"And so you've given him a little of your mind, I suppose."

"Yes; and it's wounded my gentleman's dignity considerably; so there he is below, hugging his gold, and comforting himself in his own way, which isn't much in your line or Jacob's, captain, and I wish it wasn't in mine."

"In other words," said Captain Merryweather, "he's pretty nearly drunk by this time."

"You're somewhere about right," was the reply. Immediately after this short dialogue the captain proceeded to give the orders for tacking in a stentorian voice, as the wind was high.

"Ready, ho! ready!" he cried. All were standing ready at their posts.

Then the word was given to the man at the wheel.

"Helm's a-lee!" roared the captain. There was rattling of chains, flapping of canvas, and shuffling of feet.

"Mainsail h-a-u-aul!" bellowed the captain in a prolonged shout. Round went the great sail under the swift and strong pulls of willing hands.

"Let go, and h-a-u-aul!" once more roared out the captain in a voice of thunder.

It was just at this moment, when all was apparent confusion, when ropes were rattling, feet stamping, sails quivering, that Juniper Graves emerged from his cabin on to the main-deck, his head bare, and his sandy hair flying out wildly into the breeze. His eyes were strained and bloodshot, and his whole appearance was that of a person in an agony of terror. Aroused from his drunken sleep by the noise overhead, and terrified to find the vessel heeling over to the other side, he imagined, in his drunken bewilderment, that the ship had struck, and that himself and his gold were in danger of perishing with her. Filled with frenzy at this idea, he rushed out upon deck, where the general apparent confusion confirmed his fears; then he sprung upon the bulwarks, gazed around him in utter dismay at the crew in busy motion about him, tottered on his insecure standing-ground, caught at a rope to save himself; missed it, and then, with a terrible shriek of horror and despair, fell headlong overboard into the boiling waters.

"Save him! oh, save him!" cried Frank Oldfield imploringly. "Where is he? Let me go, let me go," he screamed, for he was about to plunge overboard, and the captain was holding him back with his powerful grasp.

"It's no use, Mr Oldfield; it'll only be two lives instead of one."

"Oh, yes, yes," besought Frank; "put the ship about--lie-to--throw over a hen-coop, a life-buoy, for mercy's sake--the poor wretch isn't fit to die," and he still struggled to free himself.

"Listen to reason, sir," said the captain. "We can do nothing; the ship's running nine knots, and no one knows where to look for him; nothing can save him, miserable man; he's sunk no doubt, at once, and all the faster for having his gold about him."

"Can nothing be done?" cried Frank, beseechingly.

"Nothing, I a.s.sure you," replied the other; "there's not a trace of him to be seen, is there, Mr Walters?" The first mate shook his head.

"We're far enough off now from the spot where he fell in. It's in mercy to you, sir, that he's been taken away."

Frank sank upon a seat, and buried his face in his hands, sobbing bitterly.

Yes; the tempter was gone, gone to his account--suddenly cut off in the midst of his sins, hurried away in righteous retribution by the very death himself had planned for Jacob Poole. Yes; the tempter was gone, and the tempted still remained. Would he take home to his heart the lesson and warning G.o.d had thus sent him? The tempter was gone, but, alas! the temptation was not gone. Frank had even now in his cabin several flasks of that drink which had already borne such miserable fruits for himself and the guilty wretch just hurried into the presence of his offended G.o.d. He had bought the spirits from Juniper at an exorbitant price, but would he use them now, after what had happened?

The night after Juniper's awful death he sat in his cabin weeping.

Thoughts of home, of mother, father, Mary, crowded in upon his heart.

The days that once were, when he would have joined with real willingness and hearty earnestness the band of abstainers, as he sat in all boyish sincerity at Mr Bernard Oliphant's table, eager to make the trial and bear the cross, were fresh upon his memory now. And all the bitter past, with its shameful, degrading, sinful records, gathered its thick shadows round his soul. What should he do? He sank upon his knees and prayed--prayed to be forgiven, prayed that he might do better--and then he rose, and was in part comforted. And now, what should he do with the spirits which were still in his possession? He took them out and ranged the flasks on his berth. His scuttle stood open. One minute and he could have thrown them all into the sea. Conscience said, "Do it, and do it at once." But another voice whispered, "Pity to waste so much good stuff; drink these out, but only a moderate quant.i.ty at a time, and then you can renounce the drink for ever." He listened to the second voice, and conscience sighed itself to sleep.

