"Now, sir, you must just keep silent, and let me tell all about your troubles to this young man. You see, it seems that Mr Oldfield and that man of his, who appears to be a regular scoundrel, came down and settled in this hut, to try a taste of 'bush' life, fishing and shooting, and the like. But, dear heart, it was all well enough for a day or two; but after a bit the young gentleman got weary of it. So they took to pa.s.sing a good deal of their time in drinking and playing cards, I'm afraid. I hope, young man, you're not given to anything of the sort?"

"Me!" exclaimed Jacob; "no, ma'am; that's not in my line, I can a.s.sure you. It's the drink as parted my poor mayster and me afore. I'm a gradely total abstainer, and mean to be all the days of my life, please G.o.d."

"I'm heartily glad to hear it," said the good woman. "You'll do the young gentleman no harm then, I hope, but good. Well, as I was saying, when they'd been a long time at this drinking and card-playing, what with the heat, and what with the change in his way of living, the poor gentleman took ill; so what did that man of his do? Why, he looked after him for a day or so, and then he made pretence that he'd take one of the horses, and go and look for a doctor, or for some one who could come and give a help. But, bless you, he never cared about doctor, but went straight off with both the horses, and one of the guns, and all the powder and shot as was left, and whatever else he could carry; and it seems too, from what the gentleman says, that he's taken and robbed his master of fifty pounds."

"And how did you happen to light on him, and find out he was sick?"

asked Jacob.

"Why, I was just going to tell you. My master and d.i.c.k--d.i.c.k's our youngest boy, you know--was looking after a stray sheep, when they comes up to this hut, and hears a strange moaning noise. They went in at once, and there was this young gentleman in a high fever, raving, and talking all sorts of wild things, and half dead for want of water. So my master goes back at once to our cottage and fetches me, and here I've been, off and on, ever since. It's a mercy my master found him when he did, or he must have died afore long."

Frank Oldfield nodded his head in a.s.sent, and held out his hand, first to the shepherd's wife, and then to Jacob. "And so you've come to stay a bit with your old master, Jacob. Thank G.o.d for that."

"Ay, that's right," said the good woman; "thank Him--you've cause to do so, I'm sure G.o.d seems nearer to us who live out in the bush, in one way. I mean, our mercies and blessings seem to come straighter like from his own hand when we've so few of our fellow-Creatures about us."

"Jacob," said his master earnestly, "I trust, if I'm spared, that I shall really turn over a new leaf, gradely, as you'd say. The drink has been my curse, my ruin, and almost my death. I'll give it up altogether, and sign the pledge, if G.o.d raises me up to health and strength again."

"Ay, do, mayster," replied the other; "it'll be the best thing you ever did in all your life."

The shepherd's wife was now able to delegate many of her kind offices to Jacob, who proved a most loving and tender nurse. In a few days their patient was able to sit up without difficulty, and, after a while, to leave the hut for the shepherd's comfortable cottage, to which he was conveyed on a litter of boughs by the stout arms of the shepherd and his sons. Here it was agreed that he should remain as a regular lodger, at a moderate remuneration for himself and Jacob, which his host and hostess were rather loath to accept, but the refusal of which they saw would give Frank Oldfield much pain. Jacob was his master's devoted attendant, watching over him as a mother over her child.

It was one fine afternoon, when Frank was better than usual, that he turned to Jacob in the midst of a walk, and said abruptly, "Jacob, should you like to go to the diggings?"

"Why, Mayster Frank," was the reply, "I've often thought I should just like to try my hand at it, for I was trained as a lad to pit-work. But I should never think of leaving you till you're all right again, nor then either, unless you'd wish it yourself."

"What made me ask you," said his master, "was this. My kind landlord's three eldest sons are going, as you know, to try their hands for three months or so at gold-digging. Now, if you'd like to go with them, it would be a real pleasure to me. You would go in capital company, as they are all stanch teetotallers, like yourself; and nothing would rejoice me more than to find you coming back with a bag full of nuggets."

"But what'll _you_ do while I'm off, Mr Frank?"

