Frank Oldfield | Page 6

one spell-bound, then she burst out into a bitter cry,--
"Oh, mother, mother! it cannot be, it cannot be! he wouldn't leave us so! Oh, Sammul, Sammul, what must we do? It's the drink has done it-- fayther's drink has done it! I shall never see you, Sammul, any more! Mother," she suddenly added, dropping the apron which she had lifted to her streaming eyes, "where's fayther? Does he know?"
"Yes; he knows well enough; he's off to your Uncle John's. Oh, what shall we do if he doesn't bring our Sammul back? But where are you going, child?" for Betty had thrown her shawl over her head, and was moving towards the door. "It's no use your going too; tarry by the hearth-stone till your fayther comes back, and then, if he hasn't heard anything of Sammul, we'll see what must be done."
"I cannot tarry here, mother; I cannot," was Betty's reply. "Fayther'll do no good; if Sammul sees him coming, he'll just step out of the road, or crouch him down behind summat till he's gone by. I must go myself; he'll not be afraid of me. Oh, sure he'll ne'er go right away without one `Good-bye' to his own sister! Maybe he'll wait about till he sees me; and, please the Lord, if I can only light on him, I may bring him back again. But oh, mother, mother, you and fayther mustn't do by him as you have done! you'll snap the spring if you strain it too hard; you must draw our Sammul, you mustn't drive him, or maybe you'll drive him right away from home, if you haven't driven him now."
So saying, she closed the door with a heavy heart, and took the same road that her father had gone before her.
Slowly she walked, peering into the darkness on all sides, and fancying every sound to be her brother's step. She lingered near the coke-ovens and the forge, thinking that he might be lurking somewhere about, and might see and recognise her as the fiery glow fell upon her figure. But she lingered in vain. By the time she reached her uncle's, the moon had fairly risen; again she lingered before entering the cottage, looking round with a sickening hope that he might see her from some hiding-place and come and speak to her, if it were but to say a last farewell. But he came not. Utterly downcast, she entered the cottage, and heard that her father had but lately left it, and that nothing had been seen of her brother. To her aunt's earnest and repeated invitation to "tarry a while," she replied,--
"No, Aunt Jenny; I mustn't tarry now. I'm wanted at home; I shall be wanted more nor ever now. I'm gradely [see note 1] sick at heart. I know it's no use fretting, but oh, I must fret! It were bad enough to be without meat, without shoes, without clothes, without almost everything; but it's worse nor all put together to be without our Sammul."
She turned away, and, with a heavy sigh, took her way home again. The moon was now shedding her calm light full on the path the poor girl was treading, leaving in dark shadow a high wooded bank on her left hand. Just a few feet up this bank, half-way between her uncle's house and her own home, was the mouth of an old disused coal-pit-shaft. It had been long abandoned, and was fenced off, though not very securely, by a few decaying palings. On the bank above it grew a tangled mass of shrubs, and one or two fine holly bushes. Betty was just in the act of passing this spot when her eye fell on something that flashed in the moonbeams. She stooped to see what it was; then with a cry of mingled surprise and terror she snatched it from the ground. It was an open pocket-knife; on the buck-horn handle were rudely scratched the letters SJ. It was her brother's knife; there could not be a moment's question of it, for she had often both seen and used it. But what was it that sent a chill like the chill of death through every limb, and made her totter faintly against the bank? There was something trickling down the blade as she held it up, and, even in the moonlight, she could see that it was blood. A world of misery swept with a hurricane force into her heart. Had her brother, driven to desperation by his father's cruelty, really destroyed himself? Perhaps he had first partially done the dreadful deed with his knife, and then thrown himself down that old shaft, so as to complete the fearful work and leave no trace behind. Poor miserable Betty! she groaned out a prayer for help,