"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."