drop, or a glass or two, but the drop becomes a stream, and the glass a mighty river, and down goes all before it, money, home, love, character, peace, everything. But see, that’s the jail on our left now. If there were more total abstainers, we shouldn’t want such a costly building, nor so many policemen, as we do now. Here, as in the old country, the drink is at the bottom of nine-tenths of the crime. And now we’re just coming up to the top of Hindley Street. Look down it; it’s a busy street; you can see right away through Rundle Street, which is a continuation of it, to the Park Lands beyond. Now, just take a fact about the drinking habits of this colony. You’ll suppose, of course, that this street wants lighting at night. Well; how is this done? We have no gas as yet; no doubt we shall have it by-and-by. Well, then, look along each side of the street, and you’ll see ordinary lamps projecting from houses at tolerably regular intervals. These houses are all public-houses. Every publican is bound by law to keep a lamp burning outside his house every dark night; and these lamps light the street very creditably. I use the word ‘creditably’ simply in reference to the lighting; doesn’t that speak volumes?”“Yes, indeed,” said Hubert; “I fear it tells of abundant crime and misery.”“It does. But we mustn’t dwell on the dark side now, for I want this to be a bright day for us all. You see we’ve some nice shops in Hindley Street.”“Yes,” said Frank; “but what a remarkable variety of style in the houses; there are no two of them, scarcely, alike in size, shape, or height. They remind me rather of a class of boys in our dame school at home, where big and little boys, tidy and ragged, stand side by side in one long row.”“You are rather severe upon us,” said Mr Oliphant laughing; “but we are gradually improving; there is, however, plenty of room yet for improvement, I allow.”And now they turned into King William Street, and drew up at the front of a large store.“This is my business place,” said the merchant; “but I shall not ask you to look at it now; we must be off again immediately for my country residence among the hills. Here, James, give the horses a little water; now then, let us start again.”A few minutes more and they were rapidly crossing the Park Lands.“These are gum trees, I suppose?” asked Hubert.“Yes, they are,” said his uncle; “but not worth much, either for timber, ornament, or shade. You wouldn’t get much relief from the heat under the poor shadow of their tassel-like foliage.”“What a very strange noise!” exclaimed Frank; “it seems as if a number of stocking-looms were at work in the air.”“See now,” said Mr Oliphant, “the force of habit. I’m so used to the sound, that I was utterly unconscious of it. It is made by the cicada, an insect very common in this country. And now, where do you suppose we’re coming to? This little village or township before us is Norwood, and then comes Kensington. I’ve no doubt it will strike you as one of the oddest things in this colony, till you get used to it, though, of course, it isn’t peculiar to this colony, how places are made close neighbours here, which are very widely separated in the old country, from which they are borrowed.”“But why not retain the native names?” asked Hubert.“Ah, why not, indeed? What can be more musical in sound than Yatala, Aldinga, Kooringa, Onkaparinga. But then, we could not always find native names enough; and, besides this, the Englishman likes to keep the old country before him, by giving his place some dear familiar name that sounds like home.”In about another half hour they reached their destination among the hills.“The Rocks,” as Mr Abraham Oliphant’s place was called, was situated on a hill-side, high above the valley, but on a moderate slope. A stout post-and-rail fence surrounded the estate, and one of a more compact nature enclosed the more private grounds. The house was large, and covered a considerable surface, as there were no rooms above the basement floor. The front windows commanded a magnificent view of the city of Adelaide, with its surrounding lands, suburbs, and neighbouring villages, and of the sea in the extreme distance. At the back was a remarkable group of rocks, from which the estate took its name; these leaned on the hill-side, and were encased in a setting of wild shrubs and creeping plants of extraordinary beauty. A stream of purest spring water perpetually flowed through a wide cleft in these rocks, and afforded a deliciously cool supply, which never failed in the hottest summer. The house was surrounded by a wide verandah, which, like the building itself, was roofed with shingles, and up the posts and along the edge of which there climbed a profusion of the multiflora rose. The garden sloped away from the house, and contained an abundance of both flowers and fruits. There was the aloe, and more than one kind of cactus, growing freely in the open air, with many other plants which would need the hothouse or greenhouse in a colder climate. Fig-trees, vines, standard peach, and nectarine trees were in great abundance, while a fence of the sharp Kangaroo Island acacia effectually kept all inquisitive cattle at a respectful distance. The inside of the house was tastefully but not unduly furnished, ancient and modern articles being ranged side by side in happy fraternity; for a thorough colonist suits his own taste, and is tolerably independent of fashion.