Frank Oldfield Part 33

"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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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, compa.s.sionately, 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 bra.s.s; 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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.