Chapter Five.The Young Musician.A Grand piano being carried into Mr Esau Tankardew’s! What next! Whatcanthe old gentleman want with a grand piano? Most likely he has taken it for a bad debt—some tenant sold up. But say what they may, the fact is the same. And, stranger still, a tuner pays a visit to put the instrument in tune. What can it all mean? Marvellous reports, too, tell of a sudden domestic revolution. The dust and cobwebs have had notice to quit, brooms and brushes have travelled into corners and crevices hitherto unexplored, the piano rests in a parlour which smiles in the gaiety of a new carpet and new curtains; prints have come to light upon the walls, chairs and tables have taken heart, and now wear an honest gloss upon their legs and faces; ornaments, which had hitherto been too dirty to be ornamental, now show themselves in their real colours. Outside the house, also, wonderful things have come to pass; the rocking doorstep is at rest, and its fellow has been adjusted to a proper level;ever-greens have taken the place of the oldnever-greens; knocker and door handle are not ashamed to show their native brass; the missing rails have returned to their duty in the ranks. The whole establishment, including its master, has emerged out of a state of foggy dilapidation. Old Molly Gilders has retired into the interior, and given place above stairs to a dapper damsel. As for the ghosts, they could not be expected to remain under suchdispiritingcircumstances, and have had the good sense to resort to some more congenial dwelling.While gossip on this unlooked-for transformation was still flying in hot haste about Hopeworth and the neighbourhood, the families both at “The Firs” and “The Shrubbery” were greatly astonished one morning by an invitation to spend an evening at Mr Tankardew’s.“Well,” said Mr Rothwell, “I suppose it won’t do to decline; the old gentleman means it, no doubt, as an attention, and it would not be politic to vex him.”“I am sure, my dear,” said his wife, “Ican’t think of going. I shall be bored to death; you must make my excuses and accept the invitation for the girls. I don’t suppose Mark will care to go; the old man seems to have a spite against him—I can’t tell why.”“I’ll go,” interposed Mark, “if it be only to see the fun. I’ll be on my good behaviour. I’ll call for tea and toast-and-water at regular intervals all through the evening, and then the old gentleman will be sure to put me down for something handsome in his will.”“You’d better take some music with you,” said his mother, turning to her eldest daughter; “Mr Tankardew has got his new piano on purpose, I suppose.”“Ay, do,” cried Mark; “take something lively, and you’ll fetch out the old spiders and daddy-long-legs which have been sent into the corners like naughty boys, and they’ll come out by millions and dance for us.”So it was settled that the invitation should be accepted. The surprise at “The Shrubbery” was of a more agreeable kind. Mrs Franklin and her daughter had learnt to love the old man, in spite of his eccentricities; they saw the sterling strength and consistency of his character. They had, however, hardly expected such an invitation; but the reports of the strange changes in progress in Mr Tankardew’s dwelling had reached their ears, so that it was evident that he was intending, for some unknown reasons, to break through the reserve and retirement of years, and let a little more light and sociability into the inner recesses of his establishment. That he had a special object in doing this they felt assured; what that object was they could not divine. Had Mrs Franklin known that the Rothwells had been asked, she would have declined the invitation; but she was unaware of this till she had agreed to go; it was then too late to draw back.All the guests were very punctual on the appointed evening, curiosity having acted as a stimulant with the Rothwells of a more wholesome kind than they were in the habit of imbibing. What a change! It was now the end of October, and the evenings were chilly, so that all were glad of the cheery fire, partly of wood and partly of coal, which threw its brightness all abroad in flashes of restless light. Old pictures, apparently family portraits, adorned the walls, relieved by prints of a more modern and lively appearance. One space was bare, where a portrait might have been expected as a match to another on the other side of the fireplace. The omission struck every one at once on entering. The furniture, generally, was old-fashioned, and somewhat subdued in its tints, as though it had long languished under the cold shade of neglect, and had passed its best days in obscurity.Not many minutes, however, were given to the guests for observation, for Mr Tankardew soon appeared in evening costume, accompanied by the young stranger who had taken refuge on the night of the storm in Samuel Hodges’ farm kitchen. Mr Tankardew introduced him to the Rothwells as Mr John Randolph, an old-young friend. “I’ve known his father sixty years and more,” he said; then he added, “my young friend has travelled a good deal, and will have some curiosities to show you by-and-by—but now let us have tea. Mrs Franklin, pray do me the honour to preside.”While tea was in progress, Mr Tankardew suddenly surprised his guests by remarking dryly, and abruptly:“You must know, ladies and gentlemen, that my mother was a brewer.”“Indeed!” exclaimed Mr Rothwell, in considerable astonishment; and then asked, “was the business an extensive one?”“Pretty well, pretty well,” was the reply. “She brewed every morning and night, but she’d only onedrayand that was atray, and she’d a famous large teapot for a vat; we never used hops nor sent our barley to be malted, what little we used we gave to the fowls; and we never felt the want of porter, or pale ale, or bitter beer.”“It is a pity that more people are not of your mother’s mind,” said Mrs Franklin, laughing.“So it is indeed; but I shouldn’t, perhaps, have said anything about it, only the teapot you’ve got in your hand now was my dear old mother’s brewery, and that set me thinking and talking about it.”It was not their host’s fault, nor Mr John Randolph’s, who acted as joint entertainer, if their guests did not make a hearty tea. The meal concluded, Mr Tankardew requested his young friend to bring out some of his curiosities. These greatly interested all the party—especially Mrs Franklin and Mary, who were delighted with the traveller’s liveliness and intelligence.“Show our friends some of your sketches,” said the old man. These were produced, and were principally in water colours, evidently being the work of a master’s hand. As he turned to a rather un-English scene, the young artist sighed and said, “I have some very sad remembrances connected with that sketch.”“Pray let us have them,” said Mr Tankardew. Mr Randolph complied, and proceeded: “This is an Australian sketch: you see those curious-looking trees, they are blue and red gums: there is the wattle, too, with its almond-scented flowers, and the native lilac. That cottage in the foreground was put up by an enterprising colonist, who went out from England some fifteen years ago; you see how lovely its situation is with its background of hills. I was out late one evening with a young companion, and we were rather jaded with walking, when we came upon this cottage. We stood upon no ceremony, but marched in and craved hospitality, which no one in the bush ever dreamt of refusing. We found the whole family at supper: the father had died about a year before of consumption, after he had fenced in his three acres and built his house, and planted vineyard and peach orchard. There were sheep, too, with a black fellow for a shepherd, and a stock yard with some fine bullocks in it; altogether, it was a tidy little property, and a blooming family to manage it. The widow sat at the head of the table, and her son, a young man of two-and-twenty, next to her. There were three younger children, two girls and a boy, all looking bright and healthy. We had a hearty welcome, and poured out news while they poured out tea, which with damper (an Australian cake baked on the hearth), and mutton made an excellent meal. When tea was over we had a good long talk, and found that the young farmer was an excellent son, and in a fair way to establish the whole family in prosperity. Well, the time came for parting, they pressed us to stay the night, but we could not.Just as we were leaving, my companion took out a flask of spirits, and said, ‘Come, let us drink to our next happy meeting, and success to the farm.’ I shall never forget the look of the poor mother, nor of the young man himself; the old woman turned very pale, and the son very red, and said, ‘Thank you all the same, I’ve done with these things, I’ve had too much of them.’ ‘Oh! Nonsense,’ my friend said; ‘a little drop won’t hurt you, perhaps we may never meet again.’ ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said the other, in a sort of irresolute way. I could see he was thirsting for the drink, for his eye sparkled when the flask was produced. I whispered to my friend to forbear, but he would not. ‘Nonsense,’ he said; ‘just a little can do them no harm, it is only friendly to offer it.’ ‘Just a taste, then, merely a taste,’ said our host, and produced glasses. The mother tried to interfere, but her son frowned her into silence. So grog was made, and the younger ones, too, must taste it, and before we left the flask had been emptied. I took none myself, for never has a drop of intoxicants passed my lips since I first left my English home. I spoke strongly to my companion when we were on our way again, but he only laughed at me, and said, ‘What’s the harm?’”