Chapter One.

Lost.

“Have you seen anything of our Sammul?” These words were addressed in a very excited voice to a tall rough-looking collier, who, with Davy-lamp in hand, was dressed ready for the night-shift in the Bank Pit of the Langhurst Colliery. Langhurst was a populous village in the south of Lancashire. The speaker was a woman, the regularity of whose features showed that she had once been good-looking, but from whose face every trace of beauty had been scorched out by intemperance. Her hair uncombed, and prematurely grey, straggled out into the wind. Her dress, all patches, scarcely served for decent covering; while her poor half-naked feet seemed rather galled than protected by the miserable slippers in which she clattered along the pavement, and which just revealed some filthy fragments of stockings.

“No, Alice,” was the man’s reply; “I haven’t seen anything of your Sammul.” He was turning away towards the pit, when he looked back and added, “I’ve heard that you and Thomas are for making him break his teetottal; have a care, Alice, have a care—you’ll lose him for good and all if you don’t mind.”

She made him no answer, but turning to another collier, who had lately come from his work, and was sauntering across the road, she repeated her question,—

“Jim, have you seen anything of our Sammul?”

“No, I know nothing about him; but what’s amiss, Alice? you’re not afraid that he’s slipped off to the ‘George’?”

“The ‘George!’ no, Jim, but I can’t make it out; there must be summut wrong, he came home about an hour since, and stripped and washed him, then he goes right up into the chamber, and after a bit comes down into the house with his best shoes and cap on. ‘Where art going, Sammul?’ says I. He says nothing, but crouches him down by the hearth-stone, and stares into the fire as if he seed summat strange there. Then he looks all about him, just as if he were reckoning up the odd bits of things; still he says nothing. ‘Sammul,’ said I, ‘won’t you take your tea, lad?’ for it were all ready for him on the table. Still he doesn’t speak, but just gets up and goes to the door, and then to the hearth-stone, and then he claps his head on his hands as though he were fretting o’er summat. ‘Aren’t you well, Sammul?’ says I. ‘Quite well, mother,’ says he, very short like. So I just turns me round to go out, when he jumps up and says, ‘Mother:’ and I could see by the tears in his eyes that he were very full. ‘Mother,’ says he again, and then he crouches him down again. You wouldn’t believe, how strange I felt—you might have knocked me down with a feather; so I just goes across to old Jenny’s to ax her to come and look at him, for I thought he mightn’t be right in his head. I wasn’t gone many minutes, but when I got back our Sammul were not there, but close by where he were sitting I seed summat lapped up in a piece of papper, lying on the table. I opened it, and there were a five-shilling piece and a bit of his hair, and he’d writ on the papper, ‘From Sammul, for dear mother.’ Oh, what must I do—what must I do? I shall ne’er see our Sammul any more,” and the poor woman sobbed as if her heart would break.

Before Jim had time to answer, a coarse-looking man of middle height, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, a pipe in his mouth, and his whole appearance bespeaking one who, in his best moments, was never thoroughly sober, strode up to the unhappy mother, and shouted out,—

“What’s up now? what’s all this about?”

“Your Sammul’s run away—that’s what it’s about,” said Jim.

“Run away!” cried the other; “I’ll teach him to run away—I’ll break every bone in his body when I get him home again.”

“Ay, but you must catch him first,” said Jim, drily.

“Alice, what’s all this?” said Johnson, for that was the father’s name, turning fiercely on his wife.

She repeated her story. Johnson was staggered. Samuel was a quiet lad of fourteen, who had borne with moderate patience many a hard word and harder blow from both parents. He had worked steadily for them, even beyond his strength, and had seen the wages which ought to have found him sufficiency of food and clothing squandered in drink by both father and mother. Johnson was staggered, because he knew that Samuel could have a will of his own; he had felt a force in his son’s character which he could not thoroughly understand; he had seen at times a decision which showed that, boy as he was, he could break sooner than bend. Samuel, moreover, was an only son, and his father loved him as dearly as a drunkard’s selfishness would let him love anything. His very heart sickened at his wife’s story, and not without cause. They had but two children, Samuel and Betty. Samuel worked in the pits; his sister, who was a year younger, was employed at the factory. Poor children! their lot had been a sad one indeed. As a neighbour said, “yon lad and wench of Johnson’s haven’t been brought up, they’ve been dragged up.” It was too true; half fed and worse clothed, a good constitution struggled up against neglect and bad usage; no prayer was ever taught them by a mother’s lips; they never knew the wholesome stimulant of a sober father’s smile; their scanty stock of learning had been picked up chiefly at a night-school; in the Sunday school they had learned to read their Bibles, though but imperfectly, and were never more happy than when singing with their companions the hymns which they had practised together. They were specially dear to one another; and in one thing had ever been in the strictest agreement, they would never taste that drink which had made their own home

