Part 22 (1/2)
”Stop,” said Ben, in an under-voice, and motioning the others to keep quiet, ”maybe he's sleeping on the couch-chair in the house.”
”I'll go and see,” said Jones.
Cautiously he descended the stairs, terrified at every creak they made under his weight. Did he hear anything? No; it was only the pattering of the rain-drops outside. Stealthily he peeped into the kitchen; no one was there, the few smouldering ashes in the grate being the only token of recent occupation. So he went back to his friends in the chamber.
”Eh, see, what's here!” cried one of the men, in an agitated voice; ”look on the floor.”
They turned the light of the lantern on to the chamber-floor, and a strange sight indeed presented itself. Right across the room, in regular lines, were immense letters in red and black adhering to the boards.
”Ben, you're a scholar,” said Jones; ”read 'em.”
Stone, thus appealed to, made the light travel slowly along the words, and read in a low and faltering voice,--
”_No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of G.o.d_.”
Then he pa.s.sed on to the red letters, and the words were,--
”_Prepare to meet thy G.o.d_.”
A deathlike stillness fell on the whole party, who had hitherto spoken in loud whispers. Terror seized the hearts of some, and bitter shame stung the consciences of others.
”We must get out of this as fast as we can,” said Jones. ”If we're taken roving about the house this fas.h.i.+on, we shall all be clapped in prison for housebreakers. Least said about this, mates, soonest mended.
We'd best hold our tongues. Old Tommy's clean outwitted us; he has for sure. Maybe it serves us right.”
All made their way back as hastily as possible through the window, and separated to their several homes, only too glad to have escaped detection.
And what was become of Thomas Johnson? n.o.body could tell. When the morning arrived, old Jenny went to the house, but the door was locked.
A piece of furze, an old rag, and some black-looking stuff were found near the water-b.u.t.t at the back, but what they could have to do with Johnson's disappearance no one could say. He was, however, manifestly gone, and Betty too, for neither of them made their appearance that day.
The meeting was held, but no Thomas Johnson made his appearance at it, and his friends were lost in conjecture. But days and weeks pa.s.sed away, and nothing turned up to gratify or satisfy public curiosity in the matter. Jones never spoke of it to his wife or any one else, and the rest of the party were equally wise in keeping their own counsel as to the intended a.s.sault and its failure. The landlord of Johnson's house claimed the scanty furniture for the rent, and no one turned up to dispute the claim. So all traces of Thomas Johnson were utterly lost to Langhurst.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
FALLING AWAY.
And now we must leave the mystery for a future unravelling, and return to Abraham Oliphant and his guests at ”The Rocks.”
For several days Hubert and Frank remained with Mr Oliphant, riding out among the hills and into the town, as pleasure or business called them.
But an idle, objectless life was not one to suit Hubert; and Frank, of course, could not continue much longer as a guest at ”The Rocks.” It was soon settled that the nephew should a.s.sist his uncle, and Frank determined to look-out for a home. It was arranged that Jacob Poole should come to him as soon as he was settled, and in the meanwhile Mr Oliphant found the boy employment. Unfortunately for himself, Frank Oldfield was not in any way dependent for his living on his own exertions. His father allowed him to draw on him to the amount of three hundred pounds a year, so that, with reasonable care, he could live very comfortably, especially if he voluntarily continued the total abstinence which he had been compelled to practise on board s.h.i.+p. The reader is aware that he had never been a pledged abstainer at any time. Even when most overwhelmed with shame, and most anxious to regain the place he had lost in Mary Oliphant's esteem and affection, he would not take the one step which might have interposed a barrier between himself and those temptations which he had not power to resist, when they drew upon him with a severe or sudden strain. He thought that he was only a.s.serting a manly independence when he refused to be pledged, whereas he was simply just allowing Satan to cheat him with a miserable lie, while he held in reserve his right to commit an excess which he flattered himself he should never be guilty of; but which he was secretly resolved not to bind himself to forego. Thus he played fast and loose with his conscience, and was really being carried with the tide while he fancied himself to be riding safely at anchor. Had he then forgotten Mary? Had he relinquished all desire and hope of seeing her once more, and claiming her for his wife? No; she was continually in his thoughts.
His affection was deepened by absence and distance; but by a strange infatuation, spite of all that had happened in the past, he would always picture her to himself as his, irrespective of his own steadfastness and sobriety. He knew she would never consent to be a drunkard's wife, yet at the same time he would never allow himself to realise that he could himself forfeit her hand and love through the drunkard's sin. He would never look steadily at the matter in this light at all. He was sober now, and he took for granted that he should continue to be so. It was treason to himself and to his manhood and truth to doubt it. And so, when, after he had been about a month in the colony, he received a letter from Mrs Oliphant full of kindly expressions of interest and hopes that, by the time he received the letter, he would have formally enrolled himself amongst the pledged abstainers, he fiercely crumpled up the letter and thrust it from him, persuading himself that he was justly annoyed that the permanence of his sober habits should be doubted; whereas, in truth, the sting was in this, that the reading of the letter dragged out from some dark recess of his consciousness the conviction that, with all his high resolve and good intentions, he was standing on an utterly sandy foundation, and leaning for support on a brittle wand of gla.s.s. And thus he was but ill-fortified to wrestle with his special temptation when he settled down, a few weeks after his arrival, in a commodious cottage not very far from ”The Rocks.” His new dwelling was the property of a settler, who, having realised a moderate fortune, and wis.h.i.+ng to have a peep at the old country, was glad to let his house for a term of three years at a reasonable rent. The rooms were small but very snug, the fittings being all of cedar, which gave a look of refinement and elegance to the interior. There were good stables, coach-house, and offices, and a well of the purest water--a great matter in a place where many had no water at all except what dropped from the heavens, or had to content themselves with brackish wells. There was a lovely garden, with everything in fruit and flower that could be desired; while, in the fields around, grew the aromatic gum, the canidia, or native lilac, with its cl.u.s.ters of purple blossoms, and the wattle, with its waving tufts of almond-scented flowers.
When Jacob joined his master in his Australian home, he hardly knew how to express his delight and admiration.
”Well, Jacob,” said Frank, ”you're likely to have plenty of fresh air and exercise if you stay with me. I shall want you to be gardener, groom, and valet. Mrs Watson,”--(a widow who had undertaken the situation of housekeeper)--”will look after the house, and the eatables and drinkables.”
”Indeed, sir,” said Jacob, ”I'll do my best; but I shall have to learn, and you must excuse a few blunders at the first. I shall manage the garden well enough, I reckon, after a bit, though I'm not certain which way the roots of the flowers grows in these foreign parts;--the cherries, I see, has their stones growing outside on 'em, and maybe the roots of the flowers is out in the air, and the flowers in the ground.
As for the horses, I'm not so much of a rider; but I must stick to their backs, I reckon. They'll be rayther livelier, some on 'em, I suppose, nor our old pit horses, as hadn't seen daylight for ten years or more.
But as for being a wally, you must insense me into that, for I don't know anything about it. If it's anything to do with making beds or puddings, I have never had no knowledge of anything of the sort.”