“And whatwasthe harm?” asked Mark, in a rather sarcastic tone.“I will tell you,” replied John Randolph, quietly. “Four years later I passed alone across the same track, and thought I would look in on my old entertainer. I found the place, but where were the owners? All was still as death, little of the fence remained, the stock yard was all to pieces, the garden was a wilderness, the cottage a wreck. I made inquiries afterward very diligently, and heard that the young farmer had taken to drinking, that the younger children had followed his example, the poor mother was in her grave, and her eldest son a disreputable vagabond; where the rest were no one knew. Oh! I resolved when I heard it that never would I under any circumstances offer intoxicating drinks to others, as I had previously, while myself a total abstainer, occasionally done.”“But surely,” said Mr Rothwell, “we are not answerable for the abuse which others may make of what is lawful and useful if taken in moderation. The other day I offered the guard of my train a glass of ale; he took it; afterward the train ran off the line through his neglect; it seems he was drunken, but he appeared all right when I gave him the ale; surely I was not answerable there? The guard ought to have stopped and refused when he knew he had had enough.”“No, not answerable for the accident, perhaps,” said Mr Tankardew; “but your case and the case just related by my young friend are not quite parallel, for his companion knew that the farmer had, by his own confession, been in the habit of exceeding;youdidn’t know but that the guard was a moderate man.”“Exactly so,” replied the other; “I presumed, of course, that he knew when to stop.”“And yet, my dear sir,” rejoined the old man, earnestly, “isn’t it perilous work offering a stimulant which is so ruinous to tens of thousands, and has emptied multitudes of homes of health, and peace, and character?”“Well, it may be so; I’m certainly beginning to think it anything but wise getting children into the habit of liking these things;” and he glanced anxiously at Mark, who appeared intensely absorbed in looking at some photographs upside down.There was a few moments’ pause, and then the old man said, “Come, let us have a little music, perhaps Miss Rothwell will favour us.”Nothing loth, the young lady led off in a brilliant sonata, displaying in the execution more strength of muscle than purity of taste; then came a duet by the eldest and youngest sisters, and then a song by the second. Mr Tankardew expressed his satisfaction emphatically at the conclusion, possibly more at finding the performance ended than at the performance itself.Mr John Randolph then seated himself at the piano, at the host’s request, and addressed himself to his work with a loving earnestness that showed that the soul of music dwelt within him. The very first chords he struck riveted at once the attention of every one, an attention which was deepened into surprised delight, as he executed with perfect finish passages of surpassing brilliancy growing out of the national airs of many countries—airs which floated out from the entanglements of the more rapid portions with an earnest pathos that held every hearer as with a spell of enchantment.“Marvellous, marvellous! Bravo!” cried both Mr Rothwell and Mark at the conclusion.“My young friend,” said Mr Tankardew, “will be glad to give lessons in music, as an occupation. He will be making my house his home at present.”There was a slight expression of surprise on every face, and of something like scorn or contempt on the Rothwells’. However, both the young ladies at “The Firs” and Mrs Franklin expressed their wish to engage Mr Randolph’s services, and so it was arranged.
A Grand piano being carried into Mr Esau Tankardew’s! What next! Whatcanthe old gentleman want with a grand piano? Most likely he has taken it for a bad debt—some tenant sold up. But say what they may, the fact is the same. And, stranger still, a tuner pays a visit to put the instrument in tune. What can it all mean? Marvellous reports, too, tell of a sudden domestic revolution. The dust and cobwebs have had notice to quit, brooms and brushes have travelled into corners and crevices hitherto unexplored, the piano rests in a parlour which smiles in the gaiety of a new carpet and new curtains; prints have come to light upon the walls, chairs and tables have taken heart, and now wear an honest gloss upon their legs and faces; ornaments, which had hitherto been too dirty to be ornamental, now show themselves in their real colours. Outside the house, also, wonderful things have come to pass; the rocking doorstep is at rest, and its fellow has been adjusted to a proper level;ever-greens have taken the place of the oldnever-greens; knocker and door handle are not ashamed to show their native brass; the missing rails have returned to their duty in the ranks. The whole establishment, including its master, has emerged out of a state of foggy dilapidation. Old Molly Gilders has retired into the interior, and given place above stairs to a dapper damsel. As for the ghosts, they could not be expected to remain under suchdispiritingcircumstances, and have had the good sense to resort to some more congenial dwelling.
While gossip on this unlooked-for transformation was still flying in hot haste about Hopeworth and the neighbourhood, the families both at “The Firs” and “The Shrubbery” were greatly astonished one morning by an invitation to spend an evening at Mr Tankardew’s.
“Well,” said Mr Rothwell, “I suppose it won’t do to decline; the old gentleman means it, no doubt, as an attention, and it would not be politic to vex him.”
“I am sure, my dear,” said his wife, “Ican’t think of going. I shall be bored to death; you must make my excuses and accept the invitation for the girls. I don’t suppose Mark will care to go; the old man seems to have a spite against him—I can’t tell why.”
“I’ll go,” interposed Mark, “if it be only to see the fun. I’ll be on my good behaviour. I’ll call for tea and toast-and-water at regular intervals all through the evening, and then the old gentleman will be sure to put me down for something handsome in his will.”
“You’d better take some music with you,” said his mother, turning to her eldest daughter; “Mr Tankardew has got his new piano on purpose, I suppose.”
“Ay, do,” cried Mark; “take something lively, and you’ll fetch out the old spiders and daddy-long-legs which have been sent into the corners like naughty boys, and they’ll come out by millions and dance for us.”
So it was settled that the invitation should be accepted. The surprise at “The Shrubbery” was of a more agreeable kind. Mrs Franklin and her daughter had learnt to love the old man, in spite of his eccentricities; they saw the sterling strength and consistency of his character. They had, however, hardly expected such an invitation; but the reports of the strange changes in progress in Mr Tankardew’s dwelling had reached their ears, so that it was evident that he was intending, for some unknown reasons, to break through the reserve and retirement of years, and let a little more light and sociability into the inner recesses of his establishment. That he had a special object in doing this they felt assured; what that object was they could not divine. Had Mrs Franklin known that the Rothwells had been asked, she would have declined the invitation; but she was unaware of this till she had agreed to go; it was then too late to draw back.
All the guests were very punctual on the appointed evening, curiosity having acted as a stimulant with the Rothwells of a more wholesome kind than they were in the habit of imbibing. What a change! It was now the end of October, and the evenings were chilly, so that all were glad of the cheery fire, partly of wood and partly of coal, which threw its brightness all abroad in flashes of restless light. Old pictures, apparently family portraits, adorned the walls, relieved by prints of a more modern and lively appearance. One space was bare, where a portrait might have been expected as a match to another on the other side of the fireplace. The omission struck every one at once on entering. The furniture, generally, was old-fashioned, and somewhat subdued in its tints, as though it had long languished under the cold shade of neglect, and had passed its best days in obscurity.
Not many minutes, however, were given to the guests for observation, for Mr Tankardew soon appeared in evening costume, accompanied by the young stranger who had taken refuge on the night of the storm in Samuel Hodges’ farm kitchen. Mr Tankardew introduced him to the Rothwells as Mr John Randolph, an old-young friend. “I’ve known his father sixty years and more,” he said; then he added, “my young friend has travelled a good deal, and will have some curiosities to show you by-and-by—but now let us have tea. Mrs Franklin, pray do me the honour to preside.”
While tea was in progress, Mr Tankardew suddenly surprised his guests by remarking dryly, and abruptly:
“You must know, ladies and gentlemen, that my mother was a brewer.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mr Rothwell, in considerable astonishment; and then asked, “was the business an extensive one?”
“Pretty well, pretty well,” was the reply. “She brewed every morning and night, but she’d only onedrayand that was atray, and she’d a famous large teapot for a vat; we never used hops nor sent our barley to be malted, what little we used we gave to the fowls; and we never felt the want of porter, or pale ale, or bitter beer.”
“It is a pity that more people are not of your mother’s mind,” said Mrs Franklin, laughing.
