The landlord was a kind-hearted man. He could not but pity the shivering wretch. He stirred up the fire and set him a chair, and would gladly have given him a mug of hot drink to revive him, but he dared not. It would be like putting fire to a heap of flax, he knew. John Morely might be a madman or a frozen corpse to-morrow if he drank a single glass to-night. Let him taste it once, and his power of refraining was gone.
It was a pity, the landlord thought, and it made him uncomfortable for the moment; and in his discomfort he scolded and frowned, and walked about the room, till John Morely fancied he was the cause of it all, and again he took up his bundle to go.
Where was he to go? Utterly faint and weary and sick at heart, he asked himself the question as he took his way down the encumbered street. The snow was still falling heavily, and he toiled slowly and painfully through it. Where could he go? Should he try to get to the station on foot? It would be madness to think of it. He could never reach home through the storm. With cold and weariness and want of food, he was ready to faint. He could not even get home.
There were bright lights streaming from many a window along the village street; and no doubt there was warmth and plenty within. But there were no places open to him save those where the devil lay in wait for him; and he had not courage to face the devil then. He would be too much for him, weak and miserable as he was; and, for Alice’s sake and the children’s, he must keep out of harm’s way. He looked about for a sheltered place, where he might sit down and rest a little. He thought of Grattan, and struggled on to his gate; but they were either at meeting, or they had come home and gone to bed; for the house was dark. There were few lights along the village street now. The snow was deeper, and he stumbled on blindly, not knowing whither.
All at once a bright light flashed upon his dazzled eyes. It came from a low, wide door beyond the side-walk. He put out his hands blindly, feeling his way towards it, not daring to think where his wanderings had brought him, till mocking laughter startled him into the knowledge that he was once more at the mouth of that hell. He turned as though he would have fled; but he suffered himself to be drawn into the wretched tavern.
I cannot tell what happened there that night. Just what happens, I suppose, to many a poor lost wretch every night in the year, in the dark places hidden away in lanes and back streets of our cities and towns.
When Stephen Grattan went next morning to fulfil his promise to Morely he did not see Mr Smith; but the clerk told him it was all right—for he had himself helped to lift the barrel of flour onto the sled which was to take it away. No doubt it was all right.
He did not tell Stephen—perhaps he did not know—that the barrel of flour had been taken away by the tavern-keeper in payment for drink, and that there was no chance of its ever reaching the little log-house on the hill. Stephen would have liked to go up to the cottage; but the storm still continued. The snow lay deep and unbroken on the road, and it would have been a dangerous walk.
“Besides, I could not tell her truly that his courage was good—poor soul!—and without that I might as well stay at home.” That worse news awaited them Stephen himself did not know as yet.