so miserable and desolate.

About a fortnight before our story opens, Langhurst had been placarded with bills announcing that an able and well-known total abstinence advocate would give an address in the parish schoolroom. Many went to hear, and among them Samuel and Betty Johnson. Young and old were urged to sign the pledge. The speaker pictured powerfully a drunkard’s home—he showed how the drink enticed its victims to their ruin like a cheating fiend plucking the sword of resistance from their grasp while it smiled upon them. He urged the young to begin at once, to put the barrier of the pledge between themselves and the peculiar and subtle array of tempters and temptations which hedged them in on all sides. In the pledge they had something to point to which could serve as an answer to those who could not or would not hear reason. He showed the joy of a home into which the drink had never found an entrance—total abstinence was safety—“never to taste” was “never to crave.” He painted the vigour of a mind unclouded from earliest years by alcoholic stimulants; he pointed to the blessing under God of a child’s steady practical protest, as a Christian abstainer, against the fearful sin which deluged our land with misery and crime, and swept away every spark of joy and peace from the hearthstones of thousands of English homes. Every word went deep into the hearts of Samuel and his sister: the drunkard’s home was their own, the drink was ever before their eyes, the daily sin and misery that it caused they knew by sharp experience—time after time had they been urged to take the drink by those very parents whose substance, whose strength, whose peace had all withered down to the very ground under its fatal poison. How hard had been the struggle to resist! but now, if they became

pledged abstainers, they would have something more to say which could give additional strength to their refusal.

The speaker stood pen in hand when he had closed his address.

“Come—which of you young people will sign?”

Samuel made his way to the table.

“I don’t mind if I do,” he said; and then turning to Betty, when he had written his name, “come, Betty,” he cried, “you’ll sign too—come, stick to the pen.”

“Well, I might do worse, I reckon,” said Betty, and she also signed. A few more followed, and shortly afterwards the meeting broke up.

But a storm was now brewing, which the brother and sister had not calculated for. Johnson and three or four kindred spirits were sitting round a neighbour’s fire smoking and drinking while the meeting was going on. A short time after it had closed, a man thrust open the door of the house where Johnson was sitting, and peeping round, said with a grin,—

“I say, Tommy Jacky,” (the nickname by which Johnson was familiarly known), “your Sammul and Betty have just been signing Teetottal Pledge.”

“Eh! what do you say?” exclaimed Johnson in a furious tone, and springing to his feet; “signed the pledge! I’ll see about that;” and hurrying out of the house, he half ran half staggered to his own miserable dwelling. He was tolerably sobered when he got there. Samuel was sitting by the fire near his mother, who was frying some bacon for supper. Betty had just thrown aside on to the couch the handkerchief which she had used instead of a bonnet, and was preparing to help her mother. Johnson sat down in the old rickety rocking-chair at the opposite side of the fire to Samuel, and stooping down, unbuckled his clogs, which he kicked off savagely; then he looked up at his son, and said in a voice of suppressed passion,—

“So, my lad, you’ve been and signed teetottal.”

“Yes, I have,” was the reply.

“And you’ve signed too,” he cried in a louder voice, turning fiercely upon Betty.

“Ay, fayther, I have,” said Betty, quietly.

“Well, now,” said Johnson, clenching his teeth, “you just mind me, I’ll have nothing of the sort in my house. I hate your nasty, mean, sneaking teetottallers—we’ll have none of that sort here. D’ye hear?” he shouted.

Neither Samuel nor Betty spoke.