“Welcome once more to Australia!” exclaimed Mr Oliphant to his young companions; “and more especially welcome to ‘the Rocks.’ Come in: here, let me introduce you to my eldest daughter and youngest son—Jane and Thomas, here’s your cousin Hubert; and here’s his friend, Mr Frank Oldfield; you must give them a hearty welcome.”All parties were soon at their ease together. A sumptuous dinner-tea was soon spread on the table of the dining-room—the windows of which apartment commanded a view, across the valley, of the city and distant sea.Mr Oliphant was a widower, with two daughters and four sons. Jane had taken her mother’s place; the two eldest sons were married, and settled in other parts of the colony; the third son lived with his younger sister at a sheep-station about twenty-five miles up the country; the youngest son, Thomas, a boy about fifteen years old, was still at home, and rode in daily to the collegiate school, returning in the evening.“You’ll meet your other cousins before long, I hope,” said his uncle to Hubert. “They know, of course, that you are coming; and when I send them word that you are actually come, we shall have them riding in at an early day. I suppose you’re used to riding yourself? Ah, that’s right; then you’re pretty independent. Horseflesh is cheap enough here, but it isn’t always of the choicest quality; however, I can furnish you with what you’ll want in that way. All your cousins ride, of course, by a sort of colonial instinct. An Australian and his horse almost grow together like a centaur.”“And do you ride much, Cousin Jane?” asked Hubert.“Oh, never mind the ‘cousin;’ you must drop it at once,” said Mr Oliphant. “It’s Jane, and you’re Hubert. But I beg Jane’s pardon for smothering her answer.”“Oh yes, Hubert,” replied his cousin; “I ride, as a matter of course; we should never get over much ground, especially in the hot weather, if we walked as much as people seem to do in England. But I have not yet heard how you left my dear aunt and uncle. Seeing you seems half like seeing them; I’ve heard so much of them.”“I suppose you hardly venture out kangaroo-hunting, Miss Oliphant?” asked Frank.“I have done so once or twice in the north,” she replied; “but the kangaroo is not fond of so many white faces near his haunts, so he has retired from these parts altogether.”“And you find you can all stand total abstinence here?” asked Hubert of his uncle.“Stand it!” exclaimed Mr Oliphant; “I should think so. Why, my dear nephew, it don’t need standing; it’s the drink I couldn’t stand. You should see the whole lot of us when we meet at one of our great family gatherings. Well, it’s not quite the thing perhaps for a father to say—and yet I fancy it’s not very far from the truth—that you’ll not see a stouter, a better grown—Jane, shall I say handsomer?—I certainly may say a healthier, family anywhere; and not one of us is indebted to any alcoholic stimulant for our good looks.”“You have always, then, been an abstainer since you came to the colony?” asked Frank.“No, I have not; more’s the pity,” was the reply; “but only one or two of my children remember the day when I first became an abstainer. From the oldest to the youngest they have been brought up without fermented stimulants, and abhor the very sight of them.”“And might I ask,” inquired Frank, “what led to the change in your case, if the question is not an intrusive one?”“Oh, by all means; I’ve nothing to conceal in the matter,” said Mr Oliphant; “the story is a very simple one. But come, you must make a good tea; listening is often as hungry work as talking. Well, the circumstances were just these: when I was left a widower, more than fourteen years ago, Jane was about twelve years old and Thomas only six months; I was then a moderate drinker, as it is called—that is to say, I never got drunk; but I’m sure if any one had asked me to define ‘moderation,’ I should have been sorely puzzled to do so; and I am quite certain that I often exceeded the bounds of moderation, not in the eyes of my fellow-creatures, but in the eyes of my Creator—ay, and in my own eyes too, for I often felt heated and excited by what I drank, so as to wish that I had taken a glass or two less,—yet all this time I never overstepped the bounds, so as to lose my self-control. At this time I kept a capital cellar—I mean a cellar largely stocked with choice wines and