"I'll give him a drop of this," she said thickly; "it'll put life into him in no time."

"Oh, mother," cried Betty, "you mustn't do it; it's wrong, you'll be the death of him."

But Alice would not heed her. She put some of the spirits in a spoon to the poor sufferer's lips. She was astonished to find him perfectly conscious, for he closed his mouth tightly, and shook his scarred face from side to side.

"He won't have it, mother," said Betty, earnestly.

"Give me a drink of cold water," said the poor man in a low voice. Betty fetched it him. "Ay, that's it; I want nothing stronger."

Alice slipped down again to her companions below, but her daughter remained in the chamber.

It was a desolate room, as desolate as poverty and drink could make it; and now it looked doubly desolate, as the scorched figure of the old collier lay motionless on the low, comfortless, curtainless bed. A dip in an old wine bottle standing on a box threw a gloomy light on the disfigured features, which looked almost unearthly in the clear moonlight which struggled with the miserable twinkling of the feeble candle, and fell just across the bed. Betty sat gazing at her father, full of anxious and sorrowful thoughts. How solemn the contrast between the stillness of that sick-chamber and the Babel of eager tongues in the house below! She felt unspeakably wretched, and yet there was a sense of rebuke in her conscience, for she knew how great a mercy it was that her father's life was spared. She sighed deeply, and then, suddenly rising quietly, she lifted the lid of the box, and brought out a well- worn Bible. She was not much of a scholar, but she could make out a verse or a passage in the Holy Book with a little pains. She had put her mark against favourite passages, and now she turned to some of these.

"'Come, unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"

She paused on each word, uttering it half aloud, as she travelled carefully from one line to another.

"Ah, that's what I want," she said to herself, but in an audible whisper. "It means, Come to Jesus, I know."

She turned over several more leaves, and then she read again, and rather louder,—

"'Be careful for nothing; but in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds, through Christ Jesus.'

"Oh yes, I must do so myself; I must tell the Lord all my trouble; my heart'll be lighter, when I've told it all to him."

She stopped, and put the book aside, resting her head on her hands. She was startled by hearing her father say,—

"It's very good. Read on, Betty, my lass."

"Oh, fayther, I didn't think you could hear me! What shall I read?"

"Read about some poor sinner like me, that got his sins pardoned by Jesus Christ."

"I can't justly say where it is, fayther; but I know there's one place where it tells of a sinful man as had his sins pardoned by Jesus Christ, even when he hung upon the cross. I know well it was when the Lord were a-dying. Ah, here it is;" and she read,—

"'And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him, saying, If thou be Christ, save thyself and us. But the other answering, rebuked him, saying, Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss. And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise.'"

"Do you think, Betty," asked Johnson very earnestly, "I should go to be with Jesus, if I were to die now? Oh, if this pain's so bad, what must hell-fire be?"

"Fayther," replied his daughter quietly, "the Lord's spared you for summat. I prayed him to spare you, and he'll not cast you off now as he's heard my prayer. If you take him at his word, he'll not tell you as you're mistaken—he'll not say he hasn't pardon in his heart for you."

"I believe it, I will believe it," said the poor man, the tears running down his cheeks. "O God, be merciful to me a sinner, for Jesus Christ's sake,"—there was a pause; then, after a while, he added, "I think as he'll hear me, Betty."

"I am sure he will," she answered; "but you must lie still, fayther, or maybe you'll do yourself harm. The doctor'll be here just now."

It was a night of darkness and terror, yet even on that sad night there was glorious light which man's eye could not see, for there was joy in the presence of the angels of God over at least one penitent sinner in Langhurst. But how full of gloom to most! Many had been cut off in the midst of their sins, and those who mourned their loss sorrowed as those who have no hope. Two of poor Johnson's persecutors were suddenly snatched away in their impenitence and hardness of heart, a third was crippled for life. Yet the drink kept firm hold of its victims—the very night of the explosion the "George" gathered a golden harvest. Death in its ghastliest forms only seemed to whet the thirst for the drink. At one house, while the blackened corpse lay in its clothes on the outside of the bed, preparatory to its being laid out, the dead man's widow and her female helpers sat refreshing themselves, and driving away care, with large potations of tea, made palatable with rum, and that so near the corpse that any one of the party could have touched it without rising from her seat.

The shock caused by the explosion was a terrible one, but its stunning effects passed away, only to leave the most who felt that shock harder and more indifferent than ever. Yet in one house that awful blow was found to be a messenger of mercy. Thomas Johnson rose from his bed of pain a changed and penitent man. Oh, what a happy day it was to Ned Brierley and his little band of stanch Christian abstainers, when Thomas came forward, as he soon did, and manfully signed the pledge, as resolved henceforth to be, with God's help, consistent and uncompromising in his entire renunciation of all intoxicating drinks!



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

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 hell, 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 God 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 passion, 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 brass is to go for the drink—and you know, Alice, you can't deny it, that you'd spend the brass in drink if I gave it yourself. But, more nor that, if I'd as much brass 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 brass, 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 passion had cooled, and she sat rocking herself backwards and forwards, with her apron 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 appetite. She had no money; she knew that none of the publicans would trust her any longer; and as for pawning any articles, she had pawned 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 brass 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 brass 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 brass, and all my brass too, 'll have to go to pay old debts for many a long week to come."

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

"As much brass 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 brass to spare for gin and baccy."

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

"Well, but she manages to get the brass 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 nobody."

"Maybe she don't," said Alice carelessly, "but she's always brass 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 brass 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 God 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 God 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 hell. 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 passed, 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 God'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 lass," 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.'"

"God 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 space 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,—

"Does not Thomas Johnson live here?"

"Yes; he does," was Johnson's reply.

"And I suppose, then, you're Thomas Johnson yourself?" said the stranger.

"I reckon you're not so far wrong," was the answer.

"Ah, well; so it is for sure," broke out Betty. "Why, you're the teetottal chap as came a-lecturing when me and our poor Sammul signed the pledge."

"Sit ye down, sit ye down," cried her father; "you're welcome to our house, though it is but a sorrowful one."

"I think, my friend," said the stranger, "that you are one of us now."

"You may well say now," replied the other, "for when you was here afore, you'd a gone out of the door a deal quicker nor you came in; but, I bless the Lord, things are changed now."

"Yes, indeed," said the other, "it is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes; though, indeed, he does work such wonderful things that we've daily cause to bless and praise him. Well, my friend—for we are friends, I see, in the best of bonds now—I have not long to stay now, but I just want to ask you one thing. I should like to have a total abstinence meeting next month in Langhurst. Will you say a word for us? We want some working man who has been rescued, through God's mercy, from the chains of the drink, to stand up and tell, in a simple, straightforward way, what he once was, and what God has done for him as a pledged abstainer; and I judge, from what I hear, that you're just the man we want."