“Hush, hush, Tom,” broke in his wife; “you mustn’t scold the childer so. I’m no fonder nor you of the teetottallers, but childer will not be driven. Come, Sammul—come, Betty, you mustn’t be obstinate; you know fayther means what he says.”

“Ay that I do,” said her husband. “And now, you listen: I’d sooner see you both in your graves, nor have you sticking up your pledge cards about the house, and turning up the whites of your eyes at your own fayther and mother, as if we were not good enough for the likes of you. Me and mine have ever loved our pipe and our pot, the whole brood of us, and we ne’er said ‘no’ to a chap when he asked for a drop of drink—it shall never be said of me or mine, ‘They give ’em nothing in yon house but tea and cold water!’”

“Ay, ay; you’re light, Thomas,” said his wife; “I’m not for seeing our bairns beginning of such newfangled ways. Come, childer, just clap the foolish bits of papper behind the fire, and sit ye down to your supper.”

“Mother,” said Betty, in a sad but decided voice, “we have seen enough in this house to make us rue that ever a drop of the drink crossed our door-step. We’ve toiled hard early and late for you and fayther, but the drink has taken it all. You may scold us if you will, but Sammul and I must keep our pledge, and keep it gradely too.”

“And I say,” cried her father, striking his hand violently on the table, “I’ll make you both break afore ye’re a day older; ye’ve pleased yourselves long enough, but ye shall please me now. I never said nothing afore, though mother nor me didn’t like to see ye scowling at the drink as if it were poison; a drop now and then would have done ye no harm, but ye were like to please yourselves—but it’s different now. We’ll have none of your pledges here, ye may make yourselves sure of that.”

“You can’t help yourself fayther,” said Samuel doggedly: “pledged we are, and pledged we’re bound to be, but—”

Before he could say more, Johnson had snatched up one of his heavy clogs and had hurled it at the head of his son, fortunately without striking him; then catching up both clogs, and hastily buckling them, he strode to the door, and pausing for a moment, gasped out, “I’ve said it, and I’ll stick to it; ye shall both break your teetottal afore this time to-morrow, as I’m a living man.”

He was gone, and was seen no more at home that night.

This scene occurred the evening before that on which our story commences. We have seen that Johnson, miserable and abandoned drunkard as he was, was utterly staggered at the flight of his son when coupled with his parting gift to his mother. Was he really gone, and gone for ever? Had his own father driven him, by his cruel threats, to desperation, perhaps to self-destruction? Unhappy man! he stood the very picture of dismay. At last he said,—

“Perhaps he mayn’t have got very far. I’ll just step over, Alice, to your brother John’s; maybe he’ll have looked in there for a bit.”

“Ay, do, Thomas,” cried his wife; “and you must just tell him that he mustn’t heed what you said to him and Betty last night; it were only a bit of a breeze. Oh, what’ll our Betty say when she finds our Sammul gone; she will fret, poor thing. She just stepped out at the edge-o’-dark, (see note 1) and she’ll be back again just now. Make haste, Thomas, and tell the poor lad he may please himself about the teetottal.”

“Ay, ay, Alice,” said poor Johnson dejectedly; “that cursed drink’ll be the ruin of us both—body and soul,” and he went on his sorrowful way.

Oh, what a crowd of thoughts came crushing into the heart of the wretched man, as he hurried along the path which he supposed his son to have taken. He thought of the day when he was married, and what a bright creature his Alice was then; but even over that day there hung a cloud, for it was begun in intemperance and ended in riot. He thought of the hour when he first looked on his boy, and had felt as proud as if no other man had ever had a bonny bairn but he. He thought with shuddering self-reproach of long years of base neglect and wrong towards the children whose strength and peace his own words and deeds had smitten down as with blows of iron. He thought of the days and years of utter selfishness which had drained away every drop of comfort from the cup which might have overflowed with domestic happiness. He thought how he had ever been his own children’s tempters beckoning them on towards hell in every hour’s example; and then he thought upon the life beyond the grave, but recoiled with horror from that dark and lurid future, and shuddered back to earth again. Oh, was there in all the world a more miserable wretch than he! But on he went; anything was better than rest. His road lay down a steep brow after he had passed along one field which separated the village from a wooded gorge. Here all had once been green and beautiful in spring and summertime; but now, for many years past, thick clouds of smoke from coal-pit engines and iron furnaces had given to trees and shrubs a sickly hue. Nature had striven in vain against the hot black breath of reeking chimneys. Right down among the stunted trees of this ravine went the foot-track which Johnson followed. Darkness had now gathered all around, yet here and there were wild lights struggling with the gloom. Just on

