"DEAR FRANK,--It would be cruelty in me were I to hold out any hope to
you that I can ever again be more to you than one who must always take
a deep interest in your welfare, and must feel truly grateful to you
for having saved her life. That you _mean_ now to be all that you
promise, I do not doubt; but that you really _will_ be so, I dare not
hope. You have been seen by me twice in such a condition as made me
shrink from you with terror and disgust. Were we to be married, and
you should be betrayed into excess, the first time, you would be
overwhelmed; the second time, you would be ashamed and pained; the
third time, you would feel it, but not very acutely. You would get
used, by degrees, to my witnessing such degradation; it would be
killing me, but it would be making less and less impression upon you.
I dare not run the terrible risk. I dare not join myself to you in a
bond which could never be severed, however aggravated might be my
misery and your sin. Oh, Frank, my heart is well nigh broken! I have
loved you, and do love you still. Let us be one in heaven, though we
never can be so here. Pray, oh, pray for grace to resist your
temptation! Ask to be made a true follower of the Lord Jesus, and you
will be guided aright, and we _shall_ meet then in that bright land
where all shall rejoice together who have, by grace, fought the fight
and won the victory here.--Sincerely yours, MARY OLIPHANT."
Frank read this letter over and over again, and groaned in the fulness
of his distress. She had not asked him to become an abstainer. Was it
because she felt that it was hopeless? _He_ knew it to be so. He knew
that if he signed the pledge he should only add a broken vow to his
other sins. He felt that, dearly as he loved Mary, he could not forego
all intoxicating drinks even for her sake. He dared not pray that he
might be able to abstain, for he felt that he should not really wish for
the accomplishment of such a prayer. Habitual indulgence had taken all
the stiffness out of his will. And yet the thought of losing Mary was
utter misery. He leaned his head on his hands, and gazed for a long
time on her letter. At last there came a thought into his mind. All
might not yet be lost. There was still one way of escape. He rose up
comforted, and thrusting the letter into his pocket, sought out his
mother. He found her alone. She looked at him with deep anxiety and
pitying love, as well she might, when she marked the gloom that had
settled down on his once happy face. Alas she knew its cause too well.
She knew that he was on the downward path of intemperance, and she knew
how rapid was the descent. She was well aware that his sinful excess
had been the cause of the breaking off of his engagement with the
rector's daughter. Oh, how her heart ached for him. She would have
given all she possessed to see him what he once was. She was prepared
for any sacrifice, if only he could be reclaimed before it should be too
late.
"Dearest mother," he said, throwing himself down beside her, clasping
her knees, and looking up imploringly into her face, "I'm a miserable
creature, on the road to ruin, body and soul, unless something comes to
stop me."
"Oh, my boy, my boy!" cried his mother, bursting into tears; "do not say
so. You have gone astray; but so have we all, one way or other. There
is hope for you if you return. Surely the evil habit cannot be already
so strong upon you that you cannot summon strength and resolution to
break through it."
"Oh, you do not, you cannot know what a helpless creature I am!" was his
reply. "When once I begin to taste, every good resolution melts away in
a moment."
"Then give up such things, and abstain altogether, my beloved Frank, if
that be the case," said Lady Oldfield.
"I cannot," he replied bitterly. "I cannot keep from them, they must be
kept from me, and then I should have some chance."
"But, my dear boy, how can that always be? You cannot expect your
father to banish beer and wine from his table, and to refuse to set them
before his guests. You cannot expect that he should debar himself the
moderate use of these things because you have, unhappily, learned to
take them immoderately."
"No. I cannot, of course. I cannot, and I do not expect it, and
therefore I am come to put before you, my dearest mother, what I believe
will be my only chance. You know that Hubert Oliphant is going to join
his Uncle Abraham in South Australia. He sails in October. He is going
by a total abstinence ship, which will not therefore carry any
intoxicating drinks. Will you and my dear father consent to my going
with Hubert? My unhappy taste would be broken through by the time the
voyage was over, as I should never so much as see beer, or wine, or
spirits; and the fresh sea-air would be a better tonic than porter,
wine, or ale; so that you would have no need to fear about my health."
Lady Oldfield did not reply for several minutes. She was, at first,
utterly confounded at such a proposal from the son whom she idolised,
and she was on the point of at once scouting the idea as altogether wild
and out of the question. But a few moments' reflection made her pause.
Terrible as was the thought of the separation, the prospect of her son's
becoming a confirmed drunkard was more terrible still. This plan, if
carried out, might result in Frank's return to habitual sobriety. Ought
she therefore to refuse her sanction absolutely and at once? At last
she said,--
"And who, my dearest boy, has put such a strange thought into your head?
And how long do you mean to remain away? And what are you to do when
you reach Australia?"
