They passed out of the grounds across a lane thickly shaded by trees, whose foliage was beginning to change its summer hue for the gorgeous varieties of autumnal colouring. Then they followed a winding path that skirted a wide sea of wheat, which rose and fell in rustling waves, disclosing now and again bright dazzling gleams of the scarlet poppy. At the end of this field was a stile leading into the highroad to Hopeworth. Here they paused, and were just about to part, when the sound of a horse’s feet in rapid but very irregular motion arrested their attention. The animal and his rider soon came into view, the latter evidently keeping his seat with difficulty. There was plainly a struggle of some kind going on between the brute and the rational being who was mounted on him, and while drawing the reins tight with one hand, was belabouring the poor creature about the head most unmercifully with a heavy hunting whip. The horse not appreciating the advantages of this treatment at the hands of its intellectual owner, was resisting by a shuffling, remonstrating sort of gallop; while his rider, who was evidently a practised horseman, seemed to stick to his saddle by a kind of instinct, having little else to guide him, for his hat was completely shaken down over his eyes.
Mr Tankardew’s indignation was kindled in a moment.
“The wretch! The drunken beast!” he cried; “serve him right if his horse pitches him head foremost into the first ditch with any dirty water in it.”
On came the contending pair, the man swaying from side to side, but nevertheless marvellously retaining his seat. At the sight of the
ladies, or at a sudden movement forward of Mr Tankardew, the animal swerved and almost unseated his tormentor, who, however, recovered himself, but in doing so lost his hat, as the poor beast again plunged forward with his almost unconscious burden. The horseman took no notice of his loss, nor did he see who were the spectators of his sinful degradation, but to them he was fully revealed: it was Mark Rothwell. Another minute and he was out of sight.
Mary sank, with a bitter cry, into her mother’s arms, while Mr Tankardew sprang forward to support them both. In a moment or two, however, the ladies had recovered themselves, and turned homewards. The old man saw that they would prefer to be alone, so, with a kind and courteous farewell, he made his way with slow strides towards the town.
“Humph!” he muttered to himself; “‘Good entertainment for man and beast,’ that’s what they put over some of these alcohol shops. I’d like to know which was the beast just now. Entertainment! Ay, very entertaining, such a sight to the devil and his angels. O miserable drink! Haven’t you drowned souls enough yet?”
Two days after this disgraceful exposure of himself, Mark Rothwell made an early call at “The Shrubbery.” He was utterly ignorant of his having been seen in his drunkenness by Mrs Franklin and her daughter, and was scrupulously sober on the present occasion, and full of good resolutions, as habitual drunkards very commonly are after an outbreak of more than usual violence. He was quite convinced—at least he was enjoying a good deal of cheerful self-congratulation on the supposed conviction—that he never would exceed again; so in the strength of this conviction, he entered the room where Mary and her mother were sitting, with a confident step, though he could not quite keep down every feeling of misgiving. Still, it never occurred to him that Mary could possibly refuse him. He had too high an opinion of himself: he was such a general favourite and so popular, that he felt sure any young lady of his acquaintance would esteem herself honoured by the offer of his hand. He was well aware, it is true, that Mary had a horror of drunkenness; but he flattered himself, first, that he could persuade her that he meant to be sober for the future, and a total abstainer too if she required it; and then, that he had got a sufficient hold upon her heart, or at any rate regard, to make her willing to accept him without any stipulations rather than lose him. Strong in these impressions, he had now come over to make a formal proposal. The manner, however, of mother and daughter disturbed him; something he saw was amiss; there was a sadness and constraint in the words of both which distressed and embarrassed him. After a brief conversation on commonplace topics Mary rose hastily and left the room. Mark hesitated, but feeling that he must seize the opportunity, he at once asked Mrs Franklin’s permission to avow his attachment to her daughter.
A long and painful pause: broken, at last, by Mrs Franklin’s reply, that she could not advise her daughter to encourage his addresses.