Johnson paused for a while.

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head; "I don't know. I'm not so sure it'll do at all."

"Oh, fayther," cried Betty, "you must do what the gentleman axes you. It may do good to some poor creatures, and lead 'em to sign. It's only a small candle-end as the Lord's given such as we are, but we must light it, and let it shine."

"Well," said her father, slowly, "maybe I oughtn't to say 'No;' and yet you may be sure, if it gets talked on in the village, it's little peace as I shall have."

"Well, my friend," said the stranger, "of course I don't wish to bring you into trouble. Still this is one of the ways in which you may take up a cross nobly for your Saviour, and he'll give the strength to carry it."

"Say no more," replied Johnson; "if the Lord spares me, they shall hear a gradely tale from me."

It was soon noised abroad in Langhurst that Thomas Johnson was to give an account of himself as a reformed man and a total abstainer, at a meeting to be held in the village in the following month of November.

His old companions were half mad with rage and vexation. What could be done? They were determined that he should be served out in some way, and that he should be prevented from appearing at the meeting. Come what would, he should not stand up and triumph in his teetotalism on the platform—that they were quite resolved on. Some scheme or plan must be devised to hinder it. And fortune seemed to favour them.

A short time after it became generally known that Johnson was to speak, a young lad might be seen hurrying home in his coal-pit-clothes to a low, dirty-looking cottage that stood on the outskirts of the village.

"Mother," cried the boy, as soon as he reached the house and could recover his breath, "where's fayther?"

"He's not come home yet," said the mother; "but what ails you, John?"

"Why, mother," said the boy, with trembling voice, "fayther gave me a shilling to get change just as we was leaving the pit-bank, and I dropped it somewhere as I were coming down the lane. I'm almost sure Ben Taylor's lad found it, and picked it up; but when I axed him if he hadn't got it, he said 'No,' and told me he'd knock my head against the wall if I didn't hold my noise. I see'd fayther go by at the lane end, but he didn't see me. He'll thrash the life out of me if he finds I've lost the shilling.—I've run for my life, but he'll be here directly. You must make it right, mother—you must."

"Ay, ay, lad; I'll speak to your fayther. He shan't beat you. Just keep out of the road till he's cooled down a bit. Eh! here he comes for sure, and a lot of his mates with him. There—just creep under the couch-chair, lad. They'll not tarry so long. Fayther'll be off to the 'George' as soon as he's had his tea."

So the poor boy crept under the couch, the hanging drapery effectually hiding him from the view of any who might come in. Another moment, and Will Jones the father entered the house with half-a-dozen companions.

"Well, and what's up now?" asked the wife, as the men seated themselves—some on chairs, and one or two on the couch.

"Never you heed, Martha," said her husband; "but just clap to the door, and take yourself off to Molly Grundy's, or anywhere else you've a mind."

"I can tell you I shall do nothing of the sort," was the reply. "A likely thing, indeed, as I'm to take myself off and leave my own hearth- stone while a parcel of chaps is turning the house out of the windows. If you're up to that sort of game, or if you want to be talking anything as decent folk shouldn't hear, you'd better be off to the 'George.' It's the fittest place for such work."

"Eh! don't vex Martha," said one of the men. "She'll promise not to split, I'll answer for it. Won't you, Martha?"

"Eh, for sure," said Martha, "if you're bound to have your talk here, you needn't be afraid of me; only I hope you're not going to do anything as'll bring us into trouble."

"Never fear," said her husband; "there, sit you down and mend your stockings, and the less you heed us the less you'll have to afterthink."

The men then began to talk together in a loudish whisper.

"Tommy Jacky'll be making a fine tale about you and me," said Jones. "Eh, what a sighing and groaning there will be; and then we shall see in the papers, 'Mr Johnson finished his speech amidst loud applause.'"

"Eh, but we must put a stopper in his mouth," said another.

"But how must we do it?" asked a third. "Thomas is not the chap to be scared out of what he's made up his mind to."

"No," remarked another; "and there's many a one as'd stand by him if we were to try anything strong."

"Can't we shame him at the meeting?" asked another.

"Nay," said Jones, "he's gradely. You couldn't shame him by telling folks what he was; and all as knows him knows as he's kept his teetottal strict enough."

"I have it!" cried a man, the expression of whose face was a sad mixture of sensuality, shrewdness, and malice. "I'll just tell you what we'll do. You know how people keeps saying—'What a changed man Johnson is! how respectable and clean he looks! how tidy he's dressed when he goes to church on a Sunday!—you've only to look in his face to see he's a changed man.' Now, I'll just tell you what we'll do, if you've a mind to stand by me and give me a help. It'll do him no harm in the end, and'll just take a little of the conceit out on him. And won't it just spoil their sport at the meeting!"

"Tell us what it is, man," cried all the others eagerly.

"Well, you know the water-butt at the back of Thomas's house. Well, you can reach the windows of the chamber by standing on the butt. The window's not hard to open, for I've often seen Alice throw it up; and I'm sure it's not fastened. Now, just suppose we waits till the night afore the meeting; that'll be the twenty-second—there'll be no moon then. Thomas won't be in the night-shift that week. I know he sleeps sound, for I've heard their Betty say as it were the only thing as kept 'em up, that they slept both on 'em so well. Suppose, then, as we gets a goodish-sized furze bush or two, and goes round to the back about two o'clock in the morning. We must have a rope or two; then we must take off our clogs, and climb up by the water-butt. The one as goes up first must have a dark lantern. Well, then, we must creep quietly in, and just lap a rope loosely round the bed till we're all ready. Then we'll just tighten the rope so that he can't move, and I'll scratch his sweet face all over with the furze; and one of you chaps must have some gunpowder and lamp-black ready to rub it well into his face where it's been scratched. You must stuff a clout into his mouth if he offers to holler. We can do it all in two minutes by the help of the lantern. The light'll dazzle him so as he'll not be able to make any on us out; and then we must slip out of the window and be off afore he's had time to wriggle himself out of the ropes. Eh, won't he be a lovely pictur next day!—his best friends, as they say, won't know him. Won't he just look purty at the meeting! There's a model teetottaller for you! Do you think he'll have the face to say then, 'You've heard, ladies and gentlemen, what I once was; you see what I am now?' Oh, what a rare game it'll be!"

This proposition was received by the rest of the company with roars of laughter and the fullest approbation.

"It'll be first-rate," said Jones, "if we can only manage it."

"Surely," said another, "he'll never dare show his face out of the door."

"Ah, but," suggested one, "what about Betty? She's sure to wake and spoil it all. It's too risky, with her sleeping close by."