Alas! alas! what fiend like the fiend of drink? It can steal away every good resolution, drown the voice of conscience, and make a man cheat himself into the belief that the indulgence of to-day is a warrant and guarantee for the abstinence of to-morrow. Frank was satisfied; he felt sure that it would be wiser to wean himself gradually from his drinking habits; he would use the strictest moderation with his present little stock, and then he should more readily forsake it altogether when this was gone. And so he continued to drink, but more and more sparingly, as he himself supposed, because he was really training himself to a gradual surrender of the drink, but in reality because he dreaded to be left altogether without it. And so the taste was kept up during the remainder of the voyage, and Frank Oldfield landed on the sh.o.r.es of his native country with the thirst strong upon him.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

HOMELESS AND HEARTLESS.

The _Sabrina_ was bound for Liverpool, and entered that port some two years after the time when she left it with Hubert Oliphant and Frank Oldfield as fellow-pa.s.sengers. Alas! how different were the feelings of the latter now, from those with which he trod the deck of that vessel when preparing for his temporary exile. Then, though sad, he was full of hope; now he was both heartless and hopeless; he knew he was the bond-slave of the drink, and, whatever he might say to others, he felt in his own heart that it was useless any longer to try and cheat himself with the transparent phantom of a lie. Yet he could not for shame acknowledge thus much to others, nor would he allow his conscience to state it deliberately to himself; he still clung to something, which was yet neither conviction nor hope, that he might even now master his besetting sin. Alas! he desired the good end, but he would not use the only means to that good end; and so, when he landed on the soil of the old country again, it was with the settled determination, (though he would not have believed his own handwriting, had he put down that determination on paper) not to give up the drinking of intoxicating liquors at present. How then should he face his parents and Mary Oliphant? He could not face them at all as yet. He could not at once make up his mind what to do. Happily for him, Juniper Graves had been cut off before he had been able to effect a complete spoliation of his master, so that Frank had still rather more than two hundred pounds in his possession. While this money lasted, he resolved to stave off the evil day of taking any decided step. He would not write to his mother or Mary till he had quite made up his mind what course he was intending to pursue. He was also well aware that the family of Bernard Oliphant could give him no welcome with his present habits of excess still upon him. So, on the day of reaching Liverpool, he said to Jacob Poole,--

"Well, Jacob, are you quite tired of my service, or will you stay by me a little longer? I've no right or wish to stand in your way, and if you would like to make another voyage with Captain Merryweather, or can find any other situation that will suit you better than mine, I would not have you consider yourself bound to me at all."

"Mayster Frank," was Jacob's reply, "I'm not going to leave you now, unless you wish to part with me yourself. I don't feel happy in leaving you to go by yourself n.o.body knows where."

"Really, Jacob, you make a capital nurse," said the other, laughing; "you seem to be quite convinced that I'm not to be trusted to run alone."

"And it's true, sir," replied Jacob, seriously; "you need looking after, and I mustn't be letting you get into the hands of any of those chaps as'll hook all as you have out o' you in no time--that is, if you're going to stay by yourself in this big town."

"Why, yes, Jacob; I shall not go down to my father's at once. I don't seem as if I _could_ go. I'd better wait a little bit. I seem out of trim, and out of sorts altogether."

"You must please yourself," replied Jacob; "and you must know best, Mayster Frank, what you're bound to do. But, if you'd take my advice, you'd go home at once, afore anything worse happens."

"No, Jacob, I cannot yet, and so that's settled. Now we must look-out for lodgings; they mustn't be expensive ones, else the bra.s.s, as you call it, won't hold out, and you can wait on me, and keep me in order, you know. But, by the way, I was forgetting that you have friends of your own to look after. Don't let anything I've been saying prevent your going to them, and doing what's right by them. I shall be quite willing to come into any arrangement you may like to make. Don't consider yourself bound to me, Jacob, but just do whatever you feel to be your duty."

"You're very kind, Mayster Frank: it's just this way with me. I should like to go and see arter them as I left behind when I sailed for Australia, and see how they're coming on. But it don't matter for a week or so, for they're not looking for me. I'll see you settled first properly, Mayster Frank, if you mean to settle here for a bit, and then I'll just take a run over yonder for a few days, and come back to you again, and what I do afterwards'll depend on how I find things yonder."

