"But you do think it the best thing for young people, as well as grown-
up people, to be abstainers?"
"Yes, assuredly; and I will tell you why. I will give you a little
illustration. There is a beautiful picture representing what is called
the `Lorelei,' a spirit fabled to haunt some high rocks that overlook
the Rhine. This spirit is represented in the picture as a beautiful
female, with a sweet but melancholy expression of countenance. She
kneels on the top of the rock, and is singing to a harp, which she
strikes with her graceful fingers. Below is a boat with two men in it,
the one old, and the other young. The boat is rapidly nearing the
rocks, but both the men are utterly unconscious of their danger--the old
man has ceased to hold the helm, the young man has dropped the oars, and
both are fondly stretching out their hands towards the deceiving spirit,
wholly entranced with her song--a few moments more and their boat will
be a wreck. Now, it is because the drink is such an enticing thing,
like the Lorelei spirit; because it seems to sing pleasantly to us, and
makes us forget where we are; because it lures on old and young to their
ruin, by robbing them of their self-control;--it is for these reasons
that I think it such a happy thing to put every safeguard between
ourselves and its snares."
"Yes," said Frank thoughtfully; "I know the drink is becoming a snare to
me, or may become so. What shall I do? Ought I to give it up
altogether?"
"It is a very difficult thing to answer that question," replied the
rector. "I could hardly urge you to give up beer and wine altogether,
if your father and mother positively forbid your doing so; there is no
sin, of course, in the simple taking of fermented liquors, and therefore
I could not advise you to go directly contrary to your parents' orders
in this matter."
"There is no harm, however, in my trying to give up beer and wine, if my
father and mother will allow me?"
"Certainly not, my dear boy; and may God make your way plain, and remove
or overcome your difficulties."
The day after this conversation, Frank was sitting in his place at the
dinner-table of the hall. The butler brought him a glass of beer. "No,
thank you," he said. A little while after he filled a tumbler with
water, and began to drink it.
"Frank, my boy," said his father, "are not you well? Why don't you take
your beer as usual?"
"I'm quite well, thank you, papa; but I'd rather have the water."
"Well, put some port wine in it, at any rate, if you don't fancy the
beer to-day."
"I'd rather have neither beer nor wine, thank you, papa."
By this time Lady Oldfield's attention was drawn to what was passing
between her husband and son.
"Dear Frank," she said, "I shall not allow you to do anything so foolish
as to drink water. James, hand the beer again to Master Frank."
"Indeed, dear mamma," he urged, "I mean what I say; I really should
rather have water."
"Absurd!" exclaimed her ladyship angrily; "what folly has possessed you
now? You know that the medical men all say that wine and beer are
necessary for your health."
"I'm sure, mamma, the medical men needn't trouble themselves about my
health. I'm always very well when I have plenty of air and exercise.
If ever I feel unwell, it is when I've had more wine or beer than
usual."
"And who, pray, has been putting these foolish notions into your head?
I see how it is; I always feared it; the Oliphants have been filling
your head with their extravagant notions about total abstinence.
Really, my dear," she added, turning to Sir Thomas, "we must forbid
Frank's going to the rectory, if they are to make our own child fly in
the face of our wishes."
"Mamma," cried Frank, all on fire with excitement and indignation,
"you're quite mistaken about the Oliphants; they have none of them been
trying to talk me over to their own views. I began the subject myself,
and asked Mr Oliphant's advice, and he told me expressly that I ought
not to do what you would disapprove of."
"And why should you ask Mr Oliphant's advice? Cannot you trust your
own father and mother? I am not saying a word against Mr Oliphant as a
clergyman or a Christian; he preaches the gospel fully and faithfully,
and works hard in his parish, but on this subject of total abstinence he
holds views which neither your father nor I approve of; and, really, I
must not have you tampered with in this matter."
"Well, dear mamma, I've done; I'll do as you wish. Farewell water--
welcome beer and wine; James, a glass of ale."
