"Would you then wish to have it back again?"
"No, dear Frank; I cannot wish _that_."
"Then one day--if we are spared--you will be my own loving wife?"
There was no reply, but only a burst of tears.
"Mary, dearest Mary, what am I to understand? Do your parents object to
your engaging yourself to me? Oh, surely it is not so?"
"No, Frank; they have not objected--not exactly--but--"
She hesitated and looked down.
"Oh, why then not give me a plain `Yes' at once? You own that your
heart is mine--you _know_ that my heart is yours--why not then promise
to be mine altogether?"
"It is true, dear Frank," she replied slowly, "that my heart is yours--I
cannot take it back if I would--but it may be my duty not to give my
hand with it."
"Your duty! Oh, Mary, what a cold, cruel speech! Why your duty?"
"Well," she replied, "the plain truth is best, and best when soonest
spoken. You must know, dear Frank, how we all here feel about the sin
and misery caused by strong drink. And you must know--oh, forgive me
for saying it, but I must say it, I must be open with you _now_ on this
subject--you must know that we have reason to fear that your own liking
for beer and wine and such things has been, for the last year or two, on
the increase. And oh, we fear--we fear that, however unconsciously, you
may be on the downward road to--to--"
She could not finish her sentence.
Frank hung down his head, and turned half away, the colour flushing up
to the top of his fair forehead. He tried to speak, but could not for a
while. At last, in a husky voice, he whispered,--
"And so you will give me up to perish, body and soul, and to go down
hill with all my might and main?"
"No, Frank," she answered, having now regained her composure; "no; I
have no wish to give you up to sin and ruin. It will rest with
yourself. I cannot promise absolutely that I will be yours. It will
depend upon--upon--upon what you are yourself when the time comes that
we might marry."
"And you have promised your mother--"
"I have promised--oh, Frank, dear Frank, pardon me if I wound you by
plain, rough words, but they must be spoken--I have promised that I will
never be the wife of a drunkard."
He bowed his head on his hand, and there was a long and painful silence.
Poor Mary, her heart bled for him, as she saw the tears forcing their
way between his thin, pale fingers.
"Mary," he said at last, "you must be mine; I cannot live without you.
Trust me; you shall have no cause to be ashamed of me. I know--I feel
that I have been in great danger of sliding into intemperate habits; but
you shall see me and hear of me henceforth as strictly moderate. I
solemnly promise you this; and on the very day that makes us one, I will
be one with you in total abstinence also. Dearest, will this satisfy
you?"
"Yes, dear Frank; I have no right to ask more, if you _can_ be strictly
moderate; but oh, do not trust in your own strength. Pray for help,
dear Frank, and then you will be able to conquer."
"Oh, of course," he said hastily; "but never fear, I give you my solemn
promise that you shall never see nor hear of any excess in me."
And did he keep his resolution? Yes; for a while. But, alas! how
little do those in circumstances like his really appreciate the awful
difficulties which beset those who are struggling to maintain strict
moderation. This makes drunkenness such a fearful and exceptional
sin,--
"The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain."
The resolution is firmly set; the man walks forth strong as a rock in
his determination. He begins to drink; his rock is but a piece of ice
after all, but he knows it not; it is beginning to melt with the warmth
of the first glass; he is cheered and encouraged by the second glass,
and his resolution seems to himself stronger than ever, while in very
truth it is only melting faster and faster. At last he is over the
border of moderation before he conceives that he had so much as
approached it. Then, alas! the word "moderation" stands for an unknown
quantity, easy to use but hard to define, since one man's moderation may
be another man's excess, and to-day's moderation may be an excess to-
morrow.
Poor Frank was never more in earnest than when he promised Mary Oliphant
that he would observe strict moderation. He had everything to induce
him to keep his word--his love for Mary; his desire to please his own
parents, who had begun to tremble for him; his own self-respect. So he
left the rectory strong as a lion in his own estimation, yet not without
a sort of misgiving underlying his conviction of his own firmness; but
he would not listen to that misgiving for a moment.
"I mean to be what I have promised, and I _will_ be," he said to
himself. "Mary shall see that, easy and self-indulgent as I have been,
I can be rigid as iron when I have the will to be so."
