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Frank Oldfield

by Theodore P. Wilson · English · Gutenberg #21132 · 624,733 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Frank Oldfield

Author: Theodore P. Wilson


        
Release date: April 18, 2007 [eBook #21132]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21132

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANK OLDFIELD ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Frank Oldfield, or Lost and Found
by the Reverend T.P. Wilson, M.A., Rector of Smethcote

Published by T. Nelson and Sons, London, Edinburgh and
New York, 1872.

Also by W. Tweedie, 337 Strand, London,
and at The Office of the United Kingdom Band of Hope Union,
5 Red Lion Square, London.
________________________________________________________________

Preface

The Committee of the United Kingdom Band of Hope Union having offered
prizes of One Hundred Pounds, and Fifty Pounds respectively, for the two
best tales illustrative of Temperance in its relation to the young, the
present tale, "Frank Oldfield," was selected from eighty-four tales as
the one entitled to the first prize.  The second tale, "Tim Maloney,"
was written by Miss M.A. Paull, of Plymouth, and will shortly be
published.  Appended is the report of the adjudicators:--

We the adjudicators appointed by the Committee of the United Kingdom
Band of Hope Union, to decide upon the Prize Tales for which premiums of
One Hundred Pounds, and Fifty Pounds, were offered by advertisement,
hereby declare that we have selected the tale with the motto "Nothing
extenuate, or set down aught in malice," as that entitled to the First
Prize of One Hundred Pounds; and the tale with the motto "Hope on,
Hope ever," as that entitled to the Second Prize of Fifty Pounds.

As witness our hands, Thomas Cash, T. Geo. Rooke, B.A., John Clifford,
M.A., Ll.B., &c.

United Kingdom Band of Hope Union Office, 5 Red Lion Square, London.
August 3, 1869.

This book was well-written, and generally exciting throughout, although
one of the early chapters was a bit lacking in action (people seated
round the dinner-table).  The action was credible and well described.
The whole thing rang very true, and for that reason might be read by
someone wishing to gain more knowledge of life two-thirds of the way
through the nineteenth century.  The Reverend Wilson writes well, and it
would be pleasant to seek out and read other books from his pen.
N.H. (transcriber)
________________________________________________________________

FRANK OLDFIELD, BY THE REVEREND T.P. YOUNG



CHAPTER ONE.

LOST.

"Have you seen anything of our Sammul?"  These words were addressed in a
very excited voice to a tall rough-looking collier, who, with Davy-lamp
in hand, was dressed ready for the night-shift in the Bank Pit of the
Langhurst Colliery.  Langhurst was a populous village in the south of
Lancashire.  The speaker was a woman, the regularity of whose features
showed that she had once been good-looking, but from whose face every
trace of beauty had been scorched out by intemperance.  Her hair
uncombed, and prematurely grey, straggled out into the wind.  Her dress,
all patches, scarcely served for decent covering; while her poor half-
naked feet seemed rather galled than protected by the miserable slippers
in which she clattered along the pavement, and which just revealed some
filthy fragments of stockings.

"No, Alice," was the man's reply; "I haven't seen anything of your
Sammul."  He was turning away towards the pit, when he looked back and
added, "I've heard that you and Thomas are for making him break his
teetottal; have a care, Alice, have a care--you'll lose him for good and
all if you don't mind."

She made him no answer, but turning to another collier, who had lately
come from his work, and was sauntering across the road, she repeated her
question,--

"Jim, have _you_ seen anything of our Sammul?"

"No, I know nothing about him; but what's amiss, Alice? you're not
afraid that he's slipped off to the `George'?"

"The `George!' no, Jim, but I can't make it out; there must be summut
wrong, he came home about an hour since, and stripped and washed him,
then he goes right up into the chamber, and after a bit comes down into
the house with his best shoes and cap on.  `Where art going, Sammul?'
says I.  He says nothing, but crouches him down by the hearth-stone, and
stares into the fire as if he seed summat strange there.  Then he looks
all about him, just as if he were reckoning up the odd bits of things;
still he says nothing.  `Sammul,' said I, `won't you take your tea,
lad?' for it were all ready for him on the table.  Still he doesn't
speak, but just gets up and goes to the door, and then to the hearth-
stone, and then he claps his head on his hands as though he were
fretting o'er summat.  `Aren't you well, Sammul?' says I.  `Quite well,
mother,' says he, very short like.  So I just turns me round to go out,
when he jumps up and says, `Mother:' and I could see by the tears in his
eyes that he were very full.  `Mother,' says he again, and then he
crouches him down again.  You wouldn't believe, how strange I felt--you
might have knocked me down with a feather; so I just goes across to old
Jenny's to ax her to come and look at him, for I thought he mightn't be
right in his head.  I wasn't gone many minutes, but when I got back our
Sammul were not there, but close by where he were sitting I seed summat
lapped up in a piece of papper, lying on the table.  I opened it, and
there were a five-shilling piece and a bit of his hair, and he'd writ on
the papper, `From Sammul, for dear mother.'  Oh, what _must_ I do--what
_must_ I do?  I shall ne'er see our Sammul any more," and the poor woman
sobbed as if her heart would break.

Before Jim had time to answer, a coarse-looking man of middle height,
his hands thrust deep into his pockets, a pipe in his mouth, and his
whole appearance bespeaking one who, in his best moments, was never
thoroughly sober, strode up to the unhappy mother, and shouted out,--

"What's up now? what's all this about?"

"Your Sammul's run away--that's what it's about," said Jim.

"Run away!" cried the other; "I'll teach him to run away--I'll break
every bone in his body when I get him home again."

"Ay, but you must catch him _first_," said Jim, drily.

"Alice, what's all this?" said Johnson, for that was the father's name,
turning fiercely on his wife.

She repeated her story.  Johnson was staggered.  Samuel was a quiet lad
of fourteen, who had borne with moderate patience many a hard word and
harder blow from both parents.  He had worked steadily for them, even
beyond his strength, and had seen the wages which ought to have found
him sufficiency of food and clothing squandered in drink by both father
and mother.  Johnson was staggered, because he knew that Samuel _could_
have a will of his own; he had felt a force in his son's character which
he could not thoroughly understand; he had seen at times a decision
which showed that, boy as he was, he could break sooner than bend.
Samuel, moreover, was an only son, and his father loved him as dearly as
a drunkard's selfishness would let him love anything.  His very heart
sickened at his wife's story, and not without cause.  They had but two
children, Samuel and Betty.  Samuel worked in the pits; his sister, who
was a year younger, was employed at the factory.  Poor children! their
lot had been a sad one indeed.  As a neighbour said, "yon lad and wench
of Johnson's haven't been _brought_ up, they've been _dragged_ up."  It
was too true; half fed and worse clothed, a good constitution struggled
up against neglect and bad usage; no prayer was ever taught them by a
mother's lips; they never knew the wholesome stimulant of a sober
father's smile; their scanty stock of learning had been picked up
chiefly at a night-school; in the Sunday school they had learned to read
their Bibles, though but imperfectly, and were never more happy than
when singing with their companions the hymns which they had practised
together.  They were specially dear to one another; and in one thing had
ever been in the strictest agreement, they would never taste that drink
which had made their own home so miserable and desolate.

About a fortnight before our story opens, Langhurst had been placarded
with bills announcing that an able and well-known total abstinence
advocate would give an address in the parish schoolroom.  Many went to
hear, and among them Samuel and Betty Johnson.  Young and old were urged
to sign the pledge.  The speaker pictured powerfully a drunkard's home--
he showed how the drink enticed its victims to their ruin like a
cheating fiend plucking the sword of resistance from their grasp while
it smiled upon them.  He urged the young to begin at once, to put the
barrier of the pledge between themselves and the peculiar and subtle
array of tempters and temptations which hedged them in on all sides.  In
the pledge they had something to point to which could serve as an answer
to those who could not or would not hear reason.  He showed the _joy_ of
a home into which the drink had never found an entrance--total
abstinence was safety--"never to taste" was "never to crave."  He
painted the vigour of a mind unclouded from earliest years by alcoholic
stimulants; he pointed to the blessing under God of a child's steady
practical protest, as a Christian abstainer, against the fearful sin
which deluged our land with misery and crime, and swept away every spark
of joy and peace from the hearthstones of thousands of English homes.
Every word went deep into the hearts of Samuel and his sister: the
drunkard's home was their own, the drink was ever before their eyes, the
daily sin and misery that it caused they knew by sharp experience--time
after time had they been urged to take the drink by those very parents
whose substance, whose strength, whose peace had all withered down to
the very ground under its fatal poison.  How hard had been the struggle
to resist! but now, if they became pledged abstainers, they would have
something more to say which could give additional strength to their
refusal.

The speaker stood pen in hand when he had closed his address.

"Come--which of you young people will sign?"

Samuel made his way to the table.

"I don't mind if _I_ do," he said; and then turning to Betty, when he
had written his name, "come, Betty," he cried, "you'll sign too--come,
stick to the pen."

"Well, I might do worse, I reckon," said Betty, and she also signed.  A
few more followed, and shortly afterwards the meeting broke up.

But a storm was now brewing, which the brother and sister had not
calculated for.  Johnson and three or four kindred spirits were sitting
round a neighbour's fire smoking and drinking while the meeting was
going on.  A short time after it had closed, a man thrust open the door
of the house where Johnson was sitting, and peeping round, said with a
grin,--

"I say, Tommy Jacky," (the nickname by which Johnson was familiarly
known), "your Sammul and Betty have just been signing Teetottal Pledge."

"Eh! what do you say?" exclaimed Johnson in a furious tone, and
springing to his feet; "signed the pledge!  I'll see about that;" and
hurrying out of the house, he half ran half staggered to his own
miserable dwelling.  He was tolerably sobered when he got there.  Samuel
was sitting by the fire near his mother, who was frying some bacon for
supper.  Betty had just thrown aside on to the couch the handkerchief
which she had used instead of a bonnet, and was preparing to help her
mother.  Johnson sat down in the old rickety rocking-chair at the
opposite side of the fire to Samuel, and stooping down, unbuckled his
clogs, which he kicked off savagely; then he looked up at his son, and
said in a voice of suppressed passion,--

"So, my lad, you've been and signed teetottal."

"Yes, I have," was the reply.

"And _you've_ signed too," he cried in a louder voice, turning fiercely
upon Betty.

"Ay, fayther, I have," said Betty, quietly.

"Well, now," said Johnson, clenching his teeth, "you just mind _me_,
I'll have nothing of the sort in _my_ house.  I hate your nasty, mean,
sneaking teetottallers--we'll have none of that sort here.  D'ye hear?"
he shouted.

Neither Samuel nor Betty spoke.

"Hush, hush, Tom," broke in his wife; "you mustn't scold the childer so.
I'm no fonder nor you of the teetottallers, but childer will not be
driven.  Come, Sammul--come, Betty, you mustn't be obstinate; you know
fayther means what he says."

"Ay that I do," said her husband.  "And now, you listen: I'd sooner see
you both in your graves, nor have you sticking up your pledge cards
about the house, and turning up the whites of your eyes at your own
fayther and mother, as if we were not good enough for the likes of you.
Me and mine have ever loved our pipe and our pot, the whole brood of us,
and we ne'er said `no' to a chap when he asked for a drop of drink--it
shall never be said of me or mine, `They give 'em nothing in yon house
but tea and cold water!'"

"Ay, ay; you're light, Thomas," said his wife; "I'm not for seeing our
bairns beginning of such newfangled ways.  Come, childer, just clap the
foolish bits of papper behind the fire, and sit ye down to your supper."

"Mother," said Betty, in a sad but decided voice, "we have seen enough
in _this_ house to make us rue that ever a drop of the drink crossed our
door-step.  We've toiled hard early and late for you and fayther, but
the drink has taken it all.  You may scold us if you will, but Sammul
and I _must_ keep our pledge, and keep it gradely too."

"And _I_ say," cried her father, striking his hand violently on the
table, "I'll make you both break afore ye're a day older; ye've pleased
yourselves long enough, but ye shall please _me_ now.  I never said
nothing afore, though mother nor me didn't like to see ye scowling at
the drink as if it were poison; a drop now and then would have done ye
no harm, but ye were like to please yourselves--but it's different now.
We'll have none of your pledges here, ye may make yourselves sure of
that."

"You can't help yourself fayther," said Samuel doggedly: "pledged we
are, and pledged we're bound to be, but--"

Before he could say more, Johnson had snatched up one of his heavy clogs
and had hurled it at the head of his son, fortunately without striking
him; then catching up both clogs, and hastily buckling them, he strode
to the door, and pausing for a moment, gasped out, "I've said it, and
I'll stick to it; ye shall both break your teetottal afore this time to-
morrow, as I'm a living man."

He was gone, and was seen no more at home that night.

This scene occurred the evening before that on which our story
commences.  We have seen that Johnson, miserable and abandoned drunkard
as he was, was utterly staggered at the flight of his son when coupled
with his parting gift to his mother.  Was he really gone, and gone for
ever?  Had his own father driven him, by his cruel threats, to
desperation, perhaps to self-destruction?  Unhappy man! he stood the
very picture of dismay.  At last he said,--

"Perhaps he mayn't have got very far.  I'll just step over, Alice, to
your brother John's; maybe he'll have looked in there for a bit."

"Ay, do, Thomas," cried his wife; "and you must just tell him that he
mustn't heed what you said to him and Betty last night; it were only a
bit of a breeze.  Oh, what'll our Betty say when she finds our Sammul
gone; she _will_ fret, poor thing.  She just stepped out at the edge-o'-
dark, [see note 1] and she'll be back again just now.  Make haste,
Thomas, and tell the poor lad he may please himself about the
teetottal."

"Ay, ay, Alice," said poor Johnson dejectedly; "that cursed drink'll be
the ruin of us both--body and soul," and he went on his sorrowful way.

Oh, what a crowd of thoughts came crushing into the heart of the
wretched man, as he hurried along the path which he supposed his son to
have taken.  He thought of the day when he was married, and what a
bright creature his Alice was then; but even over _that_ day there hung
a cloud, for it was begun in intemperance and ended in riot.  He thought
of the hour when he first looked on his boy, and had felt as proud as if
no other man had ever had a bonny bairn but he.  He thought with
shuddering self-reproach of long years of base neglect and wrong towards
the children whose strength and peace his own words and deeds had
smitten down as with blows of iron.  He thought of the days and years of
utter selfishness which had drained away every drop of comfort from the
cup which might have overflowed with domestic happiness.  He thought how
he had ever been his own children's tempters beckoning them on towards
hell in every hour's example; and then he thought upon the life beyond
the grave, but recoiled with horror from that dark and lurid future, and
shuddered back to earth again.  Oh, was there in all the world a more
miserable wretch than he!  But on he went; anything was better than
rest.  His road lay down a steep brow after he had passed along one
field which separated the village from a wooded gorge.  Here all had
once been green and beautiful in spring and summertime; but now, for
many years past, thick clouds of smoke from coal-pit engines and iron
furnaces had given to trees and shrubs a sickly hue.  Nature had striven
in vain against the hot black breath of reeking chimneys.  Right down
among the stunted trees of this ravine went the foot-track which Johnson
followed.  Darkness had now gathered all around, yet here and there were
wild lights struggling with the gloom.  Just on the right, where the
path came out on to the dusty road, and a little way down a bank, a row
of blazing coke-ovens threw a ghastly glare over the scene, casting
fantastic shadows as their waves of fiery vapour flickered in the
breeze.  A little farther on he passed a busy forge, from whose blinding
light and wild uproarious mirth, mingling with the banging of the
hammers, he was glad to escape into the darkness beyond--what would he
not have given could he have as easily escaped from the stingings of his
own keen remorse.  On he went, but nothing could he see of his son.  A
mile more of rapid walking, and he reached his brother-in-law's cottage.

"Eh, Thomas, is it you?" cried John's wife.  "Don't stand on the door-
step, man, but come in."

"Have you seen our Sammul?" asked Johnson, in an agitated voice.

"Your Sammul? no, he hasn't been here.  But what ails you, Thomas?"  The
other could not speak, but sinking down into a chair, buried his face in
his hands.

"Summat ails you, I'm sure," said the kind woman.

"Oh, Jenny," replied the unhappy father, "our Sammul's gone off--gone
off for good and all.  I black-guarded him last night about yon
teetottal chap as come a-lecturing and got our Sammul and Betty to sign
the pledge, so just about an hour since he slips out in his Sunday hat
and shoes, when Alice were down the yard, and when she comes back she
finds a bit of papper on the table with a five-shilling piece and a bit
of his hair lapped up in it, and there was writ on it, `From Sammul, for
dear mother.'  Oh, Jenny, I'm afraid for my life he's gone off to
Americay; or, worse still, he may have drowned or hanged himself."

"Nay, nay; don't say so, Thomas," said Jenny; "he'll think better of it;
you'll see him back again in the morning.  Don't fret, man; he's a good
lad, and he'll turn up again all right, take my word for it.  He'd ne'er
have taken his Sunday shoes if he'd meant to drown or hang himself; he
could have done it just as well in his clogs."

But Johnson could not be comforted.

"I must be going," he said.  "I guess there'll be rare crying at our
house if Sammul's gone off for good; it'll drive Alice and our Betty
clean crazy."

With a sorrowful "good night" he stepped out again into the darkness,
and set his face homewards.  He had not gone many paces when a sudden
thought seemed to strike him, and he turned out of the road by which he
had come, and crossing by a little foot-bridge a stream which ran at the
bottom of a high bank on his right hand, climbed up some steep ground on
the other side, and emerged into a field, from which a footpath led
along the border of several meadows into the upper part of Langhurst.
Here he paused and looked around him--the darkness had begun to yield to
the pale beams of the moon.  His whole frame shook with emotion as he
stood gazing on the trees and shrubs around him; and no wonder, for
memory was now busy again, and brought up before him a life-like picture
of his strolls in springtime with his boy, when Samuel was but a tiny
lad.  'Twas in this very field, among these very trees, that he had
gathered bluebells for him, and had filled his little hands with their
lovely flowers.  Oh, there was something more human in him then!
Drunkard he was, but not the wretched degraded creature into which
intemperance had kneaded and moulded him, till it left him now stiffened
into a walking vessel of clay, just living day by day to absorb strong
drink.  Yet was he not even _now_ utterly hardened, for his tears fell
like rain upon that moonlit grass--thoughts of the past made his whole
being tremble.  He thought of what his boy had been to him; he thought
of what he had been to his boy.  He seemed to see his past life acted
out before him in a moving picture, and in all he saw himself a curse
and not a blessing--time, money, health, peace, character, soul, all
squandered.  And still the picture moved on, and passed into the future:
he saw his utterly desolate home--no boy was there; he saw two empty
chairs--his Betty was gone, dead of want and a broken heart.  The
picture still moved on: now he was quite alone, the whole hearth-stone
was his; he sat there very old and very grey, cold and hunger-bitten; a
little while, and a pauper's funeral passed from that hearth into the
street--it was his own--and what of his soul?  He started as if bitten
by a serpent, and hurried on.

The village was soon reached; whither should he go?  Conscience said,
"home;" but home was desolate.  He was soon at the public-house door; he
could meet with a rude sympathy there--he could tell his tale, he could
cheer him with the blaze and the gas, he could stupify down his remorse
with the drink.  Conscience again whispered, "Home," but so feebly, that
his own footstep forward quenched its voice.  He entered, and sat down
among the drinkers.

And what of his poor wife and daughter?

Johnson had not left his home many minutes when Betty came in.

"Where's Sammul?" she asked, not noticing her mother's agitation; "and
where's fayther?  We're like to have weary work in our house just now, I
reckon."

"Betty!"--was all that her mother could say, but in such a voice that
her daughter started round and cried,--

"Eh, mother, what is't? what ails you?"

"See there," replied the poor woman, pointing to the little packet still
lying on the table; "that's what ails me."

Betty took it up; she saw the money and the lock of hair; she read the
words--it was all plain to her in a moment.  She stood open-mouthed,
with her eyes staring on the paper as one spell-bound, then she burst
out into a bitter cry,--

"Oh, mother, mother! it cannot be, it cannot be! he wouldn't leave us
so!  Oh, Sammul, Sammul, what must we do?  It's the drink has done it--
fayther's drink has done it!  I shall never see you, Sammul, any more!
Mother," she suddenly added, dropping the apron which she had lifted to
her streaming eyes, "where's fayther?  Does _he_ know?"