It was two years after this that a merry company from the hall and
rectory set out to explore a remarkable ruin about five miles distant
from Waterland. Frank was leader of the party; he had never given his
parents any more anxiety on the score of total abstinence--on the
contrary, he had learned to take so freely of wine and beer, that his
mother felt at times a little alarmed lest he should seriously overpass
the bounds of moderation. When at the rectory, he never again alluded
to the subject, but rather seemed eager to turn the conversation when
any remark fell from Mr or Mrs Oliphant on the evils arising from
intemperance. And now to-day he was in the highest spirits, as he rode
on a sprightly little pony by the side of Mary Oliphant, who was mounted
on another pony, and was looking the picture of peaceful beauty. Other
young people followed, also on horseback. The day was most lovely, and
an inspiriting canter along lane and over moor soon brought them to the
ruin. It was a stately moss-embroidered fabric, more picturesque in its
decay than it ever could have been in its completeness. Its shattered
columns, solitary mullions, and pendent fragments of tracery hoary with
age, and in parts half concealed by the negligent profusion of ivy,
entranced the mind by their suggestive and melancholy beauty; while the
huge remnant of a massive tower seemed to plead with mute dignity
against the violence which had rent and marred it, and against the
encroaching vegetation, which was climbing higher and higher, and
enveloping its giant stones in a fantastic clothing of shrub and
bramble.
Frank and his party first shut up their horses in the old refectory,
closing the entrance with a hurdle, and then dispersed over the ruins.
Mary had brought her drawing-pad, that she might sketch a magnificent
pillar, and the remains of a transept arch which rose gracefully behind
it, crowned with drooping ivy, and disclosing in the back ground,
through a shattered window, the dreamy blue of the distant hills. She
sat on the mutilated chapiter of a column, and was soon so wholly
absorbed in her work, that she never turned her eyes to notice Frank
Oldfield, who, leaning against a low archway, was busily engaged in a
vigorous sketch, of which herself was the prominent object. And who
could blame him? for certainly a lovelier picture, or one more full of
harmonious contrast, could hardly have been found, than that presented
by the sweet and graceful figure of the rector's daughter, with its
surroundings of massive masonry and majestic decay. She all life, a
creature of the present, and yet still more of the future, as bright
with the sunshine of a hope that could never die; and they, those
mouldering stones, that broken tracery, those mossy arches, sad in the
desolation of the present, sadder still in the memories of an
unenlightened past. Frank finished his sketch, and, holding it behind
him, stole gently up to the side of Mary Oliphant.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "a most lovely little bit; and yet, I have the
vanity to think that my choice of a subject has been better than your
own."
"The drawing is, no doubt," she answered; "but I hardly think you can
find such a picturesque group as this in any other part of the ruins."
"Let us compare, then," he said, and placed his own sketch by the side
of hers.
"Oh, Frank," she cried, "how can you be so foolish?"
At the same time the colour which flushed her face, and the bright smile
which lighted it, showed that the folly was not very reprehensible in
her eyes.
"Is it so very foolish?" he asked, half seriously, half playfully.
"Well; I wish I had shown the same kind of folly in my choice of some
other things as I have in the choice of a subject."
She was about to reply, when suddenly, without any warning, a savage-
looking dog dashed into the open space before them, and, making a fierce
rush at Mary, caught her by the dress.
"Down, you brute, down!" shouted Frank; but the dog still retained his
hold, and growled and tossed himself about savagely. Frank had no stick
nor weapon of any kind in his hands, but he darted to a heap of loose
stones, and snatching one up turned towards the dog. In the meantime,
Mary, in extreme terror, had dropped her drawing-pad, and plucking her
dress from the fierce creature's mouth, fled with all her speed across
the pavement, and sprang up the projecting stones of an old archway.
The dog, with a loud yell, followed her, and easily overtook her, as the
ascent up which she had climbed presented a broad footing. Utterly
terrified, and unconscious of what she was doing, the poor girl
clambered higher and higher to escape her enemy. Frank had now turned
upon the dog, and hurled one huge stone at him; it passed near, but did
not touch him. Mary's terror only excited the furious animal to follow,
and as she saw him close upon her again, with a wild cry she leaped
right across to an old fragment of a turret which stood out by itself in
an angle of the wall. The dog hesitated, but, before it could decide to
follow her, another stone from Frank had struck it full in the side.
With a tremendous howl it tumbled down into the court and fled. Poor
Mary! she gasped for breath, and could not for a long time recover her
self-possession. When at last she became more calm, soothed and
encouraged by the kind voice and earnest entreaties of Frank, it was
only to awake to the extreme danger of her present position. Fear had
made her take a leap which she could never have dared to attempt in her
calm senses. She looked across the chasm over which she had sprung, and
shuddered. Could she try the leap back again? No; she dared not. In
the meantime, the stones to which she was clinging began to loosen
beneath her weight. She looked down, and became giddy.
"Oh, save me--save me--I shall fall!" she cried. She clutched at a
strong stem of ivy which was climbing up the wall close by, and so
supported herself; but it was evident that she could not long retain her
hold in that constrained position, even if the stonework did not give
way beneath her feet. All the party had now gathered in the open space
below, and some began to climb the path by which she had mounted.