"Oh, that's easily answered. My kind hostess, and her husband, and two youngest sons will be able to do all I want, as I'm getting well so fast; and I shall be glad of an excuse to stop here in this quiet place for a while, and not return to Adelaide. I can say, and say with truth, that I am waiting till you and your party come back from the diggings."

Jacob Poole had no objections to make; so in a few days the four young men had crossed the Murray, and were on their way to the gold-fields.

It is not necessary to describe in detail the history of the party from Tanindie during their stay at the diggings, but one or two scenes must be introduced which will further our story.

It was a calm Sabbath evening; the click of the pick, the rattle of the cradle, the splashing of the water-buckets--all were still. Outwardly the day had been kept strictly as a day of rest by all. Beneath a tall tree stood, in the dress of a minister of the gospel, a middle-aged but grey-headed man. A rough stool served him for a seat, and a few upturned buckets, supporting some loose planks, were appropriated to the few women and children, while the men stood behind these in various att.i.tudes, but all very attentive; for in such a congregation as this there were none but willing listeners. Those who had no mind to the preaching simply pleased themselves, and stayed away. After the singing of a hymn, given out two lines at a time, for the minister alone possessed a hymn-book, a fervent prayer was offered up by the good man, at the commencement of which almost all the little company sank gently on their knees. A few stood, but all remained bareheaded till its conclusion. Then he drew forth his pocket Bible, and read the first chapter of the First Epistle of Peter, and took from it as his text the third, fourth, and fifth verses: "Blessed be the G.o.d and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for you, who are kept by the power of G.o.d through faith unto salvation ready to be revealed in the last time."

From these words he addressed his earnestly attentive congregation in the simplest language, but every word came from the heart, and made his hearers feel that he was not standing himself on one side, and bidding them go forward, but was beckoning to them to follow along the path on which he was already going before them. He spoke of the uncertainty of life, and they knew that he spoke the truth; for many who had come there to search for gold had been cut off in the midst of their labours. He spoke of the uncertainty of earthly gain and prosperity, and they knew that he spoke the truth; for many who had left home, and had sold all to come to these diggings, had returned beggars. He spoke of the emptiness of the earthly compared with the fulness of the heavenly inheritance, and bid them set eternity against time, the riches of heaven against the gold of the earth, the house of glory against their shifting tents, the rest of a home with G.o.d against their present wanderings, and many a sigh and tear escaped from lips and eyes that seldom spoke or looked except for earthly things. And then he told them of the blood of Christ that was shed for their souls, and must be infinitely more precious than corruptible silver or gold, and urged them never to rest satisfied till they could feel that they were truly the children of G.o.d and followers of Jesus; for what would it profit them if they gained the whole world and lost their own souls? Lastly, he pleaded with them to lose no time, but to come at once just as they were, and not any of them to hang back through fear or doubt; for the love of Jesus Christ was deep enough to swallow up the sins of them all, and was, like himself, "the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever." The simple service concluded with another hymn and prayer, and then all dispersed, silent and thoughtful.

On Jacob Poole, who had been one of the congregation, the sermon of the good minister made a deep impression. He had often heard the gospel preached before, but it had never hitherto come home to his heart as a personal concern, as it did now. There was to him a reality about it such as he had never understood before. His heart was yearning for something; he felt that the gospel was that something, that it could satisfy his heart's cravings. All through the service, but for about half a minute, he had kept his eyes fixed on the preacher. He withdrew them for that half minute to glance round at a man who brushed past him and walked on. As he turned, the man averted his face. He thought it was a face not altogether strange to him, and yet he could not recall where he had seen it. But his eyes returned to the preacher, and other thoughts occupied his mind and heart. During the rest of that week he was ill at ease. Many thoughts came crowding in upon him as he worked vigorously in the hole a.s.signed to him. Hitherto he had believed men sinners in the gross, and himself as bad but not worse than the general average. Now he began to know that he was really himself a sinner, whose transgressions of G.o.d's holy laws would bring upon him eternal death, unless he sought and found the only refuge. But was the gospel message really for _him_? Would Jesus, whom he had so long reverenced, yet never hitherto really loved, be still willing to receive him? He waited impatiently for the return of the Sabbath. It came at last, and Christ's amba.s.sador was at his old place under the tree with words full of love and encouragement. At the end of his sermon, before retiring, he said,--

"If there is any one of you, my dear hearers, who is in any way troubled in conscience, or for any other reason would wish any conversation with me on religious subjects, I shall be only too happy to talk with him now in my tent."