And thus it was finally settled. Frank took quiet lodgings in a respectable by-street, in the house of an aged widow, who was delighted with his cheerful open manners, and did her best to make him and Jacob comfortable. But the time hung heavily on the hands of both master and man. Frank purposed daily writing home, and yet each to-morrow found him more reluctant to do so than the day before. Jacob loitered about the town and docks when his master did not want him, and got exceedingly weary of his idleness.

"Eh, ma'am," he said one day to their landlady, "my arms fair ache with hanging down and doing nothing."

Thus things went on for about a fortnight, when one evening at tea-time Frank failed to make his appearance. Seven o'clock, then nine and ten, but no master came to remove poor Jacob's misgivings. At last, about midnight, a stumbling against the door and a violent knock made his heart die within him.

"Who's there?" he cried, before opening the door.

"Me, old king of trumps!" cried a voice which he knew to be Frank's.

The minute after, the wretched young man staggered in almost helpless.

Next day was a season of bitter sorrow, self-reproach, and remorse; but, alas! not to be followed by any real amendment, for Frank was now seldom home till late, though he was never again grossly intoxicated. But a shadow had now settled habitually on his once bright and open countenance, which Jacob could not quite understand, and which was almost more sad to him than the degrading flush and vacant stare produced by excess in drink. Something dreadful was amiss, he was sure, but he could not tell, and hardly dare conjecture what it might be.

Very, very loth then was he to go, when the time came for his leaving his master entirely to his own devices. He would gladly have put off his journey, but Frank would not hear of it, and was evidently annoyed when Jacob urged the matter. So it was finally settled that he should be away for a few days, not exceeding a fortnight. The night but one before his intended departure, Jacob was pleased to find that his master did not leave home, but took his tea at his lodgings, a very unusual thing of late. After tea he made Jacob come and sit with him, and they had a long talk over Australian matters, and the events of their late voyage. At last Frank said,--

"Jacob, I don't wish to pry into your concerns, or to ask questions which you may not like to answer. I hope, however, that you will not scruple to ask my advice on any matter in which I can be of service to you."

"Well, thank you, sir," replied Jacob, with a sort of embarra.s.sment in his manner, "you're very kind, but I've reasons just now why I'd like to say as little as possible about myself to any one. If I find them as I'm going to seek, I may have much to say; but maybe I may find things so as'll make it better I should forget as ever I'd any belonging me."

"Just so," said his master; "you must be the best judge of your own matters, and I would not intrude on your private concerns for a moment; only I should just like to know what you mean to do with your bag of nuggets; you must be careful where you put it. It would be hardly wise to carry it about with you, if you don't mean to turn it into money at present."

Jacob was troubled at the question, yet he could hardly tell why; he answered, however,--

"Well, Mayster Frank, I'm not thinking of meddling with my nuggets at present."

"Hadn't you better then leave them with me till you return?" asked Frank.

Poor Jacob was sorely puzzled what to reply. He looked down, and there was an awkward pause. At last he said,--

"I cannot rightly tell what'll be the best to do. Mayster Oldfield, you mustn't be offended, but I'd better be plain and outspoken. You'd not mean to wrong me of a farthing, I know; but you must be well aware you're not always your own mayster. So if you cannot keep your own bra.s.s safe, I can hardly think it wise to trust you to take charge of mine. I don't wish to vex you, Mayster Frank, but that's just the honest truth."

"Quite right, Jacob, quite right," said his master, laughing; "you don't vex me at all. I should do just the same, if I were in your place.

Suppose, then, you give your bag in charge to our landlady the morning you start; that'll be soon enough, for, poor soul, she'll be glad, I daresay, not to have charge of other folk's treasure a day longer than necessary; and I'll be a witness that you give it into her charge."

"Thank you, mayster," said Jacob, greatly relieved; "that's good advice, and I'll follow it."

The next evening, the last before Jacob's expedition, Frank again remained at home. He had been out all the morning. Jacob looked anxiously at him when he returned. He clearly had not been drinking--at any rate immoderately--yet there was something in his look which Jacob could not fathom, and if ever Frank met his servant's eye, his own immediately fell.