"What--what is this?" cried Lady Oldfield in bitter distress. "Frank--
my child--my beloved boy--oh, open your eyes--look at me--speak--what
has happened? Oh, he's dying, he's dying--James--Richard--carry him up
to his room. One of you tell Tomkins to ride off immediately for Dr
Portman. Thomas, fetch me some brandy--quick--quick!"
They carried him in a state of complete insensibility to his room, and
laid him on the bed. His mother stood over him, bathing his temples
with eau-de-cologne, and weeping bitterly. The brandy was brought; they
raised him, and poured a little through his blanched lips; slowly he
began to revive; his lips moved. Lady Oldfield stooped her ear close to
his face, and caught the murmured word, "Mary."
"Oh, thank God," she exclaimed, "that he is not dead! Does any one know
how this has happened?"
"I believe, my lady," replied one of the servants, "that Mr Frank was
hit by a big stone which fell on him from the top of the ruins. I heard
Juniper Graves say as much."
"Ay, my lady," said another; "it were a mercy it didn't kill Mr Frank
outright."
The object of their care began now to come more to himself. He tried to
rise, but fell back with a groan.
"What _can_ I do for you, my poor boy?" asked his mother; "the doctor
will be here soon, but can we do anything for you now? Where is your
pain?"
"I fear my left arm is broken," he whispered; "the pain is terrible."
"Take some more brandy," said his mother.
He took it, and was able to sit up. Then with great difficulty they
undressed him, and he lay on the bed pale and motionless till the doctor
arrived. On examination, it was found that the arm was terribly
bruised, but not broken. There were, however, other injuries also,
though not of a serious character, which Frank had sustained in his
perilous climbing to the rescue of Mary Oliphant. Fever came on,
aggravated by the brandy injudiciously administered. For some days it
was doubtful what would be the issue; but at last, to the great joy of
Sir Thomas and his wife, the turning-point was passed, and Dr Portman
pronounced their child out of danger--all he needed now was good
nursing, sea-air, and proper nourishment. During the ravings of the
fever his mind was often rambling on the scene in the ruins--at one time
he would be chiding the dog, at another he would be urging Mary to cling
firmly to the ivy; and there was a tone of tenderness in these appeals
which convinced Lady Oldfield that her son's heart was given to the
rector's daughter. This was confirmed by a conversation which she had
with him at the sea-side, where he was gone to recruit his strength.
There he opened his whole heart to her, and confessed the depth of his
attachment to her whose life he had so gallantly saved. Lady Oldfield
was at first pained; she would not have preferred such an alliance for
her son. But, on further reflection, the prospect was not so
displeasing to her. Mary Oliphant was not inferior to her son in birth,
and would have, when she came of age, a good fortune which had been left
her by a wealthy aunt. Frank's love for beer and wine, and even
spirits, had grown so much of late, that his mother had begun to feel
very anxious about him on that score. She had no wish that he should
become a total abstainer; indeed she was, at this very time, giving him,
by the doctor's orders, as much porter and wine as he could bear; but
she thought that Mary's total abstinence might act as a check upon him
to keep him within the bounds of strict moderation. She knew, too, that
Mary was a genuine Christian, and she sincerely believed that true
religion in a wife was the only solid foundation of domestic happiness.
Before, therefore, they returned to Greymoor Park, Frank had his
mother's hearty consent, subject to Sir Thomas's approval, to his
engaging himself to Mary Oliphant.
And what were Mary's own feelings on the subject? Poor girl, she had
never realised before that day of peril and rescue that she felt, or
could feel, more than a half friendly, half sisterly liking for Frank
Oldfield. She had always admired his open generous disposition, and had
been happy in his society; but they had been so many years companions,
that she had never thought of looking upon him as one likely to form an
attachment to herself. But now there could be no doubt on the subject.
What passed in the old ruin had convinced her that his heart was given
to her; and more than this, that her own heart was given to him. And
now his sufferings and illness, brought on him through his exertions to
save her from destruction, had called out her love for him into full
consciousness. Yet with that consciousness there came a deep sense of
pain. It had taken her so by surprise; her heart was given before she
had had time to reflect whether she ought to have given it. Could she
be happy with him? was he a real Christian? did he love the same Saviour
she loved herself? Oh, these thoughts pressed heavily upon her spirit,
but she spread out her cares first before her heavenly Father, and then
with full childlike openness before her earthly parent--that loving
mother from whom she had never had a single concealment.
Mrs Oliphant sighed when her daughter had poured out her anxieties and
difficulties.
"Oh, mamma--dearest mamma!" cried Mary, "what ought I to do? I am sure
he loves me, and I know that he will tell me so, for he is the very last
person to keep back what he feels. What would you and dear papa wish me
to do, should he declare his affection? I could not honestly say that
my heart is indifferent to him, and yet I should not dare to encourage
him to look forward to a time when we shall be one on earth, unless I
can trust too that we shall be one hereafter in heaven."
"My precious child," replied her mother, "you know our doubts and our
fears. You know that Frank has acknowledged to increasing fondness for
intoxicating drinks. You know that his poor mother will rather
encourage that taste. And oh, if you should marry, and he should become
a drunkard--a confirmed drunkard--oh, surely he will bring misery on my
beloved child, and her father's and mother's grey hairs with sorrow to
the grave."
"Dearest mamma, you have only to say that you are convinced that I
cannot be happy with him, or that you and dear papa consider that I
ought to relinquish all thoughts about him, and I will at once endeavour
to banish him from my heart."
"No, my child. Your affections, it is clear, have already become
entangled, and therefore we are not in the same position to advise you
as if your heart were free to give or to withhold. Had it been
otherwise, we should have urged you to pause before you allowed any
thoughts about Frank to lodge in your heart, or perhaps to be prepared
to give a decided refusal, in case of his making a declaration of his
attachment."
"But you do not think him quite hopeless, dear mamma? Remember how
anxious he seemed at one time to become a total abstainer. And might
not I influence him to take the decided step, when I should have a right
to do so with which no one could interfere?"
"It might be so, my darling. God will direct. But only promise me one
thing--should Frank ask you to engage yourself to him, and you should
discover that he is becoming the slave of intemperance before the time
arrives when you are both old enough to marry, promise me that in that
case you will break off the engagement."
"I promise you, dearest mamma, that, cost what struggle it may, I will
never marry a drunkard."
It was but a few days after the above conversation that Frank Oldfield
called at the rectory. It was the first time that he and Mary had met
since the day of their memorable adventure. He was looking pale, and
carried his arm in a sling, but his open look and bright smile were
unchanged.
"I carry about with me, you see, dear Mary," he said, "my apology for
not having sooner called to inquire after you. I hope you were not
seriously the worse for your fright and your climb?"
"Oh no," she replied earnestly; "only so grieved when I found what you
had suffered in saving me. How shall I ever thank you enough for
sacrificing yourself as you did for me?"
"Well," he answered with a smile, "I suppose I ought to say that you
have nothing to thank me for. And yet I do think that I may accept of
some thanks--and, to tell the truth, I have just come over to suggest
the best way in which the thanks may be given."
Mary did not answer, but looked down; and, spite of herself, her tears
would fall fast.
"Dear Mary," he said, "the plainest and shortest way is the one that
suits me best. I want you to give me your heart--you have had mine long
ago, and I think you know it."
She did not speak.
"Oh, Mary, dearest Mary, can I be mistaken? Cannot you--do not you love
me?"
"Frank," she replied, in a low and tearful voice, "it would be
affectation in me to make a show of concealing my love to you. I _do_
love you. I never knew it till that day; but since then I have known
that my heart is yours."