the right, where the path came out on to the dusty road, and a little way down a bank, a row of blazing coke-ovens threw a ghastly glare over the scene, casting fantastic shadows as their waves of fiery vapour flickered in the breeze. A little farther on he passed a busy forge, from whose blinding light and wild uproarious mirth, mingling with the banging of the hammers, he was glad to escape into the darkness beyond—what would he not have given could he have as easily escaped from the stingings of his own keen remorse. On he went, but nothing could he see of his son. A mile more of rapid walking, and he reached his brother-in-law’s cottage.

“Eh, Thomas, is it you?” cried John’s wife. “Don’t stand on the door-step, man, but come in.”

“Have you seen our Sammul?” asked Johnson, in an agitated voice.

“Your Sammul? no, he hasn’t been here. But what ails you, Thomas?” The other could not speak, but sinking down into a chair, buried his face in his hands.

“Summat ails you, I’m sure,” said the kind woman.

“Oh, Jenny,” replied the unhappy father, “our Sammul’s gone off—gone off for good and all. I black-guarded him last night about yon teetottal chap as come a-lecturing and got our Sammul and Betty to sign the pledge, so just about an hour since he slips out in his Sunday hat and shoes, when Alice were down the yard, and when she comes back she finds a bit of papper on the table with a five-shilling piece and a bit of his hair lapped up in it, and there was writ on it, ‘From Sammul, for dear mother.’ Oh, Jenny, I’m afraid for my life he’s gone off to Americay; or, worse still, he may have drowned or hanged himself.”

“Nay, nay; don’t say so, Thomas,” said Jenny; “he’ll think better of it; you’ll see him back again in the morning. Don’t fret, man; he’s a good lad, and he’ll turn up again all right, take my word for it. He’d ne’er have taken his Sunday shoes if he’d meant to drown or hang himself; he could have done it just as well in his clogs.”

But Johnson could not be comforted.

“I must be going,” he said. “I guess there’ll be rare crying at our house if Sammul’s gone off for good; it’ll drive Alice and our Betty clean crazy.”

With a sorrowful “good night” he stepped out again into the darkness, and set his face homewards. He had not gone many paces when a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he turned out of the road by which he had come, and crossing by a little foot-bridge a stream which ran at the bottom of a high bank on his right hand, climbed up some steep ground on the other side, and emerged into a field, from which a footpath led along the border of several meadows into the upper part of Langhurst. Here he paused and looked around him—the darkness had begun to yield to the pale beams of the moon. His whole frame shook with emotion as he stood gazing on the trees and shrubs around him; and no wonder, for memory was now busy again, and brought up before him a life-like picture of his strolls in springtime with his boy, when Samuel was but a tiny lad. ’Twas in this very field, among these very trees, that he had gathered bluebells for him, and had filled his little hands with their lovely flowers. Oh, there was something more human in him then! Drunkard he was, but not the wretched degraded creature into which intemperance had kneaded and moulded him, till it left him now stiffened into a walking vessel of clay, just living day by day to absorb strong drink. Yet was he not even now utterly hardened, for his tears fell like rain upon that moonlit grass—thoughts of the past made his whole being tremble. He thought of what his boy had been to him; he thought of what he had been to his boy. He seemed to see his past life acted out before him in a moving picture, and in all he saw himself a curse and not a blessing—time, money, health, peace, character, soul, all squandered. And still the picture moved on, and passed into the future: he saw his utterly desolate home—no

boy was there; he saw two empty chairs—his Betty was gone, dead of want and a broken heart. The picture still moved on: now he was quite alone, the whole hearth-stone was his; he sat there very old and very grey, cold and hunger-bitten; a little while, and a pauper’s funeral passed from that hearth into the street—it was his own—and what of his soul? He started as if bitten by a serpent, and hurried on.