Frank Oldfield | Page 7

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, 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