"Drink, boys, drink, and drive away your sorrow;
For though we're here to-day, we mayn't be here to-morrow."
The superintendent knocked at the door, and both entered. The old woman
uttered an exclamation of terror at the sight of the strangers, but the
appearance of Lady Oldfield reassured her, for she divined almost
immediately who she must be. On her part, Lady Oldfield instinctively
shrunk back at her first entrance, and well she might; for the revolting
sights and odours almost overpowered her, spite of her all-absorbing
anxiety to find and rescue her beloved child.
The room, if it could be justly called so--for it was, more properly
speaking, a kind of loft--was lighted, or rather, rendered less dark by
a sort of half window, half skylight, which looked out upon a stack of
decayed and blackened chimneys, and so much sickly-looking sky as could
be seen through the undamaged panes, which were but few, for lumps of
rags, old stockings, and similar contrivances blocked up many a space
which had once been used to admit the light, while the glass still
remaining was robbed of its transparency by accumulated dirt. There was
neither stove nor fire-place of any kind. The walls, if they had ever
been whitened, had long since lost their original hue, and exhibited
instead every variety of damp discoloration. Neither chair nor table
were there--an old stool and a box were the only seats. In the corner
farthest from the light, and where the ceiling sloped down to the floor,
was the only thing that could claim the name of a bedstead. Low and
curtainless, its crazy, worm-eaten frame groaned and creaked ominously
under the tossings to and fro of the poor sufferer, who occupied the
mass of ragged coverings spread upon it. In the opposite corner was a
heap of mingled shavings, straw, and sacking, the present couch of the
aged tenant of this gloomy apartment. The box stood close at the bed's
head; there were bottles and a glass upon, it, which had plainly not
been used for medicinal purposes, as the faded odour of spirits,
distinguishable above the general rank close smell of the room, too
clearly testified. Across the floor, stained with numberless
abominations, Lady Oldfield made her shuddering way to the bed, on which
lay, tossing in the delirium of fever, her unhappy son. His trousers
and waistcoat were thrown across his feet; his hat lay on the floor near
them; there was no coat, for it had been pawned to gratify his craving
for the stimulant which had eaten away joy and peace, hope and heart.
Flinging herself on her knees beside the prostrate form, his mother
tried to raise him.
"O Frank, Frank, my darling boy," she cried, with a bitter outburst of
weeping; "look at me, speak to me; I'm your own mother. Don't you know
me? I'm come to take you home."
He suddenly sat up, and jerked the clothes from him. His eyes glittered
with an unnatural light, his cheeks were deeply flushed with fever heat;
his hair, that mother's pride in former days, waved wildly over his
forehead. How fair, how beautiful he looked even then!
"Ah, poor young creetur," croaked the old woman; "it's a pity he's come
to this. I knowed he were not used to sich a life--more's the shame to
them as led him into it."
Ay, shame to them, indeed! But oh, how sad, how grievous that the young
hand, which might have raised to untainted lips none but those pure
draughts which neither heat the brain nor warp the sense of right,
should ever learn to grasp the cup that gives a passing brightness to
the eye and glitter to the tongue, but clouds at length the intellect,
fires the brain, and leaves a multitude of wretched victims cast ashore
as shattered moral wrecks. To such results, though from the smallest
beginnings, does the drink _tend_ in its very nature. Oh, happy they
who are altogether free from its toils!
The wretched young man stared wildly at his mother.
"Who are you?" he cried. "I don't know you. More brandy--where's the
bottle? `Here's a health to all good lasses; pledge it merrily, fill
your glasses.' Shuffle the cards well; now then, nothing wenture
nothing win. Spades are trumps."
"Oh, my boy, my boy," cried the agonised mother, "can nothing be done
for you? Has a doctor been sent for?" she cried suddenly, turning to
the old woman.
"Doctor!" was the reply. "No, ma'am; who's to pay for a doctor? The
young gent's been and popped all his things for the play and the drink;
and I haven't myself so much as a brass farden to get a mouthful o' meat
with."
"Oh, will any one run for a doctor?" implored the miserable mother.
"Here, my good woman," taking out a shilling, "give this to somebody to
fetch a doctor; quick--oh, don't lose a moment."
