look, ma'am, at yon empty cupboard; there ought to be meat and drink
there, ma'am, and earned by honest labour. It is not an hour, ma'am,
since I was up at `The Firs,' taking back some work as my poor Sally did
for the young ladies (she's a beautiful sewer, is our Sally, there's
none to match her in all Hopeworth), and I'd a fortnight's charing as I
was owed for. I'd left the little ones with a kind neighbour, so I went
up to the house and asked to see the missus: she couldn't see me, but I
begged hard; and they showed me up into the drawing-room. Mrs Rothwell
was lying on a `sofy,' and there was wine on a table close by, and the
young ladies was all crowding round the fire, contradicting their
mother, and quarrelling with one another. `Oh! For goodness' sake
don't interrupt us,' says one of the young ladies, and their mamma bids
me sit down; and there I sat for a long time, till Miss Jane had
finished a fairy tale; something about a young lady as was shut up in a
castle to be eaten by a giant; and how a young gentleman fell in love
with her, and got a fairy to turn her into a bird, and get her out of
the castle: and they all cried over the story as if their hearts would
break, and when it was over they all had some wine; and Mrs Rothwell,
who had been crying very much too, asked me what I wanted. So I told
her as I'd come to my last penny, and I should be very thankful if she'd
be so good as to pay me for my work, and for what our Sally had been
doing for the young ladies. Then she fired up at once, and told me she
thought it very impertinent in me coming and teasing her in that way, as
she meant to pay me as soon as it was convenient; and oh! Ma'am! Then
she asked me what I wanted for Sally's work; and when I told her, she
said I charged too much, though I didn't ask above half as they'd ask
for it in Hopeworth; and then she nearly cut my heart in two by saying
(Oh, ma'am! I can't scarce bear to repeat it), that I shouldn't have
come to pester her if it hadn't been for my idle vagabond of a son (them
was the very words she used, ma'am), as had run away and left his place.
Oh, Mrs Franklin! You're a mother; you know how I must feel for my
poor wanderer, for he's my own flesh and blood still. I dursn't speak;
I couldn't stay; and I've come back penniless as I went: but the Lord
has sent you to help me, and I'll never doubt Him again."
"Never do," said her visitor; "I'll find you and Sally work for the
present, and try and think charitably of Mrs Rothwell; she may mean
more kindly than she has spoken."
"Mean kindly! Oh! Dear Mrs Franklin! The drink has washed out all
kindness: there's ruin hanging over that house, not as I wishes it to
them, but it is so. The children's been brought up to think of just
nothing but themselves; their eating and drinking, and dressing, and
playing: there's sipping in the parlour all day long; drinking in the
dining-room; swilling in the kitchen. Our poor Jim's seen his betters
there living as if men, women, and children had nothing to do in this
world but to drown the thoughts of the next in drink and pleasure, and
he's learnt his lesson too well; but I trust the Lord 'll take the book
out of his hand, and teach him the better way again."
"I'm afraid what you say is too true," remarked Mrs Franklin, sadly;
"if our young people continue to be brought up in such self-indulgent
habits, we may well expect to hear God crying aloud by His judgments,
`Woe to the drunkards of England,' as He once cried, `Woe to the
drunkards of Ephraim.'"
CHAPTER EIGHT.
A DOUBLE PERIL.
"I'll tell you what it is, Mark, I _must_ have a stop put to this: my
patience is quite worn out. Do you think I'm made of money? Do you
think I can coin money as fast as you choose to spend it? You'll ruin
me with your thoughtless, selfish extravagance, and break your mother's
heart and mine by your drunkenness and folly, that you will."
These words, uttered in a tone of passionate bitterness, were spoken by
Mr Rothwell to his son in the hall at "The Firs," as the young man was
urging his father to grant him a considerable sum to pay some pressing
debts. At the same moment Mr John Randolph came out of the drawing-
room, and could not help overhearing what was being said.
Mr Rothwell turned fiercely upon him:
"What right have _you_, sir, to be intruding on my privacy?" he cried,
nettled at his rebuke having been overheard by a stranger.
"I am not conscious of being guilty of any intrusion," said the other
quietly.
"You _are_ intruding," cried Mark, glad to vent his exasperation at his
father's reproaches on somebody, and specially glad of an opportunity of
doing so on the music-master.
"You shall not need to make the complaint again then," said Mr
Randolph, calmly, "my lessons to your sisters will cease from to-day;"
and with a stiff bow he closed the door behind him.
