"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 appet.i.te for the drink was unquenchable. It was clear that she loved it better than husband, children, home, conscience, soul. Alas! poor Thomas's was a heavy burden indeed. Could he only have been sure that his son was alive and well, he could have borne his troubles better; but now he seemed crushed to the very earth. And yet, strange as it might seem, he did not feel tempted to fly to the drink again for consolation; he rather shrank from the very sight and thought of it. Ah, there were many prayers being offered up for him; unseen hands were guiding him, and in his home was the daily presence of one who was indeed a help and comfort to him. He clung to Betty now, and she to him, with a peculiar tenderness. _Her_ heart was full of the warm glow of unselfish love, and his was learning to expand and unfold under the influence of her bright example. Theirs was a common sorrow and a common hope, as far as Samuel was concerned.

Why had he not written to them from Liverpool, or from whatever port he had sailed from? That he _had_ gone beyond the sea, they were both firmly convinced. Betty, of course, had her own special sorrow. She could not forget that terrible night--she could not forget the knife and the blood--though she was still fully persuaded that her brother had not laid violent hands on himself. But oh, if he would only write, what a load of misery would be taken off both their hearts; yet no letter came.

November wore away, December came and went, the new year began, still there was no news of Samuel. Ned Brierley did all he could to console the unhappy father and daughter, and with some success. He was very urgent with Thomas to sign the pledge, and thus openly join himself to the little band of total abstainers, and Thomas had pretty nearly made up his mind to do so. He had hesitated, not so much because he dreaded the sneers and jeers of his companions--he had become callous to those-- but he shrank from encountering the daily, wearing, gnawing trial of his wife's taunts and reproaches; for the restless uneasiness of a conscience not yet quite seared into utter insensibility made the unhappy woman doubly bitter in her attacks upon abstinence and abstainers. And thus matters were when February opened.

It was on a clear frosty evening in the beginning of that month that Betty was returning from the mill. They were running short time that week, and she was coming home about an hour earlier than usual. The ground was hard and crisp, and the setting sun sank a misty red, while a greyish-yellow tint overspread the whole horizon. Betty toiled slowly and listlessly up the hill, the old weight still on her heart. She had nearly reached her home, when a sound fearfully loud and awful, like the discharge of the cannon of two conflicting armies underground in one vast but m.u.f.fled 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 cl.u.s.tered 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 a.s.sistance, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 pa.s.sage in the Holy Book with a little pains. She had put her mark against favourite pa.s.sages, 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 G.o.d. And the peace of G.o.d, which pa.s.seth 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 la.s.s."

"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 G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.l-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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d's help, consistent and uncompromising in his entire renunciation of all intoxicating drinks!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.