"No one has suggested the thing to me," he replied. "It came into my
mind as I was thinking over all the misery the drink has brought on me
of late. If I could go with Hubert, you know what a friend and support
I should have in him. I might remain in the colony two or three years,
and then come back again, please God, a thoroughly sober man; and then
perhaps dear Mary would relent, and give me back my old place in her
heart again."
Lady Oldfield drew him close to her, and clasping her arms round him,
wept long and bitterly.
"Oh, my boy, my Frank!" she exclaimed; "how shall I bear to part with
you? Yet it may be that this is God's doing; that he has put this into
your heart; and if so, if it should be for your deliverance from your
unhappy habit, I dare not say `No.' But I cannot tell what your father
will say. I will put the matter before him, however, and I am sure he
will do what is wise and right."
Sir Thomas did not refuse his consent. He had felt so keenly the
disgrace which his son's increasing excesses were bringing upon the
family, that, sorely as he grieved over the thoughts of parting with
Frank, he was willing that he should join Hubert Oliphant in his voyage,
hoping that the high character and Christian example of the rector's son
might be of benefit to his poor unhappy and erring child. Frank's
countenance brightened when he had obtained his father's consent, and he
at once made known his purpose to Hubert Oliphant, and asked his advice
and help, begging him also to intercede for him with Mary that she would
allow him to hope that, if he returned thoroughly reformed, she would
consent to their engagement being renewed. Hubert, as well as his
father, had felt the deepest pity for Frank, in spite of his grievous
falls, specially when they remembered how, but for his own mother's
opposition, he might now have been one of their little temperance band,
standing firm, happy himself, and helping to make others happy. They
therefore gladly encouraged him to carry out his purpose, promising that
Hubert should introduce him to his Uncle Abraham, who might find for
him, while he remained in the colony, some employment suitable to his
station, where Hubert and his uncle could support and strengthen him by
companionship and counsel. And would Mary hold out any hopes? Poor
Mary, she loved him still. Oh, how dearly! Could she refuse him all
encouragement? No. But she dared not promise unconditionally to be to
him as in former days. She would not renew the engagement now; but she
would wait and see the issue of his present plans.
Thus matters stood, when the last week came that Frank and Hubert would
spend in their English homes. Mary and Frank had met once or twice
since his voyage had been decided on, but it was in the presence of
others. These were sorrowful meetings, yet there was the glow of a
subdued hope, to make them not altogether dark to those who, but for the
miserable tyranny of the drink, might now have been bright with happy
anticipations of the future.
And now it was a sweet autumn evening, when every sight and sound was
plaintive with the foreshadowings of a coming winter--the sunset hues,
the lights and shadows, the first decaying leaves, the notes of birds,
the hum of insects. Everything was very still as Mary again trod the
little path from the cottage of the poor woman whom she had been
visiting on the evening of Frank's last sad fall. She had nearly
reached the stile, her eyes bent on the ground, and her heart full of
sorrowful memories and forebodings, when she was startled by hearing the
sound of passionate sobbings. She raised her eyes. Kneeling by the
stile, his head buried in his hands, was Frank Oldfield; his whole frame
shook with the violence of his emotion, and she could hear her own name
murmured again and again in the agony of his self-reproach or prayer.
How sadly beautiful he looked! And oh, how her heart overflowed with
pitying tenderness towards him.
"Frank," she said; but she could add no more.
He started up, for he had not heard her light tread. His hair was
wildly tossed back, his eyes filled with tears, his lips quivering.
"You here, Mary," he gasped. "I little thought of this. I little
thought to meet you here. I came to take a parting look at the spot
where I had seen you last as my own. Here it was that I sinned and
fooled away my happiness, and here I would pour out the bitterness of my
fruitless sorrow."
"Not fruitless sorrow, I trust, dear Frank," she said gently. "It
cannot be fruitless, if it be a genuine sorrow for sin. Oh, perhaps
there is hope before us yet!"
"Do _you_ say so, Mary? Do _you_ bid me hope? Well, I will live on
that hope. I ask no promise from you, I do not expect it. I am glad
that we have met here, after all. Here you have seen both my
degradation and my sorrow."
"Yes, Frank, and I am glad, too; it will connect this sad spot with
brighter memories. God bless you. I shall never cease to pray for you,
come what will. May that comfort you, and may you--may you,--" her
tears choked her voice.
"Oh, one word more," he said imploringly, as, having accepted his arm in
climbing the stile, she now relinquished it, and was turning from
him--"One word more--one word of parting! Oh, one word such as once
might have been!"
His hands were stretched towards her. They might never meet again. She
hesitated for an instant. Then for one moment they were pressed heart
to heart, and lip to lip--but for one moment, and then,-- "Farewell,"
"Farewell."