Rather more than two years had elapsed since Jim Forbes' enlistment when
the scene just described took place. Mark had been sinking deeper and
deeper in the mire; he was scarcely ever sober except when visiting the
Franklins, on which occasions he was always on his guard, though his
excited manner, and the eagerness with which he tossed down the few
glasses of wine to which he, evidently with difficulty, restricted
himself, made a most painful impression not only _on_ Mrs Franklin, but
also on her daughter.
Mary was now nineteen, and shone with the brightness which the gentle
light of holiness casts on every word and feature. She was full of
innocent cheerfulness, and was the joy of all who knew her. Mark loved
her as much as he could love anything that was not himself, and tried to
make himself acceptable to her. Mary _hoped_ the best about him, but
that hope had begun to droop for some time past. He had never yet
ventured to declare his affection to her; somehow or other he could not.
A little spark of nobleness still remained in him unquenched by the
drink, and it lighted him to see that to bind Mary to himself for life
would be to tie her to a living firebrand that would scorch and shrivel
up beauty, health and peace. He dared not speak: before her unsullied
loveliness his drink-envenomed lips were closed: he could rattle on in
wild exuberance of spirits, but he could not yet venture to ask her to
be his. And she? She pitied him deeply, and her heart's affections
hovered over him; would they settle there? If so, lost! Lost! All
peace would be lost: how great her peril!
Another visit from Mr Tankardew: the old man had been a frequent
caller, and was ever welcome. That he cherished a fatherly love for
Mary was evident; indeed his heart seemed divided between herself and
the young musician, Mr John Randolph, who, though he had ceased to give
lessons at "The Firs," was most scrupulously punctual in his attendance
at "The Shrubbery."
It was a bright summer's morning as the old man sat in the drawing-room
where Mary and her mother were engaged in the mysteries of the needle.
"Let me hear your last piece, my child," he said; "John tells me that he
will soon have nothing more to teach you."
Mary sat down and played with loving grace, till the old man bowed his
head upon his hands and wept.
"`Home, sweet home!'" he murmured. "Ay; you have played that lovely air
with variations as if you felt it: you know what a sweet home is, Mary;
I knew it once. `Home, sweet home!'" he added again, with a sigh.
There was a pause: then he went on: "There are plenty of homes that
aren't sweet; homes with variations enough and to spare in them; but
they're variations of misery. I hope you'll never have one of those
homes, my child."
Mary coloured deeply, and her mother's eyes filled with tears. Mr
Tankardew looked earnestly at them both.
"No danger of any but sweet variations _here_," he said; "but all new
homes are not sweet homes--there's no sweetness that will last where the
barrel, the bottle, and the spirit-flask play a trio of discords:
they'll drown all the harmonies of harp and piano. Promise me two
things, my child;" he added, abruptly.
"What are they?" asked Mary, timidly and tearfully.
"Just these: promise me to become a pledged abstainer; and promise me
that you'll never marry a man that loves the drink."
Poor Mary burst into tears, but her mother came to her aid, and said:
"I don't quite see what good Mary's signing the pledge will do. She has
taken neither beer nor wine for some time past, so that she does all
that is needed in the way of example."
"No, she does not, madam, if you'll excuse my being so blunt. She just
does not do what will make her example _tell_. Power for good comes
through combination; the devil knows it well enough, and he gets
drunkards to band together in clubs; and worldly people band together in
clubs, and back one another up and concentrate their forces. All who
see the curse and misery of the drink should sign, and not stand apart
as solitary abstainers; they won't do the same good; it is by uniting
together that the great work is done by God's blessing. A body of
Christian abstainers united in the same work, and bound by the same
pledge, attract others, and give them something to lean on and cling to:
and that is one reason why we want children to combine in Bands of Hope.
Why, I've seen a man light a fire with a piece of glass, but how did he
do it? Not by putting the fuel under one ray of the sun; not by
carrying it about from place to place in the sunshine; but by gathering,
with the help of the glass, all the little rays together into one hot
bright focus. And so we want to gather together the power and influence
of total abstainers in Total Abstinence Societies and Bands of Hope, by
their union through the pledge as a common bond. We want to set hearts
on fire with a holy love that shall make them burn to rescue poor slaves
of the drink from their misery and ruin. Won't you help? Can you hold
back? Are not souls perishing by millions through the drink, and is any
sacrifice too dear to make, any cross too heavy to take up in such a
cause?"
The old man had risen, and was walking up and down the room with great
swinging strides. Then he stopped abruptly and waited for an answer.
