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,—