“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.”