Part 37 (1/2)

”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 ladys.h.i.+p; ”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.