Mark was thunderstruck! For several minutes surprise and mortification kept him silent. At last he exclaimed:
“But what does Mary wish herself? We’ve known each other so long; she knows I love her, she must know it. I’m sure she would not refuse me; may I not see her? May I not have ‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ from her own lips?”
“I will ask her,” was the reply; and poor Mark was left for half an hour to his own not very agreeable reflections. At the end of that time Mrs Franklin returned, with a sealed letter in her hand.
“Mary does not feel equal to seeing you now,” she said, “and indeed I could not recommend her doing so at present. She sends you this letter instead; do not read it now,” for Mark was tearing it open, “but wait till you can give it your calm and full attention.”
Mark would have remonstrated, but Mrs Franklin’s quiet decision restrained him; he flung himself out of the house, and on reaching the highway, burst open the envelope and read as follows:—
“Dear Mark,—We have always been friends, and I hope shall remain so; but we can never be anything more to one another. I have solemnly resolved in God’s sight that I will never marry a drunkard, and I never will. I was witness to your ill-usage of your poor horse the other day, when you were intoxicated; I cannot forget it; my mind is made up, I cannot alter it, and my dear mother entirely approves of my decision. I thank you for your offer, and pray that you may have grace given you to forsake the sin which has made it impossible that there can ever be more than a feeling of sincere interest and kindliness towards yourself, from yours truly,—
“Mary Franklin.”
Mark Rothwell tore the letter, when he had glanced through it, into bits, dashed them on the ground, and, with loud imprecations, stamped on them. There was a fire in his heart, a mad desire for revenge; he was, what drunkards must be, essentially selfish. Wounded vanity, disappointed affection, bitter jealousy, were the fuel to that fire. He had no thought now of remonstrance with Mary: he had no wish to remonstrate: his one great burning desire was to be revenged. He rushed home, but found little to cheer him there. For months past a cloud had hung over “The Firs,” which had become denser and darker every day. And now it was come abroad that Mr Rothwell was bankrupt. It was too true: the reckless expenditure of Mark, and the incautious good nature of Mr Rothwell, which had led him, under the influence of free living, to engage in disastrous speculations, had brought ruin on the miserable family. A few more weeks and “The Firs” was untenanted.
But, in the midst of all this darkness, there shone forth a ray of heavenly light.
It was near midnight of the day when the sale of Mr Rothwell’s effects had taken place at “The Firs.” A candle twinkled still in the cottage of Mrs Forbes, for there was work to be sent home early on the morrow, and neither lateness nor weariness might suspend their anxious toil. Lame Sally and her mother had been talking over, what was in everyone’s mouth and thoughts, the sad downfall of the Rothwells. They saw God’s hand in it, but they did not rejoice; they had found their Saviour true to His word, and enjoyed a peace in casting their care on Him which they knew all the wealth of the world could not have given them. Only one thing they still prayed for which the Lord had not yet granted: Jim, poor Jim! But what was that? A footstep: how their hearts beat! Could it be the old familiar tread? Yes; Jim, but no longer drunken, gambling, prodigal Jim, was next moment at his mother’s feet, and a minute after with his arms round his sister’s neck. And there was weeping, but not for sorrow, in that cottage, and there was joy before the angels of heaven over a repentant sinner. Jim was come back. A mother’s and sister’s prayers had reached him and drawn him home. He was sober now: he was a pledged abstainer: he had brought his pay in his hand and love in his heart; and that night, while the shadows lay thick around the deserted mansion of “The Firs,” and not even the wail of sorrow broke the stillness, there was light and music and peace in that humble cottage; the light of love, the music of thanksgiving, and “the peace of God which passeth understanding.”