"I'm sure," said Mrs Franklin, "we would both sign if it could do any
real good."
"It _will_ do good, it _must_ do good: sign now;" he produced a pledge-
book: "no time like the present."
The signatures were made, and then Mr Tankardew, clasping his thin
hands together, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, offered a short
emphatic prayer that God would bless and strengthen these His servants,
and enable them by His grace to be a blessing to others as pledged
abstainers. And then he turned again to Mary, and said:
"You have given me the one promise; will you give me the other? Will
you promise me that you will never knowingly marry a man who loves the
drink?"
Mary buried her face in her hands. A few moments, and no one spoke.
"Hear me, my child," cried the old man, again beginning to pace the room
with measured strides; "you are dear to me, very dear, for you're the
image of one lost to me years ago, long weary years ago. I cannot bear
to see you offered as another victim on the altar of the Drink-Moloch:
he has had victims enough: too many, too many. Do you wish to wither
into a premature grave? Do you wish to see the light die out of your
mother's smile? Then marry a drink-worshipper. Do you wish to tremble
every time you hear the footstep of the man who has turned `sweet home'
into a shuddering prison? then marry a drink-worshipper. Do you wish to
see little children hide the terror of their eyes in your lap and
tremble at the name of father? Then marry a drink-worshipper. Stay,
stay, I'm an old fool to break out in this way, and scare you out of
your wits;" for Mary and her mother were both sobbing bitterly: "forgive
me, but don't forget me; there, let us change the subject."
But Mary had checked her sobs, and, rising up calm and beautiful in her
tears, she laid her hand lovingly on the old man's arm, and said, gently
but firmly:
"Dear old friend, thank you for what you have said. I promise you that
never will I knowingly marry one who loves intoxicating drinks."
"God bless you, my child. You have taken a load off the old man's
heart, and off your mother's too, I know."
Would Mary keep her word? She was soon to be put to the test. Though
Mark hesitated to propose to Mary Franklin, his mother had no scruples
on the subject. He had now come to man's estate, and she wished him to
marry; specially she wished him to marry Mrs Franklin's daughter, as
Mary would enjoy a nice little income when she came of age, and Mark's
prospects were cloudy enough as far as anything from his father was
concerned. Besides, she hoped that marrying Mary would steady her son--
a favourite scheme with mothers of drunkards. As for Mary's own peace
or happiness, she never gave them a thought. The experiment would be
something like caging a tiger and a lamb together for the purpose of
subduing the tiger's ferocity; pleasant enough for the tiger, but simply
destruction to the lamb. However, Mrs Rothwell pressed Mark to
propose, so he yielded after a faint resistance, and now watched for his
opportunity.
It was a sweet July evening: the sun was near his setting, and was
casting long shadows across the lawn at the back of "The Shrubbery."
Mrs Franklin was sitting on a garden seat reading, her attention
divided between her book and the glowing tints of a bed of flowers all
ablaze with variegated beauty. A little shaded walk turned off near
this seat into the kitchen garden, which was separated from the flower
garden in this quarter by a deep ravine, at the bottom of which ran a
trout stream. The ravine was crossed by a rustic bridge. Mr John
Randolph had been calling at the house with some music, and, being now
looked upon more in the light of a friend than an instructor, had the
privilege of making a short cut to the turnpike road over this foot
bridge and through the kitchen garden. Mark Rothwell also usually
availed himself of this more direct approach to the house. On the
present occasion the two young men met in the kitchen garden, and passed
each other by without recognition, Mark hurrying forward to make his
proposal, his already intense excitement inflamed by strong drink, which
he had taken with less caution than on his ordinary visits to "The
Shrubbery"; John Randolph lingering on his way in a somewhat
discontented mood, which was not improved by the sight of Mark.
