Chapter Twenty One.
Homeless and Heartless.
The Sabrina was bound for Liverpool, and entered that port some two years after the time when she left it with Hubert Oliphant and Frank Oldfield as fellow-passengers. Alas! how different were the feelings of the latter now, from those with which he trod the deck of that vessel when preparing for his temporary exile. Then, though sad, he was full of hope; now he was both heartless and hopeless; he knew he was the bond-slave of the drink, and, whatever he might say to others, he felt in his own heart that it was useless any longer to try and cheat himself with the transparent phantom of a lie. Yet he could not for shame acknowledge thus much to others, nor would he allow his conscience to state it deliberately to himself; he still clung to something, which was yet neither conviction nor hope, that he might even now master his besetting sin. Alas! he desired the good end, but he would not use the only means to that good end; and so, when he landed on the soil of the old country again, it was with the settled determination, (though he would not have believed his own handwriting, had he put down that determination on paper) not to give up the drinking of intoxicating liquors at present. How then should he face his parents and Mary Oliphant? He could not face them at all as yet. He could not at once make up his mind what to do. Happily for him, Juniper Graves had been cut off before he had been able to effect a complete spoliation of his master, so that Frank had still rather more than two hundred pounds in his possession. While this money lasted, he resolved to stave off the evil day of taking any decided step. He would not write to his mother or Mary till he had quite made up his mind what course he was intending to pursue. He was also well aware that the family of Bernard Oliphant could give him no welcome with his present habits of excess still upon him. So, on the day of reaching Liverpool, he said to Jacob Poole,—
“Well, Jacob, are you quite tired of my service, or will you stay by me a little longer? I’ve no right or wish to stand in your way, and if you would like to make another voyage with Captain Merryweather, or can find any other situation that will suit you better than mine, I would not have you consider yourself bound to me at all.”
“Mayster Frank,” was Jacob’s reply, “I’m not going to leave you now, unless you wish to part with me yourself. I don’t feel happy in leaving you to go by yourself nobody knows where.”
“Really, Jacob, you make a capital nurse,” said the other, laughing; “you seem to be quite convinced that I’m not to be trusted to run alone.”
“And it’s true, sir,” replied Jacob, seriously; “you need looking after, and I mustn’t be letting you get into the hands of any of those chaps as’ll hook all as you have out o’ you in no time—that is, if you’re going to stay by yourself in this big town.”
“Why, yes, Jacob; I shall not go down to my father’s at once. I don’t seem as if I could go. I’d better wait a little bit. I seem out of trim, and out of sorts altogether.”
“You must please yourself,” replied Jacob; “and you must know best, Mayster Frank, what you’re bound to do. But, if you’d take my advice, you’d go home at once, afore anything worse happens.”
“No, Jacob, I cannot yet, and so that’s settled. Now we must look-out for lodgings; they mustn’t be expensive ones, else the brass, as you call it, won’t hold out, and you can wait on me, and keep me in order, you know. But, by the way, I was forgetting that you have friends of your own to look after. Don’t let anything I’ve been saying prevent your going to them, and doing what’s right by them. I shall be quite willing to come into any arrangement you may like to make. Don’t consider yourself bound to me, Jacob, but just do whatever you feel to be your duty.”
“You’re very kind, Mayster Frank: it’s just this way with me. I should like to go and see arter them as I left behind when I sailed for Australia, and see how they’re coming on. But it don’t matter for a week or so, for they’re not looking for me. I’ll see you settled first properly, Mayster Frank, if you mean to settle here for a bit, and then I’ll just take a run over yonder for a few days, and come back to you again, and what I do afterwards’ll depend on how I find things yonder.”
And thus it was finally settled. Frank took quiet lodgings in a respectable by-street, in the house of an aged widow, who was delighted with his cheerful open manners, and did her best to make him and Jacob comfortable. But the time hung heavily on the hands of both master and man. Frank purposed daily writing home, and yet each to-morrow found him more reluctant to do so than the day before. Jacob loitered about the town and docks when his master did not want him, and got exceedingly weary of his idleness.
