Frank Oldfield | Page 7

and then she became more calm. Creeping up close to the edge of the old shaft, she looked into it as far as she dared; the moonlight was now full upon it; the ferns and brambles that interlaced across it showed no signs of recent displacement; she listened in an agony of earnest attention for any sound, but none came up from those dark and solemn depths. Then she began to think more collectedly. Hope dawned again upon her heart. If her brother meant to destroy himself he would scarcely have first used the knife and then thrown himself down the shaft, leaving the knife behind him as a guide to discovery. Besides, it seemed exceedingly improbable that he would have put on his best hat and shoes if bent on so speedy self- destruction. She therefore abandoned this terrible thought; and yet how could the presence of the knife on that spot, and the blood on the blade, be accounted for? She looked carefully about her--then she could trace evident marks of some sort of scuffle. The bank itself near the old shaft was torn, and indented with footmarks. Could it have been that her father had encountered Samuel here as he was returning, that they had had words, that words had led to blows, and that one or both had shed blood in the struggle? The thought was madness. Carefully concealing the knife in her clothes, she hurried home at the top of her speed; but before she quite reached the door, the thought suddenly smote full and forcibly on her heart, "If fayther has killed poor Sammul, what will he be? A murderer!" She grew at once desperately calm, and walked quietly into the house.
"I haven't heard anything of our Sammul," she said sadly, and with forced composure. "Where's fayther?"
"I've been looking for him long since," replied her mother; "but I suppose he's turned into the `George.'"
"The `George!'" exclaimed Betty; "what now! surely he cannot--"
Before she could say more, Johnson himself entered. For once in his life he could find no ease or content among his pot companions. They pitied, it is true, the trouble which he poured into their ears, but their own enjoyment was uppermost in their thoughts, and they soon wearied of his story. He drank, but there was bitterness in every draught; it did not lull, much less drown the keenness of his self- upbraidings; so, hastily snatching up his hat, he left the mirth and din of the drinkers and made his way home--ay, home--but what a home! dark at the best of times through his own sin, but now darker than ever.
"Well?" exclaimed both Betty and her mother when he entered--they could say nothing more. He understood too plainly what they meant.
"Our Sammul's not been at your brother John's," he said to his wife; "what must we do now? The Lord help me; I'm a miserable wretch."
"Fayther," said Betty, greatly relieved, spite of her sorrow, for Johnson's words and manner assured her at once that he and her brother had not met. "Fayther, we must hope the best. There's a God above all, who knows where our Sammul is; he can take care of him, and maybe he'll bring him back to us again."
No more was said that night. Betty had a double portion of care and sorrow, but she had resolved to say nothing to any one about the knife, at any rate for the present. She was satisfied that her brother had not laid violent hands on himself; and she trusted that, in a few days, a letter from himself from Liverpool or some other seaport, would clear up the mystery, and give them at least the sad satisfaction of knowing whither their Samuel was bound.
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Note 1. "Edge-o'-dark" means "Evening twilight."
Note 2 "Gradely," as an adjective means "sincere," "proper," or "true;" as an adverb, "rightly," "truly," or "properly."
CHAPTER TWO.
SAMUEL'S HOME.
And what sort of a home was that which Samuel had so abruptly forsaken? "There's no place like home;" "Home is home, be it never so homely." Things are said to be true to a proverb; but even proverbs have their exceptions, and certainly no amount of allowance could justify the application of the above proverbs to Johnson's dwelling. But what sort of a home was it? It would be far easier to say what it was not than what it was. Let us follow the owner himself as he comes in from his work, jaded and heart-sore, the night after Samuel's departure.
The house is the worst in the row, for it is the cheapest--the tyrant "Drink" will not let his slave afford a better. The front door opens opposite the high dead wall of another block of houses, so that very little daylight comes in at the sunniest of