spirits. I did not live then at ‘the Rocks,’ but in a house on the skirts of the city. You may be sure that I needed a good nurse to look after so many growing children who had just lost their dear mother, and I was happy enough to light upon a treasure of a woman—she was clean, civil, active, faithful, honest, forbearing, and full of love to the children; in a word, all that I could desire her to be. She took an immense deal of care off my hands, and I could have trusted her with everything I had. Months passed by, and I began to give large dinner-parties—for I was rather famous for my wines. Besides this, I was always having friends dropping in, happy to take a glass. All went on well—so it seemed—till one afternoon a maid came running into my sitting-room and cried out, ‘Oh, sir, nurse is so very ill; what must we do?’ I hurried up-stairs. There was the poor woman, sure enough, in a very miserable state. I couldn’t make it out at all.“‘Send for a doctor at once!’ I cried. In a little while the doctor came. I waited most anxiously for his report. At last he came down, and the door was closed on us.“‘Well, doctor,’ I cried, in great anxiety; ‘nothing very serious, I hope? I can ill afford to lose such a faithful creature.’“I saw a curious smile on his face, which rather nettled me, as I thought it very ill-timed. At last he fairly burst out into a laugh, and exclaimed, ‘There’s nothing the matter with the woman, only she’s drunk.’“‘Drunk!’ I exclaimed with horror; ‘impossible!’“‘Ay, but it’s both possible and true too,’ said the doctor; ‘she’ll be all right, you’ll see, in a few hours.’“And so she was. I then spoke out plainly and kindly to her. Oh, I shall never forget her misery and shame. She made no attempt to deny her fault, or even excuse it; she was heart-broken; she said she must go at once. I urged her to stay, and to turn over a new leaf. I promised to overlook what had passed, and told her that she might soon regain her former place in my esteem and confidence. But I could not keep her; she could not bear to remain, much as she loved the children; she must go elsewhere and hide her disgrace.“‘But how came you to contract such a habit?’ said I. And then she told me that she began by finishing what was left in the glasses of my friends and myself after dinner; then, as I never locked up the cellaret—the thirst becoming stronger and stronger—she helped herself from the bottles, till at last she had become a confirmed drunkard. I pitied her deeply, as you may well understand; and would have kept her on, but nothing would induce her to stay. However, I had learned a lesson, and had made up my mind: I was determined that thenceforward no one should ever sow the first seeds of drunkenness in my house, or have any countenance in drinking from myexample. The very morning the unhappy woman left, I made a vigorous onslaught on the drink.“‘Fetch up the cellar!’ I cried; and the cellar was forthwith fetched up. Beer barrels, wine bottles and spirit-bottles, dozens of pale ale and bitter beer, were soon dragged into light.“‘Now, fetch me the kitchen-poker!’ I shouted; it was brought me, and I commenced such a smashing as I should think has never been witnessed before, nor is likely to be witnessed again. Right and left, and all round me, the yard was flooded with malt liquors, spirits and wines. Then I knocked out the bungs of the casks, and joined their contents to the flood. You may suppose there was some little staring at all this, but it mattered nothing to me. I was resolved that what had ruined my poor nurse should never ruin any one else at my cost, or in my house; so from that day to this no alcoholic stimulant has passed my lips; nor been given by me to man, woman, or child; nor, please God, ever shall be.—Now, my dear young friends, you have had the history of what first led me to become a total abstainer.”There was a silence for several minutes, which was at last broken by Hubert’s asking,—“And what became of the unhappy woman, dear uncle?”“Ah! don’t ask me. She went from bad to worse while she remained in the colony. For so it commonly is with drunkards, but most of all with female drunkards. I’ve known—and I thank God for it—many a reformed male drunkard; but when women take decidedly to drinking, it is very rare indeed to see them cured—at least, that has beenmyexperience. I got poor nurse away with a friend of mine who was going in a temperance ship to England, hoping that the habit might be broken off during the voyage. But, alas! she broke out again soon after reaching home, and died at last a miserable death in a workhouse. But I see you look rather fagged, Mr Oldfield. Shall we take a turn in the garden before it gets dark, and then perhaps you’ll like a little music?”And now we must leave Abraham Oliphant and Australia for a while, and return to Langhurst, and some of the earlier characters of our story.