“Eh, ma’am,” he said one day to their landlady, “my arms fair ache with hanging down and doing nothing.”
Thus things went on for about a fortnight, when one evening at tea-time Frank failed to make his appearance. Seven o’clock, then nine and ten, but no master came to remove poor Jacob’s misgivings. At last, about midnight, a stumbling against the door and a violent knock made his heart die within him.
“Who’s there?” he cried, before opening the door.
“Me, old king of trumps!” cried a voice which he knew to be Frank’s. The minute after, the wretched young man staggered in almost helpless. Next day was a season of bitter sorrow, self-reproach, and remorse; but, alas! not to be followed by any real amendment, for Frank was now seldom home till late, though he was never again grossly intoxicated. But a shadow had now settled habitually on his once bright and open countenance, which Jacob could not quite understand, and which was almost more sad to him than the degrading flush and vacant stare produced by excess in drink. Something dreadful was amiss, he was sure, but he could not tell, and hardly dare conjecture what it might be. Very, very loth then was he to go, when the time came for his leaving his master entirely to his own devices. He would gladly have put off his journey, but Frank would not hear of it, and was evidently annoyed when Jacob urged the matter. So it was finally settled that he should be away for a few days, not exceeding a fortnight. The night but one before his intended departure, Jacob was pleased to find that his master did not leave home, but took his tea at his lodgings, a very unusual thing of late. After tea he made Jacob come and sit with him, and they had a long talk over Australian matters, and the events of their late voyage. At last Frank said,—
“Jacob, I don’t wish to pry into your concerns, or to ask questions which you may not like to answer. I hope, however, that you will not scruple to ask my advice on any matter in which I can be of service to you.”
“Well, thank you, sir,” replied Jacob, with a sort of embarrassment in his manner, “you’re very kind, but I’ve reasons just now why I’d like to say as little as possible about myself to any one. If I find them as I’m going to seek, I may have much to say; but maybe I may find things so as’ll make it better I should forget as ever I’d any belonging me.”
“Just so,” said his master; “you must be the best judge of your own matters, and I would not intrude on your private concerns for a moment; only I should just like to know what you mean to do with your bag of nuggets; you must be careful where you put it. It would be hardly wise to carry it about with you, if you don’t mean to turn it into money at present.”
Jacob was troubled at the question, yet he could hardly tell why; he answered, however,—
“Well, Mayster Frank, I’m not thinking of meddling with my nuggets at present.”
“Hadn’t you better then leave them with me till you return?” asked Frank.
Poor Jacob was sorely puzzled what to reply. He looked down, and there was an awkward pause. At last he said,—
“I cannot rightly tell what’ll be the best to do. Mayster Oldfield, you mustn’t be offended, but I’d better be plain and outspoken. You’d not mean to wrong me of a farthing, I know; but you must be well aware you’re not always your own mayster. So if you cannot keep your own brass safe, I can hardly think it wise to trust you to take charge of mine. I don’t wish to vex you, Mayster Frank, but that’s just the honest truth.”
“Quite right, Jacob, quite right,” said his master, laughing; “you don’t vex me at all. I should do just the same, if I were in your place. Suppose, then, you give your bag in charge to our landlady the morning you start; that’ll be soon enough, for, poor soul, she’ll be glad, I daresay, not to have charge of other folk’s treasure a day longer than necessary; and I’ll be a witness that you give it into her charge.”
“Thank you, mayster,” said Jacob, greatly relieved; “that’s good advice, and I’ll follow it.”
The next evening, the last before Jacob’s expedition, Frank again remained at home. He had been out all the morning. Jacob looked anxiously at him when he returned. He clearly had not been drinking—at any rate immoderately—yet there was something in his look which Jacob could not fathom, and if ever Frank met his servant’s eye, his own immediately fell.
“I’m not satisfied as all’s right,” said Jacob to himself, “and yet I cannot tell what’s amiss.”