"Yes; he knows well enough; he's off to your Uncle John's.  Oh, what
_shall_ we do if he doesn't bring our Sammul back?  But where are you
going, child?" for Betty had thrown her shawl over her head, and was
moving towards the door.  "It's no use your going too; tarry by the
hearth-stone till your fayther comes back, and then, if he hasn't heard
anything of Sammul, we'll see what must be done."

"I cannot tarry here, mother; I cannot," was Betty's reply.  "Fayther'll
do no good; if Sammul sees him coming, he'll just step out of the road,
or crouch him down behind summat till he's gone by.  I must go myself;
he'll not be afraid of me.  Oh, sure he'll ne'er go right away without
one `Good-bye' to his own sister!  Maybe he'll wait about till he sees
me; and, please the Lord, if I can only light on him, I may bring him
back again.  But oh, mother, mother, you and fayther mustn't do by him
as you _have_ done! you'll snap the spring if you strain it too hard;
you must draw our Sammul, you mustn't drive him, or maybe you'll drive
him right away from home, if you haven't driven him now."

So saying, she closed the door with a heavy heart, and took the same
road that her father had gone before her.

Slowly she walked, peering into the darkness on all sides, and fancying
every sound to be her brother's step.  She lingered near the coke-ovens
and the forge, thinking that he might be lurking somewhere about, and
might see and recognise her as the fiery glow fell upon her figure.  But
she lingered in vain.  By the time she reached her uncle's, the moon had
fairly risen; again she lingered before entering the cottage, looking
round with a sickening hope that he might see her from some hiding-place
and come and speak to her, if it were but to say a last farewell.  But
he came not.  Utterly downcast, she entered the cottage, and heard that
her father had but lately left it, and that nothing had been seen of her
brother.  To her aunt's earnest and repeated invitation to "tarry a
while," she replied,--

"No, Aunt Jenny; I mustn't tarry now.  I'm wanted at home; I shall be
wanted more nor ever now.  I'm gradely [see note 1] sick at heart.  I
know it's no use fretting, but oh, I must fret!  It were bad enough to
be without meat, without shoes, without clothes, without almost
everything; but it's worse nor all put together to be without our
Sammul."

She turned away, and, with a heavy sigh, took her way home again.  The
moon was now shedding her calm light full on the path the poor girl was
treading, leaving in dark shadow a high wooded bank on her left hand.
Just a few feet up this bank, half-way between her uncle's house and her
own home, was the mouth of an old disused coal-pit-shaft.  It had been
long abandoned, and was fenced off, though not very securely, by a few
decaying palings.  On the bank above it grew a tangled mass of shrubs,
and one or two fine holly bushes.  Betty was just in the act of passing
this spot when her eye fell on something that flashed in the moonbeams.
She stooped to see what it was; then with a cry of mingled surprise and
terror she snatched it from the ground.  It was an open pocket-knife; on
the buck-horn handle were rudely scratched the letters SJ.  It was her
brother's knife; there could not be a moment's question of it, for she
had often both seen and used it.  But what was it that sent a chill like
the chill of death through every limb, and made her totter faintly
against the bank?  There was something trickling down the blade as she
held it up, and, even in the moonlight, she could see that it was blood.
A world of misery swept with a hurricane force into her heart.  Had her
brother, driven to desperation by his father's cruelty, really destroyed
himself?  Perhaps he had first partially done the dreadful deed with his
knife, and then thrown himself down that old shaft, so as to complete
the fearful work and leave no trace behind.  Poor miserable Betty! she
groaned out a prayer for help, and then she became more calm.  Creeping
up close to the edge of the old shaft, she looked into it as far as she
dared; the moonlight was now full upon it; the ferns and brambles that
interlaced across it showed no signs of recent displacement; she
listened in an agony of earnest attention for any sound, but none came
up from those dark and solemn depths.  Then she began to think more
collectedly.  Hope dawned again upon her heart.  If her brother meant to
destroy himself he would scarcely have first used the knife and then
thrown himself down the shaft, leaving the knife behind him as a guide
to discovery.  Besides, it seemed exceedingly improbable that he would
have put on his best hat and shoes if bent on so speedy self-
destruction.  She therefore abandoned this terrible thought; and yet how
could the presence of the knife on that spot, and the blood on the
blade, be accounted for?  She looked carefully about her--then she could
trace evident marks of some sort of scuffle.  The bank itself near the
old shaft was torn, and indented with footmarks.  Could it have been
that her father had encountered Samuel here as he was returning, that
they had had words, that words had led to blows, and that one or both
had shed blood in the struggle?  The thought was madness.  Carefully
concealing the knife in her clothes, she hurried home at the top of her
speed; but before she quite reached the door, the thought suddenly smote
full and forcibly on her heart, "If fayther _has_ killed poor Sammul,
what will _he_ be?  A murderer!"  She grew at once desperately calm, and
walked quietly into the house.

"I haven't heard anything of our Sammul," she said sadly, and with
forced composure.  "Where's fayther?"

"I've been looking for him long since," replied her mother; "but I
suppose he's turned into the `George.'"

"The `George!'" exclaimed Betty; "what _now_! surely he cannot--"

Before she could say more, Johnson himself entered.  For once in his
life he could find no ease or content among his pot companions.  They
pitied, it is true, the trouble which he poured into their ears, but
their own enjoyment was uppermost in their thoughts, and they soon
wearied of his story.  He drank, but there was bitterness in every
draught; it did not lull, much less drown the keenness of his self-
upbraidings; so, hastily snatching up his hat, he left the mirth and din
of the drinkers and made his way home--ay, home--but what a home! dark
at the best of times through his own sin, but now darker than ever.

"Well?" exclaimed both Betty and her mother when he entered--they could
say nothing more.  He understood too plainly what they meant.

"Our Sammul's not been at your brother John's," he said to his wife;
"what must we do now?  The Lord help me; I'm a miserable wretch."

"Fayther," said Betty, greatly relieved, spite of her sorrow, for
Johnson's words and manner assured her at once that he and her brother
had not met.  "Fayther, we must hope the best.  There's a God above all,
who knows where our Sammul is; he can take care of him, and maybe he'll
bring him back to us again."

No more was said that night.  Betty had a double portion of care and
sorrow, but she had resolved to say nothing to any one about the knife,
at any rate for the present.  She was satisfied that her brother had not
laid violent hands on himself; and she trusted that, in a few days, a
letter from himself from Liverpool or some other seaport, would clear up
the mystery, and give them at least the sad satisfaction of knowing
whither their Samuel was bound.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  "Edge-o'-dark" means "Evening twilight."

Note 2 "Gradely," as an adjective means "sincere," "proper," or "true;"
as an adverb, "rightly," "truly," or "properly."



CHAPTER TWO.

SAMUEL'S HOME.

And what sort of a home was that which Samuel had so abruptly forsaken?
"There's no place like home;" "Home is home, be it never so homely."
Things are said to be true to a proverb; but even proverbs have their
exceptions, and certainly no amount of allowance could justify the
application of the above proverbs to Johnson's dwelling.  But what sort
of a home was it?  It would be far easier to say what it was not than
what it was.  Let us follow the owner himself as he comes in from his
work, jaded and heart-sore, the night after Samuel's departure.

The house is the worst in the row, for it is the cheapest--the tyrant
"Drink" will not let his slave afford a better.  The front door opens
opposite the high dead wall of another block of houses, so that very
little daylight comes in at the sunniest of times--no loss, perhaps, as
the sunshine would only make misery, dirt, and want more apparent.  A
rush-bottomed chair--or rather the mutilated framework of one, the seat
being half rotted through, and the two uppermost bars broken off with a
jagged fracture--lies sufficiently across the entrance to throw down any
unwary visitor.  A rickety chest of drawers--most of the knobs being
gone and their places supplied by strings, which look like the tails of
rats which had perished in effecting an entrance--stands tipped on one
side against the wall, one of its legs having disappeared.  A little
further on is a blank corner, where a clock used to be, as may be traced
by the clusters of cobwebs in two straight lines, one up either wall,
which have never been swept away since the clock was sold for drink.  A
couch-chair extends under the window the whole length, but one of its
arms is gone, and the stump which supported it thrusts up its ragged top
to wound any hand that may incautiously rest there; the couch itself is
but a tumbled mass of rags and straw.  A table, nearly as dilapidated,
and foul with countless beer-stains, stands before the fire, which is
the only cheerful thing in the house, and blazes away as if it means to
do its best to make up for the very discouraging state of things by
which it finds itself surrounded.  The walls of the room have been
coloured, or rather discoloured, a dirty brown, all except the square
portion over the fire-place, which was once adorned with a gay paper,
but whose brilliancy has long been defaced by smoke and grease.  A
broken pipe or two, a couple of irons, and a brass candlestick whose
shaft leans considerably out of the perpendicular, occupy the
mantelpiece.  An old rocking-chair and two or three common ones
extremely infirm on their legs, complete the furniture.  The walls are
nearly bare of ornament; the exceptions being a highly-coloured print of
a horse-race, and a sampler worked by Betty, rendered almost invisible
by dust.  The door into the wash-house stands ajar, and through it may
be seen on the slop-stone a broken yellow mug; and near it a tub full of
clothes, from which there dribbles a soapy little puddle on to the
uneven flags, just deep enough to float an unsavoury-looking mixture of
cheese-rinds and potato-parings.  Altogether, the appearance of the
house is gaunt, filthy, and utterly comfortless.  Such is the drunkard's
home.

Into this miserable abode stepped Johnson the night after his son's
disappearance, and divesting himself of his pit-clothes, threw them down
in an untidy mass before the fire.  Having then washed himself and
changed his dress, he sat him down for a minute or two, while his wife
prepared the comfortless tea.  But he could not rest.  He started up
again, and with a deep sigh turned to the door.

"Where are you going?" cried his wife; "you mustn't go without your tea;
yon chaps at the `George' don't want you."

"I'm not going to the `George,'" replied Thomas; "I just want a word
with Ned Brierley."

"Ned Brierley!" exclaimed Alice; "why, he's the bigoted'st teetottaller
in the whole village.  You're not going to sign the pledge?"

"No, I'm not; but 'twould have been the making on us all if I _had_
signed years ago;--no, I only just want a bit of talk with Ned about our
Sammul;" and he walked out.

Ned Brierley was just what Alice Johnson, and scores more too, called
him, a bigoted teetotaller, or, as he preferred to call himself total
abstainer.  He was bigoted; in other words, he had not taken up total
abstinence by halves.  He neither tasted the drink himself, nor gave it
to his friends, nor allowed it an entrance into his house.  Of course,
therefore, he was bigoted in the eyes of those who could not or would
not understand his principles.  But the charge of bigotry weighed very
lightly on him; he could afford to bear it; he had a living antidote to
the taunt daily before his eyes in a home without a cloud, an ever-
cheerful wife, healthy, hearty, striving, loving sons and daughters.
And, best of all, Ned was a Christian, not of the talk-much-and-do-
little stamp, nor of the pot-political-mend-the-world stamp.  He loved
God, and always spoke of him with a reverential smile, because his very
name made him happy.  He had a wife, too, who loved the same gracious
Saviour, and joined with her husband in training up their children in
holy ways.  They knew well that they could not give their children
grace, but they _could_ give them prayer and example, and could leave
the rest to God in happy, loving trust.  People who talked about total
abstinence as a sour and mopish thing, should have spent an evening at
Ned Brierley's when the whole family was at home; why, there was more
genuine, refreshing, innocent fun and mirth there in half an hour than
could have been gathered in a full evening's sitting out of all the pot-
houses in the neighbourhood put together.  Ay, there were some who knew
this, and could say, "If you want gradely fun that leaves no
afterthought, you must go to Ned's for it."  Of course Ned had won the
respect even of those who abused him most, and of none more truly than
Thomas Johnson.  Spite of all his swaggering and blustering speeches no
man knew better than he the sterling worth of Brierley's character; no
man was more truly convinced, down in the depths of his heart, that
Ned's principles and practice were right.  And so now, restless and
wretched, he was coming, he hardly knew exactly why, to ask counsel of
this very man whom he had openly abused and ridiculed at the very time
when he both envied and respected him.

Could there possibly be a greater contrast than between the house he had
just left and the one which he now entered?

Ned Brierley's dwelling was the end house of a row, which had been
recently built out of the united savings of himself and children.  It
was rather larger than the rest, and had one or two out-buildings
attached, and also a considerable piece of garden ground belonging to
it.  In this garden Ned and his sons worked at odd times, and everything
about it had a well-to-do air.  The neat rows of celery, the flower-beds
shaped into various mathematical figures by shining white pebbles, the
carefully-pruned apple trees, and the well-levelled cindered paths, all
betokened that diligent hands were often busy there.

Johnson opened the little white gate, walked up the path, and
hesitatingly raised the latch of the house door.  What a sight met his
eyes! it was a perfect picture.  If the three sisters, Cleanliness,
Neatness, and Order, had been looking out for a home, they certainly
might have found one there.  In some of the neighbours' houses, go when
you would, you would find the inmates always cleaning, but never clean;
it was just the reverse at Ned's, you always found them clean, and
scarcely ever caught them cleaning.  Then, what an air of comfort there
was about the whole place.  The arms and back of the couch-chair shone
like mahogany, the couch itself was plump and smooth, like a living
thing in good condition.  The walls were a bright, lively blue, but
there was not very much to be seen of them, so covered were they with
all sorts of family-belongings and treasures.  Against one wail stood a
rather ambitious-looking article, half chest of drawers, half sideboard,
the knobs of the drawers being of glass, which flashed in the bright
fire-light as if smiling their approbation of the happy condition of
their owners.  Over the sideboard was a large and elaborate piece of
needlework, a perfect maze of doors and windows in green and red
worsted, with a gigantic bird on either side preparing to alight.  This
was the work of the eldest daughter, and purported, in words at the
bottom, to be an accurate delineation of Solomon's Temple.  Close by
stood a clock, tall and stately in its case, the hands of the brightest
brass, over which appeared the moving face of a good-tempered looking
moon.  Then, on the next wall hung two large cases, one of butterflies,
which were arranged in patterns to represent griffins, dragons, and
other impossible animals; the other, of well-stuffed birds, with shining
legs and highly-coloured beaks.  Other parts of the walls were adorned
with Scripture prints, more remarkable for brilliancy of colouring than
correctness of costume; and in a conspicuous place, evidently the pride
of the whole collection, was a full-length portrait of the Queen,
smiling benignantly down on her subjects.  Below the cases of
butterflies and birds was a piano--yes, actually, a piano--and by no
means a bad one too.  Then, near the fire-place, was a snug little book-
case, well furnished with books; and over the mantelpiece, in the centre
of a warm-looking paper, was the text, in large characters, "The love of
Christ constraineth us."  The mantelpiece itself glittered with a
variety of brass utensils, all brightly polished.  Over the middle of
the room, suspended by cords from the ceiling, was a framework of wood
crossed all over by strings, on which lay, ready for consumption, a good
store of crisp-looking oat-cakes; while, to give still further life to
the whole, a bird-cage hung near, in which there dwelt a small colony of
canaries.

Such was the room into which Johnson timidly entered.  By the fire, in
his solid arm-chair, sat Ned Brierley, looking supremely content, as
well he might, considering the prospect before and around him.  On a
large table, which was as white as scrubbing could make it, the tea
apparatus was duly arranged.  The fire was burning its best, and sent
out a ruddy glow, which made every bright thing it fell upon look
brighter still.  Muffins stood in a shining pile upon the fender, and a
corpulent teapot on the top of the oven.  Around the table sat two young
men of about the ages of nineteen and twenty, and three daughters who
might range from eighteen to fifteen.  Their mother was by the fire
preparing the tea for her husband and children, who had all lately come
in from their work.

"Why, Johnson, is that you?" exclaimed Ned Brierley; "come in, man, and
sit ye down.--Reach him a chair, Esther," he said to his youngest
daughter.

"Well, Ned," said Johnson, sitting down, and drawing back his chair as
near the door as he could, "I thought, maybe, you could give me a bit of
advice about our Sammul.  I suppose you've heard how he went off
yesternight."

"Ay, Thomas, we've heard all about it.  I'm gradely sorry too; but you
mustn't lose heart, man: the Lord'll bring him back again; he's a good
lad."

"He _is_ a good lad," said Johnson; "and I've been and driven him away
from his home.  That cursed drink has swept him away, as it's swept
almost everything good out of our house.  It'll do for us all afore
we've done with it; and the sooner it's the death of me the better."

"Nay, nay, Thomas, you mustn't say so," cried the other; "it's not
right.  God has spared you for summat better; turn over a new leaf, man,
at once.  He'll give you strength for it if you'll ask him.  Come now,
draw your chair to the table, and have a cup of tea and a bit of muffin;
it'll do you good."

"Ned," said Thomas, sadly, "I can't take meat nor drink in your house.
I've abused you behind your back scores of times, and I can't for shame
take it."

"Nay, nay, man; never heed what you've said against me.  You see you've
done me no harm.  I'm none the worse for all that folks can say against
me; so draw up your chair, you're gradely welcome to your tea."

"Ay, do," chimed in his wife; "doesn't Scripture say, `If thine enemy
hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink:' and I'm sure you must
be both hungry and thirsty if you haven't tasted since you came from the
pit."

Poor Johnson could not speak.  When he was sober he was a feeling man,
and a sensible one too.  Alas! his sober times were few, but he _was_
sober now.  The tears overflowed his eyes, and he brushed them hastily
away as he drew his chair near to the bright little circle of happy
healthy faces.  He ate and drank for a while in silence, and then said
with a faltering voice,--

"Ned, you're a true Christian.  I'll never say a word against you behind
your back any more."

Brierley held out his hand to him, and the other grasped it warmly.

"I'll tell you what," said Ned, in a cheery voice, "I'd give a good
deal, Thomas, to see you a total abstainer; it'd be the making of you."

Johnson shook his head sorrowfully.

"I mustn't; Alice wouldn't let me.  I can't; the drink's more to me nor
meat, and clothes, and everything.  I durstn't, for my old pals at the
`George' would chaff me to death with their jeers and their jokes.  I
couldn't face them for shame."

"Oh, Thomas," cried Ned, "what a slave the drink's made of you:--
mustn't! can't! durstn't!--what! ain't you a man? haven't you got a will
of your own?"

"No, Ned, that's just it; I haven't a will of my own: the old lad's got
it off me long since."

"Ay, but, Thomas, you must get it back again," exclaimed Brierley's
wife; "you must go to Jesus, and he'll help you."

Johnson fidgeted uneasily in his chair; at last he said,--

"I can't do without my beer; I haven't strength to work without it."

"You've taken plenty of it, I reckon," remarked Ned, "and you don't seem
to thrive much on't."

"I've taken too much," said the other, "but I can't do without a
little."

"You can't do _with_ a little, I fear.  It's first only a pint, and then
it's only a quart, and then it's only a gallon, till at last it's only a
fuddled head and an empty pocket.  Come, join us, Thomas; take the first
step boldly like a man, and then just pray for grace, and you'll not
fear what other folks can do to you."

"But I shall never get through my work without a drop of beer to wash
dust out of my throat and spirit me up," persisted Johnson.  "I feel
like another sort of man when I've had my pint."

"Yes, just for a bit," replied Ned.  "Now it seems to me just the same
as what we might do with our fire.  I bid our Esther look to the fire,
so she goes and sticks to the poker, and each now and then she pokes
away at the fire, and the fire blazes up and blazes up, but very soon
there's nothing left to blaze with.  The fire'll be out directly, so I
says to our Mary, _you_ look after the fire, so our Mary goes to the
heap and fetches a shovel of coal, and claps it on the top of the hot
cinders, and she won't let our Esther poke it no more, so it burns
steady and bright, and throws out a good heat, and lasts a long time.
Now, when you take your drop of beer, you're just poking the fire,
you're not putting any coal on; you can work like a lion for a bit, but
you're only using up the old stock of strength faster and faster, you're
not putting on any new.  I've helped you to put a little gradely coal on
to-night, and I hope it won't be the last time by many."

"Father," broke in Esther, laughing, and highly entertained at the part
she bore in her father's illustration, "when you tell your tale again,
you must make our Mary stick to the poker, and me clap the coal on."

"Ay, ay, child," said her father, "you shall each take it in turn."

"Well, you may be right," sighed Johnson; "but Jack Barnes says as he's
knowed scores of teetottallers that's wasted away to skin and bone for
want of the drink; he says beer strengthens the bone, and makes the
muscles tight and firm."