"Ay, ay, I'll see about it," mumbled the old woman; "that'll fetch a
doctor quick enough, you may be sure."
She made her way slowly and painfully down the creaking stairs, and
after a while returned.
"Doctor'll be here soon, ma'am, I'll warrant," she said.
Lady Oldfield sat on the box by the bed, watching her son's wild stare
and gesticulations in silent misery.
"I'm glad you've came, ma'am," continued the old woman; "I've had weary
work with the young gentleman. I found him outside the door of the
`Green Dragon' without his coat, and shaking like an aspen. I couldn't
help looking at him, poor soul. I asked him why he didn't go home; he
said he hadn't got no home. I asked him where his friends lived; he
said he hadn't got no friends. I asked him where he lodged; he said he
didn't know. I was a-going to ask him summat else, but afore I could
speak he tumbles down on the ground. We'd hard work to lift him up;
some was for calling police, others wanted to make short work with him.
But I said, says I, `You just let him alone, I'll look arter him;' and
so I did. I just heaved him up, and got him to a door-step, and then I
fetched him a quartern o' gin, and he got a little better; and then I
helped him here. I'd hard work to get him to climb up, but I managed it
at last. So here he's been ever since, and that's a week come Friday."
"God bless you for your kindness," cried Lady Oldfield. "You shall have
no cause to repent it."
"Nay," said the kind-hearted old creature, "I knows I shan't repent it.
It's a poor place, is this, for such as he, but it's the best I have,
and it's what the drink has brought me to, and scores and thousands
better nor me, and will do again."
In a short time the doctor arrived. A very rapid inspection of his
patient was sufficient to show him the nature and extent of his
complaint.
"Is he in any danger?" asked the poor mother, with deep anxiety.
The doctor shook his head gravely.
"In great danger, I fear."
"Can we remove him without risk?"
"Not without risk, I'm afraid," was the reply; "and yet it may be worse
for him to be left here. It is simply a choice of risks. We had better
wrap him up well in blankets, and convey him to proper lodgings at
once."
"Is there any hope?" asked poor Lady Oldfield, with streaming eyes.
"I trust so," was all the doctor dared to say. Blankets were at once
procured, and the emaciated body of the patient was borne by strong and
willing arms to the cab, for there is a wondrous sympathy with those
suffering from illness even in the breasts of the most hardened and
godless; while, at the same time, great was the excitement in the little
court and its neighbourhood. Lady Oldfield poured out her thanks once
more to the old woman who had taken compassion on her son, and put into
the poor creature's hand more money than it had ever grasped at one time
before.
"Eh! my lady," she exclaimed, in delighted astonishment, "you're very
good. I'm sure, never a thought came into my head, when I brought home
the poor young gentleman, as any one would have come down so handsome.
I'd have done it all the same if I'd never have got a penny."
"I'm sure of it," replied her ladyship; "but you have done for me what
money can never repay. I shall not lose sight of you; but I must not
stop now. God bless and reward you;--and oh, give up the drink, the
wretched drink, which has been my poor boy's ruin, and come for pardon
and peace to your gracious Saviour."
"Ah!" muttered the old creature, as she turned back to her miserable
garret, fondly eyeing the golden treasure which she grasped tight with
her withered fingers; "it's easier said nor done, my lady. Give up the
drink? No, it cannot be. Come to my gracious Saviour? Ah! I used to
hear words like those when I were a little 'un, but the drink's drowned
'em out of my heart long since. I'm too old now. Give up the drink!
No; not till the drink gives _me_ up. It's got me, and it's like to
keep me. It's taken all I've had--husband, children, home, money--and
it'll have all the rest afore it's done. I must just put this safe by,
and then I'll go and wet my lips with a quartern o' mountain dew. It's
a rare thing, is the drink; it's meat and drink too, and lodging and
firing and all."