"No," said another man, "it'll just be all right. Betty'll be off at Rochdale visiting her aunt. Our Mary heard Fanny Higson and Betty talking it over at the mill a day or two since. 'So you'll not be at the meeting?' says Fanny. 'Why not?' says Betty. ''Cos you'll be off at your aunt's at Rochdale,' says Fanny. 'Ah, but I'm bound to be back for the meeting, and hear fayther tell his tale,' says Betty. 'I'll be back some time in the forenoon, to see as fayther has his Sunday shirt and shoes, and his clothes all right, and time enough to dress myself for the meeting. Old Jenny'll see to fayther while I'm off. It'll be all right if I'm at home some time in the forenoon.' So you see, mates, it couldn't be better; as the parson says, it's quite a providence."

"Well, what say you?" cried Will Jones. "Shall we strike hands on it?"

All at once shook hands, vowing to serve out poor Johnson.

"Ay," exclaimed one, "we must get the chap as takes photographs to come over on purpose. Eh, what a rare cart-der-wissit Tommy'll make arter the scratching. You must lay in a lot on 'em, Will, and sell 'em for sixpence a piece. You'll make your fortune by it, man."

"Martha," said Jones, turning to his wife, "mind, not a word to any living soul about what we've been saying."

"I've said I won't tell," replied his wife; "and in course I won't. But I'm sure you might find summat better to do nor scratching a poor fellow's face as has done you no harm. I'm not fond of your teetottal chaps; but Tommy's a quiet, decent sort of man, and their Betty's as tidy a wench as you'll meet with anywhere; and I think it's a shame to bring 'em any more trouble, for they've had more nor their share as it is. It'd be a rare and good thing if some of you chaps'd follow Tommy's example. There'd be more peace in the house, and more brass in the pocket at the week end."

"Hold your noise, and mind your own business," shouted her husband, fiercely. "You just blab a word of what we've been saying, and see how I'll sarve you out.—Come, mates, let's be off to the 'George;' we shall find better company there."

So saying, he strode savagely out of the cottage, followed by his companions. When they were fairly gone, the poor boy slipped from his hiding-place.

"Johnny," said his mother, "if you'll do what your mother bids you, I'll give your fayther the change for the shilling out of my own pocket, and he'll never know as you lost it."

"Well, mother, I'll do it if I can."

"You've heard what your fayther and t'other chaps were saying?"

"Yes, mother; every word on't."

"Well, John, I promised I wouldn't let out a word of it myself; but I didn't say that you shouldn't."

"Eh, mother, if I split, fayther'll break every bone in my body."

"But how's your fayther to know anything about it? He knows nothing of your being under the couch-chair. I can swear as I haven't opened my lips to any one out of the house, nor to any one as has come into it. You just slip down now to Thomas's, and tell their Betty you wants to speak with her by herself. Tell her she mustn't say a word to any one. She's a good wench. She's sharp enough, too; she'll keep it all snug. She were very good to me when our Moses were down with the fever, and I mustn't let her get into this trouble when I can lend her a helping hand to get her out."

"But, mother," said her son, "what am I to tell Betty?"

"Why, just tell her all you've heard, and how you were under the couch- chair, and how I promised myself as I wouldn't split. Tell her she must make no din about it, but just keep her fayther out of the way. He may go off to his brother Dick's, and come home in the morn, and who's to say as he's heard anything about the scratching."

"Well, mother," said John, "I'll do as you say. Betty's a good wench; she's given me many a kind word, and many a butter cake too, and I'd not like to see her fretting if I could help it."

"There's a good lad," said his mother; "be off at once. Fayther's safe in the 'George.' It'll be pretty dark in the lane. You can go in at the back, and you're pretty sure to find Betty at home. Be sharp, and I'll keep your tea for you till you come back again."



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

FLITTING.

The twenty-second of November, the day before the total abstinence meeting, arrived in a storm of wind and rain. Everything was favourable to the conspirators. They had met several times to arrange their plans, but had always talked them over in the open air and in the dark, under a hedge, or at the end of a lane. Martha never alluded to the subject with her husband. He had once said to her himself—

"Mind what you've promised."

She replied,—

"Never fear. I said I wouldn't tell, and I haven't told. I haven't breathed a word to any one as wasn't in the house the night when you talked it over."

Her husband was satisfied.

Betty was gone to her aunt's, and it was positively ascertained that she was not to return that night. Johnson had clearly no intention of spending the night away from home, for, as he was leaving the pit-bank, when Will Jones stepped up to him and said,—

"Well, Thomas, I suppose you'll have a rare tale to tell about your old mates to-morrow; we must come all on us and hearken you."

He had quietly replied,—

"I hope, Will, you'll hear nothing as'll do any of you any harm, and I hope you wish me none, as I'm sure I don't wish any harm to you. I mustn't tarry now, for our Betty's off; and I've much to do at home, for to-morrow'll be a busy day for me."

A little later on, towards nine o'clock, one of the men in the plot passed by Johnson's house, and heard his voice in conversation with some one else. All, therefore, was in a right train for their scheme to succeed. At ten o'clock the whole party met in a lane near Will Jones's.

"It's all right," said the man who had heard Johnson in conversation with another man a short time before. "Thomas'll be fast asleep afore long. The window's all right, too; I just slipped round to the back and looked at it."

"Well," said Jones, "now we must all on us go home. We mustn't be seen together. We're all to meet in the field when the church clock strikes two. Who's got the powder and the lamp-black?"

"I have," replied a voice.

"And who's got the ropes?"

"I have," whispered another.

"Well, that's all right," said Will, with a low, chuckling laugh. "I've got the lantern and furze. I've picked out some with a rare lot of pricks on't. I reckon he'll not look so handsome in the morning."

Quietly and stealthily they separated, and shrunk off to their own houses.

A few hours later, and several dusky figures were slipping along with as little noise as possible towards the dwelling of the poor victim. It was still very boisterous, but the rain had almost ceased. Thick, heavy clouds, black as ink, were being hurried across the sky, while the wind was whistling keenly round the ends of the houses. There were gaslights which flickered in the gale along the main road; but everything was in the densest gloom at the rear of the buildings and down the side streets. As the church clock struck two, the first stroke loud and distinct, the next like its mournful echo—as the sound was borne away by the fitful breeze, the conspirators crept with the utmost caution to the back of Johnson's house. Not a sound but their own muffled footsteps could be heard. Not a light was visible through any window. No voice except that of the wailing wind broke the deep stillness. The black walls of the different dwellings rose up dreary and solemn, with spectral-looking pipes dimly projecting from them. The drip, drip of the rain, as it fell off the smoky slates, or streamed down the walls, giving them here and there a dusky glaze, intensified the mournful loneliness of the whole scene.

"Crouch you down under the water-butt," whispered Ben Stone, the man who had proposed the scheme, and who now acted as leader.

"Will, give me your shoulder—where's the lantern?"

In another moment he was close to the window, which was gently raised, but at that instant something struck him on the back, he uttered a half- suppressed exclamation, and nearly loosed his hold.