No one spoke, and the good man went his way. But in a little while Jacob Poole followed him, and asked to be allowed to speak with him for a few minutes. He entered the minister's tent with a distressed and anxious countenance; but when he came away from the interview in which he had unburdened his sorrows, and laid open all his difficulties, there was a bright and happy look on his features, which spoke of a mind stayed on G.o.d and a heart at peace. Just as he was leaving the minister's tent, a swift, quiet step came behind him; he turned very quickly, and again his eyes fell on the same countenance which he had seen when a person brushed by him at the previous Sunday's service.

Another moment, and the man had vanished in the dusk. Again he was puzzled. He could not at all remember where he had seen that face, and yet certainly he _had_ seen it before. There was something forbidding and malicious in it, and a sort of dread crept over him. And yet he could not tell why he should fear. However, he resolved to be on his guard, for strange things had often happened at the diggings, and there were men prowling about the colony who would care nothing about shedding blood, if they could secure thereby the gains of a successful digger.

He said nothing, however, to his companions; for it seemed an absurd thing to trouble them with his vague impressions and misgivings, especially as the man who had thus twice been near him had done nothing more than approach him and pa.s.s on.

It was some ten days later, and violent winds with heavy rains had driven the most ardent diggers early to their tents. Jacob was revolving in his mind what he had heard at the last Sunday's preaching, and thoughts of home, and duties left undone there, made him very sad.

Then he thought of his young master at Tanindie, and wondered how he was progressing, and whether he would at length really take the one decided step and become a pledged abstainer. Thus he mused on, till the twilight melted rapidly into darkness. Then, having lifted up his heart to G.o.d in prayer, he threw himself down on his bed. But he could not sleep, though weary enough with the exhausting labours of many days.

Suddenly he half raised himself; he thought he heard a strange noise like some one breathing not far from his head. Then the wind, which had lulled for a second or two, resumed its violence, and flapped the canvas of his tent backwards and forwards. Again he lay down, but shortly afterwards thought he heard the breathing again--or was he only deceiving himself? It was difficult to hear anything else distinctly for the noise made by the flapping of the tent and the creaking of its supports. Still, he did not feel easy. And now in the dusk it seemed to him that the lower part of the folds of the tent near his bed's head moved in a peculiar manner, such as the wind could not cause. Without rising, he silently and cautiously rolled himself over from the bed till he could lay his hand on a large rug;--this he quietly folded up, and, creeping back, laid it in his own place on the bed itself. Then, drawing himself round noiselessly, he lay at full-length on the ground, at right angles to the bed, with his face not far from the bolster. Not a sound, except the flapping and creaking of the tent, was heard for some time, till Jacob, feigning to be asleep, began to breathe hard, and then to snore louder and louder. Suddenly he was aware that the canvas was lifted slowly a few feet from where he was stretched along. He continued, however, still to breathe hard, as one in a deep sleep.

Another moment, and a man was stealthily raising himself to his knees inside the tent. Then the intruder raised his arm. Jacob, concealed by a fold of the tent, could just make out that the man's hand grasped some weapon. The next instant there was a plunge downward of the hand, and a suppressed exclamation of surprise. But Jacob waited to see and hear no more. Catching up a spade, which he knew was close by, he aimed a furious blow at the intended a.s.sa.s.sin. He did not, however, fully reach his mark--the blow fell partly short, yet not altogether; there was a cry of pain and terror, and then the murderous intruder rushed from the tent, and made his escape, before Jacob could recover his balance, which he had lost in the violence of his stroke. And now conjecture and suspicion were changed to certainty. He could not doubt whose was the voice that uttered that cry; it was too hateful to him ever to be forgotten; he was now sure that his surmises were true, and that the man whom he had twice seen so near him was the same who had just been attempting his life, and was none other than Juniper Graves. He must have blackened his hair and cultivated a moustache, which would account for Jacob's being puzzled to identify him. As soon as he could recover from his surprise, Jacob armed himself with a revolver, and cautiously examined the ground outside his tent, thinking that perhaps his enemy might be lurking about, or might have been disabled by the blow of his spade.