"Jack Barnes may say what he likes, but I'll just ask you, Thomas, to
think and judge for yourself.  You see me and mine; you see seven total
abstainers here to-night.  Not one of these childer knows the taste of
the drink; they work hard, you know, some in the pit, some in the mill:
do _they_ look nothing but skin and bone?  Where'll you find healthier
childer?  I'm not boasting, for it's the good Lord that's given 'em
health, yes, and strength too, without the drink."

"Ay, and just look at Jack Barnes's own lads, and the company they
keep," said John, the eldest son; "you may see them all at the four lane
ends, [Note 1], any Sunday morn, with their pigeons, looking more like
scarecrows than Christians; and afore night they'll be so weary that
they'll scarce know how to bide anywhere.  They'll be lounging about,
looking as limp as a strap out of gear, till they've got the ale in
them, and then they're all for swearing and shouting up and down the
lanes."

"I can't deny," said Johnson, "that you teetottallers have the best of
it in many ways.  It's a bad bringing-up for childer to see such goings-
on as is in Barnes's house."

"And, Thomas," said Brierley's wife, "you know how it is with Joe
Taylor's lads and wenches.  There's a big family on 'em.  They're not
short of brass in that house, or shouldn't be.  There's drink enough and
to spare goes down their throats, and yet there's not one of the whole
lot but's as lean as an empty bobbin, and as white as a heap of cotton.
They're nearly starved to death afore reckoning-day comes; and with all
their good wage they cannot make things reach and tie."

"Well, I must wish you good night now," said Johnson, rising to go.  "I
suppose I can do nothing about our Sammul but have patience."

"Yes, pray for patience, Thomas; and pray to be shown the right way: and
give up the drink, man--ay, give it up at once, for Betty's sake, for
Alice's sake, and for your own soul's sake."

"I'll try, I'll try; good night."

"Good night."

Johnson walked homewards sorrowful but calm.  Should he take the pledge?
should he boldly break his chains, and brave the scorn of his ungodly
companions?  He felt that he ought.  He murmured a half prayer that he
might have strength to do it.  He reached his own home; he entered--what
did, he see?

Round the fire, slatternly and dirty, with hair uncombed, dress
disordered, shoes down at heel, lolling, lounging, stooping in various
attitudes, were some half-dozen women, Alice being nearest the fire on
one side.  Most of them had pipes in their mouths.  On the table were
cups and saucers, a loaf and some butter, and also a jug, which
certainly did not hold milk; its contents, however, were very popular,
as it was seldom allowed to rest on the table, while the strong odour of
rum which filled the room showed pretty plainly that it had been filled
at the public-house and not at the farm.  Every eye was flashing, and
every tongue in full exercise, when Johnson entered.

"Well, Thomas," said his wife, "I thought you were down at the `George.'
Our Betty's not so well, so she's gone up into the chamber to lay her
down a bit; and I've just been axing a neighbour or two to come in and
have a bit of a talk over our Sammul.  Come, sit you down, and take a
cup of tea, and here's summat to put in it as'll cheer you up."

"I've just had my tea at Ned Brierley's," replied her husband; "I don't
want no more."

"Ah, but you must just take one cup.  Reach me the jug, Molly.  You look
as down as if you'd seen a boggart; [see note 2], you must drink a drop
and keep your spirits up."

He made no reply, but threw himself back on the couch, and drew his cap
over his eyes.  Seeing that he was not likely to go out again, the women
dropped off one by one, and left him alone with his wife, who sat
looking into the fire, comforting herself partly with her pipe and
partly with frequent applications to the jug.  After a while Thomas rose
from the couch, and took his seat by the fire opposite to her.  There
was a long pause; at last he broke it by saying,--

"Alice."

"Well, Thomas."

"Alice, you know I have been up at Ned's.  Ned's a quiet, civil man, and
a gradely Christian too.  I wish our house had been like his; we
shouldn't have lost our Sammul then."

"Well, my word! what's come over you, Thomas?  Why, sure you're not a-
going to be talked over by yon Brierley folk!" exclaimed his wife.
"Why, they're so proud, they can't look down upon their own shoes: and
as for Brierley's wenches, if a fellow offers to speak to 'em, they'll
snap his head off.  And Martha herself's so fine that the likes of me's
afraid to walk on the same side of the road for fear of treading on her
shadow."

"Well, Alice, I've oft abused 'em all myself; but I were wrong all the
time.  And you're wrong, Alice, too.  They've never done us no harm, and
we've nothing gradely to say against 'em; and you know it too.  They've
toiled hard for their brass, and they haven't made it away as _we_ have
done; and if they're well off, it's no more nor they deserve."

"Not made away their brass!  No, indeed!" said his wife, contemptuously,
"no danger of that; they'll fist it close enough.  They like it too well
to part with it.  They'll never spend a ha'penny to give a poor chap a
drop of beer, though he's dying of thirst."

"No, 'cos they've seen what a curse the drink has been to scores and
hundreds on us.  Ah, Alice, if you had but seen the happy faces gathered
round Ned's hearth-stone; if you had but heard Ned's hearty welcome--
though he can't but know that I've ever been the first to give him and
his a bad word--you couldn't say as you're saying now."

"Come, Thomas," said his wife, "don't be a fool.  If Ned Brierley likes
his teetottal ways, and brings up his lads and wenches same fashion, let
him please himself; but he mustn't make teetottallers of you nor me."

"And why shouldn't he make a teetottaller of me?" cried Thomas, his
anger rising at his wife's opposition.  "What has the drink done for us,
I'd like to know?  What's it done with my wage, with our Betty's wage,
with our poor Sammul's wage?  Why, it's just swallowed all up, and paid
us back in dirt and rags.  Where's there such a beggarly house as this
in all the village?  Why haven't we clothes to our backs and shoes to
our feet?  It's because the drink has took all."

"It's not the drink," screamed Alice, her eyes flashing with rage.
"You've nothing to blame the drink for; the drink's right enough.  It's
yourself; it's your own fault.  You haven't any conduct in your drink
like other folk.  You must sit sotting at the `George' till you can't
tell your hand from your foot; and then you must come home and
blackguard me and the childer, and turn the house out of the windows.
You've driven our Sammul out of the country; and you'll be the death of
our Betty, and of me too, afore you've done."

"Death of you!" shouted her husband, in a voice as loud as her own.
"And what odds then?  No conduct in _my_ drink!  And what have _you_ had
in yourn?  What's there to make a man tarry by the hearth-stone in such
a house as this, where there's nothing to look at but waste and want?  I
wish every drop of the drink were in the flames with this."  So saying,
he seized the jug, threw the little that was left of the spirits in it
into the fire, and, without stopping to listen to the torrent of abuse
which poured from the lips of his wife, hurried out of the house.  And
whither did he go?  Where strong habit led him, almost without his being
conscious of it--he was soon within the doors of the "George."  By this
time his anger had cooled down, and he sat back from the rest of the
company on an empty bench.  The landlord's eye soon spied him.

"What are you for to-night, Thomas?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Johnson, moodily; "I'm better with nothing, I
think."

"No, no," said the other; "you're none of that sort.  You look very
down; a pint of ale'll be just the very thing to set you right."

Johnson took the ale.

"Didn't I see you coming out of Ned Brierley's?" asked one of the
drinkers.

"Well, and what then?" asked Johnson, fiercely.

"Oh, nothing; only I thought, maybe, that you were for coming out in the
teetottal line.  Ay, wouldn't that be a rare game?"

A roar of laughter followed this speech.  But Johnson's blood was up.

"And why shouldn't I join the teetottallers if I've a mind?" he cried.
"I don't see what good the drink's done to me nor mine.  And as for Ned
Brierley, he's a gradely Christian.  I've given him nothing afore but
foul words; but I'll give him no more."

A fresh burst of merriment followed these words.

"Eh, see," cried one, "here's the parson come among us."

"He'll be getting his blue coat with brass buttons out of the pop-shop
just now," cried another; "and he'll hold his head so high that he won't
look at us wicked sinners."

A third came up to him with a mock serious air, and eyeing him with his
head on one side, said,--

"They call you Thomas, I reckon.  Ah, well, now you're going to be one
of Ned's childer, we must take you to the parson and get him to christen
you Jonadab."

Poor Johnson! he started up, for one moment he meditated a fierce rush
at his persecutors, the next, he turned round, darted from the public-
house, and hurried away he knew not whither.

And what will he do?  Poor man--wretched, degraded drunkard as he had
been--he was by natural character a man of remarkable energy and
decision; what he had fairly and fully determined upon, his resolution
grasped like a vice.  Brought up in constant contact with drunkenness
from his earliest years, and having imbibed a taste for strong drink
from his childhood, that taste had grown with his growth, and he had
never cared to summon resolution or seek strength to break through his
miserable and debasing habit.  Married to a woman who rather rejoiced to
see her husband moderately intoxicated, because it made him good-
natured, he had found nothing in his home, except its growing misery, to
induce him to tread a better path.  True, he could not but be aware of
the wretchedness which his sin and that of his wife had brought upon him
and his; yet, hitherto, he had never seen _himself_ to be the chief
cause of all this unhappiness.  He blamed his work, he blamed his
thirst, he blamed his wife, he blamed his children, he blamed his dreary
comfortless home--every one, everything but himself.  But now light had
begun to dawn upon him, though as yet it had struggled in only through a
few chinks.  God had made a partial entrance for it through his remorse
at the loss of his son; that entrance had been widened by his visit to
Ned Brierley, yet he was still in much darkness; his light showed him
evil and sin in great mis-shapen terrible masses, but was not so far
sufficiently bright to let him see anything in clear sharp outline.  A
great resolve was growing, but it needed more hammering into form, it
wanted more prayer to bring it up to the measure of a Christian duty.

And here we must leave him for the present, and pass to other and very
different scenes and characters essential to the development of our
story.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  "Four lane ends," a place where four roads meet.

Note 2.  "Hoggart", a ghost.



CHAPTER THREE.

THE RECTORY.

The Reverend Bernard Oliphant, rector of Waterland, was a man of good
family and moderate fortune.  At the time when this tale opens he had
held the living eighteen years.  He had three sons and one daughter.
The eldest son, Hubert, was just three-and-twenty, and, having finished
his course at Oxford with credit, was spending a year or two at home
previously to joining an uncle in South Australia, Abraham Oliphant, his
father's brother, who was living in great prosperity as a merchant at
Adelaide.  Hubert had not felt himself called on to enter the ministry,
though his parents would have greatly rejoiced had he seen his way clear
to engage in that sacred calling.  But the young man abhorred the
thought of undertaking such an office unless he could feel decidedly
that the highest and holiest motives were guiding him to it, and neither
father nor mother dared urge their son to take on himself, from any
desire to please them, so awful a responsibility.  Yet none the less for
this did Hubert love his Saviour, nor did he wish to decline his
service, or shrink from bearing that cross which is laid on all who make
a bold and manly profession of faith in Christ Jesus.  But he felt that
there were some who might serve their heavenly Master better as laymen
than as ministers of the gospel, and he believed himself to be such a
one.  His two younger brothers, not feeling the same difficulties, were
both preparing for the ministry.  Hubert had a passionate desire to
travel; his parents saw this, and wisely judged that it would be better
to guide his passion than to combat it; so, when his uncle proposed to
Hubert to join him in Australia, they gave their full consent.  They
knew that a strong expression of dissuasion on their part would have led
him to abandon the scheme at once; but they would not let any such
expression escape them, because they felt that they were bound to
consult _his_ tastes and wishes, and not merely their own.  They knew
that his faith was on the Rock of Ages; they could trust his life and
fortunes to their God.  For Bernard Oliphant and his wife had but one
great object set before them, and that was to work for God.  The rector
was warm and impulsive, the fire would flash out upon the surface, yet
was it under the control of grace; it blazed, it warmed, but never
scorched, unless when it crossed the path of high-handed and determined
sin.  _She_ was all calmness and quiet decision; yet in _her_ character
there ran a fire beneath the surface, sending up a glow into every
loving word and deed.  She had never been beautiful, yet always
beautified by the radiance of true holiness.  In her, seriousness had no
gloom, because it was the seriousness of a holy love.  She made even
worldly people happy to be with her, because they felt the reality and
singleness of her religion--it was woven up with every hour's work, with
every duty, with every joy.  She lived for heaven not by neglecting
earth, but by making earth the road to heaven.  Her religion was pre-
eminently practical, while it was deeply spiritual; in fact, it was the
religion of sanctified common sense.  The true grace of her character
gained the admiration which she never sought.  As some simple unadorned
column rising in the midst of richly-carved sculptures arrests attention
by its mere dignity of height and grace of perfect proportion, so in the
unassuming wife of Bernard Oliphant there was a loftiness and symmetry
of character which made people feel that in her was the true beauty of
holiness.

And the children trod in the steps of their parents.  Mary Oliphant was
the youngest; she was now just eighteen--slight in make, and graceful in
every movement.  Her perfect absence of self-consciousness gave a
peculiar charm to all that she said and did; she never aimed at effect,
and therefore always produced it.  You could not look into her face
without feeling that to her indifference and half-heartedness were
impossible things; and the abiding peace which a true faith in Christ
alone can give, was on those lovely features in their stillness.  Such
was the family of the Reverend Bernard Oliphant.

Waterland was a rural parish in one of the midland counties.  The
rectory stood near one end of the village, which was like a great many
other country villages.  There were farm-houses, with their stack-yards
and clusters of out-buildings, with their yew-trees and apple-orchards.
Cottages, with low bulging white-washed walls and thatched roofs, were
interspersed among others of a more spruce and modern build, with slated
roofs, and neat little gardens.  Then there were two or three shops
which sold all things likely to be wanted in everyday village life,
eatables and wearables nestling together in strange companionship; and,
besides these, were houses which would not have been known to be shops,
but for a faded array of peppermints and gingerbread, which shone, or
rather twinkled, before the eyes of village children through panes of
greenish glass.  Of course there was a forge and a wheel-wright's shop;
and, equally of course, a public-house--there had been two, there was
now but one, which could readily be known by a huge swinging sign-board,
on which was the decaying likeness of a "Dun Cow," supposed to be
feeding in a green meadow; but the verdure had long since melted away,
and all except the animal herself was a chaos of muddy tints.  The "Dun
Cow," (a sad misnomer for a place where milk was the last beverage the
visitors would ever think of calling for), was to many the centre both
of attraction and detraction, for here quarrels were hatched and
characters picked to pieces.  The landlord had long since been dead, of
the usual publican's malady--drink fever.  The landlady carried on the
business which had carried her husband off, and seemed to thrive upon
it, for there was never lack of custom at the "Dun Cow."  Just a
stone's-throw from this public-house, on the crest of the hill along
which wound the village street, was the church, a simple structure, with
a substantial square tower and wide porch.  It had been restored with
considerable care and taste by the present rector, the internal
appearance being sufficiently in accordance with the proprieties of
ecclesiastical architecture to satisfy all but the over-fastidious, and
yet not so ornamental as to lead the mind to dwell rather on the earthly
and sensuous than on the heavenly and spiritual.  Behind the church was
the rectory, a quaint old building, with pointed gables, deep bay-
windows, and black beams of oak exposed to view.  It had been added to,
here and there, as modern wants and improvements had made expansion
necessary.  The garden was lovely, for every one at the rectory loved
flowers: they loved them for their own intrinsic beauty; they loved them
as God's books, full of lessons of his skill and tender care; they loved
them as resting-places for the eye when wearied with sights of disorder
and sin; they loved them as ministering comfort to the sick, the aged,
and the sorrowful to whom they carried them.

Such was the village of Waterland.  The parish extended two miles north
and south of the church, a few farms and labourers' cottages at wide
intervals containing nearly all the rest of the population that was not
resident in the village.

It has been said that there were once two public-houses in Waterland,
but that now there was but one.  This was not owing to any want of
success in the case of the one which had become extinct; on the
contrary, the "Oldfield Arms" had been the more flourishing
establishment of the two, and was situated in the centre of the village.
Its sign, however, had long since disappeared; and it was now in the
hands of the rector, its principal apartment having been transformed
into a reading-room, and place for holding meetings.  And how was this
brought about?  Simply thus.  When Bernard Oliphant first came to
Waterland, he found the "Oldfield Arms" doing a most excellent business;
so far as _that_ can be an excellent business which builds the
prosperity of one upon the ruin of hundreds.  People grumbled at the
lowness of wages; wives were unable to procure money from their husbands
for decent dress; children were half-starved and two-thirds naked;
disease and dirt found a home almost everywhere; boys and girls grew up
in ignorance, for their parents could not afford to send them to school;
the men had no tidy clothes in which to appear at church.  Yet, somehow
or other, the "Oldfield Arms" was never short of customers; and
customers, too, who paid, and paid well, sooner or later, for what they
consumed.  So the rector went among the people, and told them plainly of
the sin of drunkenness, and pointed out the misery it brought, as their
own eyes could see.  They confessed the truth--such as he could manage
to get hold of--and drank on as before.  He was getting heart-sick and
miserable.  Preach as he might--and he did preach the truth with all
faithfulness and love--the notices of ale, porter, and spirits, set up
in flaming colours in the windows and on the walls of the "Oldfield
Arms," preached far more persuasively in the cause of intemperance.

One day he came upon a knot of men standing just at the entrance of the
yard that led to the tap-room.  They were none of them exactly drunk;
and certainly none were exactly sober.  There were some among them whom
he never saw at church, and never found at home.  He was grieved to see
these men in high discussion and dispute, when they ought to have been
busily engaged in some lawful calling.  He stopped, and taking one of
them aside whose home was specially miserable, he said,--

"James, I'm grieved to see you here, when I know how sadly your poor
wife and children are in need of food and clothing."

The man looked half angry, half ashamed, but hung down his head, and
made no reply.  The rest were moving off.

"Nay, my friends," said the rector, kindly, "don't go.  I just want a
word with you all.  I want to say a few words of love and warning to
you, as your clergyman.  God has sent me here to teach and guide you;
and oh, do listen to me now."

They all stood still, and looked at him respectfully.  He went on:--

"Don't you see that drinking habits are bringing misery into the homes
of the people in our parish--ay, into your own homes?  You must see it.
You must see how drunkenness stores up misery for you here and
hereafter.  What will become of you when you die, if you go on as you
are doing now?  What will become of your families?  What will--"

At this moment there was a loud shout of "Hoy! hoy!" from the lips of a
carter who was coming with a brewer's dray out of the inn-yard.  The man
had just been depositing several full casks, and was now returning with
the empty ones.  He did not see the rector at first; but when the group
made way for him, and his eyes fell on Mr Oliphant, he touched his hat
as he was passing, and said,--

"I beg pardon, sir; I did not know as you was there."  Then suddenly
pulling up his horse, he added-- "Oh, if you please, sir, master bid me
say he's very sorry he hasn't any of the ale you've been drinking ready
just now, but he hopes you'll let me leave this barrel of stout, it's in
prime order, he says."

"Very well," replied Mr Oliphant; "you may leave it."

Then he turned again to the men: they were moving off.  He would have
taken up his earnest appeal where he left it; but somehow or other he
felt a difficulty in speaking, and the deep attention was evidently gone
from his hearers.  He hesitated.  They were already dispersing: should
he call them back?  He felt as if he could not.  He turned sadly towards
home, deeply vexed and chafed in his spirit.  He blamed the ill-timed
interruption of the carter; and yet he felt that there was something
else lurking in the background with which he felt dissatisfied--
something which wanted dragging out into the light.

"And yet it's so foolish!" he said to himself, as he walked slowly up
the street.  "My drinking in moderation has nothing in common with their
drinking immoderately.  Why should my use of intoxicating liquors fetter
me in dissuading these poor creatures from their abuse?  They ought to
see the difference."  Then a voice, deeper in the heart, whispered--
"They ought; but they do not, and their souls are perishing.  They are
your people: you must deal with them as they are, not as they ought to
be."

That night the rector's sleep was very troubled.

It was about a week later that he was again near the "Oldfield Arms,"
when a spruce-looking man--his wine-merchant's agent--came out of the
inn door, and walked up the street.  Two men were standing with their
backs to the rector just outside the yard.  He was about to pass on;
when he heard one say,--

"What a sight of wine some of them parsons drink!  Yon fine gent
couldn't afford all them gold chains and pins if it warn't for the
parsons."