Poor Frank! he did not knew his own weakness; he did not know that his
was not a will of iron, but was like a foot once badly sprained, which
has lost its firm and unfaltering tread. Happy would it have been for
him had he sought a strength higher than his own--the strength from
above.
For several weeks he kept strictly to his purpose. He limited himself
to so much beer and wine, and never exceeded. He became proud of his
firmness, forgetting that there had been nothing to test the stamina of
his resolution.
At last the annual harvest-home came round. It was a season of great
festivity at Greymoor Park. Sir Thomas, as we have said, wished all his
tenants and labourers to be sober, and spoke to that effect on these
occasions; at the same time he was equally anxious that both meat and
drink should be dealt out with no niggard hand. So men and women took
as much as they liked, and the squire was very careful to make no very
strict inquiries as to the state of any of his work-people on the
following day; and if any case of intemperance on these occasions came
to his knowledge afterwards, as commonly happened, it was winked at,
unless of a very gross and open character.
"Poor fellows," said the good-natured landlord, "it's only once in a
year that they get such a feast, and I must not be too strict with them.
There's many a good fellow gets a little too much on these days, who is
an excellent steady workman and father all the rest of the year. It's
drunkenness--the habit of drunkenness--that is such a sin and scandal."
So everything was done to make the harvest-home a day of feasting and
mirth.
On the present occasion the weather was as bright and propitious as
could be desired. A blazing sun poured down his heat from a cloudless
sky; scarce a breath of wind stirred the flag which, in honour of the
day, floated above the entrance of the hall. Two large tents were
spread out by the borders of the ornamental water, in full view of the
hall windows. A band, hired for the occasion, poured forth a torrent of
fierce music. Children decked in blue ribbons and ears of corn ran in
and out of the tents, getting in everybody's way; but as everybody was
just then in the best of humours, it was of no consequence. Visitors
began to arrive in picturesque groups, strolling through the trees
towards the tents. Hot footmen were rushing wildly about, carrying all
sorts of eatables and drinkables. Tables creaked and plates clattered.
Then, just about one o'clock, came the squire and his lady, followed by
many friends, among whom were Mr and Mrs Oliphant; while Frank,
looking supremely happy, with his sunny face all life and playfulness,
came last, with Mary on his arm. Usually the Oliphants had kept away
from these harvest-homes, for they were not conducted to the rector's
satisfaction, but to-day they had a special reason for coming. Frank
had been over to the rectory with an urgent request from his father that
Mr Oliphant would be present. He might do good by appearing among
them, and Frank wanted Mary to see how he could use his influence in
keeping order and sobriety. There were loud cheers, pleasant smiles,
and hearty greetings as the party from the hall entered the tents, where
all things were as bright and beautiful as banners, mottoes, and ears of
corn arranged in all sorts of appropriate devices could make them. The
tenants dined in one tent, the labourers and their wives in the other.
Sir Thomas and Lady Oldfield presided in the former, and Frank took the
head of the table in the latter. Mr and Mrs Oliphant and Mary sat
near the baronet.
The two tents were separated by several yards from one another, so that
while the guests were all partaking of dinner at the same time, the hum
of voices, the clatter of knives and forks, the braying of the brass
instruments which were performing in the space between the two parties,
and the necessary attention to the wants of the visitors, quite
prevented those presiding in the principal tent from hearing what was
passing in the other. It was the intention of the squire, after all had
been satisfied, to gather both companies together in the open park, and
address them before they separated to join in the various amusements
provided for them.
The guests in the chief tent had just concluded their dinner, and those
at the upper table, where the party from the hall had been sitting, were
dispersing and making their way into the open air, when a burst of
cheers and shrieks of laughter from the other tent made Sir Thomas
remark, with a slight cloud on his face,--
"Our friends over there seem very merry."
Then came louder cheers and louder laughter. Mary's heart died within
her, she hardly knew why. She hurried out of the tent, when she was met
by Juniper Graves, the groom, a man from whom she shrank with special
dislike, for reasons which will shortly be explained.