“And so you’re my nephew Hubert,” said a tall, middle-aged gentleman, who had come on board as soon as theSabrinareached the port, and was now shaking Hubert warmly by the hand. “A hearty welcome to South Australia. Ah, I see; this is Mr Oldfield. My brother wrote to me about you. You’re heartily welcome too, my young friend, for so I suppose I may call you. Well, you’ve come at a warm time of the year, and I hope we shall be able to give you a warm reception. And how did you leave your dear father, Hubert? You’re very like him; the sight of your face brings back old times to me. And how are your brothers and sister? All well? That’s right. Thank God for it. And now just put a few things together while I speak to the captain. I’ll see that your baggage is cleared and sent up all right after you. My dog-cart’s waiting, and will take your friend and yourself and what things you may want for a few days.”

The speaker’s manner was that of a man of good birth and education, with the peculiar tone of independence which characterises the old colonist. Hubert and Frank both felt at their ease with him at once.

It was arranged that Jacob Poole should remain with Captain Merryweather for a few days, and should then join his new master in Adelaide. After a very hearty leave-taking with the captain, the young men and Mr Abraham Oliphant were soon on shore.

There was no railway from the port to the city in those days, but travellers were conveyed by coaches and port-carts, unless they were driven in some friend’s carriage or other vehicle. Driving tandem was much the fashion, and it was in this way that Hubert and Frank were making their first journey inland.

“Now, my dear Hubert, and Mr Oldfield, jump in there; give me your bags; now we’re all right;” and away they started.

The first mile or two of their journey was not particularly inviting. They passed through Albert Town, and through a flat country along a very dusty road, trees being few and far between. A mile farther on and they saw a group of natives coming towards them with at least half-a-dozen ragged looking dogs at their heels. The men were lounging along in a lordly sort of way, entirely at their ease; one old fellow, with a grizzly white beard and hair, leaning all his weight on the shoulders of a poor woman, whom he was using as a walking-stick. The other women were all heavily-laden, some with wood, and others with burdens of various sorts, their lords and masters condescending to carry nothing but a couple of light wooden spears, a waddy, or native club, and a boomerang.

“Poor creatures!” exclaimed Hubert; “what miserable specimens of humanity; indeed, they hardly look human at all.”

“Ah,” said his uncle, “there are some who are only too glad to declare that these poor creatures are only brutes, that they have no souls. I’ve heard a man say he’d as soon shoot a native as a dingo; that is, a wild dog.”

“Butyoudon’t think so, dear uncle?”

“Think so! no indeed. Their intellects are sharp enough in some things. Yes; it is very easy to take from them their lands, their kangaroo, and their emu, and then talk about their having no souls, just to excuse ourselves from doing anything for them in return. Why, those very men who will talk the most disparagingly of them, do not hesitate to make use of them; ay, and trust them too. They will employ them as shepherds, and even as mounted policemen. But let us stop a moment, and hear what they have to say.”

He drew up, and the natives stopped also, grinning from ear to ear. They were very dark, a dusky olive colour; the older ones were hideously ugly, and yet it was impossible not to be taken with the excessive good humour of their laughing faces.

“What name you?” cried the foremost to Mr Oliphant.

“Abraham,” was the reply.

“Ah, very good Abraham,” rejoined the native; “you give me copper, me call you gentleman.”

“Them you piccaninnies?” asked one of the women, pointing to Hubert and Frank.

“No,” said Mr Oliphant; “there—there are some coppers for you; you must do me some work for them when you come to my sit-down.”

“Gammon,” cried the black addressed; “me plenty lazy.”

“A sensible fellow,” cried Frank laughing, as they drove on; “he knows how to look after his own interests, clearly enough; surely such as these cannot be past teaching.”