"Ay," said the other, "it's the parsons as knows good wine from bad.  I
heerd yon chap say only this morning: `Our very best customers is the
clergy.'"

"Well," rejoined the other, "I shouldn't mind if they'd only leave us
poor fellows alone, and let us get drunk when we've a mind.  But it do
seem a little hard that _they_ may get drunk on their wine, but we
mustn't get drunk on our beer."

"Oh, but you know, Bill," said the other, "this here's the difference.
When they get drunk, it's genteel drunk, and there's no sin in that; but
when we poor fellows get drunk, it's wulgar drunk, and that's awful
wicked."

Bernard Oliphant was deeply pained; he shrank within himself.

"It's a cruel libel and a coarse slander," he muttered, and hastened on
his way.  "Am _I_ answerable," he asked himself, "for the abuse which
others may make of what I take moderately and innocently?  Absurd!  And
yet it's a pity, a grievous pity, that it should be possible for such
poor ignorant creatures to speak thus of any of our holy calling, and so
to justify themselves in sin."

Yes, he felt it to be so, and it preyed upon his mind more and more.  He
mentioned what he had heard to his wife.

"Dear Bernard," she replied, "I have thought a great deal lately on this
subject, especially since you told me about your speaking to those men
when you were interrupted by the drayman.  I have prayed that you and I
might be directed aright; and we _shall_ be.  But do not let us be
hasty.  It does seem as though we were being called on to give up, for
the sake of others, what does us personally no harm.  But perhaps we may
be wrong in this view.  A great many excellent Christians, and ministers
too, are moderate drinkers, and never exceed; and we must not be carried
away by a mistaken enthusiasm to brand their use of fermented drinks as
sinful because such frightful evils are daily resulting from immoderate
drinking.  We must think and pray, and our path will be made plain; and
we must be prepared to walk in it, cost what it may."

"Yes," said her husband; "I am getting more and more convinced that
there is something exceptional in this matter--that we cannot deal with
this sin of drunkenness as we deal with other sins.  But we will wait a
little longer for guidance; yet not too long, for souls are perishing,
and ruin is thickening all round us."

They had not to wait long; their path was soon made clear.

It was on a bitter and cheerless November evening that Mr Oliphant was
returning to the rectory from a distant part of his parish.  He was
warmly clad; but the keen wind, which drove a prickly deluge of fine
hail into his face, seemed to make its way through every covering into
his very bones.  He was hurrying on, thankful that home was so near,
when he suddenly stumbled upon something in the path which he had not
noticed, being half blinded by the frozen sleet.  With difficulty he
saved himself from falling over this obstacle, which looked in the
feeble moonlight like a bundle of ragged clothes.  Then he stooped down
to examine it more closely, and was horrified at hearing a low moan,
which showed that it was a living creature that lay on the path.  It was
plainly, in fact, some poor, half-frozen fellow-man, who lay coiled
together there, perishing of cold in that bitter night.  The rector
tried to raise the poor wretch from the ground, but the body hung like a
dead weight upon him.

"Come," he said, "my poor fellow; come, try and rouse yourself and get
up.  You'll die if you lie here."

The miserable bundle of humanity partly uncoiled itself, and made an
effort to rise, but sunk back again.  Mr Oliphant shouted for help.
The shout seemed partly to revive the prostrate creature, and he half
raised himself.

"Come," said the rector again,-- "come, lean on my arm, and try and get
up.  You'll die of cold if you stay here."

"Die!" said a thick, unearthly voice from out of that half-frozen mass
of flesh and blood.  "In Adam all die."

"Who and what are you?" cried the rector, in extreme astonishment and
distress.

"What am I?  Ah, what am I?" was the bewildered, scarce audible reply.

By this time help had arrived.  Two men came up, and assisted Mr
Oliphant to raise the poor man, and support him to the "Oldfield Arms,"
where he was immediately put to bed; one of the men being sent off by
the rector to fetch the nearest medical man, while he himself gave
orders that everything should be done to restore the unhappy sufferer to
warmth and consciousness.

"Please, Mrs Barnes," said he to the landlady, "be so good as to send
up to the rectory, and let me know, when the doctor comes, if he says
that there is any danger.  If his report is favourable, I will leave a
night's rest to do its work, and will look in again early to-morrow.
And pray let the poor man have everything that he needs, and send up to
the rectory if you are short of anything."

"Thank you, sir," said Mrs Barnes.  "I will see that he is properly
looked to."

The rector then went home, and in another hour received a message from
the inn that the doctor had been, and that there was no danger of any
immediately fatal result; that he would call again on his patient the
following morning, and should be glad to meet the rector at the inn.

Accordingly, the following day at the appointed hour Bernard and the
doctor went up together into the sick man's room.  As they opened the
door they were astonished to hear the patient declaiming in a loud
voice,--

"If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is
not in us."

Bernard's heart grew sick.  Could it be?  Could this miserable creature
be one of his own profession?  Were these words the ramblings of one who
had been used to officiate as a Church minister?  And, if so, what could
have brought him to such a state of utter destitution?  The doctor
seemed to read his thoughts, and shook his head sadly.  Then, putting
his mouth to his ear, he said,--

"It's the drink; the smell of spirits is still strong on him."

"Poor wretched creature!" said Mr Oliphant.  "Can it be that the love
of drink has brought a man of position and education to such a state as
this?  What can be done for him?"

"Not much at present," was the reply, "beyond keeping him quiet, and
nursing him well till the fever has run its course.  And one thing is
clear--we must keep all intoxicants from him.  They are downright poison
to a man of his constitution; and should he get hold of any spirits
before his health is thoroughly established again, I would not answer
for his life."

The rector called Mrs Barnes, and told her what the doctor had said,
adding,--

"You must find a trustworthy nurse for him--one who will strictly attend
to the doctor's orders."

The landlady promised she would do so; and the rector left the sick-
chamber with a sorrowful look and troubled heart.

In ten days' time the patient was well enough to sit up in bed and
converse with Mr Oliphant.

"My poor friend," said the rector, "I grieve to see you in your present
state, especially as I cannot but perceive that you have seen better
days, and moved among people of education.  However, there is great
cause to thank God that he has so far spared your life."

A deep flush overspread the sick man's face as he replied,--

"Yes, indeed, I owe you, my dear sir, a debt of gratitude I can never
repay.  You say the truth--I _have_ seen better days.  I was sought
after in good society once, little as you might think it."

"I can believe it," said the rector, quietly.  "But do not distress
yourself by referring to the past, if it gives you pain."

"As to that," replied the other, "it matters to me little now what I
once was; but it may interest you to know, and may serve as a warning.
I was a popular preacher once.  I was an ordained minister of the Church
of England.  Crowds flocked to my church.  I threw all my energies into
my preaching.  I was a free man then; at least I believed myself so.
While I proclaimed the love of God to sinners, I also preached
vehemently against sin.  I never felt myself more at home than when I
was painting the miserable bondage of those whom Satan held in his
chains.  I could speak with withering scorn of such as made a profession
while they were living in any known wickedness.  I was specially severe
upon the drunkard's sin.  But preaching such as mine, and in a large
church, was very exhausting.  I found that I wanted support; so I began
with an egg beaten up with brandy, and took it just before going into
the pulpit.  This made me doubly fervent; some of my hearers thought me
almost inspired.  But the exhaustion was terrible at the end; so I added
another glass of egg and spirits after the sermon.  Then I found that,
somehow or other, I could not preach in the evening after taking much
solid food; so I substituted liquids for solids, and lived on Sundays
almost entirely on malt liquors and spirits.  When these failed to keep
me up to the mark, I had to increase the quantity.  At last I saw that
my churchwarden began to look a little strangely and suspiciously at me;
ugly sayings reached my ears; the congregation began to thin.  At last I
received a letter from a Christian man of my flock, telling me that
himself and many others were pained with the fear that I was beginning
to exceed the bounds of strict temperance: he urged total abstinence at
once; he was a total abstainer himself.  I was startled--prostrated--
humbled to the very dust.  I reflected on the quantity of intoxicants I
was now taking _daily_, and I shuddered.  I thanked my friendly adviser
with tears, and promised to return to strict moderation.  Total
abstinence I would not hear of; it was quite out of the question.  I
could no more do without alcoholic stimulants then than I can do now."

He paused, and fixed a peculiar look on Mr Oliphant; who, however, did
not, or would not, understand it.  So he went on:--

"I tried moderation; but it would not do.  I prayed for strength to be
moderate; but I know _now_ that I never really desired what I prayed
for.  It was too late to be moderate; my lust had got the bit between
its teeth, and I might as well have pulled at the wind.  I went from bad
to worse.  Desertion, disgrace, ruin, all followed.  Everything has
gone--church, home, money, books, clothes--the drink has had them all,
and would have them again if they were mine at this moment.  For some
years past I have been a roaming beggar, such as you found me when you
picked me up in the road."

He said all this with very little emotion; and then lay back, wearied
with his exertions in speaking.

"And have you any--" The rector did not know how to finish the sentence
which he had begun after a long pause.

"Have I any family? you would ask," said the other.  "I had once.  I had
a wife and little child; my only child--a little girl.  Well, I suppose
she's better off.  She pined and pined when there was next to nothing to
eat in the house; and they tell me--for I was not at home when she
died--that she said at the last, `I'm going to Jesus; they are not
hungry where he is.'  Poor thing!"

"And your wife?" exclaimed Bernard, his blood running cold at the tone
of indifference in which this account was given.

"Oh, my wife?  Ah, we did not see much of one another after our child's
death!  I was often from home; and once, when I returned, I found that
she was gone: they had buried her in my absence.  She died--so they
said--of a broken heart.  Poor thing! it is not unlikely."

Mr Oliphant hid his head in his hands, and groaned aloud.  He had never
before conceived it possible--what he now found to be too true--that
long habits of drunkenness can so utterly unhumanise a man as to reduce
him to a mere callous self, looking upon all things outside self as
dreamy and devoid of interest, with but one passion left--the passion
for the poison which has ruined him.

At last the rector raised his head, and said slowly and solemnly,--

"And if God spares you, will you not strive to lead a new life?  Will
you not pray for grace to conquer your besetting sin?"

The wretched man did not answer for a while.  Then he said,--

"I have only one thing to live for, and that is the drink.  I cannot
live without it.  Oh, I implore you to let me have some spirits!  You do
not, you cannot, know how I crave them, or in pity you would not
withhold them from me."

Mr Oliphant rose.

"Compose yourself, my poor friend," he said.  "I dare not grant your
request; it might be your death.  Farewell for the present.  May God,
with whom all things are possible, help you through your present
trouble, and enable you in the end to conquer."

The wretched man called imploringly after him; but he closed the door,
and summoning Mrs Barnes, begged her to look well after him, and to see
that the nurse did all in her power to keep him calm, and to soothe him
to rest.

Two days after this he called again.

"How is your patient to-day, Mrs Barnes?" he said to the landlady, whom
he met on the landing.

"I cannot quite tell you, sir, for I have not been in to see him this
morning.  He was so much better yesterday that the doctor said Mrs
Harper might go home.  I went to look at him after he had taken his tea,
and I found old Jane Hicks with him.  She had called to speak with Mrs
Harper, and the poor gentleman got her to go and borrow him a newspaper
which he wanted to see.  I think I heard her come back twice since Mrs
Harper left; but perhaps he wanted something else.  He said I had better
not wake him very early, as he thought he should sleep well; so I
haven't disturbed him yet."

A strange misgiving crept over the rector.

"Let us go in at once," he said.

They knocked at the bed-room door--there was no answer; they opened it
softly and went in.  The sick man lay on his back, apparently asleep,
but when they came closer they saw that he was dead.  A stain on the
sheet attracted Mr Oliphant's notice; he hastily turned it down,
uncovering the hands; in the right was a bottle--it had held spirits;
there was nothing in it now.

So died the miserable victim of drink; so died the once flourishing
professor; so died the once acceptable preacher.

Mr Oliphant knelt by the bed-side and poured out his heart to God in
prayer, entreating to be directed aright, and to be kept from ever in
any degree disgracing his profession as this unhappy man had done.  He
was reminded that he was not alone by the sobs of the landlady, who had
fallen on her knees near him.

"Mrs Barnes," he said, on rising, "I have resolved, God helping me, to
be a total abstainer from this day forward.  I have nothing to do with
the consciences of others, but for myself I feel that I shall be a
happier and a wiser man if I wholly abstain from those stimulants which
have power to make such a shipwreck as this."

She did not answer except by tears and a deep sigh; and he made his way
sadly and thoughtfully home.

From that day forward the drink was wholly banished from the rectory;
there was no difference of opinion between Bernard and his wife--they
would bring up their children without the ensnaring stimulant.  Mr
Oliphant showed his colours at once; and he preached as well as
practised total abstinence, not in the place of the gospel, but as a
handmaid to the gospel.  And Mrs Barnes was the first who joined him.

"I've long hated selling beer and spirits," she said.  "I've seen the
misery that the drink has brought even into our little village.  But I
didn't see my way nor my duty plain before, but I see them now.  You've
set me the example, sir; and, please God, I'll follow.  You know my poor
master left me the farm for my life, and I shall be happier there with a
little than I could be if I were to stop here and be making ever so
much."

She kept to her resolution.  So the "Oldfield Arms" was closed, to the
astonishment of all the neighbours.  What was the foolish woman about?
Had she lost her senses?  Why, the inn was doing a capital business.
Sir Thomas Oldfield himself came down on purpose from Greymoor Park,
when he heard what she was going to do, and tried to talk and laugh her
out of it.  But she was firm.  The house was her own freehold, and she
would neither use it herself as an inn, nor let any one else rent it for
the same purpose.  Of course, she was a fool in the eyes of the world,
but she did not care for that; and any one who saw her bright face as
she walked about her farm, would have perceived that, whether fool or
no, she had the enjoyment of peace in her heart.

But the "Oldfield Arms" was not long without a tenant.  The rector took
it, as we have before said, and used it partly as shops, and the large
public room as a reading-room.  And thus it was that the "Dun Cow"
remained without a rival as the dispenser of strong drink to the
inhabitants of Waterland.



CHAPTER FOUR.

THE PARK.

It was a great vexation to Sir Thomas Oldfield that Mrs Barnes would
neither keep the "Oldfield Arms" open herself, nor let it as a public-
house to any one else.  The "Dun Cow" was quite an inferior place
altogether, and nothing but rebuilding it could turn it into anything
like a respectable house; but it did very well for the villagers to sot
in.  There was a good fire, and plenty of room in its parlour, so the
"Dun Cow" kept its name, and reigned alone.  Sir Thomas, indeed, had no
wish to see the public-houses multiplied, for he highly disapproved of
drunkenness, so there was no encouragement to set up another house in a
fresh place.  And, indeed, though there was always custom in abundance
for one such establishment, a second would, at the time of the opening
of our story, have driven but a poor trade; for the example and appeals
of the rector for some seventeen years as a Christian total abstainer,
together with the knowledge that all the rectory household were
consistent water-drinkers, had been greatly blessed in Waterland.  Many
had left their drunkenness; a happy change had taken place in several
homes; and a flourishing total abstinence society, which included many
members from other parishes and villages, held its monthly meetings in
the large temperance room under the presidency of Bernard Oliphant.

Sir Thomas Oldfield hated drunkenness, and was very severe upon
drunkards, under ordinary circumstances, when brought before him as a
magistrate.  But, on the other hand, he hated total abstinence very
cordially also.  He was fond of making sweeping assertions, and knocking
timid opponents down with strong asseverations, which passed for
excellent arguments at assize dinners, and at parties at Greymoor Park;
for it is wonderful what exceedingly loose logic will satisfy even
highly-educated people when employed on the side of their appetites or
prejudices.  Once, indeed, the squire was very considerably staggered,
but he never liked a reference to be made afterwards to the occasion.
He was presiding at a harvest-home given to his own tenants, and had
passed from a warm eulogium on temperance and moderation to a vehement
harangue against total abstinence and total abstainers.  He was,
however, cut short in the midst of his eloquence by a sturdy-looking
labourer, who struggled forward, beer-jug in hand, and, tottering at
every step, spluttered out,--

"Hooray, hooray, Sir Thomas!  Here's long life to the squire--here's
long life to moderation.  Hooray lads, hooray!  Here's three cheers for
the squire and moderation.  Stand fast to your principles, like me; as
for them total abstainers, they haven't got a leg to stand on."

With that he tumbled forward, and, unable to recover his balance, fell
flat on the ground before Sir Thomas, and lay there utterly unable to
rise.

As was the squire, so had he brought up his family.

Greymoor Park was a noble property, which had come down to him through a
long line of ancestors.  The house stood on a rocky height, and was
surrounded, but not encumbered, by noble groups of trees, from the midst
of which it looked out over sloping terraced gardens, glowing with
flower-beds, which enamelled the smoothest of turf, across the park from
which the estate took its name.  The original house was old, but while
the fine bay-windows, massive porch, stately gables, and wide
staircases, with their carved oak balustrades and pendants, had been
preserved untouched, all such modern improvements had been added as
would soften off the inconveniences of a less luxurious age.  The park
itself was remarkable for the size and grouping of its timber, and was
well-stocked with deer.  A fine sheet of water also spread itself out
over an open space between the trees, so as to form a delightful variety
to the view from the great bay-windows.  Indeed, if the things of the
present life could have made a man happy, Sir Thomas had abundant
grounds for happiness in this world.  Yes, _in_ this world, but not
beyond it.  For Sir Thomas was just simply and thoroughly a man of the
world, and a most respectable man of the world too.  No man could place
his finger on a blot in his character or conduct.  He lived for the
world, and the world applauded him.  He lived to please self, and to a
considerable extent he succeeded.

Lady Oldfield wished to be something higher.  She knew the emptiness of
the world, at least in theory.  She wished to be a Christian, but was
not.  The glow of a pure gospel faith, caught by intercourse with true
Christians, might be often found in her words, but it went no farther;
as the pavement on which the rich hues of a stained glass window fall,
is but a cold colourless pavement after all, so was her heart cold,
worldly, colourless for God.  She was careful to have her children
taught religiously--the Bible lesson, the catechism, were learnt both
regularly and perfectly.  No child might omit its prayers night or
morning, nor be absent from the daily family worship.  No household was
more strict in its attendance at church; and nothing brought down more
speedily and severely her ladyship's displeasure than negligence to go
to God's house, or irreverence or inattention during the service.
Thomas, the eldest son, and heir to the baronetcy, was at present abroad
with his regiment; the second son, Frank, was just one-and-twenty; the
rest of the children were daughters.

