And what had become of Jim Forbes? Nobody knew at “The Firs.” He was missing that night and the next day. Mr Rothwell asked for him at breakfast, and was told that he had not slept in the house the night before, and was nowhere to be found. The day passed away, but Jim did not make his appearance.
It was a dark November evening: a dim light twinkled through the casement of Mrs Forbes’ cottage: the wind was whistling and sighing mournfully, sometimes lulling for a while, and then rising and rushing through crack and crevice with a wild complaining moan. Inside that little dwelling were weeping eyes and aching hearts. Upstairs all was peace; four little children lay fast asleep in the inner chamber, twined in each other’s ruddy arms, their regular breathing contrasting, in its deep peace, with the fitful sighings of the wind; yet on the long eyelashes of one of the little sleepers there stood a glistening tear, and from the parted lips there came, now and again, the words, “Brother Jim.”
But ah! No blessed sleep stilled the throbbing hearts of those who cowered over the scanty fire in the kitchen below; Jim’s mother and crippled sister. Was it poverty that made them sad? No. Poverty was there, but it was very neat and cleanly poverty. No, it was not poverty that wrung the bitter tears from the eyes of those heart-sick watchers; they were rich in faith; they could trust God; they could afford to wait. It wasn’t that. Jim! Poor Jim! Poor erring Jim! How changed he had been of late; none of his old brightness; none of his old love. It wasn’t so much that he brought his mother no welcome help now; it was hard to miss it, but she could battle on without. It wasn’t that crippled Sally’s cheek grew paler because she was forced to do without the little comforts supplied so long by a brother’s thoughtful love, though it was harder still to miss these. No, but it was that mother and daughter both saw, too plainly, that Jim was going down-hill, and that too with quickening steps. They saw that he was getting the slave of the drink, and they feared that there was worse behind; and, of course, there was: for when did ever the drink-fiend get an immortal being into his grasp without bringing a companion demon along with him? And now, this very day, Jim was reported to them as being missing from “The Firs,” and dark suspicions and terrible rumours were afloat, and John Gubbins’ name and the young master’s name were mixed up with them. Mother and daughter sat there together by the dying embers, and shuddered closer to one another at each moaning of the blast.
“Oh, mother! I’m heartbroke,” at last burst out from the poor girl’s lips: “to think of our Jim, so kind, so good, ’ticed away by that miserable drink, and gone nobody knows where.”
“Hush! Hush! Child, ye mustn’t fret; I’ve faith to believe as the Lord ’ll not forsake us: He’ll bring our Jim back again: He’ll hear a mother’s prayer: He’ll—”
But here a sudden sound of uneven footsteps made the poor widow start to
her feet, and Sally to cry out. The next moment the door was rudely shaken, and then Jim staggered into the room, haggard, blear-eyed, muttering to himself savagely. The sight of his mother and sister seemed partially to sober him, for the spirit within him bowed instinctively before the beauty of holiness, which neither poverty nor terror could obliterate from the face of those whom he used to love so dearly. But the spell was soon broken.
“I say,” he exclaimed, “what’s to do here? I want my supper; I haven’t scarce tasted to-day, and nobody cares for me no more nor a dog. I say, mother, stir yourself, and get me my supper.” He flung himself into a chair, with an oath, as he almost lost his balance.
Oh! Misery! Misery! Every word was a separate stab, but Mrs Forbes restrained herself.