“So it is indeed; but I shouldn’t, perhaps, have said anything about it, only the teapot you’ve got in your hand now was my dear old mother’s brewery, and that set me thinking and talking about it.”
It was not their host’s fault, nor Mr John Randolph’s, who acted as joint entertainer, if their guests did not make a hearty tea. The meal concluded, Mr Tankardew requested his young friend to bring out some of his curiosities. These greatly interested all the party—especially Mrs Franklin and Mary, who were delighted with the traveller’s liveliness and intelligence.
“Show our friends some of your sketches,” said the old man. These were produced, and were principally in water colours, evidently being the work of a master’s hand. As he turned to a rather un-English scene, the young artist sighed and said, “I have some very sad remembrances connected with that sketch.”
“Pray let us have them,” said Mr Tankardew. Mr Randolph complied, and proceeded: “This is an Australian sketch: you see those curious-looking trees, they are blue and red gums: there is the wattle, too, with its almond-scented flowers, and the native lilac. That cottage in the foreground was put up by an enterprising colonist, who went out from England some fifteen years ago; you see how lovely its situation is with its background of hills. I was out late one evening with a young companion, and we were rather jaded with walking, when we came upon this cottage. We stood upon no ceremony, but marched in and craved hospitality, which no one in the bush ever dreamt of refusing. We found the whole family at supper: the father had died about a year before of consumption, after he had fenced in his three acres and built his house, and planted vineyard and peach orchard. There were sheep, too, with a black fellow for a shepherd, and a stock yard with some fine bullocks in it; altogether, it was a tidy little property, and a blooming family to manage it. The widow sat at the head of the table, and her son, a young man of two-and-twenty, next to her. There were three younger children, two girls and a boy, all looking bright and healthy. We had a hearty welcome, and poured out news while they poured out tea, which with damper (an Australian cake baked on the hearth), and mutton made an excellent meal. When tea was over we had a good long talk, and found that the young farmer was an excellent son, and in a fair way to establish the whole family in prosperity. Well, the time came for parting, they pressed us to stay the night, but we could not.Just as we were leaving, my companion took out a flask of spirits, and said, ‘Come, let us drink to our next happy meeting, and success to the farm.’ I shall never forget the look of the poor mother, nor of the young man himself; the old woman turned very pale, and the son very red, and said, ‘Thank you all the same, I’ve done with these things, I’ve had too much of them.’ ‘Oh! Nonsense,’ my friend said; ‘a little drop won’t hurt you, perhaps we may never meet again.’ ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said the other, in a sort of irresolute way. I could see he was thirsting for the drink, for his eye sparkled when the flask was produced. I whispered to my friend to forbear, but he would not. ‘Nonsense,’ he said; ‘just a little can do them no harm, it is only friendly to offer it.’ ‘Just a taste, then, merely a taste,’ said our host, and produced glasses. The mother tried to interfere, but her son frowned her into silence. So grog was made, and the younger ones, too, must taste it, and before we left the flask had been emptied. I took none myself, for never has a drop of intoxicants passed my lips since I first left my English home. I spoke strongly to my companion when we were on our way again, but he only laughed at me, and said, ‘What’s the harm?’”
“And whatwasthe harm?” asked Mark, in a rather sarcastic tone.
“I will tell you,” replied John Randolph, quietly. “Four years later I passed alone across the same track, and thought I would look in on my old entertainer. I found the place, but where were the owners? All was still as death, little of the fence remained, the stock yard was all to pieces, the garden was a wilderness, the cottage a wreck. I made inquiries afterward very diligently, and heard that the young farmer had taken to drinking, that the younger children had followed his example, the poor mother was in her grave, and her eldest son a disreputable vagabond; where the rest were no one knew. Oh! I resolved when I heard it that never would I under any circumstances offer intoxicating drinks to others, as I had previously, while myself a total abstainer, occasionally done.”
“But surely,” said Mr Rothwell, “we are not answerable for the abuse which others may make of what is lawful and useful if taken in moderation. The other day I offered the guard of my train a glass of ale; he took it; afterward the train ran off the line through his neglect; it seems he was drunken, but he appeared all right when I gave him the ale; surely I was not answerable there? The guard ought to have stopped and refused when he knew he had had enough.”
“No, not answerable for the accident, perhaps,” said Mr Tankardew; “but your case and the case just related by my young friend are not quite parallel, for his companion knew that the farmer had, by his own confession, been in the habit of exceeding;youdidn’t know but that the guard was a moderate man.”
“Exactly so,” replied the other; “I presumed, of course, that he knew when to stop.”
“And yet, my dear sir,” rejoined the old man, earnestly, “isn’t it perilous work offering a stimulant which is so ruinous to tens of thousands, and has emptied multitudes of homes of health, and peace, and character?”
“Well, it may be so; I’m certainly beginning to think it anything but wise getting children into the habit of liking these things;” and he glanced anxiously at Mark, who appeared intensely absorbed in looking at some photographs upside down.
There was a few moments’ pause, and then the old man said, “Come, let us have a little music, perhaps Miss Rothwell will favour us.”
Nothing loth, the young lady led off in a brilliant sonata, displaying in the execution more strength of muscle than purity of taste; then came a duet by the eldest and youngest sisters, and then a song by the second. Mr Tankardew expressed his satisfaction emphatically at the conclusion, possibly more at finding the performance ended than at the performance itself.
Mr John Randolph then seated himself at the piano, at the host’s request, and addressed himself to his work with a loving earnestness that showed that the soul of music dwelt within him. The very first chords he struck riveted at once the attention of every one, an attention which was deepened into surprised delight, as he executed with perfect finish passages of surpassing brilliancy growing out of the national airs of many countries—airs which floated out from the entanglements of the more rapid portions with an earnest pathos that held every hearer as with a spell of enchantment.
“Marvellous, marvellous! Bravo!” cried both Mr Rothwell and Mark at the conclusion.
“My young friend,” said Mr Tankardew, “will be glad to give lessons in music, as an occupation. He will be making my house his home at present.”
There was a slight expression of surprise on every face, and of something like scorn or contempt on the Rothwells’. However, both the young ladies at “The Firs” and Mrs Franklin expressed their wish to engage Mr Randolph’s services, and so it was arranged.