“No indeed,” said the other; “we teach them evil fast enough; they learn our vices besides their own. You may be sure they drink when they can. Ah, that curse of drunkenness! Did you think you had run away from it when you left England? Happy for you, Hubert, that you’re an abstainer; and I suppose, Mr Oldfield, that you are one too.”

“Not a pledged one,” said Frank, colouring deeply, “but one in practice, I hope, nevertheless.”

“Well, I tell you honestly that you’ll find neither beer, wine, or spirits in my house. To everything else you are both heartily welcome.—Ah, that’s not so pleasant,” he exclaimed suddenly.

“Is there anything amiss?” asked Hubert.

“Oh, nothing serious!” was the reply; “only a little disagreeable; but we may perhaps escape it. We’ll pull up for a moment. There; just look on a few hundred yards.”

Ahead of them some little distance, in the centre of the road, a whirling current of air was making the dust revolve in a rapidly enlarging circle. As this circle widened it increased in substance, till at last it became a furious earth-spout, gathering sticks and leaves, and even larger things, into its vortex, and rising higher and higher in the air till it became a vast black moving column, making a strange rustling noise as it approached. Then it left the direct road, and rushed along near them, rising higher and higher in the air, and becoming less and less dense, till its base completely disappeared, and the column spent itself in a fine streak of sand some hundred feet or more above their heads.

“A pleasant escape,” said Mr Oliphant; “we shouldn’t have gained either in good looks or comfort if we had got into the thick of it.”

“I should think not indeed,” said Frank. “Do people often get into these whirlwinds, or earth-spouts, or whatever they should be called?”

“Sometimes they do,” said the other, “and then the results are anything but agreeable. I have seen men go into them white—white jacket, white waistcoat, white trousers, white hat, and come out one universal brown—brown jacket, waistcoat, trousers, hat, eyebrows, whiskers, all brown.”

“Anything but pleasant indeed,” said Hubert. “But do they ever do serious mischief?”

“Not very serious, as far as I know,” replied his uncle. “Once I knew of a pastry-cook’s man who was caught in one of these whirlwinds; he had a tray of tarts on his head, and the wind caught the tray, and whirled it off, tarts and all. But here we are at the ‘Half-way house;’ people commonly can’t go many miles here without the drink. They fancy that, because we live in a country which is very hot in summer, we want more to drink; but it’s just the reverse. Drink very little of anything in the specially hot days, and you’ll not feel the want of it.”

And now, after a further drive of three or four miles, the outskirts of the city of Adelaide were nearly reached, and the distant hills became more plainly visible.

“We shall cross the river by the ford at the back of the jail,” said Mr Oliphant, “for there’s very little water in the river now.”

“And is this the river Torrens?” asked Hubert, with a slight tone of incredulity in his voice.

“You may well ask,” replied his uncle, laughing. “Torrens is certainly an unfortunate name, for it leads a stranger naturally to look for a deep and impetuous stream. Some gentleman from Melbourne, when he first saw it, was highly incensed and disgusted, and exclaimed, ‘Is thiscrack in the earthyour river Torrens?’”

“But I suppose,” inquired Frank, “it is not always as shallow as now?”

“No indeed,” said the other; “I’ve seen it many a time a real Torrens. When it comes rushing down, swollen by numberless little streams from the hills, it will carry almost everything before it. Bridges, and strong ones too, it has swept away, and you may judge both of its violence and of the height to which it rises at such times, when I tell you that, when a flood has subsided, you may sometimes look up and see a dead horse sticking in the fork of a tree which had for a time been nearly under water. And I’ve often thought that the drink is like this stream; people will scarce credit at first that it can do so much mischief—it’s only a little drop, or a glass or two, but the drop becomes a stream, and the glass a mighty river, and down goes all before it, money, home, love, character, peace, everything. But see, that’s the jail on our left now. If there were more total abstainers, we shouldn’t want such a costly building, nor so many policemen, as we do now. Here, as in the old country, the drink is at the bottom of nine-tenths of the crime. And now we’re just coming up to the top of Hindley Street. Look down it; it’s a busy street; you can see right away through Rundle Street, which is a continuation of it, to the Park Lands beyond. Now, just take a fact about the drinking habits of this colony. You’ll suppose, of course, that this street wants lighting at night. Well; how is this done? We have no gas as yet; no doubt we shall have it by-and-by. Well, then, look along each side of the street, and you’ll see ordinary lamps projecting from houses at tolerably regular intervals. These houses are all public-houses. Every publican is bound by law to keep a lamp burning outside his house every dark night; and these lamps light the street very creditably. I use the word ‘creditably’ simply in reference to the lighting; doesn’t that speak volumes?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Hubert; “I fear it tells of abundant crime and misery.”