"Come here, miss," he cried, with a malicious grin; "here's Mr Frank
making such capital fun; he'll send us all into fits afore he's done! I
never seed anything like it--it's quite bacchanalian!"
Under other circumstances Mary would have hurried away at once, but the
name of Frank acted like a spell. She peeped in at the tent-door where
the labourers were dining, and almost sank to the ground at the sight
she beheld.
Standing on a chair at the head of the table, his face flushed a deep
red, his beautiful hair tossed back and his eyes flashing with
excitement, a bottle flourishing in his right hand, was Frank Oldfield,
roaring out, amidst cheers and shouts of applause, a boisterous,
roystering comic song. Mary was shrinking back in horror when she saw
Juniper Graves glide behind his young master's chair, and fill his glass
from a jug which he held in his hand. Frank saw the act, caught up the
glass, and drained it in a moment. Then launching out into his song
again, he swayed himself backwards and forwards, evidently being in
danger of falling but for the help of the groom, who held out his arm to
steady him. Mary tottered back out of the tent, but not till her eyes
had met those of her lover. Oh! it sickened her to think of so pure and
holy a thing as love in connection with such a face as that.
"My child," said her father, to whom she had hurried, pale, and ready to
sink at every step, "what has happened? what is the matter? Are you
ill?"
"Oh, take me home, take me home," she cried, in a terrified whisper.
The noise of the band prevented others from hearing her words of
distress, and she was hidden from the rest of the company by a fold of
the tent.
"But what shall I say to Sir Thomas?" asked her father.
"Say nothing now, dear papa; let us get away from this--this dreadful
place--as quickly as we can. Send over a note, and say you took me home
because I was ill, as indeed I am--ill in body, sick to death in heart.
Dearest mamma, come with us; let us slip away at once."
So they made their way home swiftly and sadly--sadly, for the rector and
his wife had both now guessed the cause of their child's trouble; they
had heard something of the uproar, with sorrowful misgivings that Frank
was the guilty cause.
Unhappy Mary! When they reached home she threw herself into her loving
mother's arms, and poured out all her grief. A messenger was at once
dispatched to the hall with a note of apology for their abrupt
departure. It was, however, needless. The messenger brought back word
that, when the people had been gathered for the address, Frank Oldfield
had staggered forwards towards his father so hopelessly intoxicated,
that he had to be led away home between two of the servants. Sir Thomas
said a few hasty words to the assembled tenants and work-people,
expressing his great regret at his son's state, but excusing it on the
ground of his weakness after his illness, so that the great heat of the
weather had caused what he had taken to have an unusually powerful
effect upon him. In reply to Mr Oliphant's note, the squire made the
same excuse for his son, and trusted that Miss Oliphant would not take
to heart what had happened under such exceptional circumstances. But
Mary could not pass the matter over so lightly. She could not wipe out
from her memory that scene in the tent. She pressed her hand tightly
over her eyes, and shuddered as she thought of Frank standing there,
wild, coarse, debased, brutalised, a thing to make rude and vulgar
merriment; while the man, the gentleman, and the Christian had been
demonised out of that fair form by the drink. Oh, what bitter tears she
shed that night as she lay awake, racked with thoughts of the past and
despairing of the future. The next day came a penitential letter from
Frank; he threw himself on her pity--he had been overcome--he abhorred
himself for it--he saw his own weakness now--he would pray for strength
as she had urged him to do--surely she would not cast him off for one
offence--he had been most strictly moderate up to that unhappy day--he
implored her forgiveness--he asked her to try him only once more--he
loved her so dearly, so passionately, that her rejection would be death
to him.
What could she say? She was but a poor erring sinner herself and should
she at once shut the door of pity upon him? He had fallen indeed, but
he might be taught such a lesson by that fall as he might never forget.
Once more--she would try him once more, if her parents thought her right
in doing so. And could they say nay?--they felt they could not. Little
as they really hoped for any permanent improvement, they considered that
they should be hardly right in dissuading their child from giving the
poor penitent another trial.
So Mary wrote back a loving earnest letter, imploring Frank to seek his
strength to keep his resolution in prayer. Again they met; again it was
sunshine; but, to poor Mary's heart, sunshine through a cloud.