"It's only a cat," whispered one of the men below. "All's right." Stone again raised himself to the window, and pushed it farther up; then he drew himself down out of sight and listened. Not a sound came from the chamber to show that Johnson's sleep was disturbed. Again the man raised himself. He had previously taken off his clogs, as had also the others. Very gradually and warily, with suppressed breath, he lowered himself on to the floor. All was safe so far. Betty had slept here, but her bed was now empty; indeed, to Ben Stone's surprise, the bedstead was bare both of mattress and bedclothes. Johnson's was the inner chamber. Ben stole softly to the door, all was dark and quiet; he could just make out the bed, and that a figure lay upon it. He hastily caused the light of the lantern to flash on the recumbent form for a single moment, it seemed to him to move; he crouched down close to the floor, and listened—again all was still. He was now convinced that Johnson lay there in a deep sleep. Now was the time. Stepping back to the window on tiptoe, he put out his head, and whispered,—

"All's right; come up as quietly as you can."

They were all soon in the outer chamber.

"Now," said Stone in a low voice, "you give me the furze—there, that'll do. Will, have you got the pot with the powder and lamp-black?—that's your sort—where's the ropes?—all right—now then."

All reached the floor of the outer room without any mishap, and then, treading with the utmost caution, approached the bed in the inner room. The sleeper did not stir. Ben Stone threw the light upon the prostrate figure, which lay coiled up, and apparently quite unconscious. A rope was now thrown loosely round, the men crawling along the floor, and just raising themselves on one elbow as they jerked it lightly across the bedstead; then another coil was made higher up, still the sleeper did not stir hand or foot.

"Now, then," cried Ben, half out loud, and throwing the full blaze of the lantern on the bed's head; in a moment the other men had drawn the ropes tight, and Jones leant over with his pot. But before Ben had time to plunge the furze upon the unhappy victim's face, a suppressed cry broke from the whole group. It was no living being that lay there, but only a bundle of old carpeting, with a dirty coverlid thrown over it. The next instant the truth burst upon them all. Johnson was gone. They looked at one another the very picture of stupid bewilderment. A hasty flash of the lantern showed that there was no other bed in the chamber.

"Well, here's a go," whispered Jones; "the bird's flown, and a pretty tale we shall have to tell."

"Stop," said Ben, in an under-voice, and motioning the others to keep quiet, "maybe he's sleeping on the couch-chair in the house."

"I'll go and see," said Jones.

Cautiously he descended the stairs, terrified at every creak they made under his weight. Did he hear anything? No; it was only the pattering of the rain-drops outside. Stealthily he peeped into the kitchen; no one was there, the few smouldering ashes in the grate being the only token of recent occupation. So he went back to his friends in the chamber.

"Eh, see, what's here!" cried one of the men, in an agitated voice; "look on the floor."

They turned the light of the lantern on to the chamber-floor, and a strange sight indeed presented itself. Right across the room, in regular lines, were immense letters in red and black adhering to the boards.

"Ben, you're a scholar," said Jones; "read 'em."

Stone, thus appealed to, made the light travel slowly along the words, and read in a low and faltering voice,—

"No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God."

Then he passed on to the red letters, and the words were,—

"Prepare to meet thy God."

A deathlike stillness fell on the whole party, who had hitherto spoken in loud whispers. Terror seized the hearts of some, and bitter shame stung the consciences of others.

"We must get out of this as fast as we can," said Jones. "If we're taken roving about the house this fashion, we shall all be clapped in prison for housebreakers. Least said about this, mates, soonest mended. We'd best hold our tongues. Old Tommy's clean outwitted us; he has for sure. Maybe it serves us right."

All made their way back as hastily as possible through the window, and separated to their several homes, only too glad to have escaped detection.

And what was become of Thomas Johnson? Nobody could tell. When the morning arrived, old Jenny went to the house, but the door was locked. A piece of furze, an old rag, and some black-looking stuff were found near the water-butt at the back, but what they could have to do with Johnson's disappearance no one could say. He was, however, manifestly gone, and Betty too, for neither of them made their appearance that day. The meeting was held, but no Thomas Johnson made his appearance at it, and his friends were lost in conjecture. But days and weeks passed away, and nothing turned up to gratify or satisfy public curiosity in the matter. Jones never spoke of it to his wife or any one else, and the rest of the party were equally wise in keeping their own counsel as to the intended assault and its failure. The landlord of Johnson's house claimed the scanty furniture for the rent, and no one turned up to dispute the claim. So all traces of Thomas Johnson were utterly lost to Langhurst.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

FALLING AWAY.

And now we must leave the mystery for a future unravelling, and return to Abraham Oliphant and his guests at "The Rocks."

For several days Hubert and Frank remained with Mr Oliphant, riding out among the hills and into the town, as pleasure or business called them. But an idle, objectless life was not one to suit Hubert; and Frank, of course, could not continue much longer as a guest at "The Rocks." It was soon settled that the nephew should assist his uncle, and Frank determined to look-out for a home. It was arranged that Jacob Poole should come to him as soon as he was settled, and in the meanwhile Mr Oliphant found the boy employment. Unfortunately for himself, Frank Oldfield was not in any way dependent for his living on his own exertions. His father allowed him to draw on him to the amount of three hundred pounds a year, so that, with reasonable care, he could live very comfortably, especially if he voluntarily continued the total abstinence which he had been compelled to practise on board ship. The reader is aware that he had never been a pledged abstainer at any time. Even when most overwhelmed with shame, and most anxious to regain the place he had lost in Mary Oliphant's esteem and affection, he would not take the one step which might have interposed a barrier between himself and those temptations which he had not power to resist, when they drew upon him with a severe or sudden strain. He thought that he was only asserting a manly independence when he refused to be pledged, whereas he was simply just allowing Satan to cheat him with a miserable lie, while he held in reserve his right to commit an excess which he flattered himself he should never be guilty of; but which he was secretly resolved not to bind himself to forego. Thus he played fast and loose with his conscience, and was really being carried with the tide while he fancied himself to be riding safely at anchor. Had he then forgotten Mary? Had he relinquished all desire and hope of seeing her once more, and claiming her for his wife? No; she was continually in his thoughts. His affection was deepened by absence and distance; but by a strange infatuation, spite of all that had happened in the past, he would always picture her to himself as his, irrespective of his own steadfastness and sobriety. He knew she would never consent to be a drunkard's wife, yet at the same time he would never allow himself to realise that he could himself forfeit her hand and love through the drunkard's sin. He would never look steadily at the matter in this light at all. He was sober now, and he took for granted that he should continue to be so. It was treason to himself and to his manhood and truth to doubt it. And so, when, after he had been about a month in the colony, he received a letter from Mrs Oliphant full of kindly expressions of interest and hopes that, by the time he received the letter, he would have formally enrolled himself amongst the pledged abstainers, he fiercely crumpled up the letter and thrust it from him, persuading himself that he was justly annoyed that the permanence of his sober habits should be doubted; whereas, in truth, the sting was in this, that the reading of the letter dragged out from some dark recess of his consciousness the conviction that, with all his high resolve and good intentions, he was standing on an utterly sandy foundation, and leaning for support on a brittle wand of glass. And thus he was but ill-fortified to wrestle with his special temptation when he settled down, a few weeks after his arrival, in a commodious cottage not very far from "The Rocks." His new dwelling was the property of a settler, who, having realised a moderate fortune, and wishing to have a peep at the old country, was glad to let his house for a term of three years at a reasonable rent. The rooms were small but very snug, the fittings being all of cedar, which gave a look of refinement and elegance to the interior. There were good stables, coach-house, and offices, and a well of the purest water—a great matter in a place where many had no water at all except what dropped from the heavens, or had to content themselves with brackish wells. There was a lovely garden, with everything in fruit and flower that could be desired; while, in the fields around, grew the aromatic gum, the canidia, or native lilac, with its clusters of purple blossoms, and the wattle, with its waving tufts of almond-scented flowers.