Chapter Six.Heartless Work.Music certainly flourished at “The Firs” and “The Shrubbery” under the able instructions of Mr John Randolph. The young man’s manner was puzzling to his pupils at both houses. With the Misses Rothwell (who gavethemselvesairs, besides practising those which were given them by their master), he was quietly civil and deferential, and yet made them sensible of his superiority to them in a way which they could not help feeling, and yet equally could not resent. With Mary Franklin his respectful manner was mingled with an almost tenderness, ever kept in check by a cautious self-restraint. What did it mean? It made her feel embarrassed and almost unhappy. She had no wish to entangle the young musician’s affections, and indeed felt that her own were getting entangled with Mark Rothwell. Mark contrived to throw himself a good deal in her way at this time, far more than her mother liked, but Mr Rothwell himself seemed bent on promoting the intimacy, and his son laid himself out to please. There was, moreover, rankling in Mary’s heart the impression that Mark was being harshly judged by her mother; this helped to draw her closer to him. He was, besides, an excellent performer on the flute, and would sometimes come over on lesson mornings and accompany her, much to the annoyance of her instructor.On one of these occasions, a little more than a year after the party at his house, Mr Tankardew was present, having made an unusually early call. Mark wished him gone, and when the music lesson was over, and Mr Randolph had retired, hoped that the old man would take his leave; but nothing seemed farther from that gentleman’s thoughts, so that Mark was obliged to bottle up his wrath (the only spirit, alas! That he ever did bottle up), and to leave Mr Tankardew in possession. When he was gone, the old man looked keenly at mother and daughter. Mrs Franklin coloured and sighed. Mary turned very red and then very pale, and took an earnest passing interest in the pattern of the hearthrug.“A very musical young gentleman, Mr Mark Rothwell,” said their visitor dryly. “I wish he’d breathe as much harmony into his home as he breathes melody out of his flute.” Neither mother nor daughter spoke, but Mary’s heart beat very fast. “Hem! I see,” continued the other, “you don’t believe it! Only slander, malice, lies. Well, take my word for it, the love that comes out of the brandy flask will never get into the teapot. I wish you both a very good morning; ay, better one than this, a great deal;” and with a sternness of manner quite unusual, the old man took his leave.“How cruel! How unjust!” exclaimed Mary, when Mr Tankardew was gone. “Poor Mark! Every one strikes at him.”Butwasit cruel?wasit unjust? Let us go with Mark Rothwell himself, as he leaves his house that very night, sneaking out at the backdoor like a felon.A few hundred yards to the rear of the outbuildings stood a neat and roomy cottage; this was occupied by John Gubbins, the coachman, a man bound to Mark by unlimited donations of beer, and equally bound to a gang of swindlers who had floated their way to his pocket and privacy on the waves of strong drink. John had been gambling with these men, and had of course lost his money to them, and somebody else’s too: the hard-earned savings of one of the maids who had trusted him to put them in the bank: of course he meant to repay them, with interest; that is to say, when the luck turned in his favour; but luck, like fortune, is blind, and tramples on those who court her most. It was very dark outside, as Mark groped his way along; but a muffled light showed him where the cottage window was. Three times he gave a long, low whistle, and then knocked four distinct raps on the door, which was cautiously opened by a man with a profusion of hair, beard and whiskers, which looked as though they did not belong to him, as was probably the case, not only with his hair, but with everything else that he wore, including some tarnished ornaments.“All right, sir, come in,” he said, and Mark entered.What a scene for a young man brought up as he had been! Could he really find any satisfaction in it? Yes, birds that love carrion flock together, and there was plenty of moral carrion here. A long deal table occupied the middle of the room, a smaller round one stood under the window and supported a tray loaded with glasses and pipes, with a tall black bottle in the midst of them. The glasses were turned upside down for the present, a pity it should not have been for the future too; they looked with the bottle in the centre like a little congregation surrounding a preacher. Oh! What a sermon of woe that bottle might have preached to them! But it didn’t speak; it was to set on fire the tongues of other speakers. There was a coloured print over the mantelpiece of Moses smiting the rock. What a solemn contrast to the streams of fire-water soon about to flow! John Gubbins sat at the top of the table, looking fat and anxious, half shy and half foolish; the man with the false hair and ornaments placed himself next to him. Three other strangers were present, a mixture of sham gentility and swagger, of whom it would be difficult to say which had descended into the lowest depths of blackguardism. And now business was begun; the glasses were transferred to the larger table, the bottle uncorked, lemons and sugar produced, and the poor kettle, made for better things, forced to defile its healthful contents by mixture with liquid madness, in the shape of whisky; then out came cards and dice. But what sound was that? Three very faint trembling whistles, followed by four equally feeble taps at the door? Another madman, who was he? Could it really be Jim Forbes, the footman, that respectable, steady-looking young man, who waited daily at the dining tables? Alas! It was indeed. Jim was the son of a poor widow, whose husband, a small farmer, had died of fever, leaving behind him a large family, a small cottage, smaller savings, and a good character; Jim was the eldest sort, and next to him was a poor crippled sister, whose patient hands added a little to the common stock by sewing; Jim, however, had been his widowed mother’s mainstay since his father’s death, and a willing, loving helper he was: ay, hehadbeen, but was he still? Jim had got a place at “The Firs”; first of all as a general helper, then as a footman, in which latter capacity he enjoyed the very questionable privilege of waiting at table, and hearing what was said at meals by Mr and Mrs Rothwell, their children, and guests. What Jim learnt on these occasions was this, that money and strong drink were the chief things worth living for. He didn’t believe it at first, for he saw in his mother’s cottage real happiness where there was little money and less alcohol; he saw, too, on his suffering sister’s brow a gilding of heaven’s sunshine more lovely than burnished gold, and a smile on her thin pale lips, which grace and love made sweeter than the most sparkling laugh of unsanctified beauty. Still, what he heard so constantly on the lips of those better educated than himself left its mark; he began to long for things out of his reach, and to pilfer a little and then a little more of whatwasin his reach, not money, but drink. Indeed he heard so much about betting and gambling, his master’s guests seemed to find the cards and the dice box so convenient a way of slipping a few pounds out of a friend’s pocket into their own without the trouble of giving an equivalent, that poor Jim got confused. True, he had learnt in the eighth commandment, when a boy, the words, “Thou shalt not steal”; but these better-informed guests at Mr Rothwell’s seemed able to take a flying leap over this scriptural barrier without any trouble, so he swallowed his scruples and his master’s wine at the same time, and thought he should like to have an opportunity of turning a snug little legacy of a hundred pounds, left him by an uncle, into something handsomer by a lucky venture or two. Conscience was not satisfied at first, but he silenced it by telling himself that he was going to enrich his poor mother, and make a lady of his crippled sister. Somehow or other there is a strange attraction that draws together kindred spirits in evil. Mark Rothwell found out what was going on in Jim’s mind, and determined to make use of him; only, of course, so as to get himself out of a little difficulty. Oh! No! He meant the poor lad no harm; nay, he intended to put him in the way of making his fortune. So one day after dinner Mark and the young man were closeted together for an hour in the butler’s pantry; wine flowed freely, and Jim was given to understand that his young master was quite willing to admit his humble companion into a choice little society of friends who were to meet at the coachman’s cottage on certain evenings, and play games of chance, in which, after due instruction from Mark, a person of Jim’s intelligence would be sure to win a golden harvest without the tedious process of tilling and sowing. The instructions commenced there and then in the pantry; several games were played, nearly all of which Jim won to his great delight. They only played “for love” this time, Mark said, but it was difficult to see where the “love” was, except for the drink, and there was plenty of that. One little favour, however, was required by the young master, for initiating Jim into the mysteries and miseries of gambling, and that was that he should lend his instructor what money he could spare, as Mark happened to be rather short just at this time. So Jim drew out a part of his legacy from the bank, and deposited half in Mark’s hands; the other half he took with him to the coachman’s cottage. Oh! It was a grand thing to be allowed to sit with such company, and to hear the wonderful stories of the gentlemen who condescended to come and place their stores of gold and silver within a poor footman’s reach. What with the tales, and the songs, and the whisky punch, Jim thought himself the happiest fellow alive the first night he joined the party, especially when he found himself the winner of three or four bright sovereigns, which had become his own for the mere throwing down of a few cards, and a rattle or two of the dice box. But all was not so pleasant the next morning. Jim awoke with a sick headache and a sore heart. And what should he do with his winnings? He would take them to his mother: nay, the very thought stung him like a serpent. His mother would want to know how he got the gold; or, when he threw it into her lap, she would say, “The Lord bless you, Jimmy, and give it you back a hundredfold”; and his sister would clasp her wasted hands in thankfulness, and he could not bear to think of a mother’s blessing and a sister’s prayers over gains that were tainted with the leprosy of sin. So he kept the money, and the next night of meeting he lost it, and more besides; and then another night he was a gainer; and the gambler’s thirst grew strong in him. But loss soon followed loss. His legacy was slipping surely down into the pockets of his new friends. Cruel! Cruel! Heartless Mark! And oh! The cursed drink! What meanness is there to which it will not lead its slaves?And now the night came we have before referred to. John Gubbins sat at the top of the table; Jim Forbes took his place near him. The spirits went round; the cards and dice were busy. John Gubbins lost, and Mark won. Jim Forbes lost; and his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glittered with excitement, and he ground his teeth together. The strangers affected to be surprised at his ill luck; really they couldn’t understand it, they said; they were quite sorry for him; but, “nothing venture, nothing win”;histurn would come next. But it did not come that night. Jim had now drawn the whole of his legacy from the bank. The last sovereign was staked; it was lost. He sprang to his feet, seized the uncut pack of cards, and hurled it to the further end of the room; then he shook his fist at his new companions, calling them cheats and villains. Up darted the man with the exuberant hair, and up rose Mark and Gubbins. But what wasthat? A strange noise outside. The dog in the kennel muttered a low growl, and then began to bark furiously; then the approach of footsteps was plain; a deathlike stillness fell on the whole party; the strangers caught up the cards and dice, and looked this way and that, pale and aghast. And now there came a loud and peremptory knocking at the door, as of men who were determined to find entrance.“Who’s there?” asked Gubbins, in quivering tones.“Open the door,” was the reply from a deep, loud voice.“I can’t, by no means, do nothing of the sort, at this unseasonable hour,” said the coachman, a little more boldly.“Open the door, or I’ll force it,” said the same voice.Poor Mark! And poor, wretched Jim! How utterly guilty and crestfallen they looked! As for the gamblers, they cowered together, in abject terror, not daring to attempt a retreat by the back, lest the enemy should be lurking for them there.“Will you open the door, or will you not?”No answer from within.Then came a tremendous blow; then a foot was seen forcing its way over the doorsill, another moment, and the barrier to the entrance of the invaders gave way with a rattling crash.