In the meanwhile the cab sped swiftly on its way to the Albion Hotel,
and from thence to the lodgings, where Sir Thomas was anxiously waiting
their arrival. They carried the sufferer up to his bed-room. What a
contrast to the miserable, polluted chamber from which Lady Oldfield had
just rescued him! Here all was cleanliness and comfort, with abundant
light and ventilation, and a civil and experienced nurse waited to take
charge of the unhappy patient. Having parted with the superintendent
with many heartfelt expressions of gratitude, Sir Thomas, Lady Oldfield,
and the doctor proceeded to the sick-room. Frank lay back on the snow-
white pillow, pale and motionless, his eyes closed, his lips apart. Oh!
was he dead? Had the shock been too much for his enfeebled body? Had
they found him only to lose him at once for ever? Sir Thomas and his
wife approached the bed with beating hearts. No; there was life still;
the lips moved, and the hectic of the fever returned to the cheeks.
Then the eyes opened wide, and Frank sprang up into a sitting posture.
"Frank, Frank, don't you know me?" asked Sir Thomas, in a voice of keen
distress.
"Know you? No; I never saw you before. Where's Juniper? Come here,
old fellow. You're a regular trump, and no mistake. Give us some
brandy. That's the right sort of stuff; ain't it, old gentleman?" said
Frank, glaring at his father, and uttering a wild laugh.
"This is terrible, terrible!" groaned the baronet. "Doctor, what can we
do?"
The medical man looked very grave.
"We must keep him as quiet as possible," he replied; "but it's a bad
case. He's a bad subject, unhappily, because of his intemperate habits.
I hope we shall reduce the fever; but what I fear most is the after
exhaustion."
"Oh!" exclaimed Lady Oldfield, "if he would only know us--if he would
only speak rationally--if he would only keep from these dreadful
ramblings about spirits and drinking! It breaks my heart to hear him
speak as he does. Oh! I could bear to lose him now, though we have
just found him, if I could only feel that he was coming back, like the
poor prodigal, in penitence to his heavenly Father."
"You must calm yourself, madam," said the doctor; "we must hope that it
will be so. Remember, he is not responsible for the words he now
utters; they are only the ravings of delirium."
"Yes; _he_ is not responsible for the words he now utters," cried the
poor mother--"but oh, misery, misery! I am responsible. _I_ held him
back, _I_ laughed him from his purpose, when he would have pledged
himself to renounce that drink which has been his bane and ruin, body
and soul."
"Come, come, my dearest wife," said her husband, "you must be comforted.
You acted for the best. We are not responsible for his excess. He
never learned excess from us."
"No; but I cannot be comforted, for I see--I know that he might now have
been otherwise. Ay, he might now have been as the Oliphants are, if his
own mother had not put the fatal hindrance in his way. Oh, if I had
worlds to give I would give them, could I only undo that miserable
past!"
"I think," said the medical man, "it will be wiser if all would now
leave him except the nurse. The fewer he sees, and the fewer voices he
hears, the less he will be likely to excite himself. I will call early
again to-morrow."
Lady Oldfield retired to her chamber, and poured out her heart in
prayer. Oh, might she have but one hour of intelligence--one hour in
which she might point her erring child to that loving Saviour, whom she
had herself sought in earnest and found in truth since the departure of
her son from home! Oh, might she but see him return to the Gatherer of
the wandering sheep! She did not ask life for him--she dared not ask it
absolutely; but she did ask that her heavenly Father would in pity grant
her some token that there was hope in her beloved child's death, if he
must die. And does not God answer prayer? Yes, alway; but not always
in our way. When sin has found the sinner out--when warnings have been
slighted, mercies despised, the Spirit quenched, the gentle arm that
would guide us to glory rudely and perseveringly flung aside--then,
then, it may be, not even a believing mother's prayer shall avail to
turn aside the righteous stroke of the hand of that holy God who is to
his determined enemies a consuming fire.
All the night long did Frank Oldfield toss to and fro, or start up with
glaring eyes, calling on his drunken associates, singing wild songs, or
now and then recalling days when sin had not yet set its searing brand
on his heart and conscience. About midnight his father and mother stole
into his chamber. The nurse put up her finger. They cautiously shrank
back behind the screen of the bed-curtains out of his sight.
"Juniper, my boy!" exclaimed the wretched sufferer, "where's my mother?
Gone down to the rectory! Ah, they're water-drinkers there. That don't
do for you and me, Juniper. `This bottle's the sun of our table.' Ha,
ha!--a capital song that!"
Lady Oldfield sank on her knees, and could not repress her sobs.
