Chapter Twelve.
An Explosion in the Pit.
“No letter yet from our Sammul,” cried Betty, wearily and sadly, as she came from the mill on a dreary night in the November after her brother’s sudden departure. “I thought as how he’d have been sure to write to me. Well, I suppose we must make ourselves content till he’s got over the sea. But oh, it’ll be weary work till we’ve heard summat from him.”
“Hush, hush, there’s a good bairn,” said her mother, though the tears were all the while running down her own cheeks as she spoke; “don’t take on so; you’ll drive your fayther clean crazy. He’s down in the mouth enough already. Come, don’t fret in that fashion, Thomas; Sammul’ll come back afore long: you’ve been crouching down by the hearth-stone long enough. If you’ll be guided by me, you’ll just take a drop of good ale, it’ll liven you up a bit; you want summat of the sort, or you’ll shrivel up till you’ve nothing but skin on your bones.”
“Ale!” cried Thomas, indignantly; “ale’ll not make me better—ale won’t make me forget—ale won’t bring back our Sammul, it’s driven him far enough away.”
“Well,” said his wife, soothingly, “you must go your own way; only, if you keep a-fretting of that fashion, you’ll not be able to do your work gradely, and then we shall all have to starve, and that’ll be worse for you still.”
“Better starve,” replied her husband moodily, “nor ruin body and soul with the drink; I’ll have no more of it.”
“Well, you can please yourself;” replied Alice, “so long as you don’t take me with you. But I must have my drop of beer and my pipe, I can’t live without ’em; and so you may rest content with that; it’s the truth, it is for sure.”
“Mother,” said Betty, mournfully, “can you really talk in that fashion to fayther, when you know how the drink’s been the cause of all the misery in our house, till it’s driven our poor Sammul away to crouch him down on other folk’s hearth-stones in foreign parts? I should have thought we might all have learnt a lesson by this time.”
“It’s no use talking, child,” replied her mother; “you go your way, and take your fayther with you if he’s a mind, but don’t think to come over me with your talk; I’m not a babe, I can take care of myself. The drink’s good enough in moderation, and I’m going to be moderate. But lads and wenches is so proud now-a-days that mothers has to hearken and childer does the teaching.”