“It does. But we mustn’t dwell on the dark side now, for I want this to be a bright day for us all. You see we’ve some nice shops in Hindley Street.”

“Yes,” said Frank; “but what a remarkable variety of style in the houses; there are no two of them, scarcely, alike in size, shape, or height. They remind me rather of a class of boys in our dame school at home, where big and little boys, tidy and ragged, stand side by side in one long row.”

“You are rather severe upon us,” said Mr Oliphant laughing; “but we are gradually improving; there is, however, plenty of room yet for improvement, I allow.”

And now they turned into King William Street, and drew up at the front of a large store.

“This is my business place,” said the merchant; “but I shall not ask you to look at it now; we must be off again immediately for my country residence among the hills. Here, James, give the horses a little water; now then, let us start again.”

A few minutes more and they were rapidly crossing the Park Lands.

“These are gum trees, I suppose?” asked Hubert.

“Yes, they are,” said his uncle; “but not worth much, either for timber, ornament, or shade. You wouldn’t get much relief from the heat under the poor shadow of their tassel-like foliage.”

“What a very strange noise!” exclaimed Frank; “it seems as if a number of stocking-looms were at work in the air.”

“See now,” said Mr Oliphant, “the force of habit. I’m so used to the sound, that I was utterly unconscious of it. It is made by the cicada, an insect very common in this country. And now, where do you suppose we’re coming to? This little village or township before us is Norwood, and then comes Kensington. I’ve no doubt it will strike you as one of the oddest things in this colony, till you get used to it, though, of course, it isn’t peculiar to this colony, how places are made close neighbours here, which are very widely separated in the old country, from which they are borrowed.”

“But why not retain the native names?” asked Hubert.

“Ah, why not, indeed? What can be more musical in sound than Yatala, Aldinga, Kooringa, Onkaparinga. But then, we could not always find native names enough; and, besides this, the Englishman likes to keep the old country before him, by giving his place some dear familiar name that sounds like home.”

In about another half hour they reached their destination among the hills.

“The Rocks,” as Mr Abraham Oliphant’s place was called, was situated on a hill-side, high above the valley, but on a moderate slope. A stout post-and-rail fence surrounded the estate, and one of a more compact nature enclosed the more private grounds. The house was large, and covered a considerable surface, as there were no rooms above the basement floor. The front windows commanded a magnificent view of the city of Adelaide, with its surrounding lands, suburbs, and neighbouring villages, and of the sea in the extreme distance. At the back was a remarkable group of rocks, from which the estate took its name; these leaned on the hill-side, and were encased in a setting of wild shrubs and creeping plants of extraordinary beauty. A stream of purest spring water perpetually flowed through a wide cleft in these rocks, and afforded a deliciously cool supply, which never failed in the hottest summer. The house was surrounded by a wide verandah, which, like the building itself, was roofed with shingles, and up the posts and along the edge of which there climbed a profusion of the multiflora rose. The garden sloped away from the house, and contained an abundance of both flowers and fruits. There was the aloe, and more than one kind of cactus, growing freely in the open air, with many other plants which would need the hothouse or greenhouse in a colder climate. Fig-trees, vines, standard peach, and nectarine trees were in great abundance, while a fence of the sharp Kangaroo Island acacia effectually kept all inquisitive cattle at a respectful distance. The inside of the house was tastefully but not unduly furnished, ancient and modern articles being ranged side by side in happy fraternity; for a thorough colonist suits his own taste, and is tolerably independent of fashion.

“Welcome once more to Australia!” exclaimed Mr Oliphant to his young companions; “and more especially welcome to ‘the Rocks.’ Come in: here, let me introduce you to my eldest daughter and youngest son—Jane and Thomas, here’s your cousin Hubert; and here’s his friend, Mr Frank Oldfield; you must give them a hearty welcome.”

