Frank Oldfield | Page 4

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