"Have you a photograph of your son with you?"
"I have," said the poor mother. She took it out of her pocket-book, and
handed it to the officer. He looked at it very carefully for some time,
and then said,--
"I suppose he must be a little older looking than this."
"Yes, surely," was the reply, "for it was taken three years ago, before
he went out to Australia."
"I must ask you then to spare it me for a few days, as it may help us
materially."
"And how soon may we hope to hear anything from you?"
"In a day or two I expect, perhaps sooner. But don't call at the
office; it will do no good. You may depend upon hearing from me as soon
as I have anything to communicate."
That day passed over, a second, and a third day of sickening suspense.
How utterly powerless the poor parents felt! Lady Oldfield prayed, but
oh, there were sad thoughts of bitter self-reproach mingling with her
prayers. She could not but remember how she had herself been the chief
hindrance to her son's becoming a total abstainer when he was bent on
making the attempt, and had avowed his intention. Oh, she would have
given worlds now could she but recall the time, and her own words, when
she had dissuaded him from renouncing those stimulants which had proved
to him the cause of sin, ruin, and perhaps death. Yes; who could tell
what might have been now had that unhappy remonstrance never passed her
lips. Ah, it is easy to laugh down, or press down by a mother's
authority, the holy resolve of a child who sees the gigantic monster
drunkenness in some of his hideous proportions, and would gladly take
that step which would keep him, if leaning on grace for strength, free
from the deadly snare; easy to laugh down or crush down that resolve;
but oh, impossible to recall the past, impossible to give back to the
utterly hardened drunkard his fresh vigorous intellect, his nervous
moral power, his unstrained will, his unwarped conscience, his high and
holy resolution! Lady Oldfield felt it; but the past was now gone from
her, beyond the reach of effort, remorse, or prayer. At last, on the
morning of the fourth day, the superintendent again made his appearance.
"Have you found him?" cried both parents in a breath.
"I believe I am on his tracks," was the reply.
"Oh, thank God for that!" cried the poor mother, clasping her hands
together. "He still lives then?"
"I cannot be sure, but I should think so."
"Oh, then, cannot you take us to him?"
"No, madam, not yet; we are only on his tracks at present."
"Would you tell us in what way you have proceeded?" asked Sir Thomas.
"Certainly. In the first place, the young man's photograph was shown to
all our constables. Some thought they knew the face, and could fix upon
the right person in one of the low haunts they are acquainted with. But
after a two days' search they were all disappointed. Young men dress so
much alike in these days that it's often very difficult to tell who's
who till you see them very close. Then I had the likeness taken round
to all the publicans' wives, for the women are closer observers of
features than the men. Some thought they'd seen such a face, some
hesitated, one was quite sure she had. I could tell at once that she
was right."
"When was this?" eagerly asked Lady Oldfield.
"Yesterday."
"And what did she say?"
"She said that he had been there several nights running with two regular
cardsharpers, and they'd been drinking. She was sure it was him, though
he had disguised himself a little."
"And did you find him?"
"No; he hadn't been there for the last two or three nights. Perhaps he
had nothing to spend, for he came the last time in his shirt-sleeves; so
she supposed he'd pawned his coat."
"Well?"
"Well, I sent one of our men last night to see if he'd come again, but
he never did."
"And what can you do now?"
"Oh, I've left the photograph with the landlady, and she is to see if
any of her customers recognise it; it'll stand on the counter."
"And what do you think about him now?" asked Sir Thomas.
"That he'll turn up again in a day or two, if he's not ill."
"Oh, can he--can he have destroyed himself in a fit of despair?" gasped
Lady Oldfield.
"I think not, madam. Pray don't distress yourself. I believe we shall
be able to hunt him out in a day or two. I shall send a man in plain
clothes to the gin-shop again to-night to watch for him."
Early the next day the superintendent called again.
"We've found him," he said.
"Oh, where, where is he?" exclaimed the poor mother; "take us to him at
once! Oh, is he living?" she asked vehemently, for there was a look of
peculiar seriousness on the superintendent's face which made her fear
the worst.
"He is living, madam, but I'm sorry to say that he's seriously ill."
"Send for a cab at once," cried Sir Thomas.
"I have one at the door," said the officer; "one of you had better
secure a respectable lodging and nurse for him at once, while the other
goes with me."
"Let _me_ go to him," cried Lady Oldfield.
"It will be a strange place for a lady, but you will be safe with me."
"Oh yes, yes, let me go," was the reply; "am not I his mother? Oh, let
us go at once."
"Well, then, Sir Thomas," said the superintendent, "we will call at the
hotel as we return, if you will leave the direction of the lodgings with
the landlord."
"And how did you find out my poor boy?" asked Lady Oldfield, as they
hurried along through a labyrinth of by-streets, each dirtier and more
dismal than the last.
"My man in plain clothes, madam, watched last night for a long time by
the bar, but saw no one come in like your son. At last an old woman,
who was come for a quartern of gin, stared hard at the likeness, and
said, `Laws, if that ain't the young gent as is down ill o' the fever in
our attic!'"
"Ill of the fever!" exclaimed Lady Oldfield.
"Yes; it seems so. Of course that was enough. My man went home with
her, taking the photograph with him, and soon ascertained that the young
gentleman in question is your son. But we must stop here. I'm sorry to
bring your ladyship into such a place; but there's no help for it, if
you really wish to see the young man yourself."
"Oh yes, yes," cried the other; "anything, everything, I can bear all,
if I may only see him alive, and rescue him from his misery and sin."
"Wait for us here," said the officer to the cabman, as they alighted in
the middle of a nest of streets, which seemed as though huddled
together, by common consent, to shut out from public gaze their filth
and guilty wretchedness. Wretched indeed they were, as the haunts of
destitution and crime. All was foul and dingy. Distorted roofs patched
with mis-shapen tiles; chimneys leaning at various angles out of the
perpendicular; walls vile with the smoke and grime of a generation;
mortar that looked as though it never in its best days could have been
white; shattered doors whose proper colour none could tell, and which,
standing ajar, seemed to lead to nothing but darkness; weird women and
gaunt children imparting a dismal life to the rows of ungainly
dwellings;--all these made up a picture of squalid woe such as might
well have appalled a stouter heart than poor Lady Oldfield's. And was
she to find her delicately-nurtured son in such a place as this? They
turned down one street, under the wondering eyes of old and young, and
then plunged into a narrow court that led to nothing. Here, two doors
down on the left hand, they entered, and proceeded to climb a rickety
stair till they reached the highest floor. A voice that sent all the
blood rushing back to poor Lady Oldfield's heart was heard in high
strain, and another, mingling with it, muttering a croaking
accompaniment of remonstrance,--
"Well, you're a fine young gentleman, I've no doubt; but you'll not bide
long in that fashion, I reckon."