“By the way,” he said, “I was nearly forgetting that I have a little note for you from Mary, which came to-day in a letter to myself. Here it is.”
The note was brief and constrained in its tone, though kind. It was as follows:—
“Dear Frank,—I wrote to you by the last mail, and just send a few lines now in Hubert’s letter. I can scarce tell how to write. I do not know whether to hope or fear, whether I dare venture to believe that I shall ever see you again with joy. O Frank, I have dreadful misgivings. Miserable rumours come across the sea to make all our hearts sick. Will you not at once and for ever renounce what has been the occasion of sin and disgrace to yourself and of misery to us both? Will you not go to the Strong for strength, and cast yourself at once on him? I cannot write more now, for I am almost broken-hearted. I shall not cease to pray for you.—Yours, Mary Oliphant.”
Frank hastily thrust the note into his pocket after reading it, and hurried home. There he shut-to his door, and flung himself on his knees. He prayed to be forgiven his sin, and that he might live a steady and sober life for the time to come. He rose up comforted and satisfied. He felt he had done a duty. He was resolved to become a water-drinker, to pay no more visits to the man at the cottage, and to keep no intoxicating drinks in his house. Mary’s letter had touched him to the quick; he saw how nearly he had lost her; he felt that the stand must be made now or never. But yet he had in no way pledged himself to total abstinence. True, he had prayed to be kept sober; but had his heart fully and sincerely desired what his lips had prayed for? Alas, it is to be feared not; for it is no difficult thing to delude ourselves in the matter of prayer. It is easy, when we have sinned, and before the next strong temptation to the same sin presents itself, to pray against repeating it, and so to give a sop to our conscience, without having either the heart’s desire or the honest resolve to abstain from that sin. And it is equally easy to pray that we may not fall into a sin, and to have a sort of half sincere desire to that effect; and yet, at the same time, to be quite unwilling to avoid those steps which, though they are not themselves the sin, yet almost of necessity and inevitably lead to it. So it was with poor Frank, but he did not think so; on the contrary, he was now quite persuaded that his resolution was like a rock, that he was thoroughly fortified against yielding to his old temptations, and that he should never again deviate from the strictest sobriety. Yet he would not sign the pledge, and so put a check between himself and those circumstances and occasions which might lead or surprise him into a transgression. He meant to be a total abstainer at present, but he was quite as resolved not to sign the pledge.
Things were in this state. He had rigidly kept himself to non-intoxicants for more than a month after the receipt of Mary’s note. He had paid his way and observed a strict economy; he was getting back his character as a steady and sober man; and many looked on with approbation and applauded him. There were, however, three at least in the colony who had but little faith in him as yet; these were Hubert, Mr Oliphant, and Jacob Poole.
Things were in this state when one morning, as Frank was riding slowly down Hindley Street, he noticed a man, whose face and whole appearance seemed very familiar to him, talking to a shopman at his door. Just as he came opposite, the man turned fully towards him—there could be no longer any doubt.
“What! Juniper; Juniper Graves—you here!”
“What! Mr Frank, my dear young master! Do I really see you once more? Ah, how I’ve longed for this suspicious day; but it’s come at last.”
“Ah, I see it’s just yourself,” said Frank, laughing. “Give us your hand, my good fellow. But what has brought you out here? It looks like old times in the dear old country seeing you again.”
“Why, Mr Frank, the truth’s the truth, and it’s no use hiding it, though ‘self-praise is no accommodation,’ as the proverb says. You see, sir, I couldn’t be happy when you was gone. I missed my dear young master so much. People wondered what was amiss with me, when they found me, as they often did, in a state of refraction. ‘Why, Juniper,’ they’d say, ‘what’s amiss? Are you grieving after Mr Frank?’ I could only nod dissent; my heart was too full. But I mustn’t be too long, a-keeping you too, sir, under the vertebral rays of an Australian sun. I just couldn’t stand it no longer—so I gets together my little savings, pays my own passage, sails across the trackless deep to the southern atmosphere—and here I am, to take my chance for good fortune or bad fortune, if I may only now and then have a smile from my dear young master Mr Frank, and gaze once more on those familiar ligaments which I loved so much in dear old England. Mr Frank, it’s the simple truth, I assure you. With all my failings and interjections, you’d never any cause to doubt my voracity.”