All parties were soon at their ease together. A sumptuous dinner-tea was soon spread on the table of the dining-room—the windows of which apartment commanded a view, across the valley, of the city and distant sea.

Mr Oliphant was a widower, with two daughters and four sons. Jane had taken her mother’s place; the two eldest sons were married, and settled in other parts of the colony; the third son lived with his younger sister at a sheep-station about twenty-five miles up the country; the youngest son, Thomas, a boy about fifteen years old, was still at home, and rode in daily to the collegiate school, returning in the evening.

“You’ll meet your other cousins before long, I hope,” said his uncle to Hubert. “They know, of course, that you are coming; and when I send them word that you are actually come, we shall have them riding in at an early day. I suppose you’re used to riding yourself? Ah, that’s right; then you’re pretty independent. Horseflesh is cheap enough here, but it isn’t always of the choicest quality; however, I can furnish you with what you’ll want in that way. All your cousins ride, of course, by a sort of colonial instinct. An Australian and his horse almost grow together like a centaur.”

“And do you ride much, Cousin Jane?” asked Hubert.

“Oh, never mind the ‘cousin;’ you must drop it at once,” said Mr Oliphant. “It’s Jane, and you’re Hubert. But I beg Jane’s pardon for smothering her answer.”

“Oh yes, Hubert,” replied his cousin; “I ride, as a matter of course; we should never get over much ground, especially in the hot weather, if we walked as much as people seem to do in England. But I have not yet heard how you left my dear aunt and uncle. Seeing you seems half like seeing them; I’ve heard so much of them.”

“I suppose you hardly venture out kangaroo-hunting, Miss Oliphant?” asked Frank.

“I have done so once or twice in the north,” she replied; “but the kangaroo is not fond of so many white faces near his haunts, so he has retired from these parts altogether.”

“And you find you can all stand total abstinence here?” asked Hubert of his uncle.

“Stand it!” exclaimed Mr Oliphant; “I should think so. Why, my dear nephew, it don’t need standing; it’s the drink I couldn’t stand. You should see the whole lot of us when we meet at one of our great family gatherings. Well, it’s not quite the thing perhaps for a father to say—and yet I fancy it’s not very far from the truth—that you’ll not see a stouter, a better grown—Jane, shall I say handsomer?—I certainly may say a healthier, family anywhere; and not one of us is indebted to any alcoholic stimulant for our good looks.”

“You have always, then, been an abstainer since you came to the colony?” asked Frank.

“No, I have not; more’s the pity,” was the reply; “but only one or two of my children remember the day when I first became an abstainer. From the oldest to the youngest they have been brought up without fermented stimulants, and abhor the very sight of them.”

“And might I ask,” inquired Frank, “what led to the change in your case, if the question is not an intrusive one?”

“Oh, by all means; I’ve nothing to conceal in the matter,” said Mr Oliphant; “the story is a very simple one. But come, you must make a good tea; listening is often as hungry work as talking. Well, the circumstances were just these: when I was left a widower, more than fourteen years ago, Jane was about twelve years old and Thomas only six months; I was then a moderate drinker, as it is called—that is to say, I never got drunk; but I’m sure if any one had asked me to define ‘moderation,’ I should have been sorely puzzled to do so; and I am quite certain that I often exceeded the bounds of moderation, not in the eyes of my fellow-creatures, but in the eyes of my Creator—ay, and in my own eyes too, for I often felt heated and excited by what I drank, so as to wish that I had taken a glass or two less,—yet all this time I never overstepped the bounds, so as to lose my self-control. At this time I kept a capital cellar—I mean a cellar largely stocked with choice wines and spirits. I did not live then at ‘the Rocks,’ but in a house on the skirts of the city. You may be sure that I needed a good nurse to look after so many growing children who had just lost their dear mother, and I was happy enough to light upon a treasure of a woman—she was clean, civil, active, faithful, honest, forbearing, and full of love to the children; in a word, all that I could desire her to be. She took an immense deal of care off my hands, and I could have trusted her with everything I had. Months passed by, and I began to give large dinner-parties—for I was rather famous for my wines. Besides this, I was always having friends dropping in, happy to take a glass. All went on well—so it seemed—till one afternoon a maid came running into my sitting-room and cried out, ‘Oh, sir, nurse is so very ill; what must we do?’ I hurried up-stairs. There was the poor woman, sure enough, in a very miserable state. I couldn’t make it out at all.

