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:—
“Dear Mark,—We have always been friends, and I hope shall remain so; but we can never be anything more to one another. I have solemnly resolved in God’s sight that I will never marry a drunkard, and I never will. I was witness to your ill-usage of your poor horse the other day, when you were intoxicated; I cannot forget it; my mind is made up, I cannot alter it, and my dear mother entirely approves of my decision. I thank you for your offer, and pray that you may have grace given you to forsake the sin which has made it impossible that there can ever be more than a feeling of sincere interest and kindliness towards yourself, from yours truly,—
“Mary Franklin.”
Mark Rothwell tore the letter, when he had glanced through it, into bits, dashed them on the ground, and, with loud imprecations, stamped on them. There was a fire in his heart, a mad desire for revenge; he was, what drunkards must be, essentially selfish. Wounded vanity, disappointed affection, bitter jealousy, were the fuel to that fire. He had no thought now of remonstrance with Mary: he had no wish to remonstrate: his one great burning desire was to be revenged. He rushed home, but found little to cheer him there. For months past a cloud had hung over “The Firs,” which had become denser and darker every day. And now it was come abroad that Mr Rothwell was bankrupt. It was too true: the reckless expenditure of Mark, and the incautious good nature of Mr Rothwell, which had led him, under the influence of free living, to engage in disastrous speculations, had brought ruin on the miserable family. A few more weeks and “The Firs” was untenanted.
But, in the midst of all this darkness, there shone forth a ray of heavenly light.
It was near midnight of the day when the sale of Mr Rothwell’s effects had taken place at “The Firs.” A candle twinkled still in the cottage of Mrs Forbes, for there was work to be sent home early on the morrow, and neither lateness nor weariness might suspend their anxious toil. Lame Sally and her mother had been talking over, what was in everyone’s mouth and thoughts, the sad downfall of the Rothwells. They saw God’s hand in it, but they did not rejoice; they had found their Saviour true to His word, and enjoyed a peace in casting their care on Him which they knew all the wealth of the world could not have given them. Only one thing they still prayed for which the Lord had not yet granted: Jim, poor Jim! But what was that? A footstep: how their hearts beat! Could it be the old familiar tread? Yes; Jim, but no longer drunken, gambling, prodigal Jim, was next moment at his mother’s feet, and a minute after with his arms round his sister’s neck. And there was weeping, but not for sorrow, in that cottage, and there was joy before the angels of heaven over a repentant sinner. Jim was come back. A mother’s and sister’s prayers had reached him and drawn him home. He was sober now: he was a pledged abstainer: he had brought his pay in his hand and love in his heart; and that night, while the shadows lay thick around the deserted mansion of “The Firs,” and not even the wail of sorrow broke the stillness, there was light and music and peace in that humble cottage; the light of love, the music of thanksgiving, and “the peace of God which passeth understanding.”