Frank Oldfield Part 12

"Dearest mother," he said, throwing himself down beside her, clasping her knees, and looking up imploringly into her face, "I'm a miserable creature, on the road to ruin, body and soul, unless something comes to stop me."

"Oh, my boy, my boy!" cried his mother, bursting into tears; "do not say so. You have gone astray; but so have we all, one way or other. There is hope for you if you return. Surely the evil habit cannot be already so strong upon you that you cannot summon strength and resolution to break through it."

"Oh, you do not, you cannot know what a helpless creature I am!" was his reply. "When once I begin to taste, every good resolution melts away in a moment."

"Then give up such things, and abstain altogether, my beloved Frank, if that be the case," said Lady Oldfield.

"I cannot," he replied bitterly. "I cannot keep from them, they must be kept from me, and then I should have some chance."

"But, my dear boy, how can that always be? You cannot expect your father to banish beer and wine from his table, and to refuse to set them before his guests. You cannot expect that he should debar himself the moderate use of these things because you have, unhappily, learned to take them immoderately."

"No. I cannot, of course. I cannot, and I do not expect it, and therefore I am come to put before you, my dearest mother, what I believe will be my only chance. You know that Hubert Oliphant is going to join his Uncle Abraham in South Australia. He sails in October. He is going by a total abstinence s.h.i.+p, which will not therefore carry any intoxicating drinks. Will you and my dear father consent to my going with Hubert? My unhappy taste would be broken through by the time the voyage was over, as I should never so much as see beer, or wine, or spirits; and the fresh sea-air would be a better tonic than porter, wine, or ale; so that you would have no need to fear about my health."

Lady Oldfield did not reply for several minutes. She was, at first, utterly confounded at such a proposal from the son whom she idolised, and she was on the point of at once scouting the idea as altogether wild and out of the question. But a few moments' reflection made her pause.

Terrible as was the thought of the separation, the prospect of her son's becoming a confirmed drunkard was more terrible still. This plan, if carried out, might result in Frank's return to habitual sobriety. Ought she therefore to refuse her sanction absolutely and at once? At last she said,--

"And who, my dearest boy, has put such a strange thought into your head?

And how long do you mean to remain away? And what are you to do when you reach Australia?"

"No one has suggested the thing to me," he replied. "It came into my mind as I was thinking over all the misery the drink has brought on me of late. If I could go with Hubert, you know what a friend and support I should have in him. I might remain in the colony two or three years, and then come back again, please G.o.d, a thoroughly sober man; and then perhaps dear Mary would relent, and give me back my old place in her heart again."

Lady Oldfield drew him close to her, and clasping her arms round him, wept long and bitterly.

"Oh, my boy, my Frank!" she exclaimed; "how shall I bear to part with you? Yet it may be that this is G.o.d's doing; that he has put this into your heart; and if so, if it should be for your deliverance from your unhappy habit, I dare not say 'No.' But I cannot tell what your father will say. I will put the matter before him, however, and I am sure he will do what is wise and right."

Sir Thomas did not refuse his consent. He had felt so keenly the disgrace which his son's increasing excesses were bringing upon the family, that, sorely as he grieved over the thoughts of parting with Frank, he was willing that he should join Hubert Oliphant in his voyage, hoping that the high character and Christian example of the rector's son might be of benefit to his poor unhappy and erring child. Frank's countenance brightened when he had obtained his father's consent, and he at once made known his purpose to Hubert Oliphant, and asked his advice and help, begging him also to intercede for him with Mary that she would allow him to hope that, if he returned thoroughly reformed, she would consent to their engagement being renewed. Hubert, as well as his father, had felt the deepest pity for Frank, in spite of his grievous falls, specially when they remembered how, but for his own mother's opposition, he might now have been one of their little temperance band, standing firm, happy himself, and helping to make others happy. They therefore gladly encouraged him to carry out his purpose, promising that Hubert should introduce him to his Uncle Abraham, who might find for him, while he remained in the colony, some employment suitable to his station, where Hubert and his uncle could support and strengthen him by companions.h.i.+p and counsel. And would Mary hold out any hopes? Poor Mary, she loved him still. Oh, how dearly! Could she refuse him all encouragement? No. But she dared not promise unconditionally to be to him as in former days. She would not renew the engagement now; but she would wait and see the issue of his present plans.

Thus matters stood, when the last week came that Frank and Hubert would spend in their English homes. Mary and Frank had met once or twice since his voyage had been decided on, but it was in the presence of others. These were sorrowful meetings, yet there was the glow of a subdued hope, to make them not altogether dark to those who, but for the miserable tyranny of the drink, might now have been bright with happy antic.i.p.ations of the future.

And now it was a sweet autumn evening, when every sight and sound was plaintive with the foreshadowings of a coming winter--the sunset hues, the lights and shadows, the first decaying leaves, the notes of birds, the hum of insects. Everything was very still as Mary again trod the little path from the cottage of the poor woman whom she had been visiting on the evening of Frank's last sad fall. She had nearly reached the stile, her eyes bent on the ground, and her heart full of sorrowful memories and forebodings, when she was startled by hearing the sound of pa.s.sionate sobbings. She raised her eyes. Kneeling by the stile, his head buried in his hands, was Frank Oldfield; his whole frame shook with the violence of his emotion, and she could hear her own name murmured again and again in the agony of his self-reproach or prayer.