That night his sleep was restless and disturbed. Once he fancied that his door was opened, and that his master appeared and drew back again. Their rooms were on the opposite sides of the same landing. Again he fancied, or dreamt, that a hand passed under his pillow, where he kept his nuggets. It was quite dark—he started up and felt for the bag; it was there quite safe, and he laid him down again. But yet again he seemed to feel a hand behind his pillow.
“I must have been dreaming,” he muttered to himself; “the bag’s right.”
Yes, there it was all right when he rose in the morning. He was to start by an early train, so, hastily dressing himself, and having breakfasted, he came to say farewell to his master.
“Oh, Mayster Frank,” he said, grasping the other’s outstretched hand, “I’m heavy at the heart at leaving you. I cannot tell why, but there’s a weight like lead upon me. Oh, dear Mayster Frank, for my sake, for your own sake, for the sake of all them as loves you, will you promise me to keep off the drink, leastways till I come back? Will you pray the Lord to help you, Mayster Frank? He will help you, if you’ll pray honestly.”
What was it that affected his unhappy master so powerfully? Frank’s whole frame shook with emotion. He stared at Jacob with a gaze of mingled remorse and agony such as touched the other to the quick.
“Jacob,” gasped his master, at last, “I cannot let you go thus—you don’t know—I’ve—I’ve—” He paused for a moment, and tears and sobs burst from him. Then he sat down, and bowed his head on his knees, clasping his hands tightly together. Then an unnatural calmness followed; he muttered something to himself, and then said, in a tone of affected indifference and gaiety,—
“There, it don’t matter; the best of friends must part. You’ll be back before so very long, and I’ll try and be a good boy meanwhile.
“Just call up the landlady, Jacob, and we can see her take charge of your nuggets.”
Jacob did as his master bade him.
“There, Mrs Jones,” he said, taking the bag hastily from Jacob’s hands; “this bag of nuggets belongs to my man. You see it contains gold,” he added, opening the mouth of the bag, and taking out a small nugget; “there,” tying it up with the string which he had removed from it, “he’ll know where to look for them when he comes back. We’ve the fullest confidence, Mrs Jones, that they will be safe in your keeping.”
“Indeed, sir,” said the landlady, curtseying, “I’d rather you should keep them.”
“No, no, Mrs Jones; Jacob knows very well that you’re to be trusted, but that I’m not.”
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Mrs Jones; but she was at a loss what farther to say, for she felt that poor Frank spoke only the sober truth. At last she said,—
“Well, sir, I’ll take charge of them, as you both seem to wish it, and I’ll take care that no one sees where I put them.”
And so Jacob and his master parted.
Ten days passed by, and then Jacob, downcast and weary, made his way to the lodgings. His heart died within him at the expression of the landlady’s face when she had opened the door to him, and found that he was alone.
“Where’s Mr Oldfield?” he gasped.
“That’s just what I was going to ask you, Mr Poole.”
“What! you don’t mean to say he’s left your house?”
“He has indeed,” was the reply. “I’ve seen nothing of him since the day after you left.”
“Seen nothing of him!” exclaimed Jacob in complete bewilderment; “but has he sent you no message—no letter?”
“No, Mr Poole, he’s neither sent nor written. He paid me all he owed me up to the last night he slept here, and that’s all I know.”
“And has he left no message, nothing to tell one where he’s gone?” asked Jacob.
“Nothing,” she said, “unless this letter’s from him—it came a few days ago.”
