Frank Oldfield / Lost and Found

by Theodore P. Wilson

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.”