"I'm certain I marked the villain," he said to himself. "I'm sure, by the way he hollered out, he's got summat with him as he'll remember me by." But all was still, except the howling of the wind and the pattering and splashing of the driving rain. Then he made his way to the large tent which the brothers, his companions, all occupied in common. He told his story, which, of course, excited both the sympathy and indignation of his hearers. But what was to be done?

"No use looking for him to-night," said one; "he's bolted off far enough by this time, you may depend on't. As good look for a black fellow in the Murray reeds, as search for this precious scoundrel in the dark.

Here; one of us'll come and share your tent to-night, and to-morrow we'll raise a hue and cry."

But hue and cry were raised in vain. Juniper Graves, if he were the culprit, was gone, and had left no trace behind. Nothing more was seen or heard of him; no such person was to be found at the diggings, and no one seemed to know anything about him. So Jacob was left in peace till the three months were gone, and then returned to Tanindie, the party having met with rather more than average good fortune.

When the first greetings were over, and Jacob had expressed his delight at the thorough restoration of his master's health, Frank turned to his faithful servant and said,--

"Well, Jacob, you've brought me good news, as you've come back safe, and a rich man; and, indeed, if you'd only brought yourself it would have been good news to me. But I am not quite so sure that you'll think my news good news, when you hear what I have to tell you."

A cloud gathered on Jacob's face, as he said tremblingly,--

"Eh, surely, mayster, you--you--you've not been--"

"Oh, no, no," laughed Frank; "set your mind at rest, Jacob; I'm a thorough teetotaller now, and have been ever since you left."

"And mean to be so still, I hope, mayster."

"I hope so," was the reply. "But you have not heard my news, Jacob.

I'm thinking of going home; not home to Adelaide, but back across the sea again--home to England."

"Indeed, Mayster Frank. Well, I'm not so sorry to hear it."

"Are you not?" said his master, with a look of disappointment. "I thought you might have been. At any rate, I shall be sorry to lose _you_, Jacob, for you've been more like a brother than a servant to me; though, it's true, you'll not be much of a sufferer by losing me."

"Ay, but, Mayster Frank, there's no reason why either on us should lose t'other. I haven't forgotten what you did for me on board ship; and I'll serve ye still here or in the old country, till you can find one as'll suit you better."

"Jacob, you're a good fellow," replied his master; "you shall be my servant, then, and we will go back to Old England together. I'll tell you just how it is. My dear mother wants me home again--it seems she can't be content without me; and as there really is no special reason why I should remain in the colony--and certainly I haven't been much of an ornament to it, nor credit to my friends here--I think it better to meet her wishes and return."

"And I'll go with you, with all my heart," said the other; "only then you mustn't think, mayster, as it's all on your own account as says so; it wouldn't be honest to let you think so. Truth is, I've been having a talk wi' a good minister as came a-preaching where we were on the Sabbath up at the diggings; and he's opened my eyes a bit; or, rather, the Lord's opened 'em through him. So you see, I've been asking him what's my duty about them as I've left at home, and it seems to me, by what the good man says, as I haven't dealt by 'em quite as I should.

It's a long story, and I needn't trouble you with it; but it just comes to this: I came back from the diggings with my mind made up to go home again first opportunity. So, you see, mayster, as you're going yourself, I can go with you all right now."

"And do you know, Jacob--or rather, I'm pretty sure that you don't know, that your old friend, Captain Merryweather, has been to Adelaide. He's gone to Melbourne now, but he'll be back in a month, and we can take our pa.s.sage home in the dear old _Sabrina_."

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

It was a month after the return of Jacob and his party from the diggings that Frank, Jacob, and Captain Merryweather met on board the _Sabrina_ at Port Adelaide.

"So, Jacob, my boy," cried the captain; "why, how you're grown!

Colonial life agrees with you. I should hardly have known you. And you're coming home in the old ship. I'm heartily glad of it; that is, supposing you're the same lad as when you sailed with me before. I mean, as stanch an abstainer."

"Ay, that he is," said Frank warmly.