Suddenly the stillness was broken by a loud scream and cry for help: it
was Mary Franklin's voice. Both the young men rushed towards the
bridge, and beheld a sight which filled them with dismay. Mary had
strolled from her mother's side to the little foot bridge, and, filled
with sorrowful thoughts, leant against the rustic parapet. The
woodwork, which was inwardly decayed, gave way beneath her weight; she
tried to recover herself but in vain, and fell over the side of the
bridge, still, however, managing to keep herself from plunging into the
stream by clinging to a creaking fragment of the broken rails. Her
dress also helped to stay her up, having become entangled with the
woodwork. Mark reached the bridge first, but was so confused by drink
and excitement that he scarcely knew what he was doing, when he felt
himself flung aside by the strong arm of John Randolph, who sprang
forward, and stooping down endeavoured to raise the poor terrified girl,
but for a few moments without success: indeed his own strength began to
fail, and it seemed as if both must be precipitated into the stream, if
assistance had not come from another quarter. The gardener hearing the
cries hurried up, and, lending his powerful help, Mary was delivered
from her peril, and was carried, fainting and bruised, into the house by
her two rescuers, before Mark Rothwell had fairly recovered himself from
the fall which John Randolph had given him in his haste. But now,
boiling with wrath and vexation, Mark made his way to the front door,
and disregarding in the blindness of his passion the sight of Mary just
recovering consciousness, and of Mrs Franklin who was bending over her
in mingled grief and thankfulness, he turned furiously upon John, who
was just retiring, and shaking his fist in his face, cried out:
"How dare you interfere with me, sir? I'll not put up with this
insolence from my sisters' discarded music-master."
The face of the other flushed crimson for a moment, then with unruffled
voice he replied:
"Better, Mr Mark, to be a master of music and of one's self, than a
slave of the drink. I wish you good evening."
CHAPTER NINE.
THE CRISIS.
Several weeks had passed by after the accident and timely rescue, weeks
of anxious watching and tender nursing, before Mary Franklin was
sufficiently recovered from the shock and injuries she had received to
appear again among her friends. Many had been the inquiries made by
Mark and Mr Tankardew, and once or twice by John Randolph.
It was on a calm Sabbath morning that mother and daughter first walked
beyond their own grounds, and made their way to the little village
church. Public thanks were offered that day for Mary's wonderful
preservation, and many a loving eye looked through tears at the pale,
serene face of her who had been so mercifully rescued. Was Mark
Rothwell there?--no; but there was one who could not help gazing for a
few moments, with a deeper sentiment than admiring pity, at the fair
young girl, as the words of holy praise "for the late mercies vouchsafed
unto her" were uttered by the minister: it was John Randolph. They met
after service at the gate of the churchyard, and the young man having
expressed his heartfelt congratulations, after a moment's hesitation
offered Mary his arm, which she gently declined. A slight shade of
mingled shame, sadness, and annoyance clouded his face for a moment, and
as quickly passed away. Mary was struggling to say something to him
expressive of her gratitude, but before she could put it into shape he
was gone.
The next day brought Mr Tankardew to "The Shrubbery." The old man drew
Mary to him in the fulness of his heart, and blessed her, calling her
his child. "Well, what have the doctors made of you?" he asked, rather
abruptly.
"Made of me?" asked Mary, laughing.
"Yes, made of you, they never could make anything _of_ me or _by_ me;
but what have they made of _you_?"
"You puzzle me," replied the other.
"Did they put labels on all their physic bottles?"
"My dear sir," interposed Mrs Franklin, "I'm thankful to say that our
doctor has prescribed little else than rest and tonics."
"And were the tonics labelled?"
"Oh! I understand you now. Mary has not broken her pledge, she would
take no wine."
"Excellent girl! Of course she was ordered wine?"
"Oh! Yes; and ale or porter too. The doctor almost insisted on it."
"Of course he did; they always do. Ah! Well! Brave girl! You said
no."
"Yes, I felt convinced that I should do as well without beer or wine,
and I have had no cause to regret that I did not take them."
"Bravo! You'll _never_ regret it. You must help us to fight the
doctors: they mean well, some of them; but most of them are building up
the palace of intemperance faster than we can pull it down. `The doctor
ordered it;' that's an excuse with thousands to drown their souls in
drink. I wonder if they'd swallow a shovelful of red hot coals if the
doctor ordered it?"
Summer had now given place to autumn; it was a bright September day when
the above conversation took place. When Mr Tankardew rose to go, Mrs
Franklin and Mary volunteered to accompany him a little way. So they
went forth, and a sweet and pleasant sight it was, the hale, grey-haired
veteran still full of fire, yet checking his steps to keep pace with the
young girl's feebler tread: she, all gentleness and sober gladness, and
her mother happy in the abiding trust of a believing heart.
They passed out of the grounds across a lane thickly shaded by trees,
whose foliage was beginning to change its summer hue for the gorgeous
varieties of autumnal colouring. Then they followed a winding path that
skirted a wide sea of wheat, which rose and fell in rustling waves,
disclosing now and again bright dazzling gleams of the scarlet poppy.