“‘Send for a doctor at once!’ I cried. In a little while the doctor came. I waited most anxiously for his report. At last he came down, and the door was closed on us.

“‘Well, doctor,’ I cried, in great anxiety; ‘nothing very serious, I hope? I can ill afford to lose such a faithful creature.’

“I saw a curious smile on his face, which rather nettled me, as I thought it very ill-timed. At last he fairly burst out into a laugh, and exclaimed, ‘There’s nothing the matter with the woman, only she’s drunk.’

“‘Drunk!’ I exclaimed with horror; ‘impossible!’

“‘Ay, but it’s both possible and true too,’ said the doctor; ‘she’ll be all right, you’ll see, in a few hours.’

“And so she was. I then spoke out plainly and kindly to her. Oh, I shall never forget her misery and shame. She made no attempt to deny her fault, or even excuse it; she was heart-broken; she said she must go at once. I urged her to stay, and to turn over a new leaf. I promised to overlook what had passed, and told her that she might soon regain her former place in my esteem and confidence. But I could not keep her; she could not bear to remain, much as she loved the children; she must go elsewhere and hide her disgrace.

“‘But how came you to contract such a habit?’ said I. And then she told me that she began by finishing what was left in the glasses of my friends and myself after dinner; then, as I never locked up the cellaret—the thirst becoming stronger and stronger—she helped herself from the bottles, till at last she had become a confirmed drunkard. I pitied her deeply, as you may well understand; and would have kept her on, but nothing would induce her to stay. However, I had learned a lesson, and had made up my mind: I was determined that thenceforward no one should ever sow the first seeds of drunkenness in my house, or have any countenance in drinking from myexample. The very morning the unhappy woman left, I made a vigorous onslaught on the drink.

“‘Fetch up the cellar!’ I cried; and the cellar was forthwith fetched up. Beer barrels, wine bottles and spirit-bottles, dozens of pale ale and bitter beer, were soon dragged into light.

“‘Now, fetch me the kitchen-poker!’ I shouted; it was brought me, and I commenced such a smashing as I should think has never been witnessed before, nor is likely to be witnessed again. Right and left, and all round me, the yard was flooded with malt liquors, spirits and wines. Then I knocked out the bungs of the casks, and joined their contents to the flood. You may suppose there was some little staring at all this, but it mattered nothing to me. I was resolved that what had ruined my poor nurse should never ruin any one else at my cost, or in my house; so from that day to this no alcoholic stimulant has passed my lips; nor been given by me to man, woman, or child; nor, please God, ever shall be.—Now, my dear young friends, you have had the history of what first led me to become a total abstainer.”

There was a silence for several minutes, which was at last broken by Hubert’s asking,—

“And what became of the unhappy woman, dear uncle?”

“Ah! don’t ask me. She went from bad to worse while she remained in the colony. For so it commonly is with drunkards, but most of all with female drunkards. I’ve known—and I thank God for it—many a reformed male drunkard; but when women take decidedly to drinking, it is very rare indeed to see them cured—at least, that has beenmyexperience. I got poor nurse away with a friend of mine who was going in a temperance ship to England, hoping that the habit might be broken off during the voyage. But, alas! she broke out again soon after reaching home, and died at last a miserable death in a workhouse. But I see you look rather fagged, Mr Oldfield. Shall we take a turn in the garden before it gets dark, and then perhaps you’ll like a little music?”

And now we must leave Abraham Oliphant and Australia for a while, and return to Langhurst, and some of the earlier characters of our story.

Chapter Twelve.An Explosion in the Pit.“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.Herheart 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 hehadgone 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!

“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.Herheart 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 hehadgone 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!

Chapter Thirteen.Midnight Darkness.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, hewasa 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 payallup 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.

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, hewasa 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 payallup 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.

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