Unhappy Mary! When they reached home she threw herself into her loving mother’s arms, and poured out all her grief. A messenger was at once dispatched to the hall with a note of apology for their abrupt departure. It was, however, needless. The messenger brought back word that, when the people had been gathered for the address, Frank Oldfield had staggered forwards towards his father so hopelessly intoxicated, that he had to be led away home between two of the servants. Sir Thomas said a few hasty words to the assembled tenants and work-people, expressing his great regret at his son’s state, but excusing it on the ground of his weakness after his illness, so that the great heat of the weather had caused what he had taken to have an unusually powerful effect upon him. In reply to Mr Oliphant’s note, the squire made the same excuse for his son, and trusted that Miss Oliphant would not take to heart what had happened under such exceptional circumstances. But Mary could not pass the matter over so lightly. She could not wipe out from her memory that scene in the tent. She pressed her hand tightly over her eyes, and shuddered as she thought of Frank standing there, wild, coarse, debased, brutalised, a thing to make rude and vulgar merriment; while the man, the gentleman, and the Christian had been demonised out of that fair form by the drink. Oh, what bitter tears she shed that night as she lay awake, racked with thoughts of the past and despairing of the future. The next day came a penitential letter from Frank; he threw himself on her pity—he had been overcome—he abhorred himself for it—he saw his own weakness now—he would pray for strength as she had urged him to do—surely she would not cast him off for one offence—he had been most strictly moderate up to that unhappy day—he implored her forgiveness—he asked her to try him only once more—he loved her so dearly, so passionately, that her rejection would be death to him.
What could she say? She was but a poor erring sinner herself and should she at once shut the door of pity upon him? He had fallen indeed, but he might be taught such a lesson by that fall as he might never forget. Once more—she would try him once more, if her parents thought her right in doing so. And could they say nay?—they felt they could not. Little as they really hoped for any permanent improvement, they considered that they should be hardly right in dissuading their child from giving the poor penitent another trial.
So Mary wrote back a loving earnest letter, imploring Frank to seek his strength to keep his resolution in prayer. Again they met; again it was sunshine; but, to poor Mary’s heart, sunshine through a cloud.
Chapter Six.
A Discussion.
It was about a month after the harvest-home, so full of sad memories for all at the hall and rectory, that Mr Oliphant was seated one afternoon in the drawing-room of Greymoor Park. The company assembled consisted of the baronet and Lady Oldfield; the baronet’s brother, Reverend John Oldfield; Dr Portman, the medical man; and Bernard Oliphant.
Mr John Oldfield had been telling the news of his part of the county to his brother and sister-in-law.
“You’ll be sorry to hear,” he continued, “that poor Mildman’s dead.”