Ever since the coming of Bernard Oliphant to Waterland, there had been
free intercourse between the two families at the hall and the rectory;
for Mr Oliphant was a distant relation of the Oldfields, and it was
through Sir Thomas that he had been presented to the living.  So the
young people grew up together, though there was, strictly speaking, more
intimacy than friendship between them, especially as the total
abstinence principles of the rectory were a bar to any great cordiality
on the part of the squire and his lady.  On this point the baronet and
his wife were entirely agreed.  She was less openly severe, yet quite as
determined and bitter in her opposition as he.  So the two families met,
and were civil, and exchanged calls, and the Oliphants dined at the hall
occasionally, and the children of both houses had little gatherings and
feastings together from time to time.  Thus had things gone on for some
years after Mr Oliphant had first shown his colours as a total
abstainer; Lady Oldfield jealously watching her children, lest any of
them should be corrupted by the absurd notions, as she counted them, of
the rector and his wife on this subject of total abstinence.  She had,
however, nothing to fear on this score, as regarded her eldest son.  He
had never taken much to the Oliphants as a boy, and his absence from
home at school and the university had kept him out of the reach of their
influence till he left England with his regiment.  It was otherwise with
the second son, Frank, who was specially his mother's idol, and indeed
almost every one else's too.  From his earliest boyhood he took people's
hearts by storm, and kept them.  No one could see him and not love that
open, generous, handsome face, with its laughing blue eyes, and setting
of rich brown curling hair.  No one could hear his joyous, confiding
voice, and the expressions of unaffected and earnest interest with which
he threw himself into every subject which fairly engaged his attention
or affections, without feeling drawn with all the cords of the heart to
the noble boy.  There was such a thorough openness and freedom in all
that he did and said, yet without recklessness and without indifference
to the feelings of others.  And when, through thoughtlessness or
forgetfulness, as was not unfrequently the case, he happened to find
himself in some awkward scrape or perplexity, he would toss back his
waving hair with a half-vexed half-comical expression, which would
disarm at once his mother's anger, spite of herself, and turn her severe
rebuke into a mild remonstrance.  Alas, that sin should ever mar such a
lovely work of God!  Frank loved the look of nature that lay open all
around him, but not his own books.  He abhorred study, and only
submitted to it from a sense of duty.  His father, at Lady Oldfield's
urgent request, kept him at home, and engaged a private tutor for him,
whose office would have been a sinecure but for the concern it gave him
to find his pupil so hard to drag along the most level paths of
learning.  Dog's-ears disfigured Frank's books, the result simply of
restless fingers; and dog's heads; executed in a masterly style, were
the subjects of his pen.  He loved roaming about, and there was not an
old ruin within many miles round of which he did not know every crevice,
nor any birds of song or prey with whose haunts and habits he was not
intimately acquainted.  In fishing, riding, swimming, he was an early
adept, and every outdoor sport was his delight.  All the dogs in the
neighbourhood rejoiced in him, and every cottager's wife blessed him
when he flung his bright smiles around him as he passed along.  At no
place was he more welcome than at the rectory, nor was there any house
in which he felt so happy, not even excepting his own home.  With all
his wildness he felt the most sincere love and respect for Mr and Mrs
Oliphant, and rejoiced in a day spent with their children.  And there
was one of these towards whom he was drawn with feelings of peculiar
tenderness.  He was not conscious of it, and would have laughed at the
idea had it been suggested to him; yet it was true that when he was but
just sixteen Mary Oliphant had begun to wind herself around his heart
with those numberless invisible cords which would by degrees enchain him
in bonds which no power on earth could break.  Mary, of course, mere
child as she then was, and brought up by her parents as a child should
be, obedient, gentle, unobtrusive, delighted in the companionship of the
lively, open-hearted boy, without a thought beyond, and heartily enjoyed
many a happy ramble with him and her brothers among the woods and
meadows.  Frank Oldfield could not but be struck by the love and harmony
which reigned in the Oliphant family.  He saw the power of a religion
which made itself felt without thrusting itself forward into notice.  He
could not but reflect sometimes, and then even _his_ sunny brow was
clouded, that he wanted a something which the children at the rectory
possessed; that he wanted a great reality, without which he could not be
fully happy.  He saw also the bright side of total abstinence when he
spent a day with the rector's family.  At home there was always
abundance of beer and wine upon the table, and he drank it, like others;
and not only drank it, but thirsted for it, and felt as if he could not
do without it.  It was not so when he dined at the rectory, at their
simple one o'clock meal, for he enjoyed his food, and seemed scarcely to
miss the stimulant.

One day, when he was sitting at the rectory table, he said to Mr
Oliphant, looking up with one of his bright smiles,--

"I wish I was a total abstainer."

"Well," said Mr Oliphant in reply, with a smile, "I wish you were; but
why do _you_ wish it just now, my dear boy?"

"Oh, I've been thinking a good deal about it lately.  I see you smile,
Hubert, but I really have been thinking--yes, thinking--I've been
thinking that I should like to do as you all do; you're just as happy
without beer and wine, and just as well too."

"And is that your only reason, dear Frank?" asked Mrs Oliphant.

"Oh no! that's not all; the plain truth is this, I can't help thinking
that if I keep getting fonder and fonder of beer and wine, as I'm doing
now, I shall get too fond of it by-and-by."

Mr Oliphant sighed, and poor Mary exclaimed,--

"Oh, Frank, don't say that."

"Ay, but it's true; don't you think, Mr Oliphant, that I should be
better and safer without it?"

"I do, most sincerely, my dear boy," answered the rector; "yes, both
better and safer; and specially the latter."

"I know," said Frank, "that papa and mamma are not fond of total
abstinence; but then, I cannot think that they have really looked into
the matter as you have."

"No, Frank, your father and mother do not see the matter in the same
light as myself and I have no right to blame them, for, when I first
came to Waterland, I thought nearly the same as they do.  Perhaps they
will take _my_ view by-and-by."

Frank shook his head, and then went on,--

"But you do think it the best thing for young people, as well as grown-
up people, to be abstainers?"

"Yes, assuredly; and I will tell you why.  I will give you a little
illustration.  There is a beautiful picture representing what is called
the `Lorelei,' a spirit fabled to haunt some high rocks that overlook
the Rhine.  This spirit is represented in the picture as a beautiful
female, with a sweet but melancholy expression of countenance.  She
kneels on the top of the rock, and is singing to a harp, which she
strikes with her graceful fingers.  Below is a boat with two men in it,
the one old, and the other young.  The boat is rapidly nearing the
rocks, but both the men are utterly unconscious of their danger--the old
man has ceased to hold the helm, the young man has dropped the oars, and
both are fondly stretching out their hands towards the deceiving spirit,
wholly entranced with her song--a few moments more and their boat will
be a wreck.  Now, it is because the drink is such an enticing thing,
like the Lorelei spirit; because it seems to sing pleasantly to us, and
makes us forget where we are; because it lures on old and young to their
ruin, by robbing them of their self-control;--it is for these reasons
that I think it such a happy thing to put every safeguard between
ourselves and its snares."

"Yes," said Frank thoughtfully; "I know the drink is becoming a snare to
me, or may become so.  What shall I do?  Ought I to give it up
altogether?"

"It is a very difficult thing to answer that question," replied the
rector.  "I could hardly urge you to give up beer and wine altogether,
if your father and mother positively forbid your doing so; there is no
sin, of course, in the simple taking of fermented liquors, and therefore
I could not advise you to go directly contrary to your parents' orders
in this matter."

"There is no harm, however, in my trying to give up beer and wine, if my
father and mother will allow me?"

"Certainly not, my dear boy; and may God make your way plain, and remove
or overcome your difficulties."

The day after this conversation, Frank was sitting in his place at the
dinner-table of the hall.  The butler brought him a glass of beer.  "No,
thank you," he said.  A little while after he filled a tumbler with
water, and began to drink it.

"Frank, my boy," said his father, "are not you well?  Why don't you take
your beer as usual?"

"I'm quite well, thank you, papa; but I'd rather have the water."

"Well, put some port wine in it, at any rate, if you don't fancy the
beer to-day."

"I'd rather have neither beer nor wine, thank you, papa."

By this time Lady Oldfield's attention was drawn to what was passing
between her husband and son.

"Dear Frank," she said, "I shall not allow you to do anything so foolish
as to drink water.  James, hand the beer again to Master Frank."

"Indeed, dear mamma," he urged, "I mean what I say; I really should
rather have water."

"Absurd!" exclaimed her ladyship angrily; "what folly has possessed you
now?  You know that the medical men all say that wine and beer are
necessary for your health."

"I'm sure, mamma, the medical men needn't trouble themselves about my
health.  I'm always very well when I have plenty of air and exercise.
If ever I feel unwell, it is when I've had more wine or beer than
usual."

"And who, pray, has been putting these foolish notions into your head?
I see how it is; I always feared it; the Oliphants have been filling
your head with their extravagant notions about total abstinence.
Really, my dear," she added, turning to Sir Thomas, "we must forbid
Frank's going to the rectory, if they are to make our own child fly in
the face of our wishes."

"Mamma," cried Frank, all on fire with excitement and indignation,
"you're quite mistaken about the Oliphants; they have none of them been
trying to talk me over to their own views.  I began the subject myself,
and asked Mr Oliphant's advice, and he told me expressly that I ought
not to do what you would disapprove of."

"And why should you ask Mr Oliphant's advice?  Cannot you trust your
own father and mother?  I am not saying a word against Mr Oliphant as a
clergyman or a Christian; he preaches the gospel fully and faithfully,
and works hard in his parish, but on this subject of total abstinence he
holds views which neither your father nor I approve of; and, really, I
must not have you tampered with in this matter."

"Well, dear mamma, I've done; I'll do as you wish.  Farewell water--
welcome beer and wine; James, a glass of ale."

It was two years after this that a merry company from the hall and
rectory set out to explore a remarkable ruin about five miles distant
from Waterland.  Frank was leader of the party; he had never given his
parents any more anxiety on the score of total abstinence--on the
contrary, he had learned to take so freely of wine and beer, that his
mother felt at times a little alarmed lest he should seriously overpass
the bounds of moderation.  When at the rectory, he never again alluded
to the subject, but rather seemed eager to turn the conversation when
any remark fell from Mr or Mrs Oliphant on the evils arising from
intemperance.  And now to-day he was in the highest spirits, as he rode
on a sprightly little pony by the side of Mary Oliphant, who was mounted
on another pony, and was looking the picture of peaceful beauty.  Other
young people followed, also on horseback.  The day was most lovely, and
an inspiriting canter along lane and over moor soon brought them to the
ruin.  It was a stately moss-embroidered fabric, more picturesque in its
decay than it ever could have been in its completeness.  Its shattered
columns, solitary mullions, and pendent fragments of tracery hoary with
age, and in parts half concealed by the negligent profusion of ivy,
entranced the mind by their suggestive and melancholy beauty; while the
huge remnant of a massive tower seemed to plead with mute dignity
against the violence which had rent and marred it, and against the
encroaching vegetation, which was climbing higher and higher, and
enveloping its giant stones in a fantastic clothing of shrub and
bramble.

Frank and his party first shut up their horses in the old refectory,
closing the entrance with a hurdle, and then dispersed over the ruins.
Mary had brought her drawing-pad, that she might sketch a magnificent
pillar, and the remains of a transept arch which rose gracefully behind
it, crowned with drooping ivy, and disclosing in the back ground,
through a shattered window, the dreamy blue of the distant hills.  She
sat on the mutilated chapiter of a column, and was soon so wholly
absorbed in her work, that she never turned her eyes to notice Frank
Oldfield, who, leaning against a low archway, was busily engaged in a
vigorous sketch, of which herself was the prominent object.  And who
could blame him? for certainly a lovelier picture, or one more full of
harmonious contrast, could hardly have been found, than that presented
by the sweet and graceful figure of the rector's daughter, with its
surroundings of massive masonry and majestic decay.  She all life, a
creature of the present, and yet still more of the future, as bright
with the sunshine of a hope that could never die; and they, those
mouldering stones, that broken tracery, those mossy arches, sad in the
desolation of the present, sadder still in the memories of an
unenlightened past.  Frank finished his sketch, and, holding it behind
him, stole gently up to the side of Mary Oliphant.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "a most lovely little bit; and yet, I have the
vanity to think that my choice of a subject has been better than your
own."

"The drawing is, no doubt," she answered; "but I hardly think you can
find such a picturesque group as this in any other part of the ruins."

"Let us compare, then," he said, and placed his own sketch by the side
of hers.

"Oh, Frank," she cried, "how can you be so foolish?"

At the same time the colour which flushed her face, and the bright smile
which lighted it, showed that the folly was not very reprehensible in
her eyes.

"Is it so very foolish?" he asked, half seriously, half playfully.
"Well; I wish I had shown the same kind of folly in my choice of some
other things as I have in the choice of a subject."

She was about to reply, when suddenly, without any warning, a savage-
looking dog dashed into the open space before them, and, making a fierce
rush at Mary, caught her by the dress.

"Down, you brute, down!" shouted Frank; but the dog still retained his
hold, and growled and tossed himself about savagely.  Frank had no stick
nor weapon of any kind in his hands, but he darted to a heap of loose
stones, and snatching one up turned towards the dog.  In the meantime,
Mary, in extreme terror, had dropped her drawing-pad, and plucking her
dress from the fierce creature's mouth, fled with all her speed across
the pavement, and sprang up the projecting stones of an old archway.
The dog, with a loud yell, followed her, and easily overtook her, as the
ascent up which she had climbed presented a broad footing.  Utterly
terrified, and unconscious of what she was doing, the poor girl
clambered higher and higher to escape her enemy.  Frank had now turned
upon the dog, and hurled one huge stone at him; it passed near, but did
not touch him.  Mary's terror only excited the furious animal to follow,
and as she saw him close upon her again, with a wild cry she leaped
right across to an old fragment of a turret which stood out by itself in
an angle of the wall.  The dog hesitated, but, before it could decide to
follow her, another stone from Frank had struck it full in the side.
With a tremendous howl it tumbled down into the court and fled.  Poor
Mary! she gasped for breath, and could not for a long time recover her
self-possession.  When at last she became more calm, soothed and
encouraged by the kind voice and earnest entreaties of Frank, it was
only to awake to the extreme danger of her present position.  Fear had
made her take a leap which she could never have dared to attempt in her
calm senses.  She looked across the chasm over which she had sprung, and
shuddered.  Could she try the leap back again?  No; she dared not.  In
the meantime, the stones to which she was clinging began to loosen
beneath her weight.  She looked down, and became giddy.

"Oh, save me--save me--I shall fall!" she cried.  She clutched at a
strong stem of ivy which was climbing up the wall close by, and so
supported herself; but it was evident that she could not long retain her
hold in that constrained position, even if the stonework did not give
way beneath her feet.  All the party had now gathered in the open space
below, and some began to climb the path by which she had mounted.
Frank, in the meanwhile, was making desperate efforts to reach the poor
girl.

"Hold on--hold on--dear Mary!" he cried; "a few moments, and I shall be
with you; don't lose courage--keep a firm grasp on the ivy; there--I've
got a landing on the top of this old arch; now, I'm only a few feet
off--steady, steady--don't stir for your life--only a few moments more
and I shall be at your side."

It was perilous work indeed; and all who beheld him held their breath as
he made his way towards where the object of their deep anxiety was
crouched.  Now he was clinging to a rough projecting stone, now swinging
by a rusty bar, now grasping ivy or brambles, and every now and then
slipping as the old masonry gave way beneath his feet.  At last, with
immense exertion, he gained a ledge a little below where the terrified
girl was perched, half lying, half crouching.  Here he had firm
standing-ground.  Placing his hand gently upon her, he bade her slide
down towards him, assuring her that she would have a firm footing on the
ledge.  She obeyed at once, feeling his strong arm bearing her up and
guiding her.  Another moment, and she stood beside him.  But now, how
were they to descend?  She dared not attempt to leap back to the spot
from whence she had sprung in her terror, and there was no regular
descent from the slab on which they were perched, but only a few
projecting stones down the perpendicular face of the wall, and these at
wide intervals.

"There's no way but a roundabout climb down by the ivy," said Frank at
last.  "Trust to me, dear Mary, and do exactly what I tell you.  I will
go first, and do you place hand and foot just as I bid you.  There--put
your foot in that crevice--now take firm hold of that branch; there--now
the other foot--now the next step a little to the right, the good ivy
makes a noble ladder--now we're nearly landed; there--be careful not to
slip on that round stone--one step more, and now we're safe.  Oh, thank
God, _you're_ safe!"

He clasped her to his heart; she knew that heart was hers; she could not
resent that loving embrace; it was but for a moment.  He released her,
and was turning to the friends who were gathering and pressing round,
when a heavy stone, loosened in their descent, fell on his outstretched
arm, and struck him to the ground.

Mary sprang towards him with a cry of deep distress.

"Frank, dear Frank--you're hurt--you're dreadfully hurt, I'm sure."

"No, no; not much, I hope," he said, springing up, but looking very
pale.  "It's an awkward blow rather, but don't distress yourself--we'll
make the best of our way home at once--just one of you see to the
horses."

He spoke with effort, for he was evidently in great pain.  Mary's heart
ached for him, but exhaustion and anxiety quite deprived her of the
power of speaking or thinking collectively.

The horses were speedily brought.  Frank held out his uninjured arm to
help Mary Oliphant to mount her pony.

"I'm so very, very sorry," she said, "to have caused this disaster, and
spoiled our happy day through my foolish timidity."

"Nay, nay; you must not blame yourself," said Frank.  "I am sure we all
feel for you.  It was that rascal of a dog that did the mischief, but I
gave him such a mark of my respect as I don't think he'll part with for
a long time."

Poor Frank, he tried to be cheerful; but it was plain to all that he
must be suffering severely.  They were soon on their way home, but a
cloud rested on their spirits.  Few words were said till they reached
the spot where the roads to the hall and the rectory parted.  Then Frank
turned to Mary and said, with a look full of tenderness, rendered doubly
touching by his almost ghastly paleness,--

"Farewell; I hope you'll be none the worse, dear Mary, for your fright.
I shall send over to-morrow to inquire how you are.  It was a happy
escape."

"Good-bye, good-bye!" she cried; "a thousand thanks for your noble and
timely rescue!  Oh, I hope--I hope--"

She could not say more, but burst into tears.

"All right--never fear for me!" he cried cheerily as he rode off,
leaving Mary and a groom to make their way to Waterland, while himself
and the rest of the party hastened on to Greymoor Park.

They had not far to ride, but Frank was evidently anxious to reach home
as speedily as possible.  With clenched teeth and knit brow, he urged on
his pony to a gallop.  Soon they reached the lodge; a few moments more
and they had passed along the drive and gained the grand entrance.  Lady
Oldfield had just returned from a drive, and was standing on the top
step.

"You're early home," she remarked.  "Dear Frank, I hope there's nothing
amiss," she added, noticing the downcast looks of the whole party.

Her son did not answer, but, dismounting with difficulty, began to walk
up the steps.  She observed with dismay that he tottered as he
approached her.  Could he have been drinking so freely as to be unable
to walk steadily?  Her heart died within her.  The next moment he
staggered forward, and fainted in her arms.



CHAPTER FIVE.

GOOD RESOLUTIONS.

"What--what is this?" cried Lady Oldfield in bitter distress.  "Frank--
my child--my beloved boy--oh, open your eyes--look at me--speak--what
has happened?  Oh, he's dying, he's dying--James--Richard--carry him up
to his room.  One of you tell Tomkins to ride off immediately for Dr
Portman.  Thomas, fetch me some brandy--quick--quick!"

They carried him in a state of complete insensibility to his room, and
laid him on the bed.  His mother stood over him, bathing his temples
with eau-de-cologne, and weeping bitterly.  The brandy was brought; they
raised him, and poured a little through his blanched lips; slowly he
began to revive; his lips moved.  Lady Oldfield stooped her ear close to
his face, and caught the murmured word, "Mary."

"Oh, thank God," she exclaimed, "that he is not dead!  Does any one know
how this has happened?"

"I believe, my lady," replied one of the servants, "that Mr Frank was
hit by a big stone which fell on him from the top of the ruins.  I heard
Juniper Graves say as much."

"Ay, my lady," said another; "it were a mercy it didn't kill Mr Frank
outright."

The object of their care began now to come more to himself.  He tried to
rise, but fell back with a groan.

"What _can_ I do for you, my poor boy?" asked his mother; "the doctor
will be here soon, but can we do anything for you now?  Where is your
pain?"

"I fear my left arm is broken," he whispered; "the pain is terrible."

"Take some more brandy," said his mother.

He took it, and was able to sit up.  Then with great difficulty they
undressed him, and he lay on the bed pale and motionless till the doctor
arrived.  On examination, it was found that the arm was terribly
bruised, but not broken.  There were, however, other injuries also,
though not of a serious character, which Frank had sustained in his
perilous climbing to the rescue of Mary Oliphant.  Fever came on,
aggravated by the brandy injudiciously administered.  For some days it
was doubtful what would be the issue; but at last, to the great joy of
Sir Thomas and his wife, the turning-point was passed, and Dr Portman
pronounced their child out of danger--all he needed now was good
nursing, sea-air, and proper nourishment.  During the ravings of the
fever his mind was often rambling on the scene in the ruins--at one time
he would be chiding the dog, at another he would be urging Mary to cling
firmly to the ivy; and there was a tone of tenderness in these appeals
which convinced Lady Oldfield that her son's heart was given to the
rector's daughter.  This was confirmed by a conversation which she had
with him at the sea-side, where he was gone to recruit his strength.
There he opened his whole heart to her, and confessed the depth of his
attachment to her whose life he had so gallantly saved.  Lady Oldfield
was at first pained; she would not have preferred such an alliance for
her son.  But, on further reflection, the prospect was not so
displeasing to her.  Mary Oliphant was not inferior to her son in birth,
and would have, when she came of age, a good fortune which had been left
her by a wealthy aunt.  Frank's love for beer and wine, and even
spirits, had grown so much of late, that his mother had begun to feel
very anxious about him on that score.  She had no wish that he should
become a total abstainer; indeed she was, at this very time, giving him,
by the doctor's orders, as much porter and wine as he could bear; but
she thought that Mary's total abstinence might act as a check upon him
to keep him within the bounds of strict moderation.  She knew, too, that
Mary was a genuine Christian, and she sincerely believed that true
religion in a wife was the only solid foundation of domestic happiness.
Before, therefore, they returned to Greymoor Park, Frank had his
mother's hearty consent, subject to Sir Thomas's approval, to his
engaging himself to Mary Oliphant.