At the end of this field was a stile leading into the highroad to
Hopeworth. Here they paused, and were just about to part, when the
sound of a horse's feet in rapid but very irregular motion arrested
their attention. The animal and his rider soon came into view, the
latter evidently keeping his seat with difficulty. There was plainly a
struggle of some kind going on between the brute and the _rational_
being who was mounted on him, and while drawing the reins tight with one
hand, was belabouring the poor creature about the head most unmercifully
with a heavy hunting whip. The horse not appreciating the advantages of
this treatment at the hands of its _intellectual_ owner, was resisting
by a shuffling, remonstrating sort of gallop; while his rider, who was
evidently a practised horseman, seemed to stick to his saddle by a kind
of instinct, having little else to guide him, for his hat was completely
shaken down over his eyes.
Mr Tankardew's indignation was kindled in a moment.
"The wretch! The drunken beast!" he cried; "serve him right if his
horse pitches him head foremost into the first ditch with any dirty
water in it."
On came the contending pair, the man swaying from side to side, but
nevertheless marvellously retaining his seat. At the sight of the
ladies, or at a sudden movement forward of Mr Tankardew, the animal
swerved and almost unseated his tormentor, who, however, recovered
himself, but in doing so lost his hat, as the poor beast again plunged
forward with his almost unconscious burden. The horseman took no notice
of his loss, nor did he see who were the spectators of his sinful
degradation, but to them he was fully revealed: it was Mark Rothwell.
Another minute and he was out of sight.
Mary sank, with a bitter cry, into her mother's arms, while Mr
Tankardew sprang forward to support them both. In a moment or two,
however, the ladies had recovered themselves, and turned homewards. The
old man saw that they would prefer to be alone, so, with a kind and
courteous farewell, he made his way with slow strides towards the town.
"Humph!" he muttered to himself; "`Good entertainment for man and
beast,' that's what they put over some of these alcohol shops. I'd like
to know which was the beast just now. Entertainment! Ay, very
entertaining, such a sight to the devil and his angels. O miserable
drink! Haven't you drowned souls enough yet?"
Two days after this disgraceful exposure of himself, Mark Rothwell made
an early call at "The Shrubbery." He was utterly ignorant of his having
been seen in his drunkenness by Mrs Franklin and her daughter, and was
scrupulously sober on the present occasion, and full of good
resolutions, as habitual drunkards very commonly are after an outbreak
of more than usual violence. He was quite convinced--at least he was
enjoying a good deal of cheerful self-congratulation on the supposed
conviction--that he never would exceed again; so in the strength of this
conviction, he entered the room where Mary and her mother were sitting,
with a confident step, though he could not quite keep down every feeling
of misgiving. Still, it never occurred to him that Mary could possibly
refuse him. He had too high an opinion of himself: he was such a
general favourite and so popular, that he felt sure any young lady of
his acquaintance would esteem herself honoured by the offer of his hand.
He was well aware, it is true, that Mary had a horror of drunkenness;
but he flattered himself, first, that he could persuade her that he
meant to be sober for the future, and a total abstainer too if she
required it; and then, that he had got a sufficient hold upon her heart,
or at any rate regard, to make her willing to accept him without any
stipulations rather than lose him. Strong in these impressions, he had
now come over to make a formal proposal. The manner, however, of mother
and daughter disturbed him; something he saw was amiss; there was a
sadness and constraint in the words of both which distressed and
embarrassed him. After a brief conversation on commonplace topics Mary
rose hastily and left the room. Mark hesitated, but feeling that he
must seize the opportunity, he at once asked Mrs Franklin's permission
to avow his attachment to her daughter.
A long and painful pause: broken, at last, by Mrs Franklin's reply,
that she could not advise her daughter to encourage his addresses.
Mark was thunderstruck! For several minutes surprise and mortification
kept him silent. At last he exclaimed:
"But what does Mary wish herself? We've known each other so long; she
knows I love her, she must know it. I'm sure she would not refuse me;
may I not see her? May I not have `yes,' or `no,' from her own lips?"
"I will ask her," was the reply; and poor Mark was left for half an hour
to his own not very agreeable reflections. At the end of that time Mrs
Franklin returned, with a sealed letter in her hand.
"Mary does not feel equal to seeing you now," she said, "and indeed I
could not recommend her doing so at present. She sends you this letter
instead; do not read it now," for Mark was tearing it open, "but wait
till you can give it your calm and full attention."
Mark would have remonstrated, but Mrs Franklin's quiet decision
restrained him; he flung himself out of the house, and on reaching the
highway, burst open the envelope and read as follows:--