"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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the most hardened and G.o.dless; 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 compa.s.sion 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. G.o.d 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 grat.i.tude, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sociates, 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d's adornments, would only have been taken down in life's morning to be rebuilt on a n.o.bler model in the paradise of G.o.d.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

"OULD CROW," THE KNIFE-GRINDER.

"Knives to grind!--scissors to grind!--tools to grind!--umbrels to mend!"