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.
"I'm sure, sir, I don't know. All I can tell is, that he's sure not to
be anywhere in Liverpool; for he told me the morning he left me that he
was going to leave the town, and should not come back again."
"I'm grieved to hear it," said the baronet. "And can you give us a
clue, Mrs Jones, to our dear misguided child's present place of abode?
Can you suggest no way of finding it out?"
"I fear not, sir; Mr Oldfield has left nothing behind him except his
Bible and Prayer-book, which he asked me to accept as a token of his
kind feeling and regard, he was good enough to say."
"His Bible and Prayer-book! Oh, let me look at them," exclaimed Lady
Oldfield.
Mrs Jones brought them. The Prayer-book was one given him on his
twelfth birthday by his mother. His name in it was in her own
handwriting. The Bible was a much newer book, and bore but few marks of
use. It was a gift from Mary Oliphant. The handwriting of his name was
hers, as was also that of two texts below the name, which were written
out in full--
"Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life."
"There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man; but
God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are
able, but will, with the temptation, also make a way to escape, that ye
may be able to bear it."
Lady Oldfield gazed at these books and the writing in them for a long
time without uttering a word, and without shedding a tear. It seemed as
though the sight had for the moment chained every other feeling, and
left her only the power to stare wildly at the two familiar
handwritings.
"And he has parted with these," she said at last, half out loud; "he has
given them away. Oh, merciful Father in heaven, what has become of my
unhappy boy?"
"Calm yourself, my dear," said Sir Thomas; "let us hope that things may
be better than our fears."
"I'm sure, ma'am," said Mrs Jones, "I should never think of keeping
these books if you or Mr Oldfield's father wish to have them."
"Oh, it is not that, it is not that," sobbed Lady Oldfield. "Are you a
mother, Mrs Jones?" she cried, turning abruptly to her.
"Yes, ma'am; I've had seven children, and five are living now."
"Then you'll understand _my_ feelings as a mother. I fear, oh, I cannot
say how terribly I fear, that poor Frank means to do something dreadful;
perhaps to--to--oh, I can't bear to think of it."
"Why, my dear, why," asked her husband, "should you think so?"
"Why, Thomas! Oh, isn't there something terrible in his parting with
these two books, my gift and dear Mary's gift, and at such a time?
Doesn't it seem as if he was turning his back upon everything that is
good and holy, and simply giving himself up to despair. Isn't it like
saying, `The Bible's no longer a book for me, for God is no longer my
God?' Isn't it like saying, `Prayer is no longer for me, for God will
not hear me.'"
"My dearest wife," said Sir Thomas, anxiously, "don't look at the
darkest side. Don't lose your faith and trust now. My good Mrs Jones,
you see we're in sore trouble. You can understand how our hearts are
almost broken about our erring son, but still he _is_ our son, and very
dear to us; and we want you to help us to find him, if it be possible."
"I'm sure, sir," replied the kind-hearted landlady, "I do feel for you
both with all my heart, and only wish I knew what to advise. But really
I know no more than yourselves where Mr Oldfield is likely to be found.
It seems that he's wished to keep it a secret, and so he has purposely
kept me in the dark."
Sir Thomas sighed.
"I understand exactly how it is," he said. "I do not see what we can
do, except endeavour to get a clue through the police. By the way, Mrs
Jones, you don't happen to know the names or lodgings of any of his
associates? That might help us, if you did."
"I do not, sir; for I never saw one of them enter this house. Your son
never brought any one home with him as I know of. Jacob Poole and he
were the only persons who ever were together here while he had my
lodgings."
"Do you happen, then, ever to have heard him mention where any of his
companions lived? I mean those persons he used to stay out with at
night or in the day?"
"Never, sir."
"Nor so much as the name of any of his associates?"
"Not once, sir. I fear--that is to say--"
"Speak out, Mrs Jones, pray. You know this may be a matter of life and
death to him, and perhaps to us also. Don't be afraid of wounding us;
we want to know everything that can in the least help us in our search."
"Well, sir, I was going to say, only I hesitated to say so much to my
lodger's own father and mother, that I feared he had got mixed up with
companions as wouldn't be likely to meet him in any private house."
"I understand you; you think he met his friends, (his companions or
associates, I mean), at some common rendezvous or club."
"Yes, sir; I fear so from all I heard and saw, and from what Mr Poole
has said."
"I fear, then, that you can afford us no information that will help us
at present. But here is my card; we shall be staying for some days
probably, possibly for some weeks, at the Albion Hotel. Will you
kindly, without fail, let us know, and that without loss of time, if you
hear or see anything either of our poor son or of Jacob Poole, or of any
one who may be able to give us any light or any help in our search?"
"You may depend upon me, Sir Thomas," said Mrs Jones; "and I'm sure,
sir, I hope you and her ladyship will excuse this homely room. It's
only very plainly furnished, but it's the one your son occupied."