When Jacob joined his master in his Australian home, he hardly knew how to express his delight and admiration.

"Well, Jacob," said Frank, "you're likely to have plenty of fresh air and exercise if you stay with me. I shall want you to be gardener, groom, and valet. Mrs Watson,"—(a widow who had undertaken the situation of housekeeper)—"will look after the house, and the eatables and drinkables."

"Indeed, sir," said Jacob, "I'll do my best; but I shall have to learn, and you must excuse a few blunders at the first. I shall manage the garden well enough, I reckon, after a bit, though I'm not certain which way the roots of the flowers grows in these foreign parts;—the cherries, I see, has their stones growing outside on 'em, and maybe the roots of the flowers is out in the air, and the flowers in the ground. As for the horses, I'm not so much of a rider; but I must stick to their backs, I reckon. They'll be rayther livelier, some on 'em, I suppose, nor our old pit horses, as hadn't seen daylight for ten years or more. But as for being a wally, you must insense me into that, for I don't know anything about it. If it's anything to do with making beds or puddings, I have never had no knowledge of anything of the sort."

Frank was highly entertained at the poor boy's perplexity.

"Oh, never fear, Jacob; where there's a will there's a way—and I see you've got the will. I'll trust you to learn your gardening from Mr Oliphant's man at 'The Rocks.' You must go and get him to give you a lesson or two; and if the seeds should not come up at first, I must take it for granted that you've sown them wrong side upwards. As for the riding, I'll undertake myself to make you a good horseman in a very little time. So there's only one thing left, and that's the valet. You needn't be afraid of it; it's nothing whatever to do with making beds or puddings—that's all in Mrs Watson's department. What I mean by valet is a person who will just wait upon me, as you waited on Captain Merryweather on board ship."

"Oh, is that it!" cried Jacob, greatly relieved; "then I can manage it gradely, I haven't a doubt."

And he did manage it gradely. Never was there a more willing learner or trustworthy servant—his was the service of love; and every day bound him more and more firmly to his young master with the cords of devoted affection. Frank returned the attachment with all the natural warmth of his character. He delighted in the rough openness, which never degenerated into rudeness or disrespect; for Jacob, while free and unconstrained in his manner, instinctively knew his place and kept it. There was also a raciness and good sense in his observations, which made Frank find in him a pleasant companion in their many wanderings, both on horse and on foot. Frank was always a welcome guest at "The Rocks," where he learned to value and reverence Abraham Oliphant, and to feel a hearty liking for his sons and daughters. But his heart was over the water, and he felt that he could never settle alone and without Mary in that far-off land. He often wrote to his mother, and also to Mary. To the latter he expressed himself full of hope that he should be able to return home before many years were passed, and claim her for his own; but he never alluded to the cause of his temporary banishment, nor did he reply to the questions which she put to him on the subject of total abstinence, except by saying briefly that she might trust him, and need not fear.

"Jacob," he said one day, as he concluded a letter to his mother, "I believe the mail leaves to-day for England, and these letters ought to be in Adelaide by three o'clock. You shall ride in with them, and bring me out a 'Reporter.' By the way, isn't there any one in the old country you would like to write to yourself? Perhaps you do write, only I've never noticed you doing so!"

The colour flushed up into Jacob's face, as he replied, with some confusion and hesitation,—

"Well, you see, sir—why—I'm not so sure—well—truth to tell, in the first place, I'm not so much of a scholar."

"Ah, exactly," said his master; "but that need be no hindrance. I shall be very glad to write for you, if you don't want to send any secrets, and you'll only tell me what to say."

Jacob got very uneasy. The tears came into his eyes. He did not speak for several minutes. At last he said, with much emotion,—

"'Deed, sir, and you're very kind; but there's none as I care to write to gradely. There's them as should be all the world to me, but they're nothing to me now. I can't tell you just what it is; but it's even as I'm saying to you. There's one as I should have liked—ah, well—she'll be better without it. Thank you, sir; you're very kind indeed, but I won't trouble you."

Frank saw that there was a secret; he had therefore too much delicacy of feeling to press Jacob any further; so he merely said,—

"Well, at any time, if you like me to write home, or anywhere else for you, I shall be glad to do so. And now you'd better be off. Take little Silvertail; a canter will do her good. I shall ride Roderick myself up through the gully. You may tell Mrs Watson not to bring tea in till she sees me, as I may be late."

Jacob was soon off on his errands, and his master proceeded slowly up the hilly gorge at the back of his house.

"There's some mystery about Jacob," he said to himself; as he rode quietly along; "but I suppose it's the case with a great many who come to these colonies. 'Least said, soonest mended,' is true, I fancy, in a great many cases."

It was a lovely afternoon. The sun was pouring forth a blaze of light and heat, such as is rarely experienced out of tropical countries. And yet, when the heat was most intense, there was an elasticity about the air which prevented any feeling of oppression or exhaustion.

The road wound up through quaint-looking hills, doubled one into another, like the upturned knuckles of some gigantic hand. Every now and then, at a bend in the track, the high lands, sloping away on either side, disclosed the distant town lying like a child's puzzle on the plain, with the shadowy flats and dim ocean in the far background. By overshadowing rocks and down sudden steeps the road kept its irregular course; and now it would cleave its way along a mile of table-land, elevated above a perfect ocean of trees on either side, which seemed as though human hand or foot had never trespassed on their sombre solitude. Yet, every here and there the marks of destruction would suggest thoughts of man's work and presence. Whole tracts of forest would be filled with half-charred trunks, the centres black and hollowed out, the upper parts green and flourishing as ever.