And what were Mary's own feelings on the subject?  Poor girl, she had
never realised before that day of peril and rescue that she felt, or
could feel, more than a half friendly, half sisterly liking for Frank
Oldfield.  She had always admired his open generous disposition, and had
been happy in his society; but they had been so many years companions,
that she had never thought of looking upon him as one likely to form an
attachment to herself.  But now there could be no doubt on the subject.
What passed in the old ruin had convinced her that his heart was given
to her; and more than this, that her own heart was given to him.  And
now his sufferings and illness, brought on him through his exertions to
save her from destruction, had called out her love for him into full
consciousness.  Yet with that consciousness there came a deep sense of
pain.  It had taken her so by surprise; her heart was given before she
had had time to reflect whether she ought to have given it.  Could she
be happy with him? was he a real Christian? did he love the same Saviour
she loved herself?  Oh, these thoughts pressed heavily upon her spirit,
but she spread out her cares first before her heavenly Father, and then
with full childlike openness before her earthly parent--that loving
mother from whom she had never had a single concealment.

Mrs Oliphant sighed when her daughter had poured out her anxieties and
difficulties.

"Oh, mamma--dearest mamma!" cried Mary, "what ought I to do?  I am sure
he loves me, and I know that he will tell me so, for he is the very last
person to keep back what he feels.  What would you and dear papa wish me
to do, should he declare his affection?  I could not honestly say that
my heart is indifferent to him, and yet I should not dare to encourage
him to look forward to a time when we shall be one on earth, unless I
can trust too that we shall be one hereafter in heaven."

"My precious child," replied her mother, "you know our doubts and our
fears.  You know that Frank has acknowledged to increasing fondness for
intoxicating drinks.  You know that his poor mother will rather
encourage that taste.  And oh, if you should marry, and he should become
a drunkard--a confirmed drunkard--oh, surely he will bring misery on my
beloved child, and her father's and mother's grey hairs with sorrow to
the grave."

"Dearest mamma, you have only to say that you are convinced that I
cannot be happy with him, or that you and dear papa consider that I
ought to relinquish all thoughts about him, and I will at once endeavour
to banish him from my heart."

"No, my child.  Your affections, it is clear, have already become
entangled, and therefore we are not in the same position to advise you
as if your heart were free to give or to withhold.  Had it been
otherwise, we should have urged you to pause before you allowed any
thoughts about Frank to lodge in your heart, or perhaps to be prepared
to give a decided refusal, in case of his making a declaration of his
attachment."

"But you do not think him quite hopeless, dear mamma?  Remember how
anxious he seemed at one time to become a total abstainer.  And might
not I influence him to take the decided step, when I should have a right
to do so with which no one could interfere?"

"It might be so, my darling.  God will direct.  But only promise me one
thing--should Frank ask you to engage yourself to him, and you should
discover that he is becoming the slave of intemperance before the time
arrives when you are both old enough to marry, promise me that in that
case you will break off the engagement."

"I promise you, dearest mamma, that, cost what struggle it may, I will
never marry a drunkard."

It was but a few days after the above conversation that Frank Oldfield
called at the rectory.  It was the first time that he and Mary had met
since the day of their memorable adventure.  He was looking pale, and
carried his arm in a sling, but his open look and bright smile were
unchanged.

"I carry about with me, you see, dear Mary," he said, "my apology for
not having sooner called to inquire after you.  I hope you were not
seriously the worse for your fright and your climb?"

"Oh no," she replied earnestly; "only so grieved when I found what you
had suffered in saving me.  How shall I ever thank you enough for
sacrificing yourself as you did for me?"

"Well," he answered with a smile, "I suppose I ought to say that you
have nothing to thank me for.  And yet I do think that I may accept of
some thanks--and, to tell the truth, I have just come over to suggest
the best way in which the thanks may be given."

Mary did not answer, but looked down; and, spite of herself, her tears
would fall fast.

"Dear Mary," he said, "the plainest and shortest way is the one that
suits me best.  I want you to give me your heart--you have had mine long
ago, and I think you know it."

She did not speak.

"Oh, Mary, dearest Mary, can I be mistaken?  Cannot you--do not you love
me?"

"Frank," she replied, in a low and tearful voice, "it would be
affectation in me to make a show of concealing my love to you.  I _do_
love you.  I never knew it till that day; but since then I have known
that my heart is yours."

She said this so sadly, that he asked half seriously, half playfully,--

"Would you then wish to have it back again?"

"No, dear Frank; I cannot wish _that_."

"Then one day--if we are spared--you will be my own loving wife?"

There was no reply, but only a burst of tears.

"Mary, dearest Mary, what am I to understand?  Do your parents object to
your engaging yourself to me?  Oh, surely it is not so?"

"No, Frank; they have not objected--not exactly--but--"

She hesitated and looked down.

"Oh, why then not give me a plain `Yes' at once?  You own that your
heart is mine--you _know_ that my heart is yours--why not then promise
to be mine altogether?"

"It is true, dear Frank," she replied slowly, "that my heart is yours--I
cannot take it back if I would--but it may be my duty not to give my
hand with it."

"Your duty!  Oh, Mary, what a cold, cruel speech!  Why your duty?"

"Well," she replied, "the plain truth is best, and best when soonest
spoken.  You must know, dear Frank, how we all here feel about the sin
and misery caused by strong drink.  And you must know--oh, forgive me
for saying it, but I must say it, I must be open with you _now_ on this
subject--you must know that we have reason to fear that your own liking
for beer and wine and such things has been, for the last year or two, on
the increase.  And oh, we fear--we fear that, however unconsciously, you
may be on the downward road to--to--"

She could not finish her sentence.

Frank hung down his head, and turned half away, the colour flushing up
to the top of his fair forehead.  He tried to speak, but could not for a
while.  At last, in a husky voice, he whispered,--

"And so you will give me up to perish, body and soul, and to go down
hill with all my might and main?"

"No, Frank," she answered, having now regained her composure; "no; I
have no wish to give you up to sin and ruin.  It will rest with
yourself.  I cannot promise absolutely that I will be yours.  It will
depend upon--upon--upon what you are yourself when the time comes that
we might marry."

"And you have promised your mother--"

"I have promised--oh, Frank, dear Frank, pardon me if I wound you by
plain, rough words, but they must be spoken--I have promised that I will
never be the wife of a drunkard."

He bowed his head on his hand, and there was a long and painful silence.
Poor Mary, her heart bled for him, as she saw the tears forcing their
way between his thin, pale fingers.

"Mary," he said at last, "you must be mine; I cannot live without you.
Trust me; you shall have no cause to be ashamed of me.  I know--I feel
that I have been in great danger of sliding into intemperate habits; but
you shall see me and hear of me henceforth as strictly moderate.  I
solemnly promise you this; and on the very day that makes us one, I will
be one with you in total abstinence also.  Dearest, will this satisfy
you?"

"Yes, dear Frank; I have no right to ask more, if you _can_ be strictly
moderate; but oh, do not trust in your own strength.  Pray for help,
dear Frank, and then you will be able to conquer."

"Oh, of course," he said hastily; "but never fear, I give you my solemn
promise that you shall never see nor hear of any excess in me."

And did he keep his resolution?  Yes; for a while.  But, alas! how
little do those in circumstances like his really appreciate the awful
difficulties which beset those who are struggling to maintain strict
moderation.  This makes drunkenness such a fearful and exceptional
sin,--

  "The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
  Vice seems already slain."

The resolution is firmly set; the man walks forth strong as a rock in
his determination.  He begins to drink; his rock is but a piece of ice
after all, but he knows it not; it is beginning to melt with the warmth
of the first glass; he is cheered and encouraged by the second glass,
and his resolution seems to himself stronger than ever, while in very
truth it is only melting faster and faster.  At last he is over the
border of moderation before he conceives that he had so much as
approached it.  Then, alas! the word "moderation" stands for an unknown
quantity, easy to use but hard to define, since one man's moderation may
be another man's excess, and to-day's moderation may be an excess to-
morrow.

Poor Frank was never more in earnest than when he promised Mary Oliphant
that he would observe strict moderation.  He had everything to induce
him to keep his word--his love for Mary; his desire to please his own
parents, who had begun to tremble for him; his own self-respect.  So he
left the rectory strong as a lion in his own estimation, yet not without
a sort of misgiving underlying his conviction of his own firmness; but
he would not listen to that misgiving for a moment.

"I mean to be what I have promised, and I _will_ be," he said to
himself.  "Mary shall see that, easy and self-indulgent as I have been,
I can be rigid as iron when I have the will to be so."

Poor Frank! he did not knew his own weakness; he did not know that his
was not a will of iron, but was like a foot once badly sprained, which
has lost its firm and unfaltering tread.  Happy would it have been for
him had he sought a strength higher than his own--the strength from
above.

For several weeks he kept strictly to his purpose.  He limited himself
to so much beer and wine, and never exceeded.  He became proud of his
firmness, forgetting that there had been nothing to test the stamina of
his resolution.

At last the annual harvest-home came round.  It was a season of great
festivity at Greymoor Park.  Sir Thomas, as we have said, wished all his
tenants and labourers to be sober, and spoke to that effect on these
occasions; at the same time he was equally anxious that both meat and
drink should be dealt out with no niggard hand.  So men and women took
as much as they liked, and the squire was very careful to make no very
strict inquiries as to the state of any of his work-people on the
following day; and if any case of intemperance on these occasions came
to his knowledge afterwards, as commonly happened, it was winked at,
unless of a very gross and open character.

"Poor fellows," said the good-natured landlord, "it's only once in a
year that they get such a feast, and I must not be too strict with them.
There's many a good fellow gets a little too much on these days, who is
an excellent steady workman and father all the rest of the year.  It's
drunkenness--the habit of drunkenness--that is such a sin and scandal."

So everything was done to make the harvest-home a day of feasting and
mirth.

On the present occasion the weather was as bright and propitious as
could be desired.  A blazing sun poured down his heat from a cloudless
sky; scarce a breath of wind stirred the flag which, in honour of the
day, floated above the entrance of the hall.  Two large tents were
spread out by the borders of the ornamental water, in full view of the
hall windows.  A band, hired for the occasion, poured forth a torrent of
fierce music.  Children decked in blue ribbons and ears of corn ran in
and out of the tents, getting in everybody's way; but as everybody was
just then in the best of humours, it was of no consequence.  Visitors
began to arrive in picturesque groups, strolling through the trees
towards the tents.  Hot footmen were rushing wildly about, carrying all
sorts of eatables and drinkables.  Tables creaked and plates clattered.
Then, just about one o'clock, came the squire and his lady, followed by
many friends, among whom were Mr and Mrs Oliphant; while Frank,
looking supremely happy, with his sunny face all life and playfulness,
came last, with Mary on his arm.  Usually the Oliphants had kept away
from these harvest-homes, for they were not conducted to the rector's
satisfaction, but to-day they had a special reason for coming.  Frank
had been over to the rectory with an urgent request from his father that
Mr Oliphant would be present.  He might do good by appearing among
them, and Frank wanted Mary to see how he could use his influence in
keeping order and sobriety.  There were loud cheers, pleasant smiles,
and hearty greetings as the party from the hall entered the tents, where
all things were as bright and beautiful as banners, mottoes, and ears of
corn arranged in all sorts of appropriate devices could make them.  The
tenants dined in one tent, the labourers and their wives in the other.
Sir Thomas and Lady Oldfield presided in the former, and Frank took the
head of the table in the latter.  Mr and Mrs Oliphant and Mary sat
near the baronet.

The two tents were separated by several yards from one another, so that
while the guests were all partaking of dinner at the same time, the hum
of voices, the clatter of knives and forks, the braying of the brass
instruments which were performing in the space between the two parties,
and the necessary attention to the wants of the visitors, quite
prevented those presiding in the principal tent from hearing what was
passing in the other.  It was the intention of the squire, after all had
been satisfied, to gather both companies together in the open park, and
address them before they separated to join in the various amusements
provided for them.

The guests in the chief tent had just concluded their dinner, and those
at the upper table, where the party from the hall had been sitting, were
dispersing and making their way into the open air, when a burst of
cheers and shrieks of laughter from the other tent made Sir Thomas
remark, with a slight cloud on his face,--

"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.

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."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the rector.  "I'm very sorry.  Was there any change
in him before his death?"

"No, I fear not.  His has been a very sad case.  I remember him well
when he was vicar of Sapton.  A brighter and more loving Christian and
pastor I never knew, but somehow or other he got into drinking habits,
and these have been his ruin."

"Poor man," said Sir Thomas, "he used to be the laughing-stock of old
Bellowen, his squire; it was very grievous to see a man throw himself
away as he did.  The squire would ply him with drink, and press the
bottle upon him, till poor Mildman was so tipsy that he had to be taken
by the servants to the vicarage.  Sometimes the butler had to put him
into a cart, when it was dark, and had him tumbled out like so much
rubbish at his own door."

"Really," said Lady Oldfield, "I was surprised to hear Mr Bellowen talk
about him in the way he did.  He endeavoured in every possible way to
get him to drink, while at the very same time he despised and abused him
for drinking, and would launch out at the clergy and their self-
indulgent habits."

"Yes," said her brother-in-law; "no one knew better what a clergyman
ought to be than the squire.  We may be very thankful that his charges
against our order were gross exaggerations.  We may congratulate
ourselves that the old-fashioned drunken parson is now pretty nearly a
creature of the past.  Don't you think so, Mr Oliphant?"

"I confess to you," replied the rector, "that I was rather thinking, in
connection with poor Mildman's sad history, of those words, `Let him
that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.'"

"Why, surely you don't think there is much danger in these days of many
persons of our profession becoming the victims of intemperance?"

"I cannot feel so sure about that," was the reply.  "You know I hold
strong views on the subject.  I wish I could see more clergymen total
abstainers."

"I must say that I quite disagree with you there," said the other; "what
we want, in my view, is, not to make people total abstainers, but to
give them those principles which will enable them to enjoy all lawful
indulgences lawfully."

"I should heartily concur in this view," said Mr Oliphant, "if the
indulgence in strong drink to what people consider a moderate extent
were exactly on the same footing as indulgence in other things.  But
there is something so perilous in the very nature of alcoholic
stimulants, that multitudes are lured by them to excess who would have
been the last to think, on commencing to drink, that themselves could
possibly become transgressors."

"Then it is the duty of us clergymen," said the other, "to warn people
to be more on their guard against excess in this direction but not, by
becoming total abstainers ourselves, to lead our flocks to suppose that
there is sin in the mere taking of any amount of intoxicating liquors,
however small."

"I think," said Mr Oliphant, very gravely, "that our duty is something
beyond, and, may I say, above this.  We live in a peculiarly self-
indulgent age, when men are exceedingly impatient of anything like a
restraint upon their appetites and inclinations.  We have, besides this,
the acknowledged fact that, where other sins slay their thousands,
drunkenness slays its hundreds of thousands of all ages.  Is it not,
then, a privilege, (I always prefer to put it rather as a privilege than
a duty), for us, who are to be as lights in the world, as ensamples to
our flocks, to take a high stand in this matter, and show that we will
deny ourselves that which has so insidiously worked the ruin of
millions, that so we may perhaps win poor fallen creatures, fallen
through drink, to come out of their miserable slough by crying to them,
not merely `Come out,' but `Come out and follow us!'"

Mr Oldfield did not answer; but Sir Thomas, turning to the rector,
said,--

"I am sure this subject is deeply interesting to both you and myself, on
our dear Frank's account.  You know my views on the subject of total
abstinence.  Still I feel that there may be exceptional cases, where its
adoption may be wise, and I could imagine that his might be such a
case."

"I heartily agree with you," replied Mr Oliphant.

"Oh no, my dear," exclaimed Lady Oldfield; "I am quite sure total
abstinence would never suit poor Frank; his constitution would not bear
it; I appeal to you, Dr Portman, is it not so?"

"I am quite of your ladyship's opinion," said the doctor.

"You hear what Dr Portman says," cried her ladyship, turning to the
rector.

"I do," was the reply; "but that does not alter my conviction.  Medical
men's views have greatly changed of late years on this subject.  Excuse
me, Dr Portman, for thus differing from you."

"Really," interposed Mr Oldfield, "I think you must allow the doctor to
be the best judge of the medical side of the question.  What would you
say if the doctor on his part were to intrude on your province, and
question your statements of scriptural truth from the pulpit?"

"I should say," answered Mr Oliphant, "in the first place, that the two
cases are essentially different.  My statements are drawn from an
inspired volume, from an express revelation; the opinions of medical men
are simply the deductions of human reason and observation, and are
therefore opinions which may be altered or modified.  But, further, I
should say that I never require my people to receive my statements from
the pulpit without question or inquiry.  I refer them always to the
revelation, the inspired record, and bid them search that record for
themselves.  Now, if the doctor can point me to any inspired medical
record which lays down a particular system, and declares directly or by
fair inference against total abstinence, I will at once surrender my
present position; but as he will not pretend to possess any such
inspired medical volume, I must still feel myself at liberty to hold
different views from himself on the medical question."

"I am well aware, my dear sir," said Dr Portman, "that you and I shall
not agree on this subject, and, of course, I must allow you to be at
liberty to hold your own opinions; but it does seem to me, I must
confess, very strange that you should look upon total abstinence as
universally or generally desirable, when you must be aware that these
views are held by so very few of the medical profession, and have only
recently been adopted even by those few."

"I am afraid," said the rector, smiling, "that you are only entangling
yourself in further difficulties.  Does the recent adoption of a new
course of treatment by a few prove that it ought not to be generally
adopted?  What, then, do you say about the change in the treatment of
fever cases?  I can myself remember the time when the patient was
treated on the lowering system, and when every breath of air was
excluded from the sick-room, doors and windows being listed lest the
slightest change should take place in the stifling atmosphere of the
bed-room.  And now all is altered; we have the system supported by
nourishments, and abundance of fresh air let in.  Indeed, it is most
amusing to see the change which has taken place as regards fresh air;
many of us sleep with our windows open, which would have been thought
certain death a few years ago.  I know at this time a medical
practitioner, (who, by the way, is a total abstainer, and has never
given any of his patients alcoholic stimulants for the last five-and-
twenty years), who, at the age of between seventy and eighty, sleeps
with his window open, and is so hearty that, writing to me a few days
since, he says, `I sometimes think what shall I do when I get to be an
old man, being now only in my seventy-fourth year.'  Now, were the
medical men wrong who began this change in the treatment of fever cases?
or, because they were few at first, ought they to have abandoned their
views, and still kept with the majority?  Of course, those who adopt any
great change will at first be few, especially if that change sets very
strongly against persons' tastes or prejudices."

"I see that we must agree to differ," said Dr Portman, laughing, and
rising to take his leave.

When he was gone, Sir Thomas, who had listened very attentively to Mr
Oliphant's remarks, said,--

"I shall certainly put no hindrance in the way of Frank's becoming a
total abstainer if you can persuade him to it, and his health does not
suffer by it."

"Nor I," said Lady Oldfield; "only don't let him sign any pledge.  I've
a great horror of those pledges.  Surely, my dear Mr Oliphant, you
would not advise his signing a pledge."

"Indeed, I should advise it most strongly," was the reply; "both for his
own sake and also for the sake of others."

"But surely, to sign a pledge is to put things on a totally wrong
foundation," observed Mr John Oldfield; "would not you, as a minister
of the gospel, prefer that he should base his total abstinence on
Christian principle rather than trust to a pledge?  Does not the pledge
usurp the place of divine grace?"

