“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.”
Chapter Twenty Two.
A Miserable Death.
Three days after Jacob Poole had posted his letter and its enclosure, a cab drove up to Mrs Jones’s door. In it were Sir Thomas and Lady Oldfield. No one who saw them could doubt of the bitter sorrow that had stamped its mark upon their noble features.
“Are you Mrs Jones, my poor—poor son’s landlady?” asked Lady Oldfield, when they were seated in the parlour. She could add no more for weeping.
“Yes, ma’am,” was the reply. “I’m sure I’m very sorry, ma’am, very indeed; for Mr Oldfield was a most kind, free-spoken gentleman; and if he’d only—only—”
“I understand you,” said the poor sorrowing mother.
“And Jacob Poole; what has become of him?” asked Sir Thomas.