Jacob seized it, and tore it open. When he had read a few lines he let it drop upon the floor, and stood gazing at it as though some strange fascination glared out from it upon him. Then he took it up again, read it deliberately through, laid it on the table, and sitting down, burst into an agony of weeping. The letter was as follows:—
“Dear Jacob,—I must write to you, though I hardly can hold my pen, and every letter, as I write, seems like blood wrung out from my heart. Well, it’s no use; you shall have the naked truth at once. I have robbed you, Jacob, artfully, basely, deliberately, cruelly robbed you, and all through the cursed drink. I hate myself for it as the vilest wretch upon earth. And yet I have no excuse to make. I have been gambling with a wretched set of sharpers, who got hold of me when I was drunk. They cleaned me out of every penny. I was ruined—I was desperate—I thought if I could get hold of your nuggets I could turn them into money, win back what I had lost, and repay you with interest. I got some lead, melted it in a shovel, (I need not tell you where I did this; it was in no good place, you may be sure). I made the lead into the shape of nuggets. The night but one before you left I tried to find out where you kept your bag; you were restless and clutched at your pillow. I knew then that it was there. I got another leather bag and filled it with the leaden nuggets I had made. These I slipped behind your pillow, and took away the real ones, the night before you left; you felt for them, and fancied you had them safe. When I had got out the gold, I crouched down in the dark till you were fast asleep again. Then I drew out the bag very carefully from behind your head, and changed it for your own bag, having first filled your own bag with the leaden nuggets and one or two little bits of gold at the top, so that you had your own bag when you woke in the morning, but I had your gold in the other bag. There, you know all now, you can understand all the rest. I sold your nuggets—I spent part of the money in drink—I played again—I’ve lost all—I shall never be able to repay you—I dare not look you in the face—I dare not look my father and mother in the face—I dare not look—it’s no matter. You are an honest fellow, Jacob, and will get on, spite of my villainy. If you ever marry and have children, make them total abstainers, if you would keep them safe in body and soul. As for myself, I cannot mend—I’m past it—I’ve been cheating myself with the belief that I meant to mend, but I never did. I see it now. There, Jacob, I don’t ask you to forgive me, but I do ask one thing—grant it me for the love you once had to me—it is this: wait a month, I shall be out of the way by that time, and then post the enclosed letter to my poor mother. I have told her how I have robbed you. My father will repay you. Tell him where he can find you. I shall soon be out of everybody’s reach. And now all I have got to ask you is just to wipe me out of your thoughts altogether, and to forget that there ever was such a person as your guilty, miserable, degraded master.”
“Oh, Mr Poole,” said his landlady, compassionately, when he had begun to recover from the first vehemence of his grief, “I fear there’s something dreadfully wrong.”
Jacob shook his head.
“All lost—all ruined,” he replied. Yet even now his heart yearned towards his miserable master. He would not expose him to Mrs Jones; she at least should know nothing of his own loss.
“Mrs Jones,” he said, holding out his hand, “I must say good-bye. I fear my poor master’s got into very bad hands. I don’t rightly know what’s become of him; but where there’s life there’s hope, and I trust he isn’t past that. If you and I meet again, may it be a happier meeting. Be so good as to hand me my—my—bag I left in your charge,” he added, with quivering voice.
“I’m so sorry,” said the good woman, when she had fetched the bag. “I wish I could do anything to comfort you. I’m sure I’m truly sorry for the poor young gentleman. It’s a thousand pities he’s thrown himself away, for a nicer or freer-spoken gentleman never was, when he was in his proper senses. There, Mr Poole, there’s your bag. You see it’s just as you gave it me. No one has seen it or touched it but myself.”
“Thank you, Mrs Jones. It’s all right; farewell, and the Lord be with us both.”