"Not at all," said the rector.  "I would have him abstain on Christian
principles, as you say; and I would not have him _trust_ to the pledge,
but I would still have him use it as a support, though not as a
foundation.  Perhaps an illustration will best explain my meaning.  I
read some years ago of a fowler who was straying on the shore after sea-
birds.  He was so engrossed with his sport that he utterly failed to
mark the rapid incoming of the tide, and when at last he did notice it,
he found to his dismay that he was completely cut off from the land.
There was but one chance of life, for he could not swim.  A large
fragment of rock rose above the waves a few yards behind him; on to this
he clambered, and placing his gun between his feet, awaited the rising
of the water.  In a short time the waves had risen nearly to his feet,
then they covered them; and still they rose as the tide came in higher
and higher, now round his ankles, next to his knees; and so they kept
gradually mounting, covering his body higher and higher.  He could mark
their rise or fall by the brass buttons on his waistcoat; first one
button disappeared, then another, then a third, then a fourth.  Would
the waves rise up to his mouth and choke him?  His suspense was
dreadful.  At last he observed that the topmost button did not disappear
so rapidly as the rest; the next wave, however, seemed quite to cover
it, but in a few minutes it became quite uncovered; in a little while
the button next below became visible, and now he was sure that the tide
was ebbing, and that he was safe if only he could hold out long enough.
At last the rock itself became visible, and after many hours he was
able, almost spent with fatigue, to stagger to the land.  Now, what
saved that man? was it his gun?  Surely not; it was the rock: _that_ was
his standing-ground.  But was his gun, therefore, useless?  Assuredly
not, for it helped to steady him on the rock, though it could not take
the place of the rock.  Just so with the pledge; it is not the Christian
abstainer's standing-ground.  Christ alone is that standing-ground.  He
stands by the grace of Christ; but the pledge, like the gun, helps to
keep him steady on his standing-ground, the Rock of Ages."

"Well," said Mr Oldfield, "let us grant that there is some force in
your illustration.  I would further ask how it can be that Frank's
taking the pledge would be a benefit to others as well as himself?"

"For the same reason that my own signing of the pledge is beneficial,"
replied the rector.

"Nay," interposed Sir Thomas; "would not your signing the pledge do
rather harm than good?  Would it not rather weaken your own influence by
giving people reason to think, (those I mean especially who might not
know you well), that you had once been intemperate yourself, or that you
were unable to keep sober, or at any rate moderate, without the help of
the pledge."

"On the contrary," replied Mr Oliphant, "I look upon those who take the
pledge as greatly encouraging others who might be inclined to hang back.
It shows that the stronger are willing to fraternise with the weaker.
And this is specially the case when those who are known to have never
been entangled in the snares of drunkenness are willing to take the
pledge as an encouragement to those who have fallen.  Perhaps you will
bear with me if I offer you another illustration.  There is a great
chasm, a raging torrent at the bottom, and a single strong plank across
it.  Now persons with steady heads can walk over the chasm without
difficulty, along the naked plank; but there are others who shudder at
the very thought, and dare not venture--their heads swim, their knees
tremble, as they approach the edge.  What is to be done?  Why, just put
a little light hand-rail from a post on either side, and let one who is
strong of head walk over, resting his hand on the rail; he does not need
the rail for himself but he uses it just to show how it may be a help,
and so the timid and the dizzy-headed follow and feel confidence, and
reach the other side in safety.  Now, suppose the flood at the bottom of
that chasm to be intemperance, the plank total abstinence, and the rail
the pledge, and I think you will see that those who use the pledge,
though they really do not need it to steady themselves, may be a great
help to the weak, the timid, and the shrinking."

"I certainly," said Sir Thomas, "have never had the matter set before me
in this light.  I shall think over our conversation; and as regards poor
Frank, at any rate, I feel sure that, if his health will bear it, total
abstinence will be the safest, if not the best thing for him."



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE TEMPTER.

Juniper Graves was under-groom at Greymoor Park.  He was a very fine
fellow in his own eyes.  His parents had given him the name of Juniper
under the impression that it meant something very striking, and would
distinguish their son from the vulgar herd.  What it exactly signified,
or what illustrious person had ever borne it before, they would have
been puzzled to say.  So he rejoiced in the name of Juniper, and his
language was in keeping with it.  High-sounding words had ever been his
passion--a passion that grew with his growth; so that his conversation
was habitually spiced with phrases and expressions in which there was
abundance of sound, but generally an equal lack of sense.  Too full of
himself to be willing to keep patiently plodding on like ordinary
people, he had run through a good many trades without being master of
any.  Once he was a pastry-cook; at another time a painter; and then an
auctioneer--which last business he held to the longest of any, as giving
him full scope for exhibiting his graces of language.  He had abandoned
it, however, in consequence of some rather biting remarks which had come
to his ears respecting the choice and suitableness of his epithets.  And
now he was groom at the hall, and had found it to his advantage to
ingratiate himself with Frank Oldfield, by rendering him all sorts of
handy services; and as there were few things which he could not do, or
pretend to do, his young master viewed him with particular favour, and
made more of a companion of him than was good for either.  Juniper was a
sly but habitual drunkard.  He managed, however, so to regulate his
intemperance as never to be outwardly the worse for liquor when his
services were required by Sir Thomas or Lady Oldfield, or when excess
was likely to bring him into trouble.  When, however, the family was
away from the hall, he would transgress more openly; so that his sin
became a scandal in the neighbourhood, and brought upon him the severe
censure of Mr Oliphant, who threatened to acquaint the squire with his
conduct if he did not amend.  Juniper's pride was mortally wounded by
this rebuke--he never forgot nor forgave it.  For other reasons also he
hated the rector.  In the first place, because Mr Oliphant was a total
abstainer; and further, because he suspected that it was through Mr
Oliphant's representations that he had failed in obtaining the office of
postmaster at a neighbouring town, which situation he had greatly
coveted, as likely to make him a person of some little importance.  So
he hated the rector and his family with all the venom of a little mind.
No sooner had he discovered the attachment between Frank and Mary
Oliphant, than he resolved to do all in his power to bring about a
rupture; partly because he felt pretty sure that a closer intimacy
between Frank and the Oliphants would be certain to loosen the ties
which bound his young master to himself, and partly because he
experienced a savage delight in the thought of wounding the rector
through his daughter.  He soon noticed the restraint which Frank was
putting on himself in the matter of drinking beer and wine, and he
resolved to break it down.  He was quite sure that Mary Oliphant would
never marry a drunkard.  So he lost no opportunity of insinuating his
own views on the subject of total abstinence, and also constantly
laboured to bring his young master into contact with scenes and persons
likely to lead him into free indulgence in intoxicating drinks.  His
success, however, was but small, till the day of the harvest-home, and
then he resolved to make a great effort.  He contrived to get himself
appointed to the office of waiter to Frank in the second tent, and took
special charge of the drinkables.  The beer served out on these
occasions was, by Sir Thomas' express directions, of only a moderate
strength; but Juniper had contrived to secrete a jug of the very
strongest ale in a place where he could easily get at it.  With this jug
in hand he was constantly slipping behind his master and filling up his
glass, while Frank was busily engaged in seeing that the wants of his
guests were duly supplied.  Excited by the heat of the day and the whole
scene, the poor young man kept raising the glass to his lips, quite
unconscious of the way in which his servant was keeping it filled, till
at last he lost all self-control, and launched out into the wildest
mirth and the most uproarious buffoonery.  It was then that Juniper
Graves, grinning with malicious delight, sought out Mary Oliphant, and
brought her to gaze on her lover's degradation.

"Now," said he to himself, "I've done it.  There'll be no more love-
making atween them two arter this, I reckon.  A very preposterous plan
this of mine--very preposterous."

But great as was the triumph of Juniper at the success of his efforts on
this occasion, this very success was well nigh bringing about a total
defeat.  For it came to Frank's ears, by a side wind, as such things so
often do, that his man had been playing him a trick, and had been
filling up his glass continually with strong ale when he was not
conscious of it.

"It were a burning shame, it were, to put upon the young master in that
way," he overheard a kind-hearted mother say, one of the tenant's wives.
So he taxed Juniper with it, but the man stoutly denied it.

"Dear me, sir; to think of my behaving in such a uncompromising way to
any gentleman.  It's only them ill-natured folks' prevarications.  I'll
assure you, sir, I only just took care that you had a little in your
glass to drink healths with, as was becoming; and I'm sure I was vexed
as any one when I saw how the heat and your weakness together, sir, had
combined to bring you into a state of unfortunate oblivion."

"Well," replied Frank, "you must look-out, Master Juniper, I can tell
you.  If I find you at any of your tricks again, I shall make short work
with you."

But Juniper had no intention of being foiled.  He would be more wary,
but not less determined.  Upon two things he was thoroughly resolved--
first, that Frank should not become an abstainer; and secondly, that he
should not marry Mary Oliphant.  He was greatly staggered, however, when
he discovered that his young master, after the affair at the harvest-
home, had contrived to make his peace at the rectory.

"I must bide my time," he said to himself; "but I'll circumscribe 'em
yet, as sure as my name's Juniper Graves."

So he laid himself out in every possible way to please Frank, and to
make himself essential to his comforts and pleasures.  For a while he
cautiously avoided any allusion to total abstinence, and was only
careful to see that beer and spirits were always at hand, to be had by
Frank at a moment's notice.  If the weather was hot, there was sure to
be a jug of shandy-gaff or some other equally enticing compound ready to
be produced just at the time when its contents would be most
appreciated.  If the weather was cold, then, in the time of greatest
need, Juniper had always an extra flask of spirits to supplement what
his master carried.  And the crafty fellow so contrived it that Frank
should feel that, while he was quite moderate in the presence of his
parents and their guests, he might go a little over the border with his
groom without any danger.

Things were just in this state at the time when the conversation took
place at the hall, which resulted in the permission to Mr Oliphant to
persuade Frank--if he could--to become a pledged abstainer.  A day or
two after that conversation, Frank walked over to the rectory.  He found
Mary busily engaged in gathering flowers to decorate the tables at a
school feast.  His heart, somehow or other, smote him as he looked at
her bright sweet face.  She was like a pure flower herself; and was
there no danger that the hot breath of his own intemperance would wither
out the bloom which made her look so beautiful?  But he tossed away the
reflection with a wave of his flowing hair, and said cheerily,--

"Cannot I share, or lighten your task, dear Mary?"

"Thank you--yes--if you would hold the basket while I gather.  These
autumn flowers have not quite the brightness of the summer ones, but I
think I love them more, because they remind me that winter is coming,
and that I must therefore prize them doubly."

"Ah, but we should not carry winter thoughts about us before winter
comes.  We should look back upon the brightness, not forward to the
gloom."

"Oh, Frank," she replied, looking earnestly at him, with entreaty in her
tearful eyes, "don't talk of looking back upon the brightness.  We are
meant to look forwards, not to the gloom indeed, but beyond it, to that
blessed land where there shall be no gloom and no shadows."

He was silent.

"You asked me just now, dear Frank," she continued, "if you could
lighten my task.  You could do more than that--you could take a load off
my heart, if you would."

"Indeed!" he exclaimed; "tell me how."

"And will you take it off if I tell you?"

"Surely," he replied; but not so warmly as she would fain have had him
say it.

"You remember," she added, "the day you dined with us a long time ago,
when you asked papa about becoming an abstainer?"

"Yes; I remember it well, and that my mother would not hear of it, so,
as in duty bound, I gave up all thoughts of it at once."

"Well, dear Frank, papa has been having a long talk on the very subject
at the hall, and has convinced both your father and mother that total
abstinence is not the objectionable thing they have hitherto thought it
to be.  Oh, dear Frank, there is no hindrance _there_ then, if you still
think as you once seemed to think on this subject."

The colour came into his face, and his brow was troubled as he said,--

"Why should you distress yourself about this matter, my own dear Mary.
Cannot you trust me?  Cannot you believe that I will be strictly
moderate?  Have I not promised?"

"You _have_ promised; and I would hope and believe that--that--" She
could not go on, her tears choked her words.

"Ah, I know what you would say," he replied passionately; "you would
reproach me with my failure--my one failure, my failure under
extraordinary excitement and weakness--I thought you had forgiven me
_that_.  Have I not kept my promise since then?  Cannot you trust me,
unless I put my hand to a formal pledge?  If honour, love, religion,
will not bind me, do you think that signing a pledge will do it?"

"I have not asked you to sign any pledge," she replied sorrowfully;
"though I should indeed rejoice to see you do it.  I only hoped--oh, how
fervently!--that you might see it to be your wisdom, your safety, to
become a total abstainer.  Oh, dearest Frank, you are so kind, so open,
so unsuspecting, that you are specially liable to be taken off your
guard, unless fortified by a strength superior to your own.  Have you
really sought that strength?  Oh, ask God to show you your duty in this
matter.  It would make me so very, very happy were you to be led to
renounce at once and for ever those stimulants which have ruined
thousands of noble souls."

"Dearest Mary, were this necessary, I would promise it you in a moment.
But it is not necessary.  I am no longer a child.  I am not acting in
the dark.  I see what is my duty.  I see that to exceed moderation is a
sin.  I have had my fall and my warnings, and to be forewarned is to be
forearmed.  Trust me, dear Mary--trust me without a pledge, trust me
without total abstinence.  You shall not have cause to blush for me
again.  Believe me, I love you too well."

And with this she was forced to be content.  Alas! poor Frank; he little
knew the grasp which the insidious taste for strong drink had fixed upon
him.  He _liked_ it once, he _loved_ it now.  And beside this he shrank
from the cross, which pledged total abstinence would call upon him to
take up.  His engaging manners made him universally popular, and he
shrank from anything that would endanger or diminish that popularity.
He winced under a frown, but he withered under a sneer; still he had
secret misgivings that he should fall, that he should disgrace himself;
that he should forfeit Mary's love for ever if he did not take the
decided step; and more than once he half resolved to make the bold
plunge, and sign the pledge, and come out nobly and show his colours
like a man.

It was while this half resolve was on him that he was one evening
returning home after a day's fishing, Juniper Graves being with him.  He
had refused the spirit-flask which his servant held out to him more than
once, alleging disinclination.  At last he said,--

"I've been seriously thinking, Juniper, of becoming a total abstainer;
and it would do you a great deal of good if you were to be one too."

The only reply on the part of Juniper was an explosion of laughter,
which seemed as if it would tear him in pieces.  One outburst of
merriment followed another, till he was obliged to lean against a tree
for support.  Frank became quite angry.

"What _do_ you mean by making such an abominable fool of yourself;" he
cried.

"Oh dear, oh dear," laughed Graves, the tears running over in the
extremity of his real or pretended amusement, "you must pardon me, sir;
indeed, you must.  I really couldn't help it; it did put me so in mind
of Jerry Ogden, the Methodist parson.  Mr Frank and his servant
Juniper, two whining, methodistical, parsimonious teetotallers! oh dear,
it _was_ rich."  And here he relapsed into another explosion.

"Methodist parson!  I really don't know what you mean, sir," cried
Frank, beginning to get fairly exasperated.  "You seem to me quite to
forget yourself.  If you don't know better manners, the sooner you take
yourself off the better."

"Oh, sir, I'm very sorry, but really you must excuse me; it did seem so
very comical.  _You_ a total abstainer, Mr Frank, and me a-coming arter
you.  I think I sees you a-telling James to put the water on the table,
and then you says, `The water stands with you, Colonel Coleman.'"

"Don't talk so absurdly," said Frank, amused in spite of himself at the
idea of the water-party, with himself for the host.  "And what has my
becoming a total abstainer to do with Jerry What-do-you-call-him, the
Methodist parson?"

"Oh, just this, sir.  Jerry Ogden's one of those long-faced gentlemen as
turns up their eyes and their noses at us poor miserable sinners as
takes a little beer to our dinners.  Ah! to hear him talk you'd have
fancied he was too good to breathe in the same altitude with such as me.
Such lots of good advice he has for us heathens, such sighing and
groaning over us poor deluded drinkers of allegorical liquors.  Ah! but
he's a tidy little cask of his own hid snug out of the way.  It's just
the case with them all."

"I'm really much obliged to you," said his master, laughing, "for
comparing me to Jerry Ogden.  He seems, from your account, to have been
a regular hypocrite; but that does not show that total abstinence is not
a good thing when people take it up honestly."

"Bless your simplicity, sir," said the other; "they're all pretty much
alike."

"Now there, Juniper, I know you are wrong.  Mr Oliphant has many men in
his society who are thoroughly honest teetotallers, men who are truly
reformed, and, more than that, thorough christians."

"Reformed!  Christians!" sneered Juniper, venomously; "a pretty likely
thing indeed.  You don't know them teetotallers as well as I do, sir.
`Oh dear, no; not a drop, not a drop: wouldn't touch it for the world.'
But they manage to have it on the sly for all that.  I've no faith in
'em at all.  I'd rather be as I am, though I says it as shouldn't say
it, an honest fellow as gets drunk now and then, and ain't ashamed to
own it, than one of your canting teetotallers.  Why, they're such an
amphibious set, there's no knowing where to have them."

"Amphibious?" said his master, laughing; "why, I should have thought
`aquatic' would have been a better word, as they profess to confine
themselves to the water; unless you mean, indeed, that they are only
half water animals."

"Oh, sir," said Graves, rather huffed, "it was only a phraseology of
mine, meaning that there was no dependence to be placed on 'em."

"Well but, Juniper, I am not speaking of hypocrites or sham
teetotallers, but of the real ones.  There's Mr Oliphant and the whole
family at the rectory, you'll not pretend, I suppose, that _they_ drink
on the sly?"

"I wouldn't by no means answer for that," was the reply; "that depends
on circumstantials.  There's many sorts of drinks as we poor ignorant
creatures calls intoxicating which is quite the thing with your tip-top
teetotallers.  There's champagne, that's quite strict teetotal; then
there's cider, then there's cherry-brandy; and if that don't do, then
there's teetotal physic."

"Teetotal physic!  I don't understand you."

"Don't you, sir? that's like your innocence.  Why, it's just this way.
There's a lady teetotaller, and she's a little out of sorts; so she
sends a note to the doctor, and he sends back a nice bottle of stuff.
It's uncommon good and spirituous-like to smell at, but then it's
medicine, only the drugs ain't down in what the chemists call their
`Farming-up-here.'"

"I never heard of that before," remarked Frank.

"No, I don't suppose, sir, as ever you did.  And then there's the
teetotal gents; they does it much more free and easy.  They've got what
the Catholics calls a `dispensary' from their Pope, (and their Pope's
the doctor), to take just whatever they likes as a medicine--oh, only as
a medicine; so they carries about with 'em a doctor's superscription,
which says just this: `Let the patient take as much beer, or wine, or
spirits, as he can swallow.'"

"A pretty picture you have drawn," laughed Frank.  "I'm afraid there's
not much chance of making _you_ an abstainer."

"Nor you neither, Mr Frank, I hope.  Why, I should be ashamed to see my
cheerful, handsome young master, (you must forgive me, sir, for being so
bold), turned into a sour-looking, turnip-faced, lantern-jawed, whining
teetotaller."

"Why, I thought you said just now," said the other, "that they all take
drink on the sly; if that's the case, it can't be total abstinence that
spoils their beauty."

Juniper looked a little at fault, but immediately replied,--

"Well, sir, at any rate total abstinence will never do for you.  Why,
you'll have no peace up at the hall, especially in the shooting season,
if you mean to take up with them exotic notions.  Be a man, sir, and
asseverate your independence.  Show that you can take too much or too
little as you have a mind.  I wouldn't be a slave, sir.  `Britons never
shall be slaves.'"

Here the conversation closed.  The tempter had so far gained his end
that he had made Frank disinclined to join himself at present to the
body of stanch abstainers.  He would wait and see--he preferred
moderation, it was more manly, more self-reliant.  Ah, there was his
grievous mistake.  Self-reliant! yes, but that self was blinded, cheated
by Satan; it was already on the tempter's side.  So Frank put off, at
any rate for the present, joining the abstainers.  He was, however, very
watchful over himself never openly to transgress.  He loved Mary, and
could not bear the thoughts of losing her, but in very deed he loved his
own self-indulgence more.  There was a constraint, however, when they
met.  He could not fully meet her deep truthful eyes with a steady gaze
of his own.  Her words would often lead him to prayer, but then he
regarded iniquity in his heart--he did not wish to be taken at his
prayer--he did not wish to be led into pledged abstinence, or even into
undeviating moderation at all times--he wished to keep in reserve a
right to fuller indulgence.  Poor Mary! she was not happy; she felt
there was something wrong.  If she tried to draw out that something from
Frank, his only reply was an assurance of ardent affection and devotion.
There was no apparent evil on the surface of his life.  He was regular
at church, steady at home, moderate in what he drank at his father's
table and at other houses.  She felt, indeed, that he had no real
sympathy with her on the highest subjects, but he never refused to
listen, only he turned away with evident relief from religious to other
topics.  Yet all this while he was getting more deeply entangled in the
meshes of the net which the drink, in the skilful hands of Juniper
Graves, was weaving round him.  That cruel tempter was biding his time.
He saw with malicious delight that the period must arrive before very
long when his young master's drinking excesses would no longer be
confined to the darkness and the night, but would break out in open
daylight, and then, then for his revenge.