Nothing, for a time, broke the silence of Frank's solitary ride, as he made his way along the serpentine road rising still higher and higher, and every now and then emerging upon broader and broader views of the plains and ocean beyond them, while the interlocking hills beneath his feet had dwindled down into a row of hillocks like funeral mounts in some Titanic graveyard. And now, as he paused in admiration to gaze on the lovely view spread out before him, he felt the burning heat relieved for a moment by a flying cloud; he looked upward—it was a flight of the yellow-crested cockatoo, which passed rapidly on with deafening screeches. A while after, and a flock of the all-coloured parakeet sped past him like the winged fragments of a rainbow. Look where he would, all was beautiful: the sky above, a pure Italian blue—the distant ocean sparkling—the lands of the plain smiling in peaceful sunshine—the hills on all sides quaint and fantastic—the highlands around him thick with their forests—the sward, wherever trees were thickly scattered, enamelled with flowers of the brightest scarlet. Oh, how sad that sin should mar the beauties with which the hand of God has so lavishly clothed even this fallen world.

Frank's heart was filled with a delight that ascended into adoration of the Great Creator; then tenderer thoughts stole over him—thoughts of home, thoughts of the hearts which loved him still, spite of the past. Oh, how his spirit yearned for a sight of the loved and dear familiar faces he had left behind in the old but now far-off land! Tears filled his eyes, and he murmured something like a prayer. It was but for a little while, however, that thoughts like these kept possession of his heart; for he was brought rudely back to things before him by the rapid sound of horses' feet. The next moment, round a turn of the road came a saddled horse without a rider, the broken bridle dangling from its head.

"Stop her, if you please," cried a young lady, who was following at the top of her speed.

Frank immediately crossed the path of the runaway animal, and succeeded in catching it.

"I hope you have not been thrown or hurt," he said, as he restored it to its owner.

"Oh no, thank you," she replied. "I'm so much obliged to you. We—that is, some friends and myself—are up in these hills to-day, on a picnicking excursion. My mare was hung up to a tree, and while we were looking after the provisions, she broke her bridle and got off."

Several gentlemen now came running up. They thanked Frank for his timely help, and asked him if he would not come and join their party. There was a heartiness and cheeriness of manner about them which made it impossible for him to say, "No," so he assented, and followed them to an open space a short way off the road, round the next turn, where a very merry company were gathered among the trees, with the scarlet- embroidered sward for their table.

"Pray, take a seat among us," said one of the gentlemen who had invited him. "I'll secure your horse—is he tolerably quiet?"

"Perfectly so; but you'd better take his saddle off, lest he should be inclined to indulge in a roll."

"I am sure, sir, I owe you many thanks," said the young lady whose horse he had caught; "for, if you had not stopped my mare, she would have been half-way to Adelaide by this time, and one of us must have walked."

Frank made a suitable reply, and was at once quite at ease with his new companions. There were four gentlemen and as many ladies, the latter in the prime of life, and full of spirits, which the stranger's presence did not check. No spot could be more lovely than the one chosen for their open-air meal. Before them was the deep, sloping chasm, revealing the distant town and ocean, and clothed on either side with unbroken forests. All around was the brilliant carpeting of flowers; overhead, the intensely blue sky, latticed here and there with the interlacing boughs of trees. The dinner or luncheon was spread out on a white cloth, and consisted of the usual abundance of fowls, pies, and tarts, proper to such occasions, and flanked by what was evidently considered no secondary part of the refreshments—a compact regiment of pale ale, porter, wine, and spirit-bottles. Under ordinary circumstances such a sight would have been very inviting; but it was doubly so to Frank, after his long and hot ride. All were disposed to treat him, as the stranger, with pressing hospitality; but his own free and gentlemanly bearing, and the openness with which he answered the questions put to him, as well as the hearty geniality of his conversation, made all his new acquaintances delighted with him, and eager to supply his wants as their guest. It is not, therefore, much to be wondered at that any half-formed resolutions as to total abstinence which he might have vaguely entertained soon melted away before the cordial entreaties of the gentlemen that he would not spare the ale, wine, or spirits.

"You'll have found riding in such a sun thirsty work, I'm sure, sir," said a stout, jolly-looking man, who was evidently one of the leaders of the party. Frank made just a feeble answer about not drinking, and a pretence of holding back his glass, and then allowed himself to be helped first to one tumbler, then another, and then another, of foaming Bass. He was soon past all qualms, regrets, or misgivings.

"Capital stuff this," he said; "do you know where I can get some?"

"Most proud to serve you, my dear sir," said the stout gentleman. "I have a large stock on hand; anything in the way of ale, porter, wine, or spirits, I flatter myself no one in Adelaide is better able to supply; perhaps you'll kindly favour me with an order!"

"Certainly," said Frank, and gave his address, and an order for ale, wine, and spirits to be sent over to his cottage the following day. And now, from his long previous abstinence, what he had already drunk had begun to tell upon him. He felt it, and rose to go, but his entertainers would not hear of his leaving them; for, under the excitement of the strong drink, he had been pouring forth anecdotes, and making himself in other ways so entertaining and agreeable, that his new friends were most anxious to detain him. So wine and brandy were added to his previous potations; and when at last, with assistance, he mounted his horse, it was with the greatest difficulty he could retain his seat in the saddle. And thus the whole party, singing, shouting, laughing, descended along the winding track, making God's beautiful creation hideous by the jarring of their brutal mirth; for surely that mirth is brutal which springs, not from a heart filled with innocent rejoicing, but from lips that sputter out the frenzies of a brain on fire with the stimulants of alcohol. How Frank Oldfield got home he could not tell. His horse knew his road, and followed it; for, dumb brute as he was, his senses were not clouded by the unnatural stimulant which had stolen away the intellects of his rational master.

Darkness had settled down when horse and rider reached the slip-rail at the entrance of the field before Frank's house. Jacob was there, for he had heard his master's voice some ten minutes earlier singing snatches of songs in a wild exaggerated manner. Poor Jacob, he could hardly believe his ears, as he listened to "Rule Britannia" shouted out by those lips which, he had imagined, never allowed strong drink to pass them.

"Is that you, Jacob, my boy?" cried Frank thickly.

"Yes, sir," said Jacob sorrowfully.

"Let down—shlip-rail—th-there's—good lad," added his master.

"It's down," replied the other shortly.

"Tchick—tchick, Roderick," cried Frank, almost tumbling over his horse's head. At last they reached the house door. Mrs Watson came out, candle in hand.

"How are you, Mrs Watson?" hiccupped her master. "Lend us a light—all right; that's poetry, and no mistake—ha, ha, ha! capital, Jacob, my boy, ain't it?" and he tumbled over one side of his horse, only saving himself from falling to the ground by catching hold of one of the posts of the verandah. But we need not follow him further. He slept the heavy drunkard's sleep that night, and rose the next morning feverish, sick, thirsty, degraded, humbled, miserable. Poor Jacob's face would have been a picture, could it have been taken as he looked upon his master staggering into the house by the light of Mrs Watson's candle—a very picture it would have been of mingled astonishment, perplexity, distress, disgust.