Music certainly flourished at “The Firs” and “The Shrubbery” under the able instructions of Mr John Randolph. The young man’s manner was puzzling to his pupils at both houses. With the Misses Rothwell (who gavethemselvesairs, besides practising those which were given them by their master), he was quietly civil and deferential, and yet made them sensible of his superiority to them in a way which they could not help feeling, and yet equally could not resent. With Mary Franklin his respectful manner was mingled with an almost tenderness, ever kept in check by a cautious self-restraint. What did it mean? It made her feel embarrassed and almost unhappy. She had no wish to entangle the young musician’s affections, and indeed felt that her own were getting entangled with Mark Rothwell. Mark contrived to throw himself a good deal in her way at this time, far more than her mother liked, but Mr Rothwell himself seemed bent on promoting the intimacy, and his son laid himself out to please. There was, moreover, rankling in Mary’s heart the impression that Mark was being harshly judged by her mother; this helped to draw her closer to him. He was, besides, an excellent performer on the flute, and would sometimes come over on lesson mornings and accompany her, much to the annoyance of her instructor.
On one of these occasions, a little more than a year after the party at his house, Mr Tankardew was present, having made an unusually early call. Mark wished him gone, and when the music lesson was over, and Mr Randolph had retired, hoped that the old man would take his leave; but nothing seemed farther from that gentleman’s thoughts, so that Mark was obliged to bottle up his wrath (the only spirit, alas! That he ever did bottle up), and to leave Mr Tankardew in possession. When he was gone, the old man looked keenly at mother and daughter. Mrs Franklin coloured and sighed. Mary turned very red and then very pale, and took an earnest passing interest in the pattern of the hearthrug.
“A very musical young gentleman, Mr Mark Rothwell,” said their visitor dryly. “I wish he’d breathe as much harmony into his home as he breathes melody out of his flute.” Neither mother nor daughter spoke, but Mary’s heart beat very fast. “Hem! I see,” continued the other, “you don’t believe it! Only slander, malice, lies. Well, take my word for it, the love that comes out of the brandy flask will never get into the teapot. I wish you both a very good morning; ay, better one than this, a great deal;” and with a sternness of manner quite unusual, the old man took his leave.
“How cruel! How unjust!” exclaimed Mary, when Mr Tankardew was gone. “Poor Mark! Every one strikes at him.”
Butwasit cruel?wasit unjust? Let us go with Mark Rothwell himself, as he leaves his house that very night, sneaking out at the backdoor like a felon.
A few hundred yards to the rear of the outbuildings stood a neat and roomy cottage; this was occupied by John Gubbins, the coachman, a man bound to Mark by unlimited donations of beer, and equally bound to a gang of swindlers who had floated their way to his pocket and privacy on the waves of strong drink. John had been gambling with these men, and had of course lost his money to them, and somebody else’s too: the hard-earned savings of one of the maids who had trusted him to put them in the bank: of course he meant to repay them, with interest; that is to say, when the luck turned in his favour; but luck, like fortune, is blind, and tramples on those who court her most. It was very dark outside, as Mark groped his way along; but a muffled light showed him where the cottage window was. Three times he gave a long, low whistle, and then knocked four distinct raps on the door, which was cautiously opened by a man with a profusion of hair, beard and whiskers, which looked as though they did not belong to him, as was probably the case, not only with his hair, but with everything else that he wore, including some tarnished ornaments.
“All right, sir, come in,” he said, and Mark entered.
What a scene for a young man brought up as he had been! Could he really find any satisfaction in it? Yes, birds that love carrion flock together, and there was plenty of moral carrion here. A long deal table occupied the middle of the room, a smaller round one stood under the window and supported a tray loaded with glasses and pipes, with a tall black bottle in the midst of them. The glasses were turned upside down for the present, a pity it should not have been for the future too; they looked with the bottle in the centre like a little congregation surrounding a preacher. Oh! What a sermon of woe that bottle might have preached to them! But it didn’t speak; it was to set on fire the tongues of other speakers. There was a coloured print over the mantelpiece of Moses smiting the rock. What a solemn contrast to the streams of fire-water soon about to flow! John Gubbins sat at the top of the table, looking fat and anxious, half shy and half foolish; the man with the false hair and ornaments placed himself next to him. Three other strangers were present, a mixture of sham gentility and swagger, of whom it would be difficult to say which had descended into the lowest depths of blackguardism. And now business was begun; the glasses were transferred to the larger table, the bottle uncorked, lemons and sugar produced, and the poor kettle, made for better things, forced to defile its healthful contents by mixture with liquid madness, in the shape of whisky; then out came cards and dice. But what sound was that? Three very faint trembling whistles, followed by four equally feeble taps at the door? Another madman, who was he? Could it really be Jim Forbes, the footman, that respectable, steady-looking young man, who waited daily at the dining tables? Alas! It was indeed. Jim was the son of a poor widow, whose husband, a small farmer, had died of fever, leaving behind him a large family, a small cottage, smaller savings, and a good character; Jim was the eldest sort, and next to him was a poor crippled sister, whose patient hands added a little to the common stock by sewing; Jim, however, had been his widowed mother’s mainstay since his father’s death, and a willing, loving helper he was: ay, hehadbeen, but was he still? Jim had got a place at “The Firs”; first of all as a general helper, then as a footman, in which latter capacity he enjoyed the very questionable privilege of waiting at table, and hearing what was said at meals by Mr and Mrs Rothwell, their children, and guests. What Jim learnt on these occasions was this, that money and strong drink were the chief things worth living for. He didn’t believe it at first, for he saw in his mother’s cottage real happiness where there was little money and less alcohol; he saw, too, on his suffering sister’s brow a gilding of heaven’s sunshine more lovely than burnished gold, and a smile on her thin pale lips, which grace and love made sweeter than the most sparkling laugh of unsanctified beauty. Still, what he heard so constantly on the lips of those better educated than himself left its mark; he began to long for things out of his reach, and to pilfer a little and then a little more of whatwasin his reach, not money, but drink. Indeed he heard so much about betting and gambling, his master’s guests seemed to find the cards and the dice box so convenient a way of slipping a few pounds out of a friend’s pocket into their own without the trouble of giving an equivalent, that poor Jim got confused. True, he had learnt in the eighth commandment, when a boy, the words, “Thou shalt not steal”; but these better-informed guests at Mr Rothwell’s seemed able to take a flying leap over this scriptural barrier without any trouble, so he swallowed his scruples and his master’s wine at the same time, and thought he should like to have an opportunity of turning a snug little legacy of a hundred pounds, left him by an uncle, into something handsomer by a lucky venture or two. Conscience was not satisfied at first, but he silenced it by telling himself that he was going to enrich his poor mother, and make a lady of his crippled sister. Somehow or other there is a strange attraction that draws together kindred spirits in evil. Mark Rothwell found out what was going on in Jim’s mind, and determined to make use of him; only, of course, so as to get himself out of a little difficulty. Oh! No! He meant the poor lad no harm; nay, he intended to put him in the way of making his fortune. So one day after dinner Mark and the young man were closeted together for an hour in the butler’s pantry; wine flowed freely, and Jim was given to understand that his young master was quite willing to admit his humble companion into a choice little society of friends who were to meet at the coachman’s cottage on certain evenings, and play games of chance, in which, after due instruction from Mark, a person of Jim’s intelligence would be sure to win a golden harvest without the tedious process of tilling and sowing. The instructions commenced there and then in the pantry; several games were played, nearly all of which Jim won to his great delight. They only played “for love” this time, Mark said, but it was difficult to see where the “love” was, except for the drink, and there was plenty of that. One little favour, however, was required by the young master, for initiating Jim into the mysteries and miseries of gambling, and that was that he should lend his instructor what money he could spare, as Mark happened to be rather short just at this time. So Jim drew out a part of his legacy from the bank, and deposited half in Mark’s hands; the other half he took with him to the coachman’s cottage. Oh! It was a grand thing to be allowed to sit with such company, and to hear the wonderful stories of the gentlemen who condescended to come and place their stores of gold and silver within a poor footman’s reach. What with the tales, and the songs, and the whisky punch, Jim thought himself the happiest fellow alive the first night he joined the party, especially when he found himself the winner of three or four bright sovereigns, which had become his own for the mere throwing down of a few cards, and a rattle or two of the dice box. But all was not so pleasant the next morning. Jim awoke with a sick headache and a sore heart. And what should he do with his winnings? He would take them to his mother: nay, the very thought stung him like a serpent. His mother would want to know how he got the gold; or, when he threw it into her lap, she would say, “The Lord bless you, Jimmy, and give it you back a hundredfold”; and his sister would clasp her wasted hands in thankfulness, and he could not bear to think of a mother’s blessing and a sister’s prayers over gains that were tainted with the leprosy of sin. So he kept the money, and the next night of meeting he lost it, and more besides; and then another night he was a gainer; and the gambler’s thirst grew strong in him. But loss soon followed loss. His legacy was slipping surely down into the pockets of his new friends. Cruel! Cruel! Heartless Mark! And oh! The cursed drink! What meanness is there to which it will not lead its slaves?