"Pray, don't make any apologies," said her ladyship; "they are not
needed. It is not fine rooms and grand furniture that can give peace.
I have just one thing to ask you to grant me before we go, and we must
not delay, for time is precious."
"I'm sure, my lady, I'll grant you anything in my power."
"Let me, then, see the room where my poor boy slept."
"Certainly, ma'am, though it's in a sadly untidy state. I've not had
time--"
"Never mind, Mrs Jones; I shall not notice any defects. My heart aches
too sorely for me to heed these trifles. There, thank you; now leave me
alone in the room for five minutes. And will you kindly tell my husband
that I will join him almost directly!"
When the door was closed upon the unhappy mother, she threw herself on
her knees beside the bed on which her son had slept, too commonly, alas!
the drunkard's sleep, and poured out her heart with tears to God that
she might find her poor, lost, and guilty child before it should be too
late. Rendered calmer by this prayer, she joined Sir Thomas.
"Farewell, Mrs Jones," she said, as they left the house; "many thanks
for your kind sympathy. I trust we may have a less sad tale to tell
when we meet again."
They drove to their hotel, and Sir Thomas wrote at once to the
superintendent of police, requesting him to call upon him at the
"Albion" at his earliest convenience. In about an hour that functionary
appeared. He was a tall and stoutly-built man, of a decidedly military
carriage; slightly bald, with a peculiarly searching eye, and thin
decided lips. His manner was remarkably quiet, and his language precise
and deliberate. He evidently always thought before he spoke, and then
spoke what he thought, and nothing more. Taking the seat offered him by
Sir Thomas, but declining any refreshment, he put himself in the
attitude of listening, as one accustomed to weigh evidence, and to put
every fact and conjecture into its right box.
"I have requested your kind attendance, Mr Superintendent," began the
baronet, "that I might ask your advice and help in a matter in which
Lady Oldfield here and myself are most deeply concerned."
The superintendent gave a slight bend forward, as much as to say that
this introduction to the subject in hand was a matter of course.
Sir Thomas then, with some embarrassment of manner, gave his hearer an
account of his son's unhappy career, and his own difficulties about
tracing him, and concluded by saying,--
"And now, sir, I would ask your help to discover my poor boy before it
be too late."
The superintendent signified his assent.
"What do you think?" asked Sir Thomas.
"We can find him, no doubt, if he is still in Liverpool," said the
officer.
"And do you think he _is_ now in Liverpool?" asked Lady Oldfield.
"I do."
"What makes you think, so?" asked the baronet.
"Several things. First, he'll be likely to stay where he can get most
easily at the drink. Secondly, he'll not go away to any near country
place, because he'd get sooner marked there. Thirdly, as he seems hard
up for money, he'll have to pawn anything he may have left that's worth
pawning, and he can do that best and most secretly in a large town."
Poor Sir Thomas and his lady felt a shiver through their hearts at the
matter-of-fact way in which these words were uttered.
"You don't think, then," asked the baronet, "that he has started in any
vessel for America or Australia?"
"No; because no captain would take him as a sailor, and he'd not be able
to raise money to go even as a steerage passenger. Besides, he wouldn't
risk it, as he'd know that all the outward bound vessels might be
searched for him by that man of his--Poole, I think you called him."
"But don't you suppose he may have left by railway, and gone to some
other large town?"
"Of course he may, but I don't think he has, because he'll have sense
enough to know that he can't have much to spare for travelling, if he's
gambled away his ready money, and don't mean to ask you for any more."
"Perhaps he has done, or means to do, something desperate," said Lady
Oldfield, tremblingly; "he seemed to hint at something of the kind in
his letter to me."
"No, he'll not do that, I think--at least not just yet. Habitual
drunkards have seldom got it in them. They'll talk big, but still
they'll go on hanging about where they can get the drink."
"Then you believe that he is still in Liverpool?" said Sir Thomas.
"That's my belief."
"And you think that you can find him?"
"I do think so. Was your son fond of low company when he lived at
home?"
Poor Sir Thomas and his wife winced at this question, but it was put by
the superintendent simply as a matter of business.
"Why, not exactly," was the reply; "that is to say, he never frequented
any gatherings of low people, as far as I know. But he was very much in
the habit of making a companion of my under-groom, Juniper Graves."
"Ah, exactly so! And this man drank?"
"Yes."
"And they played cards together?"
"I fear so."
"Then he's most likely hooked in with a low set--that makes it easier."
"Do you suppose that he is still in connection with any such set?" asked
Lady Oldfield.
"Pretty certain, if he has let out, when he was tipsy, that his father
is a gentleman of property. They'll help him on a bit, if they think
there's a chance of bleeding him again."
"But you know he has resolved to keep us in ignorance of his abode, and
all about himself."
"Yes, he meant it when he wrote; but when he's so hard up as to be near
starving, perhaps he'll change his mind."
"How then would you propose to proceed?" asked Sir Thomas.