"Well," he said to himself moodily, "I thought the old lad had his hands full in the old country, but it's like he's not content with that; I'd as soon have thought of the Queen of England taking pick and Davy-lamp and going down to work in the pit, as of my young mayster coming home beastly drunk. My word, it's awful; 'tis for sure."

When master and servant met next day each avoided the other's eye. Frank spoke moodily, and Jacob answered surlily. But it was not in Frank's nature to continue long in constraint of manner with any one, so, calling to his servant in a cheery voice,—

"Here, Jacob," he cried, "I want you in the garden." Jacob ran to him briskly, for there was a charm in his young master's manner which he could not resist.

"Jacob," said Frank Oldfield, "you saw me last night as I trust you will never see me again, overcome with drink."

"Ay, mayster," said the other, "I see'd you sure enough, and I'd sooner have see'd a yard full of lions and tigers nor such a sight as that."

"Well, Jacob, it was the first, and I trust the last time too; it was wrong, very wrong. I'm thoroughly ashamed that you should have seen me in such a plight. I was betrayed into it. I ought to have been more on my guard; you mustn't think any more of it; I'll take care it doesn't happen again."

"Ah, mayster," said the other, "I shall be rare and glad if it doesn't. I hope you'll keep gradely teetottal, for the drink's a cheating and lying thing."

"I hope so too," said Frank, and then the conversation dropped.

But now he remembered that the wine, beer, and spirits which he had ordered were to come that very evening. What was he to do? Conscience said very plainly, "Stand forth like a man, be at once a total abstainer, it is your only safe course; tell Jacob all about it, and send a counter-order by him at once, with a note of apology; call to- morrow on the merchant, and tell him in a straightforward way that you feel it your duty to become an abstainer forthwith; thus you will at once show your colours, and will save yourself from much annoyance, and, what is better still, from sin; and sign the pledge, that you may have a barrier between yourself and the drink which all the world can understand." Thus conscience spoke softly but clearly, as with the vibrations of a silver bell; but lust, with its hot hand, stilled those vibrations with a touch. Frank would not counter-order the drink, for he loved it; he persuaded himself that he should be strictly moderate, while he was secretly determined to keep within his reach the means of excess. And yet he was very anxious that Jacob should not be aware of the coming of any drink into the house. So he watched hour after hour as evening drew on, feeling more like a felon bent on some deed of darkness than an honest, straightforward Englishman. At last he saw the merchant's spring-cart in the distance. Making some excuse for sending Jacob to a house about a quarter of a mile off, and setting Mrs Watson down in the kitchen to an interesting article in the newspaper, he met the cart at the gate, and assisted the driver to carry the hampers of strong drinkables, with all possible haste, into his bed-room. Then, quickly dismissing the man, he locked himself into his chamber, and carefully deposited the hampers in a large cupboard near the head of his bed. When he had completed all this he began to breathe freely again. And thus he commenced the downward course of unfaltering, deliberate deceit. Hitherto he had deceived himself chiefly, keeping the truth in the background of his consciousness; now he was carefully planning to deceive others. And oh, what a mean, paltry deceit it was—so low does rational, immortal man stoop when under the iron grasp of a master sin! And so, with carefully-locked door, and stealthy step, and cautious handling of glass and bottle, lest any one should hear, Frank Oldfield drank daily of the poison that was ruining his body and paralysing his moral nature; for whatever it might or might not be to others, it was assuredly poison to him. Jacob Poole mused and wondered, and could not make him out—sometimes he saw him deeply depressed, at another time in a state of overboiling spirits and extravagant gaiety. Poor Jacob's heart misgave him as to the cause, and yet he fully believed that there were no intoxicating liquors in the house. But things could not remain in this position; there is no sin which runs with such accumulating speed as the drunkard's. Frank would now be seldom riding to "The Rocks," and often to the town; he would stay away from home night after night, and no one knew what had become of him. Poor Jacob began to get very weary, and to dread more and more that he should find his young master becoming a confirmed slave to the drink. Frank's fine temper, too, was not what it once was, and Jacob had to wince under many a hasty word.

At last his master began to find that his expenses were getting greatly in advance of his income. He called one day at the bank, drew a cheque, and presented it over the counter. The cashier took it to the manager's desk: there was a brief consultation, and then a request that Mr Oldfield would step into the manager's private room.

"I am exceedingly sorry, Mr Oldfield," said the manager, "that we feel ourselves in a difficulty as to the cheque you have just drawn; the fact is that you have already overdrawn your account fifty pounds, and we hardly feel justified in cashing any more of your cheques till we receive further remittances to your credit."

"Very well, sir," said Frank haughtily, and rising; "I shall transfer my account to some other bank, which will deal more liberally and courteously with me;" saying which, he hurried into the street in a state of fierce excitement. When, however, he had had time to cool down a little, he began to feel the awkwardness of his position. He was quite sure that his father would not increase his allowance, and an overdrawn account was not a thing so easy to transfer. Besides which, he began to be aware that his present habits were getting talked about in the city. But money he must have. To whom could he apply? There was but one person to whom he could bring himself to speak on the subject, and that was Hubert. He had seen very little of him, however, of late, for the company and pursuits he had taken to were not such as would find any countenance from young Oliphant. Something, however, must be done. So he called at the office in King William Street, and had a private interview with his friend.

"Money," said Hubert, when he had heard of Frank's necessities, "is not a thing I have much at command at present."

"But you can procure me the loan of a hundred pounds, I daresay?" asked the other; "my next half-yearly payment will be made in two months, and then I shall be able to repay the money, with the interest."

"You want a hundred pounds now, as I understand," said his friend, "and you have already overdrawn your account fifty pounds; when your money is paid in it will just cover this hundred and fifty pounds, without any interest. How do you mean to manage for the interest and your next half-year's expenses?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied Frank testily; "what's the use of bothering a fellow with calculations like that? Of course the tradespeople must trust me, and it'll be all right by the time another half-year's payment comes in."

"Well, if you've paid your tradesmen up to now," rejoined Hubert, "of course they may be willing to wait. Still, excuse my saying, dear Frank, that it's not a very healthy thing this forestalling, and I don't see how you're to pay the interest when you get your next payment."

"What a fuss about the interest!" cried the other. "The fellow that lends it must clap on so much more for waiting a little longer, that's all. And as for the tradesmen, they must be content to be paid by degrees. They'll take precious good care not to be losers in the end, I'll warrant them."