And now the night came we have before referred to. John Gubbins sat at the top of the table; Jim Forbes took his place near him. The spirits went round; the cards and dice were busy. John Gubbins lost, and Mark won. Jim Forbes lost; and his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glittered with excitement, and he ground his teeth together. The strangers affected to be surprised at his ill luck; really they couldn’t understand it, they said; they were quite sorry for him; but, “nothing venture, nothing win”;histurn would come next. But it did not come that night. Jim had now drawn the whole of his legacy from the bank. The last sovereign was staked; it was lost. He sprang to his feet, seized the uncut pack of cards, and hurled it to the further end of the room; then he shook his fist at his new companions, calling them cheats and villains. Up darted the man with the exuberant hair, and up rose Mark and Gubbins. But what wasthat? A strange noise outside. The dog in the kennel muttered a low growl, and then began to bark furiously; then the approach of footsteps was plain; a deathlike stillness fell on the whole party; the strangers caught up the cards and dice, and looked this way and that, pale and aghast. And now there came a loud and peremptory knocking at the door, as of men who were determined to find entrance.
“Who’s there?” asked Gubbins, in quivering tones.
“Open the door,” was the reply from a deep, loud voice.
“I can’t, by no means, do nothing of the sort, at this unseasonable hour,” said the coachman, a little more boldly.
“Open the door, or I’ll force it,” said the same voice.
Poor Mark! And poor, wretched Jim! How utterly guilty and crestfallen they looked! As for the gamblers, they cowered together, in abject terror, not daring to attempt a retreat by the back, lest the enemy should be lurking for them there.
“Will you open the door, or will you not?”
No answer from within.
Then came a tremendous blow; then a foot was seen forcing its way over the doorsill, another moment, and the barrier to the entrance of the invaders gave way with a rattling crash.
Chapter Seven.Bitter Fruit.No sooner was the door burst open, than in rushed several stout men, who proceeded to seize and handcuff the four strangers, who made but the faintest show of resistance. John Gubbins shook with abject terror, as he tried in vain to double up his fat person into a small compass in a corner. Jim Forbes stood speechless for a moment, and then darted out through the open doorway. As for Mark Rothwell, what with shame and dismay, and semi-intoxication from whisky punch, his position and appearance were anything but enviable. He recovered himself, however, in a few minutes, and turned fiercely on the intruders.“By what right, and by whose authority,” he cried, “do you dare to break into my coachman’s house, and to lay violent hands on these gentlemen?”“By this warrant, young sir,” said the chief of the invading party, producing a parchment. “I’m a detective; I’ve been looking after thesegentlemena long time; they are part of a regular gang of pickpockets and swindlers, and we’ve a case or two against ’em as ’ll keep ’em at home, under lock and key, for a bit. I’m sorry we’ve been so rough, but I was afraid of losing ’em. I didn’t think to find ’em in such company, and I hope, young gent, if you’ll let me give you a word of advice, that you’ll keep clear of such as these for the future for your own sake.”Alas! Poor Mark! Crestfallen and wretched, he slunk away home.And what had become of Jim Forbes? Nobody knew at “The Firs.” He was missing that night and the next day. Mr Rothwell asked for him at breakfast, and was told that he had not slept in the house the night before, and was nowhere to be found. The day passed away, but Jim did not make his appearance.It was a dark November evening: a dim light twinkled through the casement of Mrs Forbes’ cottage: the wind was whistling and sighing mournfully, sometimes lulling for a while, and then rising and rushing through crack and crevice with a wild complaining moan. Inside that little dwelling were weeping eyes and aching hearts. Upstairs all was peace; four little children lay fast asleep in the inner chamber, twined in each other’s ruddy arms, their regular breathing contrasting, in its deep peace, with the fitful sighings of the wind; yet on the long eyelashes of one of the little sleepers there stood a glistening tear, and from the parted lips there came, now and again, the words, “Brother Jim.”But ah! No blessed sleep stilled the throbbing hearts of those who cowered over the scanty fire in the kitchen below; Jim’s mother and crippled sister. Was it poverty that made them sad? No. Poverty was there, but it was very neat and cleanly poverty. No, it was not poverty that wrung the bitter tears from the eyes of those heart-sick watchers; they were rich in faith; they could trust God; they could afford to wait. It wasn’tthat. Jim! Poor Jim! Poor erring Jim! How changed he had been of late; none of his old brightness; none of his old love. It wasn’t so much that he brought his mother no welcome help now; it was hard to miss it, but she could battle on without. It wasn’t that crippled Sally’s cheek grew paler because she was forced to do without the little comforts supplied so long by a brother’s thoughtful love, though it was harder still to miss these. No, but it was that mother and daughter both saw, too plainly, that Jim was going down-hill, and that too with quickening steps. They saw that he was getting the slave of the drink, and they feared that there was worse behind; and, of course, there was: for when did ever the drink-fiend get an immortal being into his grasp without bringing a companion demon along with him? And now, this very day, Jim was reported to them as being missing from “The Firs,” and dark suspicions and terrible rumours were afloat, and John Gubbins’ name and the young master’s name were mixed up with them. Mother and daughter sat there together by the dying embers, and shuddered closer to one another at each moaning of the blast.“Oh, mother! I’m heartbroke,” at last burst out from the poor girl’s lips: “to think of our Jim, so kind, so good, ’ticed away by that miserable drink, and gone nobody knows where.”“Hush! Hush! Child, ye mustn’t fret; I’ve faith to believe as the Lord ’ll not forsake us: He’ll bring our Jim back again: He’ll hear a mother’s prayer: He’ll—”But here a sudden sound of uneven footsteps made the poor widow start toher feet, and Sally to cry out. The next moment the door was rudely shaken, and then Jim staggered into the room, haggard, blear-eyed, muttering to himself savagely. The sight of his mother and sister seemed partially to sober him, for the spirit within him bowed instinctively before the beauty of holiness, which neither poverty nor terror could obliterate from the face of those whom he used to love so dearly. But the spell was soon broken.“I say,” he exclaimed, “what’s to do here? I want my supper; I haven’t scarce tasted to-day, and nobody cares for me no more nor a dog. I say, mother, stir yourself, and get me my supper.” He flung himself into a chair, with an oath, as he almost lost his balance.Oh! Misery! Misery! Every word was a separate stab, but Mrs Forbes restrained herself.“Jim, dear,” she said, soothingly, “we’ve nothing in the house for supper: we didn’t expect you: we hoped you’d gone back to your master’s.”“Ah! There it is! Didn’t expect me! No supper! This is all I’m to get after spending all my wages on them as don’t care to give me a mouthful of meat and a drop of drink when I want ’em!”“Jim! Jim! Don’t,” exclaimed his poor sister, “oh! Don’t! For the Lord’s sake! You’ll repent it bitterly by-and-by! Oh! It can’t be our dear, kind Jim, as God sent to help and comfort us! We’d give you meat and drink, if we had them, but the last crumb’s gone, and mother’s never bitten to-day!”