“Our friends over there seem very merry.”
Then came louder cheers and louder laughter. Mary’s heart died within her, she hardly knew why. She hurried out of the tent, when she was met by Juniper Graves, the groom, a man from whom she shrank with special dislike, for reasons which will shortly be explained.
“Come here, miss,” he cried, with a malicious grin; “here’s Mr Frank making such capital fun; he’ll send us all into fits afore he’s done! I never seed anything like it—it’s quite bacchanalian!”
Under other circumstances Mary would have hurried away at once, but the name of Frank acted like a spell. She peeped in at the tent-door where the labourers were dining, and almost sank to the ground at the sight she beheld.
Standing on a chair at the head of the table, his face flushed a deep red, his beautiful hair tossed back and his eyes flashing with excitement, a bottle flourishing in his right hand, was Frank Oldfield, roaring out, amidst cheers and shouts of applause, a boisterous, roystering comic song. Mary was shrinking back in horror when she saw Juniper Graves glide behind his young master’s chair, and fill his glass from a jug which he held in his hand. Frank saw the act, caught up the glass, and drained it in a moment. Then launching out into his song again, he swayed himself backwards and forwards, evidently being in danger of falling but for the help of the groom, who held out his arm to steady him. Mary tottered back out of the tent, but not till her eyes had met those of her lover. Oh! it sickened her to think of so pure and holy a thing as love in connection with such a face as that.
“My child,” said her father, to whom she had hurried, pale, and ready to sink at every step, “what has happened? what is the matter? Are you ill?”
“Oh, take me home, take me home,” she cried, in a terrified whisper. The noise of the band prevented others from hearing her words of distress, and she was hidden from the rest of the company by a fold of the tent.
“But what shall I say to Sir Thomas?” asked her father.
“Say nothing now, dear papa; let us get away from this—this dreadful place—as quickly as we can. Send over a note, and say you took me home because I was ill, as indeed I am—ill in body, sick to death in heart. Dearest mamma, come with us; let us slip away at once.”
So they made their way home swiftly and sadly—sadly, for the rector and his wife had both now guessed the cause of their child’s trouble; they had heard something of the uproar, with sorrowful misgivings that Frank was the guilty cause.