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.