“Nonsense! Don’t tellme! None of your humbug and cant with me! If I can’t get supper where I ought, I’ll get it where I can! I’ll not darken this door again as sure as my name’s Jim Forbes!”With a scowl, and a curse, and a slam of the door that startled the little ones from their sleep, the miserable son flung himself out of his home. The next day he enlisted; the day following he was gone altogether.Weep! Weep! Ye holy angels! Howl with savage glee, ye mocking fiends! See what the drink can do! And yet, O wondrous strange! There are thinking men, loving men, Christian men, who tell us we are wrong, we are mad in trying to pluck the intoxicating cup away from men and women, and to keep it wholly out of the hands of little children and upgrowing boys and girls. Mad are we? Be it so; but there’s method, there’s holy love, there’s heavenly wisdom in our madness.A month had passed away, but no tidings of Jim Forbes; no letter telling of penitence or love. Oh! If he would only write: only just a word: only to say, “Mother, sister, I love you still.” But no; hearts must wither, hearts must break, as the idol car of intemperance holds on its way, crushing out life temporal and eternal from thousands and tens of thousands who throw themselves madly under its wheels. But must it be so for ever?—No! It cannot, it shall not be, God helping us; for their rises up a cry to heaven against the unholy traffic in strong drink; a cry thatmustbe heard.The snow was falling fast, but not faster nor more softly than the tears of the widowed mother and the crippled daughter, as they bowed themselves down before the cold bars, which ought to have enclosed a mass of glowing coals on that pitiless December day; but only a dull red spark or two, amid a heap of dust, just twinkled in the grate, and seemed to mock their wretchedness. Cold! Cold! Everything was cold there but faith and love. Food there was none! But on the little table lay the open Bible; and just beneath those weary, swolleneyes, were the words, “They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them nor any heat; for the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and lead them to living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.” But what were those voices? Were they the voices of angels? Poor, shivering, weary watchers! They might almost seem so to you. Anyhow, they were very gentle, loving voices; and now they ask admittance. Mrs Franklin and Mary entered; and, though not angels, they were come to do angels’ work, as messengers of love and mercy. Tea, and bread and butter, and eggs, and divers other comforts came suddenly to light from under the wide folds of the ladies’ cloaks, and then the visitors sat down, and stopped the outburst of tearful thanks by bright loving words of pity and interest.“Oh, ma’am! It is true, but I never knowed afore how true it was that God will never forsake His own. I’d well nigh given up all for lost.”“Nay, mother,” said Sally; “it wasn’t you, it was me;yourfaith held out still.”“I was very, very sorry to hear of your troubles,” said Mrs Franklin after a pause; “but you mustn’t despair; God will bring your poor son back again.”“Oh! I believe it, ma’am, but it is hard not to doubt when one’s cold and hunger-bitten; he was such a good lad to us afore he took to that miserable drink.”“Well, we must pray for him, and I daresay Mr and Mrs Rothwell will stand your friends.”“Friends! Ma’am,” cried the poor woman; “oh! You don’t know, ma’am; look, ma’am, at yon empty cupboard; there ought to be meat and drink there, ma’am, and earned by honest labour. It is not an hour, ma’am, since I was up at ‘The Firs,’ taking back some work as my poor Sally did for the young ladies (she’s a beautiful sewer, is our Sally, there’s none to match her in all Hopeworth), and I’d a fortnight’s charing as I was owed for. I’d left the little ones with a kind neighbour, so I went up to the house and asked to see the missus: she couldn’t see me, but I begged hard; and they showed me up into the drawing-room. Mrs Rothwell was lying on a ‘sofy,’ and there was wine on a table close by, and the young ladies was all crowding round the fire, contradicting their mother, and quarrelling with one another. ‘Oh! For goodness’ sake don’t interrupt us,’ says one of the young ladies, and their mamma bids me sit down; and there I sat for a long time, till Miss Jane had finished a fairy tale; something about a young lady as was shut up in a castle to be eaten by a giant; and how a young gentleman fell in love with her, and got a fairy to turn her into a bird, and get her out of the castle: and they all cried over the story as if their hearts would break, and when it was over they all had some wine; and Mrs Rothwell, who had been crying very much too, asked me what I wanted. So I told her as I’d come to my last penny, and I should be very thankful if she’d be so good as to pay me for my work, and for what our Sally had been doing for the young ladies. Then she fired up at once, and told me she thought it very impertinent in me coming and teasing her in that way, as she meant to pay me as soon as it was convenient; and oh! Ma’am! Then she asked me what I wanted for Sally’s work; and when I told her, she said I charged too much, though I didn’t ask above half as they’d ask for it in Hopeworth; and then she nearly cut my heart in two by saying (Oh, ma’am! I can’t scarce bear to repeat it), that I shouldn’t have come to pester her if it hadn’t been for my idle vagabond of a son (them was the very words she used, ma’am), as had run away and left his place. Oh, Mrs Franklin! You’re a mother; you know how I must feel for my poor wanderer, for he’s my own flesh and blood still. I dursn’t speak; I couldn’t stay; and I’ve come back penniless as I went: but the Lord has sent you to help me, and I’ll never doubt Him again.”“Never do,” said her visitor; “I’ll find you and Sally work for the present, and try and think charitably of Mrs Rothwell; she may mean more kindly than she has spoken.”“Mean kindly! Oh! Dear Mrs Franklin! The drink has washed out all kindness: there’s ruin hanging over that house, not as I wishes it to them, but it is so. The children’s been brought up to think of just nothing but themselves; their eating and drinking, and dressing, and playing: there’s sipping in the parlour all day long; drinking in the dining-room; swilling in the kitchen. Our poor Jim’s seen his betters there living as if men, women, and children had nothing to do in this world but to drown the thoughts of the next in drink and pleasure, and he’s learnt his lesson too well; but I trust the Lord ’ll take the book out of his hand, and teach him the better way again.”“I’m afraid what you say is too true,” remarked Mrs Franklin, sadly; “if our young people continue to be brought up in such self-indulgent habits, we may well expect to hear God crying aloud by His judgments, ‘Woe to the drunkards of England,’ as He once cried, ‘Woe to the drunkards of Ephraim.’”
No sooner was the door burst open, than in rushed several stout men, who proceeded to seize and handcuff the four strangers, who made but the faintest show of resistance. John Gubbins shook with abject terror, as he tried in vain to double up his fat person into a small compass in a corner. Jim Forbes stood speechless for a moment, and then darted out through the open doorway. As for Mark Rothwell, what with shame and dismay, and semi-intoxication from whisky punch, his position and appearance were anything but enviable. He recovered himself, however, in a few minutes, and turned fiercely on the intruders.
“By what right, and by whose authority,” he cried, “do you dare to break into my coachman’s house, and to lay violent hands on these gentlemen?”
“By this warrant, young sir,” said the chief of the invading party, producing a parchment. “I’m a detective; I’ve been looking after thesegentlemena long time; they are part of a regular gang of pickpockets and swindlers, and we’ve a case or two against ’em as ’ll keep ’em at home, under lock and key, for a bit. I’m sorry we’ve been so rough, but I was afraid of losing ’em. I didn’t think to find ’em in such company, and I hope, young gent, if you’ll let me give you a word of advice, that you’ll keep clear of such as these for the future for your own sake.”