He turned from the door utterly broken down in spirit. Whither should he go? What should he do? Should he really abandon his master to his fate? He could not. Should he delay posting the letter? No; and yet he felt a difficulty about it; for Frank had stated in his letter to himself that he had told his mother of the robbery, and that Jacob must be repaid his loss. But who was to say what was the worth of the nuggets? He had never ascertained their value. He felt that he could not face his master’s father; that he could not himself put a value upon what he had lost. His master had saved his life, and he would set that against the pilfered gold, and would forgive what had been done against himself. So having ascertained that it was only too true that his bag contained but two or three little pieces of the precious metal, he cast the rest of its contents into the sea, and determined to start afresh in life, as if the sorrowful part of his past history never had been. But first he posted Frank’s letter, with one of his own, in which he stated where he had lodged in Liverpool, that so his master’s parents might have every opportunity of endeavouring to trace their unhappy son. His own letter was as follows:—
“Madam,—Mr Frank Oldfield, your son, has bid me send you the letter from him which comes with this. Mr Frank is my master. You have no doubt heard him say something in his letters from Australia about Jacob Poole. Well, I am Jacob Poole. And we came to England together, my master and me; and my master has took, I am sorry to say it, to drinking again since he came back. I wanted him to go home at once, but he has kept putting it off, and he has got into the hands of some gamblers as has stripped him of all his brass; and he has taken, too, some nuggets of mine, which I got at the diggings, but he didn’t mean to keep them, only to borrow them, and pay me back. But, poor young gentleman, he has been quite ruinated by these cheating chaps as has got hold of him. So I don’t want anybody to think anything more about me or my nuggets—I should not like any fuss to be made about them—I had rather the whole thing was kept snug. I shall go and get work somewhere or other; and, thank the Lord for it, I am young and strong. So, dear madam, don’t think any more about me or my nuggets; for Mr Frank saved my life when he might have lost his own, so he is welcome to the nuggets, and more into the bargain. I am sorry that Mr Frank has gone off; so I cannot tell you where to find him. I have tried, but it isn’t any use. We—that is, my master and me—was lodging with Mrs Jones, as I’ve written at the top of the letter. I can tell you no more about where to find him. So no more at present from your very humble servant, Jacob Poole.”
“Mr Frank has written to me not to post his letter for a month, but I don’t think it is right to keep it from you, so I send it at once.”
Such was Jacob’s letter, when cleared of mistakes in spelling and expression.
Frank’s letter to his mother was in these words:—
“Dearest Mother,—How shall I write to you! What shall I say to you? I feel as if my pen scorched my fingers, and I could not hold it. I feel as though this very paper I am writing on would carry on it the blush of burning shame that covers me. Darling mother, how shall I tell you what I am? And yet I must tell you; I must lift the veil once for all, and then it shall drop for ever on your miserable son. I am in England now. I do not know where I shall be when you receive this. I went out to Australia, as you know, hoping to become a sober, steady man. I am returned to England a confirmed drunkard, without hope, ay, even without the wish to break off from my sin. I cannot look you or my father in the face as I am now. I never could look Mary in the face again. I shall never write or breathe her name again. I have no one to blame but myself. I have no strength left to fight against my sin. I am as weak before the drink as a little child, and weaker. I could pray, but it’s no use praying; for I have prayed often, and now I know that I never really desired what I prayed for. I dare not face the prospect of entirely renouncing strong drink. I once dreamed that I could, but it was only a dream; at least, since I first began habitually to exceed. But can I go on and tell you what my love for the drink has led me to? I must, for I want you or my dear father to do one thing for me, the last I shall ever ask. Oh, don’t cast me utterly out of your heart when you hear it, but I must tell it. I have robbed my poor faithful servant, Jacob Poole, of his nuggets, which he got by his own hard labour. I secretly took them from him, and spent what they fetched in drink and gaming. I meant to win and pay him back, but I might have known I never could. Yes, I robbed the poor young man who nursed me, worked for me, prayed for me, remonstrated with me, bore with me. I robbed him when his back was turned. Oh, what a vile wretch the drink has made me! Can you have any love for me after reading this? Oh, if you have, I want you or my father to repay Jacob for his nuggets which I stole. He’s as honest as the day. You may trust him to put no more than a fair value on them. One more request I have to make, darling mother. Oh,—deal kindly by her—I said I would never write her name again, and I will not. I dare not write to her, it would do no good. Tell her that I’m lost to her for ever; tell her to forget me. And do you forget me too, dearest mother. I could be nothing but a thorn, a shame, a burden in my old home. I will not tell you where I am, nor where I shall be; it is better not. Forget me if you can, and think of me as dead. I am so for all better purposes; for everything good or noble has died out of me. The drink has done it. Your hopeless son, Frank Oldfield.”