"Dear Frank," said Hubert kindly, but very gravely, and laying his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder, "you must bear with me if I speak a little plainly to you—you must bear with me, indeed you must. You know that you came out here hoping to redeem the past, and to return home again a new character. You know what lies at the end of such a hope fulfilled. Are you really trying to live the life you purposed to live? There are very ugly rumours abroad. You seem to have nearly forsaken old friends; and the new ones, if report says true, are such as will only lead you to ruin. Oh, dear Frank, if you would only see things in the right light—if you would only see your own weakness, and seek strength in prayer in your Saviour's name—oh, surely you would break off at once from your present ways and companions, and there might be hope—oh yes, hope even yet."

Frank did not speak for some time. At last he said, in a stern, husky voice,—

"Can you—or can you not—borrow the money for me?"

"If I could feel convinced," was the reply, "that you would at once break off from your present associates, and that you would seriously set about retrenching, I would undertake to procure for you the hundred pounds you require—nay, I would make myself responsible for it."

Frank sat down, and buried his face in his hands.

"Oh, help me, Hubert," he cried, "and I will promise all you wish. I will pay off old debts as far as possible, and will incur no new ones. I will keep myself out of harm's way; and will take to old friends, if they will receive me again. Can I say more?"

"Will you not become a genuine pledged abstainer? And will you not pray for grace to keep your good resolution?"

"Well, as far as the total abstinence is concerned, I will think about it."

"And will you not pray for strength?"

"Oh, of course—of course."

And Frank went off with a light heart, the present pressure being removed. Hubert procured the money for him. And now for a time there was a decided outward improvement. Frank was startled to find how rapidly he was being brought, by his expensive habits, to the brink of ruin. He tore himself, therefore, from his gay associates, and was often a visitor at "The Rocks." But he did not give up the drink. He contrived, by dexterous management, to keep up the stock in his bed- room, without the knowledge of either Jacob or Mrs Watson. But one day he sent Jacob for a powder-flask which he had left on his dressing- table, having forgotten, through inadvertence, to lock his cupboard door or remove a spirit-bottle from his table. Jacob remained staring at the bottle, and then at the open hamper in the closet, as if fascinated by the gaze of some deadly serpent. He stood there utterly forgetting what he was sent for, till he heard Frank's voice impatiently calling him. Then he rushed out empty-handed and bewildered till he reached his master's presence.

"Well, Jacob, where's the powder-flask? Why, man, what's scared your wits out of you? You haven't seen a boggart, as you tell me they call a ghost in Lancashire?"

"I've seen what's worse nor ten thousand boggarts, Mayster Frank," said Jacob, sorrowfully.

"And pray what may that be?" asked his master.

"Why, mayster, I've seen what's filled scores of homes and hearts with boggarts. I've seen the bottles as holds the drink—the strong drink as ruins millions upon millions."

Frank started as if pierced by a sudden sting. His colour went and came. He walked hastily a step or two towards the house, and then turned back.

"And pray, my friend Jacob," he said, with a forced assumption of gaiety, "why should my little bottle of spirits be worse for you than ten thousand boggarts?"

"Oh, Mayster Frank, Mayster Frank," was the reply, "just excuse me, and hearken to me one minute. I thought when I left my home, where the drink had drowned out all as was good, as I should never love any one any more. I thought as I'd try and get through the world without heart at all—but it wasn't to be. The captain found a soft place in my heart, and I loved him. But that were nothing at all to the love I've had to yourself, Mayster Frank. I loved you afore you saved my life, and I've loved you better nor my own life ever since you saved it. And oh, I can't abide to see you throw away health and strength, and your good name and all, for the sake of that wretched drink as'll bring you to misery and beggary and shame. Oh, don't—dear mayster, don't—don't keep the horrid poison in your house. It's poison to you, as I've seen it poison to scores and scores, eating out manhood, withering out womanhood, crushing down childhood, shrivelling up babyhood. I'll live for you, Mayster Frank, work for you, slave for you, wage or no wage— ay, I'll die for you, if need be—only do, do give up this cursed, ruinous, body and soul-destroying drink."

"Jacob, I will—I will!" cried his master, deeply touched. "Every word you say is true. I'm a miserable, worthless wretch. I don't deserve the love and devotion of a noble lad like you."

"Nay, mayster—don't say so," cried Jacob; "but oh, if you'd only sign the pledge, and be an out-and-out gradely teetottaller, it'd be the happiest day of my life."

"Well, Jacob, I'll see about the signing. I daresay I shall have to do it. But you may depend upon me. I'll turn over a new leaf. There—if it'll be any pleasure to you—you may take all that's left in my cupboard, and smash away at the bottles, as good Mr Oliphant did."

Jacob needed no second permission. Ale, wine, and spirit-bottles were brought out—though but few were left that had not been emptied. However, empty or full, they fell in a few moments before the energetic blows of the delighted Jacob Poole.

"You'll never repent it," he said to his master.

But, alas! he did not know poor Frank, who did repent it—and bitterly, too. The sudden generosity which dictated the sacrifice was but a momentary flash. Frank would have given a great deal could he have recalled the act. But what was to be done? He could not, for very shame, lay in a fresh stock at present; and, equally, he could not resolve to cross his miserable appetite. So he devised a plan by which he could still indulge in the drink, and yet keep Jacob Poole completely in the dark; for, alas! it was becoming less and less painful to him to breathe in an atmosphere of deception. There was a small cottage not far from Frank's dwelling. It had belonged to a labouring man, who had bought a small piece of ground with his hard earnings, had fenced it round, and built the cottage on it. This man, when "the diggins" broke out in Melbourne, sold his little property for a third of its value to a worthless fellow, whose one great passion was a love for the drink. Through this man Frank was able to obtain a constant supply of the pernicious stimulant. He would call at the house in the evening, and bring home in his pockets a flask or two of spirits, which he could easily keep out of the sight of Jacob and his housekeeper. But though he could conceal the drink, he could not conceal its effects. Again and again he became intoxicated—at first slightly so, and then more and more grossly and openly—till poor Jacob, wearied out and heart-sick, retired from Frank's service, and obtained work from Mr Abraham Oliphant in his store at Adelaide.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

AN UNHAPPY SURPRISE.

The half-year's remittance came in due time, but Frank was quite unable to pay the L100 loan. Ruin was now staring him in the face. Tradesmen were clamorous, rent and wages were unpaid, and he was getting into a state of despair, when, to his great and unspeakable joy, a letter arrived one morning announcing that a legacy of L500, left him by an old lady—his godmother—would be paid into his account at the Adelaide Bank. Here was, indeed, a reprieve. In a transport of gratitude he threw himself on his knees, and gave thanks to God for this unlooked-for help. Then he lost not a moment, but rode at once into Adelaide, and went first to the bank, where he ascertained that the money had been paid in. Then he called on his creditors and discharged their bills. And last of all he went to Hubert Oliphant and repaid the loan of the L100, with the interest.