Frank, in the meanwhile, was making desperate efforts to reach the poor
girl.
"Hold on--hold on--dear Mary!" he cried; "a few moments, and I shall be
with you; don't lose courage--keep a firm grasp on the ivy; there--I've
got a landing on the top of this old arch; now, I'm only a few feet
off--steady, steady--don't stir for your life--only a few moments more
and I shall be at your side."
It was perilous work indeed; and all who beheld him held their breath as
he made his way towards where the object of their deep anxiety was
crouched. Now he was clinging to a rough projecting stone, now swinging
by a rusty bar, now grasping ivy or brambles, and every now and then
slipping as the old masonry gave way beneath his feet. At last, with
immense exertion, he gained a ledge a little below where the terrified
girl was perched, half lying, half crouching. Here he had firm
standing-ground. Placing his hand gently upon her, he bade her slide
down towards him, assuring her that she would have a firm footing on the
ledge. She obeyed at once, feeling his strong arm bearing her up and
guiding her. Another moment, and she stood beside him. But now, how
were they to descend? She dared not attempt to leap back to the spot
from whence she had sprung in her terror, and there was no regular
descent from the slab on which they were perched, but only a few
projecting stones down the perpendicular face of the wall, and these at
wide intervals.
"There's no way but a roundabout climb down by the ivy," said Frank at
last. "Trust to me, dear Mary, and do exactly what I tell you. I will
go first, and do you place hand and foot just as I bid you. There--put
your foot in that crevice--now take firm hold of that branch; there--now
the other foot--now the next step a little to the right, the good ivy
makes a noble ladder--now we're nearly landed; there--be careful not to
slip on that round stone--one step more, and now we're safe. Oh, thank
God, _you're_ safe!"
He clasped her to his heart; she knew that heart was hers; she could not
resent that loving embrace; it was but for a moment. He released her,
and was turning to the friends who were gathering and pressing round,
when a heavy stone, loosened in their descent, fell on his outstretched
arm, and struck him to the ground.
Mary sprang towards him with a cry of deep distress.
"Frank, dear Frank--you're hurt--you're dreadfully hurt, I'm sure."
"No, no; not much, I hope," he said, springing up, but looking very
pale. "It's an awkward blow rather, but don't distress yourself--we'll
make the best of our way home at once--just one of you see to the
horses."
He spoke with effort, for he was evidently in great pain. Mary's heart
ached for him, but exhaustion and anxiety quite deprived her of the
power of speaking or thinking collectively.
The horses were speedily brought. Frank held out his uninjured arm to
help Mary Oliphant to mount her pony.
"I'm so very, very sorry," she said, "to have caused this disaster, and
spoiled our happy day through my foolish timidity."
"Nay, nay; you must not blame yourself," said Frank. "I am sure we all
feel for you. It was that rascal of a dog that did the mischief, but I
gave him such a mark of my respect as I don't think he'll part with for
a long time."
Poor Frank, he tried to be cheerful; but it was plain to all that he
must be suffering severely. They were soon on their way home, but a
cloud rested on their spirits. Few words were said till they reached
the spot where the roads to the hall and the rectory parted. Then Frank
turned to Mary and said, with a look full of tenderness, rendered doubly
touching by his almost ghastly paleness,--
"Farewell; I hope you'll be none the worse, dear Mary, for your fright.
I shall send over to-morrow to inquire how you are. It was a happy
escape."
"Good-bye, good-bye!" she cried; "a thousand thanks for your noble and
timely rescue! Oh, I hope--I hope--"
She could not say more, but burst into tears.
"All right--never fear for me!" he cried cheerily as he rode off,
leaving Mary and a groom to make their way to Waterland, while himself
and the rest of the party hastened on to Greymoor Park.
They had not far to ride, but Frank was evidently anxious to reach home
as speedily as possible. With clenched teeth and knit brow, he urged on
his pony to a gallop. Soon they reached the lodge; a few moments more
and they had passed along the drive and gained the grand entrance. Lady
Oldfield had just returned from a drive, and was standing on the top
step.
"You're early home," she remarked. "Dear Frank, I hope there's nothing
amiss," she added, noticing the downcast looks of the whole party.
Her son did not answer, but, dismounting with difficulty, began to walk
up the steps. She observed with dismay that he tottered as he
approached her. Could he have been drinking so freely as to be unable
to walk steadily? Her heart died within her. The next moment he
staggered forward, and fainted in her arms.