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 h.e.l.l, 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion, 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 bra.s.s is to go for the drink--and you know, Alice, you can't deny it, that you'd spend the bra.s.s in drink if I gave it yourself. But, more nor that, if I'd as much bra.s.s 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 bra.s.s, 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 pa.s.sion had cooled, and she sat rocking herself backwards and forwards, with her ap.r.o.n 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 appet.i.te. She had no money; she knew that none of the publicans would trust her any longer; and as for p.a.w.ning any articles, she had p.a.w.ned already everything that she dared lay her hands on. Her only hope now was in Betty; she would speak her fair, and see if she could not so work upon her feelings as to induce her to give her part of her own wages.

"Betty," she said, softly and sadly, "you're all the wenches I have; ay, and all the childer too, for our Sammul's as good as dead and gone, we shall never see him no more--ah, he _was_ a good lad to his poor mother; he'd never have grudged her the bra.s.s 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 bra.s.s 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 bra.s.s, and all my bra.s.s too, 'll have to go to pay old debts for many a long week to come."

"Ah, but you might have as much bra.s.s as you liked, if you'd only go the right way to work."

"As much bra.s.s 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 bra.s.s to spare for gin and baccy."

"Widow Reeves! mother--yes, but it's other folks' bra.s.s, and not her own."

"Well, but she manages to get the bra.s.s 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 n.o.body."

"Maybe she don't," said Alice carelessly, "but she's always bra.s.s 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 bra.s.s for a bit to the last new shop as turns up, and then runs up a long score, and leaves without paying."

"Well, that's her concern, not mine," said the other; "I'm not saying as it's just right; you needn't do as she does--but you're not bound to pay _all_ up at once, you might hold back a little each now and then, and you'd have summat to spare for your poor old mother."

"But I've promised fayther, and he trusts me."

"Promised fayther!--you need say nowt to your fayther about it--he'll never be none the wiser."

"O mother, mother, how can you talk so, after all as is come and gone!

How can you ask me to cheat my own poor fayther, as is so changed? he's trying gradely to get to heaven, and to bring you along with him too, and you're wanting to pull us all back. Mother, mother, how can you do it? How can you ask me to go agen fayther when he leaves all to me?

You're acting the devil's part, mother, when you 'tice your own child to do wrong. Oh, it's cruel, it's cruel, when you know, if I were to deceive fayther it'd break his heart. But it's the drink that's been speaking. Oh, the cursed drink! that can pluck a mother's heart out of her bosom, and make her the tempter of her own child! I must leave you, mother, now. I durstn't stay. I might say summat as I shouldn't, for I am your child still. But oh, mother, pray G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l. 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 pa.s.sed, 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.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

PLOTTING.

When Betty's cries of horror brought the neighbours round her, they found the poor girl lying insensible by the corpse of her mother, which was still suspended by the beam behind the door. They cut down the wretched creature, and tried everything to restore her to consciousness; but life was fled--the day of trial was over. Johnson returned from the pit, from whence he was summoned, to find his wife dead, destroyed by her own hand; and Betty utterly prostrate on her bed with the terrible and agonising shock.

Oh, drink, drink! most heartless of all fiendish destroyers, thou dost kill thy victims with a smile, plucking away from them every stay and support that keeps them from the pit of destruction; robbing them of every comfort, while hugging them in an embrace which promises delight, and yet crushes out the life-blood both of body and soul; making merriment in the eye and on the tongue, while home, love, character, and peace are melting and vanishing away. Wretched Alice! she might have been a happy mother, a happy wife, with her children loving, honouring, and blessing her; but she had sold herself for the drink, and a life of shame and a death of despair were her miserable reward.

Poor Johnson's life was now a very weary one. He had hope indeed to cheer him--a better than any earthly hope, a hope full of immortality.

Still he was but a beginner in the Christian life, and had hard work to struggle on through the gloom towards the guiding light through the deep shadows of earth that were thickening around him. Betty tried to cheer him; but, poor girl, she needed cheering herself. Her brother's flight; the uncertainty as to what had really become of him; the hope deferred of hearing from him which made her heart sick; and now the dreadful death of her unhappy mother, and that, too, so immediately following on their last miserable conversation;--all these sorrows combined weighed down her spirit to the very dust. She longed to flee away and be at rest; but she could not escape into forgetfulness, and she would not fly from duty. So a dark cloud hung over that home, and it was soon to be darker still. Ned Brierley was appointed manager of a colliery in Wales, at a place a hundred miles or more from Langhurst, and a few months after Alice Johnson's death he removed to his new situation, with all his family. A night or two before he left he called upon Johnson.

"Well, my lad," he said, taking a seat near the fire, "I reckon you and I mayn't meet again for many a long day. But if you're coming our side at any time, we shall be right glad to see you, and Betty too, and give you a hearty total abstainer's welcome."

"I'm afraid," said Betty, "that fayther nor me's not like to be travelling your road. I'm sure I'm glad you're a-going to better yourselves, for you desarve it; but it'll be the worse for us."

"Ay," said Johnson despondingly; "first one prop's taken away, and then another; and after a bit the roof'll fall in, and make an end on us."

"Nay, nay, man," said his friend reprovingly, "it's not come to that yet. You forget the best of all Friends, the Lord Jesus Christ. He ever liveth; and hasn't he said, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee?'"

"That's true," replied the other; "but I can't always feel it. He's helped me afore now, and I know as he'll help me again--but I can't always trust him as I should."

"Ah, but you _must_ trust him," said Brierley earnestly; "you must stick firm to your Saviour. And you must stick firm to your pledge, Thomas-- promise me that."

"Yes; by G.o.d's help, so I will," was the reply; "only I see I shall have hard work. But it's no odds, they can't make me break if I'm resolved that I won't."

"No, fayther," said his daughter; "and they can't go the breadth of a thread further nor the Lord permits."

"That's true, Betty, my la.s.s," said Ned; "so cheer up, Thomas. I feel sure--I can't tell you why, but I do feel sure--that the Lord'll bring back your Sammul again. He'll turn up some day, take my word for it.

So don't lose heart, Thomas; but remember how the blessed Book says, 'Heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.'"

"G.o.d bless you," said Johnson, squeezing Ned's hand hard; "you're a gradely comforter."

And so they parted.

It was not long, however, before Thomas's patience was tried to the uttermost. His enemies let him alone for a short time after his wife's death--for there is a measure of rugged consideration even among profligates and drunkards. But a storm had been brewing, and it fell at last when Ned Brierley had been gone from Langhurst about a month. A desperate effort was made to get Johnson back to join his old companions at the "George," and when this utterly failed, every spiteful thing that malice could suggest and ingenuity effect was practised on the unfortunate collier, and in a measure upon Betty also. But, like the wind in the fable, this storm only made Johnson wrap himself round more firmly in the folds of his own strong resolution, rendered doubly strong by prayer. Such a thought as yielding never crossed his mind. His only anxiety was how best to bear the cross laid on him. There were, of course, other abstainers in Langhurst besides the Brierleys, and these backed him up, so that by degrees his tormentors began to let him alone, and gave him a s.p.a.ce for breathing, but they never ceased to have an eye towards him for mischief.

The month of October had now come, when one evening, as Johnson and Betty were sitting at tea after their day's work, there was a knock at the door, and immediately afterwards a respectable-looking man entered, and asked,--