How sadly beautiful he looked! And oh, how her heart overflowed with pitying tenderness towards him.

"Frank," she said; but she could add no more.

He started up, for he had not heard her light tread. His hair was wildly tossed back, his eyes filled with tears, his lips quivering.

"You here, Mary," he gasped. "I little thought of this. I little thought to meet you here. I came to take a parting look at the spot where I had seen you last as my own. Here it was that I sinned and fooled away my happiness, and here I would pour out the bitterness of my fruitless sorrow."

"Not fruitless sorrow, I trust, dear Frank," she said gently. "It cannot be fruitless, if it be a genuine sorrow for sin. Oh, perhaps there is hope before us yet!"

"Do _you_ say so, Mary? Do _you_ bid me hope? Well, I will live on that hope. I ask no promise from you, I do not expect it. I am glad that we have met here, after all. Here you have seen both my degradation and my sorrow."

"Yes, Frank, and I am glad, too; it will connect this sad spot with brighter memories. G.o.d bless you. I shall never cease to pray for you, come what will. May that comfort you, and may you--may you,--" her tears choked her voice.

"Oh, one word more," he said imploringly, as, having accepted his arm in climbing the stile, she now relinquished it, and was turning from him--"One word more--one word of parting! Oh, one word such as once might have been!"

His hands were stretched towards her. They might never meet again. She hesitated for an instant. Then for one moment they were pressed heart to heart, and lip to lip--but for one moment, and then,-- "Farewell,"

"Farewell."

CHAPTER NINE.

YOUNG DECISION.

One week later, and three men might be seen walking briskly along a by- street in Liverpool towards the docks. These were Hubert Oliphant, Frank Oldfield, and Captain Merryweather, commander of the barque _Sabrina_, bound for South Australia. The vessel was to sail next day, and the young men were going with the captain to make some final arrangements about their cabins. Hubert looked bright and happy, poor Frank subdued and sad. The captain was a thorough and hearty-looking sailor, brown as a coffee-berry from exposure to weather; with abundance of bushy beard and whiskers; broad-shouldered, tall, and upright. It was now the middle of October, just three days after the flight of Samuel Johnson from Langhurst, as recorded in the opening of our story.

As the captain and his two companions turned the corner of the street they came upon a group which arrested their attention at once.

Standing not far from the door of a public-house was a lad of about fourteen years of age. He looked worn and hungry, yet he had not at all the appearance of a beggar. He was evidently strange to the place, and looked about him with an air of perplexity, which made it clear that he was in the midst of unfamiliar and uncongenial scenes. Three or four sailors were looking hard at him, as they lounged about the public-house door, and were making their comments to one another.

"A queer-looking craft," said one. "Never sailed in these waters afore, I reckon."

"Don't look sea-worthy," said another.

"Started a timber or two, I calculate," remarked a third.

"Halloa! messmate," shouted another, whose good-humoured face was unhappily flushed by drink, "don't lie-to there in that fas.h.i.+on, but make sail, and come to an anchor on this bench."

The lad did not answer, but stood gazing at the sailors in a state of utter bewilderment.

"Have you carried away your jawing-tackle, my hearty?" asked the man who had last addressed him.

"I can't make head nor tail of what you say," was the boy's reply.

"Well, what's amiss with you, then? Can you compa.s.s that?"

"Ay," was the reply; "I understand that well enough. There's plenty amiss with me, for I've had nothing to eat or drink since yesterday, and I haven't bra.s.s to buy anything with."

"Ah, I see. I suppose you mean by that foreign lingo that you haven't a shot in your locker, and you want a bit of summut to stow away in your hold."

"I mean," replied the lad, rather sulkily, "that I'm almost starved to death."

"Well, it's no odds," cried the other. "I can't quite make you out; but I see you've hoisted signals of distress: there, sit you down.

Landlord, a gla.s.s of grog, hot, and sweet, and strong. Here, take a pull at that till the grog comes."

He handed to him a pewter-pot as he spoke.

The boy pushed it from him with a look of disgust.

"I can't touch it," he said. "If you'll give me a mouthful of meat instead, I'll thank you; and with all my heart too."

"Meat!" exclaimed the sailor, in astonishment, "what's the young lubber dreaming about? Come, don't be a fool; drink the ale, and you shall have some bread and cheese when you've finished your grog."

"Jack," expostulated one of his companions, "let the poor lad alone; he hasn't a mind for the drink, perhaps he ain't used to it, and it'll only make him top heavy. You can see he wants ballast; he'll be over on his beam-ends the first squall if he takes the ale and grog aboard."

"Avast, avast, Tom," said the other, who was just sufficiently intoxicated to be obstinate, and determined to have his own way. "If I take him in tow, he must obey sailing orders. Grog first, and bread and cheese afterwards; that's what I say."

"And I'd die afore I'd touch a drop of the drink," said the poor boy, setting his teeth firmly. "I've seen enough, and more nor enough, of misery from the drink; and I'd starve to skin and bone afore I'd touch a drop of it."