“Ay, sir; but there are two sorts of driving—body-driving and heart-driving. Mine was heart-driving.”
“I should very much like to hear how it was that you were driven into becoming an abstainer,” said Hubert; “if it will not be asking too much.”
“Not at all, sir; and perhaps it may do you all good to hear it, though it’s a very sad story.—Steady, Jacob, steady; keep her full.—It may help to keep you firm when you get to Australia. You’ll find plenty of drinking traps there.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Frank. “But by all means let us have your story. We are all attention.”
Hubert sighed; he wished that Frank were not so confident.
“Ay,” said the captain, gazing dreamily across the water; “I think I see her now—my poor dear mother. She was a good mother to me. That’s one of God’s best gifts in this rough world of ours, Mr Oliphant. I’ve known many a man—and I’m one of them—that’s owed everything to a good mother. Well, my poor mother was a sailor’s wife; a better sailor, they say, than my father never stepped a plank. He’d one fault, however, when she married him, and only one; so folks like to put it. That fault was, that he took too much grog aboard; but only now and then. So my poor mother smiled when it was talked about in courting time, and they were married. My father was the owner of a small coasting-vessel, and of course was often away from home for weeks and sometimes for months together. A sister and myself were the only children; she was two years the oldest. My father used to be very fond of his children when he came home, and would bring us some present or other in his pocket, and a new gown, or cap, or bonnet for my mother. Yet somehow—I could hardly understand it then—she was oftener in tears than in smiles when he stayed ashore. I know how it was now: he’d learned to love the drink more and more; and she, poor thing, had got her eyes opened to the sin and misery it was bringing with it. He was often away at nights now. We children saw but little of him; and yet, when he was at home and sober, a kinder father, a better husband, a nobler-looking man wasn’t to be seen anywhere. Well, you may be sure things didn’t mend as time went on. My mother had hard work to make the stores hold out, for her allowance grew less as we children grew bigger. Only one good thing came of all this: when all this trouble blew on my poor mother like a hurricane, she shortened sail, and ran before the gale right into the heavenly port; or, as you’ll understand me better, she took her sins and her cares to her Saviour, and found peace there. At last my sister grew up into a fine young woman, and I into a stout, healthy lad.—Steady, Jacob, steady; mind your helm.—My father didn’t improve with age. He was not sober as often as he used to be; indeed, when he was on shore he was very rarely sober, and when he did stay an hour or two at home he was cross and snappish. His fine temper and manly bearing were gone; for the drink, you may be sure, leaves its mark upon its slaves. Just as it is with a man who has often been put in irons for bad conduct; you’d know him by his walk even when he’s at liberty—he’s not like a man that has always been free. Ah, my poor mother! it was hard times for her. She talked to my father, but he only swore at her. I shall never forget his first oath to her; it seemed to crush the light out of her heart. However bad he’d been before, he had always been gentle to her. But he was getting past that. She tried again to reason with him when he was sober. He was sulky at first; then he flew into a passion. And once he struck her. Yes; and I saw it, and I couldn’t bear it. I was flying at him like a tiger, when my dear mother flung her arms round me, and chained me to the spot. My father never forgot that. He seemed from that day to have lost all love for me; and I must own that I had little left for him. My mother loved him still, and so did my sister; but they left off talking to him about his drunkenness. It was of no use; they prayed for him instead.—Steady, Jacob; luff a bit, my lad; luff you can.”
“And did this make you an abstainer?” asked Hubert.
“No, sir; so far from it, that I was just beginning to like my grog when I could get it. I didn’t see the evil of the drink then; I didn’t see how the habit keeps winding its little cords round and round a man, till what begins as thin as a log-line, becomes in the end as thick as a hawser. My mother trembled for me, I knew; I saw her look at me with tears in her eyes many a time, when I came home talkative and excited, though not exactly tipsy. I could see she was sick at heart. But I hadn’t learned my lesson yet; I was to have a terrible teacher.
“There was a young man who began to visit at our cottage when my sister was just about twenty. They used to call him—well, that don’t matter; better his name should never be spoken by me. He was a fisherman, as likely a lad as you’d see anywhere; and he’d one boast that few could make, he had never been tipsy in his life; he was proud of it; he had got his measure, he said, and he never went beyond it. He laughed at teetotallers; they were such a sneaking, helpless lot, he said—why couldn’t they take what was good for them, and stop there when they’d had enough; surely a man ought to be master of his own appetites—he was, he said; he could stop when he pleased. However, to make a long story short, he took a great fancy to my dear sister, and she soon returned it. Our cottage was near the sea, but on a hill-side some hundred feet or more above the beach. High ground rose behind it and sheltered it from the north and east winds. It had a glorious view of the ocean, and one of the loveliest little gardens that any cottage could boast of. The young man I spoke of would often sit with my sister in the little porch, when the roses and jessamine were in full flower all over it; and I used to think, as I looked at them, that a handsomer couple could never be made man and wife. Well, it was agreed that they should wait a few months till he was fully prepared to give her a home. My father just then was ashore, and took to the young man amazingly; he must have him spend many an evening at our cottage, and you may be sure that the grog didn’t remain in the cupboard. My father had a great many yarns to spin, and liked a good listener; and as listening and talking are both dry work, one glass followed another till the young man’s eyes began to sparkle, and my poor sister’s to fill with tears; still, he always maintained, when she talked gently to him about it next day, that he knew well what he was about, that he never overstepped his mark, and that she might trust him. Ah, it was easy to talk; but it was very plain that his mark began to be set glass after glass higher than it used to be. At last, one night she couldn’t hold any longer, and implored him to stop as he was filling another tumbler. Upon this my father burst out into a furious passion, and swore that, as he could find no peace at home, he’d go where he could find it,—that was to the public-house, of course. Out they both of them went, and we saw no more of them that night, you may be sure; and my mother and sister almost cried their hearts out. It was some days after this before my sister’s lover ventured to show his face at our place, and then he didn’t dare to meet her eye. She said very little to him; it was plain she was beginning to lose all hope; and she had reason too, for when the demon of drink gets a firm hold, Mr Oldfield, he’ll not let go, if he can help it, till he’s strangled every drop of good out of a man. But I mustn’t be too long; there isn’t much left to tell, however.—Steady, Jacob, my lad; keep her full.—You may suppose that we hadn’t much more of my father’s company, or of the young man’s either; they found the public-house more to their mind; and so it went on night after night. Little was said about the wedding, and my sister never alluded to it even to us. At last October came. It was one lovely moonlight night, just such a night as this, quiet and peaceful. My father was to set out on one of his cruises next morning, and was expecting the mate to bring round his little vessel, and anchor her in the roads off the shore, in sight of our cottage. He had come home pretty sober to tea, bringing my sister’s lover with him. After tea there were several things he had to settle with my mother; so, while they were making their arrangements, my sister and the young man had an earnest talk together. I didn’t mean to listen, but I could overhear that he was urging her to fix an early day for the wedding, with many promises of amendment and sobriety, which the poor girl listened to with a half-unwilling ear, and yet her heart couldn’t say, ‘No.’ At last my father cried, ‘Come, my lad, we’ll just go up to the top of the hill, and see if we can make out the Peggy. She ought to be coming round by this time.’
“‘Oh, father,’ cried my sister, ‘don’t go out again to-night.’