It was now between two and three years since the harvest-home which had
ended so unhappily.  Frank was twenty-one and Mary Oliphant eighteen.
This was in the year in which we first introduced them to our readers,
the same year in which it was intended that Hubert Oliphant should join
his uncle Abraham, at any rate for a time, in South Australia.  For the
last six months dim rumours, getting gradually more clear and decided,
had found their way to the rectory that Frank Oldfield was occasionally
drinking to excess.  Mary grew heart-sick, and began to lose her health
through anxiety and sorrow; yet there was nothing, so far, sufficiently
definite to make her sure that Frank, since his promise to observe
strict moderation, had ever over-passed the bounds of sobriety.  He
never, of course, alluded to the subject himself; and when he could not
help remarking on her altered looks, he would evade any questions she
put to him on the painful subject, or meet them by an appeal to her
whether she could prove anything against him; and by the observation
that nothing was easier than to spread rumours against a person's
character.  She was thus often silenced, but never satisfied.

June had come--a bright sky remained for days with scarce a cloud; the
hay-makers were everywhere busy, and the fields were fragrant with the
sweet perfume of the mown grass.  It was on a quiet evening that Mary
was returning home from a cottage where she had been to visit a sick
parishioner of her father's.  Her way lay in part through a little
plantation skirting a hay-field belonging to the Greymoor estate.  She
had just reached the edge of the plantation, and was about to climb over
a stile into a lane, when she heard loud and discordant voices, which
made her blood run cold; for one of them, she could not doubt, was
Frank's.

"This way, Mr Frank, this way," cried another voice, which she knew at
once to be that of Juniper Graves.

"I tell you," replied the first voice, thickly, "I shan't go that way; I
shall go home, I shall.  Let me alone, I tell you,"--then there followed
a loud imprecation.

"No, no--this way, sir--there's Miss Mary getting over the stile; she's
waiting for you, sir, to help her over."

"Very good, Juniper; you're a regular brick," said the other voice,
suddenly changing to a tone of maudlin affection; "where's my dear
Mary--ah, there she is!" and the speaker staggered towards the stile.
Mary saw him indistinctly through the hedge--she would have fled, but
terror and misery chained her to the spot.  A few moments after and
Frank, in his shirt-sleeves, (he had been joining the hay-makers), made
his way up to her.  His face was flushed, his eyes inflamed and staring
wildly, his hair disordered, and his whole appearance brutalised.

"Let me help--help--you, my beloved Mary, over shtile--ah, yes--here's
Juniper--jolly good fellow, Juniper--help her, Juniper--can't keep
shteady--for life of me."

He clutched at her dress; but now the spell was loosed, she sprang over
the stile, and cast one look back.  There stood her lover, holding out
his arms with an exaggerated show of tenderness, and mumbling out words
of half-articulate fondness; and behind him, a smile of triumphant
malice on his features, which haunted her for years, was Graves, the
tempter, the destroyer of his unhappy master.  She cared to see no more,
but, with a cry of bitter distress, she rushed away as though some
spirit of evil were close behind her, and never stopped till she had
gained the rectory.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

FAREWELL.

There are impressions cut deeper into the heart by the sudden stroke of
some special trial than any made by the continuous pressure of
afflictions, however heavy; impressions which nothing in this world can
efface--wounds, like the three-cornered thrust of the bayonet, which
will not heal up.  Such was the keen, piercing sorrow which the sight of
Frank in his drunkenness had stabbed deep into the soul of Mary
Oliphant.  The wound it had made would never heal.  Oh, miserable drink!
which turns the bright, the noble, the intellectual creatures of God
into worse than madmen; for the madman's reason is gone--we pity, but we
cannot blame him; but in the victim of strong drink reason is suspended
but not destroyed, and in all the distortion, grimaces, reelings,
babblings, ravings of the miserable wretch while his sin is on him, we
see a self-inflicted insanity, and a degradation which is not a
misfortune but a crime.

The day after that miserable meeting at the stile, Frank called at the
rectory, the picture of wretchedness and despair.  Mrs Oliphant came to
him, and told him that Mary declined seeing him; indeed, that she was so
utterly unnerved and ill, that she would have been unequal to an
interview even had she thought it right to grant him one.

"Is there no hope for me, then?" he asked.  "Have I quite sinned away
even the possibility of forgiveness?"

"I cannot fully answer for Mary," replied Mrs Oliphant; "but I should
be wrong if I said anything that could lead you to suppose that she can
ever again look upon you as she once did."

"Is it really so?" he said gloomily.  "Has this one transgression
forfeited her love for ever?  Is there no place for repentance?  I do
not justify myself.  I do not attempt to make less of the fault.  I can
thoroughly understand her horror, her disgust.  I loathe myself as a
vile beast, and worse than a beast.  But yet, can I by this one act have
cut through _every_ cord that bound her heart to mine?"

"Excuse me, dear Frank," said the other; "but you mistake in speaking of
_one_ transgression--one act.  It is because poor Mary feels, as I feel
too, that this act must be only one of many acts of the like kind,
though the rest may have been concealed from us, that she dare not trust
her happiness in your keeping."

"And who has any right," he asked warmly, "to say that I am in the habit
of exceeding?"

"Do you deny yourself that it is so?" she inquired, looking steadily but
sorrowfully at him.

His eyes dropped before hers, and then he said,--

"I do not see that any one has a right to put such a question to me."

"Not a right!" exclaimed Mrs Oliphant.  "Have not _I_ a right, dear
Frank, as Mary's mother, to put such a question?  I know that I have no
right to turn inquisitor as regards your conduct and actions in general.
But oh, surely, when you know what has happened, when you remember your
repeated promises, and how, alas! they have been broken; when you call
to mind that Mary has expressly promised to me, and declared to you,
that she will never marry a drunkard,--can you think that I, the mother
whom God has appointed to guard the happiness of my darling daughter,
have no right to ask you whether or no you are free from that habit
which you cannot indulge in and at the same time honestly claim the hand
of my beloved child?"

Frank for a long time made no answer; when he did reply, he still evaded
the question.

"I have done wrong," he said; "grievously wrong.  I acknowledge it.  I
could ask Mary's pardon for it on my knees, and humble myself in the
dust before her.  I _might_ plead, in part excuse, or, at any rate,
palliation of my fault, the heat of the weather and thirsty nature of
the work I was engaged in, which led me into excess before I was aware
of what I was doing.  But I will not urge that.  I will take every
blame.  I will throw myself entirely on her mercy; and surely human
creatures should not be unmerciful since God is so merciful."

"I grieve, dear Frank, to hear you speak in this way," said Mrs
Oliphant, very gravely and sadly; "you should go on your knees and
humble yourself in the dust, not before poor sinners, such as I and my
child are, but before Him who alone can pardon your sin.  I think you
are deceiving yourself.  I fear so.  It is not that Mary is void of
pity.  She does not take upon herself to condemn you--it is not her
province; but that does not make her feel that she can look upon you as
one who could really make her happy.  Alas! it is one of the miserable
things connected with the drink, that those who have become its slaves
cannot be trusted.  I may seem to speak harshly, but I _must_ speak out.
Your expressions of sorrow and penitence cannot secure your future
moderation.  You mean _now_ what you say; but what guarantee have we
that you will not again transgress?"

"My own pledged word," replied Frank, proudly, "that henceforth I will
be all that Mary would have me be."

"Except a pledged total abstainer," said Mrs Oliphant, quietly.

Frank remained silent for a few moments, then he said,--

"If I cannot control myself without a pledge, I shall never do so _with_
one."

"No, not by the pledge only, or chiefly.  But it would be a help.  It
would be a check.  It would be a something to appeal to, as being an
open declaration of what you were resolved to keep to.  But oh, I fear
that you do not wish to put such a restraint upon yourself, as you must
do, if you would really be what you would have us believe you mean to
be.  Were it otherwise, you would not hesitate--for Mary's sake, for
your own peace's sake--to renounce at once, and for ever, and entirely,
that drink which has already been to you, ay, and to us all, a source of
so much misery.  Dear Frank, I say it once for all, I never could allow
my beloved child to cast in her lot for life with one of whom I have
reason to fear that he is, or may become, the slave of that drink which
has driven peace, and joy, and comfort out of thousands of English
homes."

"But why should you fear this of me?" persisted Frank.  "Within the last
three years I have fallen twice.  I do not deny it.  But surely two
falls in that long space of time do not show a habit of excess.  On each
occasion I was overcome--taken off my guard.  I have now learned, and
thoroughly, I trust, the lesson to be watchful.  I only ask for one more
trial.  I want to show Mary, I want to show you all, that I can still be
strictly sober, strictly moderate, without total abstinence, without a
pledge.  And oh, do not let it be said that the mother and daughter of a
minister of the gospel were less ready to pardon than their heavenly
Master."

"Oh, Frank," cried Mrs Oliphant, "how grievously you mistake us!
Pardon!  Yes; what are we that we should withhold pity or pardon?  But
surely it is one thing to forgive, and quite another thing to entrust
one's happiness, or the happiness of one's child, into hands which we
dare not hope can steadily maintain it.  I can say no more.  Write to
Mary, and she will answer you calmly and fully by letter, as she could
not do were she to meet you now."

Poor Frank!  Why did he not renounce at once that enticing stimulant
which had already worked him so much misery?  Was it worth while letting
so paltry an indulgence separate for ever between himself and one whom
he so dearly loved?  Why would he not pledge himself at once to total
abstinence?  There was a time when he would have done so--that time when
he spoke on the subject to the rector, and made the attempt at his own
home.  But now a spell seemed to hold him back.  He would not or could
not see the necessity of relinquishing that which he had come to crave
and love more than his daily food.

"I must use it," he said to himself; "but there is no reason why I
should abuse it."

He wrote to Mary and told her so.  He told her that he was now fully
alive to his own weakness, and that she might depend on his watchfulness
and moderation, imploring her to give him one, and but one, more trial.
He would watch, he would strive, he would pray to be strictly moderate.
She should never have cause to reproach him again.

She replied:--

  "DEAR FRANK,--It would be cruelty in me were I to hold out any hope to
  you that I can ever again be more to you than one who must always take
  a deep interest in your welfare, and must feel truly grateful to you
  for having saved her life.  That you _mean_ now to be all that you
  promise, I do not doubt; but that you really _will_ be so, I dare not
  hope.  You have been seen by me twice in such a condition as made me
  shrink from you with terror and disgust.  Were we to be married, and
  you should be betrayed into excess, the first time, you would be
  overwhelmed; the second time, you would be ashamed and pained; the
  third time, you would feel it, but not very acutely.  You would get
  used, by degrees, to my witnessing such degradation; it would be
  killing me, but it would be making less and less impression upon you.
  I dare not run the terrible risk.  I dare not join myself to you in a
  bond which could never be severed, however aggravated might be my
  misery and your sin.  Oh, Frank, my heart is well nigh broken!  I have
  loved you, and do love you still.  Let us be one in heaven, though we
  never can be so here.  Pray, oh, pray for grace to resist your
  temptation!  Ask to be made a true follower of the Lord Jesus, and you
  will be guided aright, and we _shall_ meet then in that bright land
  where all shall rejoice together who have, by grace, fought the fight
  and won the victory here.--Sincerely yours, MARY OLIPHANT."

Frank read this letter over and over again, and groaned in the fulness
of his distress.  She had not asked him to become an abstainer.  Was it
because she felt that it was hopeless?  _He_ knew it to be so.  He knew
that if he signed the pledge he should only add a broken vow to his
other sins.  He felt that, dearly as he loved Mary, he could not forego
all intoxicating drinks even for her sake.  He dared not pray that he
might be able to abstain, for he felt that he should not really wish for
the accomplishment of such a prayer.  Habitual indulgence had taken all
the stiffness out of his will.  And yet the thought of losing Mary was
utter misery.  He leaned his head on his hands, and gazed for a long
time on her letter.  At last there came a thought into his mind.  All
might not yet be lost.  There was still one way of escape.  He rose up
comforted, and thrusting the letter into his pocket, sought out his
mother.  He found her alone.  She looked at him with deep anxiety and
pitying love, as well she might, when she marked the gloom that had
settled down on his once happy face.  Alas she knew its cause too well.
She knew that he was on the downward path of intemperance, and she knew
how rapid was the descent.  She was well aware that his sinful excess
had been the cause of the breaking off of his engagement with the
rector's daughter.  Oh, how her heart ached for him.  She would have
given all she possessed to see him what he once was.  She was prepared
for any sacrifice, if only he could be reclaimed before it should be too
late.

"Dearest mother," he said, throwing himself down beside her, clasping
her knees, and looking up imploringly into her face, "I'm a miserable
creature, on the road to ruin, body and soul, unless something comes to
stop me."

"Oh, my boy, my boy!" cried his mother, bursting into tears; "do not say
so.  You have gone astray; but so have we all, one way or other.  There
is hope for you if you return.  Surely the evil habit cannot be already
so strong upon you that you cannot summon strength and resolution to
break through it."

"Oh, you do not, you cannot know what a helpless creature I am!" was his
reply.  "When once I begin to taste, every good resolution melts away in
a moment."

"Then give up such things, and abstain altogether, my beloved Frank, if
that be the case," said Lady Oldfield.

"I cannot," he replied bitterly.  "I cannot keep from them, they must be
kept from me, and then I should have some chance."

"But, my dear boy, how can that always be?  You cannot expect your
father to banish beer and wine from his table, and to refuse to set them
before his guests.  You cannot expect that he should debar himself the
moderate use of these things because you have, unhappily, learned to
take them immoderately."

"No.  I cannot, of course.  I cannot, and I do not expect it, and
therefore I am come to put before you, my dearest mother, what I believe
will be my only chance.  You know that Hubert Oliphant is going to join
his Uncle Abraham in South Australia.  He sails in October.  He is going
by a total abstinence ship, which will not therefore carry any
intoxicating drinks.  Will you and my dear father consent to my going
with Hubert?  My unhappy taste would be broken through by the time the
voyage was over, as I should never so much as see beer, or wine, or
spirits; and the fresh sea-air would be a better tonic than porter,
wine, or ale; so that you would have no need to fear about my health."

Lady Oldfield did not reply for several minutes.  She was, at first,
utterly confounded at such a proposal from the son whom she idolised,
and she was on the point of at once scouting the idea as altogether wild
and out of the question.  But a few moments' reflection made her pause.
Terrible as was the thought of the separation, the prospect of her son's
becoming a confirmed drunkard was more terrible still.  This plan, if
carried out, might result in Frank's return to habitual sobriety.  Ought
she therefore to refuse her sanction absolutely and at once?  At last
she said,--

"And who, my dearest boy, has put such a strange thought into your head?
And how long do you mean to remain away?  And what are you to do when
you reach Australia?"

"No one has suggested the thing to me," he replied.  "It came into my
mind as I was thinking over all the misery the drink has brought on me
of late.  If I could go with Hubert, you know what a friend and support
I should have in him.  I might remain in the colony two or three years,
and then come back again, please God, a thoroughly sober man; and then
perhaps dear Mary would relent, and give me back my old place in her
heart again."

Lady Oldfield drew him close to her, and clasping her arms round him,
wept long and bitterly.

"Oh, my boy, my Frank!" she exclaimed; "how shall I bear to part with
you?  Yet it may be that this is God's doing; that he has put this into
your heart; and if so, if it should be for your deliverance from your
unhappy habit, I dare not say `No.'  But I cannot tell what your father
will say.  I will put the matter before him, however, and I am sure he
will do what is wise and right."

Sir Thomas did not refuse his consent.  He had felt so keenly the
disgrace which his son's increasing excesses were bringing upon the
family, that, sorely as he grieved over the thoughts of parting with
Frank, he was willing that he should join Hubert Oliphant in his voyage,
hoping that the high character and Christian example of the rector's son
might be of benefit to his poor unhappy and erring child.  Frank's
countenance brightened when he had obtained his father's consent, and he
at once made known his purpose to Hubert Oliphant, and asked his advice
and help, begging him also to intercede for him with Mary that she would
allow him to hope that, if he returned thoroughly reformed, she would
consent to their engagement being renewed.  Hubert, as well as his
father, had felt the deepest pity for Frank, in spite of his grievous
falls, specially when they remembered how, but for his own mother's
opposition, he might now have been one of their little temperance band,
standing firm, happy himself, and helping to make others happy.  They
therefore gladly encouraged him to carry out his purpose, promising that
Hubert should introduce him to his Uncle Abraham, who might find for
him, while he remained in the colony, some employment suitable to his
station, where Hubert and his uncle could support and strengthen him by
companionship and counsel.  And would Mary hold out any hopes?  Poor
Mary, she loved him still.  Oh, how dearly!  Could she refuse him all
encouragement?  No.  But she dared not promise unconditionally to be to
him as in former days.  She would not renew the engagement now; but she
would wait and see the issue of his present plans.

Thus matters stood, when the last week came that Frank and Hubert would
spend in their English homes.  Mary and Frank had met once or twice
since his voyage had been decided on, but it was in the presence of
others.  These were sorrowful meetings, yet there was the glow of a
subdued hope, to make them not altogether dark to those who, but for the
miserable tyranny of the drink, might now have been bright with happy
anticipations of the future.

And now it was a sweet autumn evening, when every sight and sound was
plaintive with the foreshadowings of a coming winter--the sunset hues,
the lights and shadows, the first decaying leaves, the notes of birds,
the hum of insects.  Everything was very still as Mary again trod the
little path from the cottage of the poor woman whom she had been
visiting on the evening of Frank's last sad fall.  She had nearly
reached the stile, her eyes bent on the ground, and her heart full of
sorrowful memories and forebodings, when she was startled by hearing the
sound of passionate sobbings.  She raised her eyes.  Kneeling by the
stile, his head buried in his hands, was Frank Oldfield; his whole frame
shook with the violence of his emotion, and she could hear her own name
murmured again and again in the agony of his self-reproach or prayer.
How sadly beautiful he looked!  And oh, how her heart overflowed with
pitying tenderness towards him.

"Frank," she said; but she could add no more.

He started up, for he had not heard her light tread.  His hair was
wildly tossed back, his eyes filled with tears, his lips quivering.

"You here, Mary," he gasped.  "I little thought of this.  I little
thought to meet you here.  I came to take a parting look at the spot
where I had seen you last as my own.  Here it was that I sinned and
fooled away my happiness, and here I would pour out the bitterness of my
fruitless sorrow."

"Not fruitless sorrow, I trust, dear Frank," she said gently.  "It
cannot be fruitless, if it be a genuine sorrow for sin.  Oh, perhaps
there is hope before us yet!"

"Do _you_ say so, Mary?  Do _you_ bid me hope?  Well, I will live on
that hope.  I ask no promise from you, I do not expect it.  I am glad
that we have met here, after all.  Here you have seen both my
degradation and my sorrow."

"Yes, Frank, and I am glad, too; it will connect this sad spot with
brighter memories.  God bless you.  I shall never cease to pray for you,
come what will.  May that comfort you, and may you--may you,--" her
tears choked her voice.

"Oh, one word more," he said imploringly, as, having accepted his arm in
climbing the stile, she now relinquished it, and was turning from
him--"One word more--one word of parting!  Oh, one word such as once
might have been!"

His hands were stretched towards her.  They might never meet again.  She
hesitated for an instant.  Then for one moment they were pressed heart
to heart, and lip to lip--but for one moment, and then,-- "Farewell,"
"Farewell."



CHAPTER NINE.

YOUNG DECISION.

One week later, and three men might be seen walking briskly along a by-
street in Liverpool towards the docks.  These were Hubert Oliphant,
Frank Oldfield, and Captain Merryweather, commander of the barque
_Sabrina_, bound for South Australia.  The vessel was to sail next day,
and the young men were going with the captain to make some final
arrangements about their cabins.  Hubert looked bright and happy, poor
Frank subdued and sad.  The captain was a thorough and hearty-looking
sailor, brown as a coffee-berry from exposure to weather; with abundance
of bushy beard and whiskers; broad-shouldered, tall, and upright.  It
was now the middle of October, just three days after the flight of
Samuel Johnson from Langhurst, as recorded in the opening of our story.
As the captain and his two companions turned the corner of the street
they came upon a group which arrested their attention at once.

Standing not far 

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