"Who's crying?" exclaimed Frank. "Is it Mary? Poor Mary! She loved me
once--didn't she? My poor mother loved me once--didn't she? Why don't
she love me now? Where's my mother now?"
"Here I am--here's your mother--your own loving mother--my Frank--my
darling boy!" burst from the lips of the agonised parent.
She flung herself down on her knees beside the bed. He stared at her,
but his ramblings went off the next moment to something else. Then
there was a pause, and he sank back. Lady Oldfield took the opportunity
to send up a fervent prayer. He caught the half-whispered words, and
sat up. He looked for the moment so collected, so much himself, that
his mother's lips parted with joyful astonishment, and she gasped,--
"He knows us--his reason is restored!"
The next moment she saw her sad mistake.
"How funny!" cried the poor patient; "there's our old parson praying.
Poor old parson!--he tried to make me a teetotaller. It wouldn't do,
Jacob. Ah, Jacob, never mind me. You're a jolly good fellow, but you
don't understand things. Give us a song. What shall it be? `Three
jolly potboys drinking at the "Dragon."' What's amiss? I'm quite
well--never was better in my life. How d'ye do, captain?"
These last words he addressed to his father, who was gazing at him in
blank misery.
And was it to be always so? Was he to pass out of the world into
eternity thus--thrilling the hearts of those who heard him with
bitterest agony? No; there came a change. Another day, the remedies
had begun to tell on the patient. The fever gradually left him. The
fire had faded from his eye, the hectic from his cheek. And now father
and mother, one on either side, bent over him. Lady Oldfield read from
the blessed Book the parable of the Prodigal Son. She thought that
Frank heard her, for there was on his face a look of mingled surprise,
pleasure, and bewilderment. Then no one spoke for a while. Nothing was
heard but the ticking of Lady Oldfield's watch, which stood in its case
on the dressing-table. Again the poor mother opened the same precious
Gospel of Saint Luke, and read out calmly and clearly the parable of the
Pharisee and the Publican. Then she knelt by the bed and prayed that
her boy might come with the publican's deep contrition to his God,
trusting in the merits of his Saviour. There was a whispered sound from
those feeble lips. She could just distinguish the words, "To me a
sinner." They were all, but she blessed God for them. An hour later,
and the doctor came. There was no hope in his eye, as he felt the
pulse.
"What report?" murmured Sir Thomas. The doctor shook his head.
"Oh, tell me--is he dying?" asked the poor mother.
"He is sinking fast," was the reply.
"Can nothing restore him?"
"Nothing."
"Oh, Frank--darling Frank," appealed his mother, in a whisper of
agonised entreaty, "let me have one word--one look to tell me you know
me."
The weary eyes opened, and a faint smile seemed to speak of
consciousness.
"Hear me--hear me, my beloved child," she said again. "Christ Jesus
came into the world to save sinners. Jesus died for you. Jesus loves
you still. Look to him--believe in him. He is able to save you even
now."
Again the eyes slowly opened. But the dying glaze was over them. A
troubled look came across the brow, and then a faint smile. The lips
opened, but could frame no words for a while. Lady Oldfield put her ear
close to those parted lips. They spoke now, but only three short words,
very slowly and feebly, "Jesus--Mother--Mary." Then all was over.
So died Frank Oldfield. Was there hope in his death? Who shall say?
That heart-broken mother clung, through years of wearing sorrow, to the
faint hope that flickered in those few last words and in that feeble
smile. He smiled when she spoke of Jesus. Yes; she clung to these as
the drowning man clings to the handful of water-reeds which he clutches
in his despair. But where was the happy evidence of genuine repentance
and saving faith? Ah, miserable death-bed! No bright light shone from
it. No glow, caught from a coming glory, rested on those marble
features. Yet how beautiful was that youthful form, even though defaced
by the brand of sin! How gloriously beautiful it might have been as the
body of humiliation, hereafter to be fashioned like unto Christ's
glorious body, had a holy, loving soul dwelt therein in its tabernacle
days on earth? Then an early death would have been an early glory, and
the house of clay, beautiful with God's adornments, would only have been
taken down in life's morning to be rebuilt on a nobler model in the
paradise of God.