Chapter Nine.
The Crisis.
Several weeks had passed by after the accident and timely rescue, weeks of anxious watching and tender nursing, before Mary Franklin was sufficiently recovered from the shock and injuries she had received to appear again among her friends. Many had been the inquiries made by Mark and Mr Tankardew, and once or twice by John Randolph.
It was on a calm Sabbath morning that mother and daughter first walked beyond their own grounds, and made their way to the little village church. Public thanks were offered that day for Mary’s wonderful preservation, and many a loving eye looked through tears at the pale, serene face of her who had been so mercifully rescued. Was Mark Rothwell there?—no; but there was one who could not help gazing for a few moments, with a deeper sentiment than admiring pity, at the fair young girl, as the words of holy praise “for the late mercies vouchsafed unto her” were uttered by the minister: it was John Randolph. They met after service at the gate of the churchyard, and the young man having expressed his heartfelt congratulations, after a moment’s hesitation offered Mary his arm, which she gently declined. A slight shade of mingled shame, sadness, and annoyance clouded his face for a moment, and as quickly passed away. Mary was struggling to say something to him expressive of her gratitude, but before she could put it into shape he was gone.
The next day brought Mr Tankardew to “The Shrubbery.” The old man drew Mary to him in the fulness of his heart, and blessed her, calling her his child. “Well, what have the doctors made of you?” he asked, rather abruptly.
“Made of me?” asked Mary, laughing.
“Yes, made of you, they never could make anything of me or by me; but what have they made of you?”
“You puzzle me,” replied the other.