Alas! Poor Mark! Crestfallen and wretched, he slunk away home.
And what had become of Jim Forbes? Nobody knew at “The Firs.” He was missing that night and the next day. Mr Rothwell asked for him at breakfast, and was told that he had not slept in the house the night before, and was nowhere to be found. The day passed away, but Jim did not make his appearance.
It was a dark November evening: a dim light twinkled through the casement of Mrs Forbes’ cottage: the wind was whistling and sighing mournfully, sometimes lulling for a while, and then rising and rushing through crack and crevice with a wild complaining moan. Inside that little dwelling were weeping eyes and aching hearts. Upstairs all was peace; four little children lay fast asleep in the inner chamber, twined in each other’s ruddy arms, their regular breathing contrasting, in its deep peace, with the fitful sighings of the wind; yet on the long eyelashes of one of the little sleepers there stood a glistening tear, and from the parted lips there came, now and again, the words, “Brother Jim.”
But ah! No blessed sleep stilled the throbbing hearts of those who cowered over the scanty fire in the kitchen below; Jim’s mother and crippled sister. Was it poverty that made them sad? No. Poverty was there, but it was very neat and cleanly poverty. No, it was not poverty that wrung the bitter tears from the eyes of those heart-sick watchers; they were rich in faith; they could trust God; they could afford to wait. It wasn’tthat. Jim! Poor Jim! Poor erring Jim! How changed he had been of late; none of his old brightness; none of his old love. It wasn’t so much that he brought his mother no welcome help now; it was hard to miss it, but she could battle on without. It wasn’t that crippled Sally’s cheek grew paler because she was forced to do without the little comforts supplied so long by a brother’s thoughtful love, though it was harder still to miss these. No, but it was that mother and daughter both saw, too plainly, that Jim was going down-hill, and that too with quickening steps. They saw that he was getting the slave of the drink, and they feared that there was worse behind; and, of course, there was: for when did ever the drink-fiend get an immortal being into his grasp without bringing a companion demon along with him? And now, this very day, Jim was reported to them as being missing from “The Firs,” and dark suspicions and terrible rumours were afloat, and John Gubbins’ name and the young master’s name were mixed up with them. Mother and daughter sat there together by the dying embers, and shuddered closer to one another at each moaning of the blast.
“Oh, mother! I’m heartbroke,” at last burst out from the poor girl’s lips: “to think of our Jim, so kind, so good, ’ticed away by that miserable drink, and gone nobody knows where.”
“Hush! Hush! Child, ye mustn’t fret; I’ve faith to believe as the Lord ’ll not forsake us: He’ll bring our Jim back again: He’ll hear a mother’s prayer: He’ll—”
But here a sudden sound of uneven footsteps made the poor widow start toher feet, and Sally to cry out. The next moment the door was rudely shaken, and then Jim staggered into the room, haggard, blear-eyed, muttering to himself savagely. The sight of his mother and sister seemed partially to sober him, for the spirit within him bowed instinctively before the beauty of holiness, which neither poverty nor terror could obliterate from the face of those whom he used to love so dearly. But the spell was soon broken.
“I say,” he exclaimed, “what’s to do here? I want my supper; I haven’t scarce tasted to-day, and nobody cares for me no more nor a dog. I say, mother, stir yourself, and get me my supper.” He flung himself into a chair, with an oath, as he almost lost his balance.
Oh! Misery! Misery! Every word was a separate stab, but Mrs Forbes restrained herself.
“Jim, dear,” she said, soothingly, “we’ve nothing in the house for supper: we didn’t expect you: we hoped you’d gone back to your master’s.”
“Ah! There it is! Didn’t expect me! No supper! This is all I’m to get after spending all my wages on them as don’t care to give me a mouthful of meat and a drop of drink when I want ’em!”
“Jim! Jim! Don’t,” exclaimed his poor sister, “oh! Don’t! For the Lord’s sake! You’ll repent it bitterly by-and-by! Oh! It can’t be our dear, kind Jim, as God sent to help and comfort us! We’d give you meat and drink, if we had them, but the last crumb’s gone, and mother’s never bitten to-day!”
“Nonsense! Don’t tellme! None of your humbug and cant with me! If I can’t get supper where I ought, I’ll get it where I can! I’ll not darken this door again as sure as my name’s Jim Forbes!”
With a scowl, and a curse, and a slam of the door that startled the little ones from their sleep, the miserable son flung himself out of his home. The next day he enlisted; the day following he was gone altogether.
Weep! Weep! Ye holy angels! Howl with savage glee, ye mocking fiends! See what the drink can do! And yet, O wondrous strange! There are thinking men, loving men, Christian men, who tell us we are wrong, we are mad in trying to pluck the intoxicating cup away from men and women, and to keep it wholly out of the hands of little children and upgrowing boys and girls. Mad are we? Be it so; but there’s method, there’s holy love, there’s heavenly wisdom in our madness.
A month had passed away, but no tidings of Jim Forbes; no letter telling of penitence or love. Oh! If he would only write: only just a word: only to say, “Mother, sister, I love you still.” But no; hearts must wither, hearts must break, as the idol car of intemperance holds on its way, crushing out life temporal and eternal from thousands and tens of thousands who throw themselves madly under its wheels. But must it be so for ever?—No! It cannot, it shall not be, God helping us; for their rises up a cry to heaven against the unholy traffic in strong drink; a cry thatmustbe heard.
The snow was falling fast, but not faster nor more softly than the tears of the widowed mother and the crippled daughter, as they bowed themselves down before the cold bars, which ought to have enclosed a mass of glowing coals on that pitiless December day; but only a dull red spark or two, amid a heap of dust, just twinkled in the grate, and seemed to mock their wretchedness. Cold! Cold! Everything was cold there but faith and love. Food there was none! But on the little table lay the open Bible; and just beneath those weary, swolleneyes, were the words, “They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them nor any heat; for the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and lead them to living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.” But what were those voices? Were they the voices of angels? Poor, shivering, weary watchers! They might almost seem so to you. Anyhow, they were very gentle, loving voices; and now they ask admittance. Mrs Franklin and Mary entered; and, though not angels, they were come to do angels’ work, as messengers of love and mercy. Tea, and bread and butter, and eggs, and divers other comforts came suddenly to light from under the wide folds of the ladies’ cloaks, and then the visitors sat down, and stopped the outburst of tearful thanks by bright loving words of pity and interest.
“Oh, ma’am! It is true, but I never knowed afore how true it was that God will never forsake His own. I’d well nigh given up all for lost.”
“Nay, mother,” said Sally; “it wasn’t you, it was me;yourfaith held out still.”
“I was very, very sorry to hear of your troubles,” said Mrs Franklin after a pause; “but you mustn’t despair; God will bring your poor son back again.”
“Oh! I believe it, ma’am, but it is hard not to doubt when one’s cold and hunger-bitten; he was such a good lad to us afore he took to that miserable drink.”
“Well, we must pray for him, and I daresay Mr and Mrs Rothwell will stand your friends.”
“Friends! Ma’am,” cried the poor woman; “oh! You don’t know, ma’am; look, ma’am, at yon empty cupboard; there ought to be meat and drink there, ma’am, and earned by honest labour. It is not an hour, ma’am, since I was up at ‘The Firs,’ taking back some work as my poor Sally did for the young ladies (she’s a beautiful sewer, is our Sally, there’s none to match her in all Hopeworth), and I’d a fortnight’s charing as I was owed for. I’d left the little ones with a kind neighbour, so I went up to the house and asked to see the missus: she couldn’t see me, but I begged hard; and they showed me up into the drawing-room. Mrs Rothwell was lying on a ‘sofy,’ and there was wine on a table close by, and the young ladies was all crowding round the fire, contradicting their mother, and quarrelling with one another. ‘Oh! For goodness’ sake don’t interrupt us,’ says one of the young ladies, and their mamma bids me sit down; and there I sat for a long time, till Miss Jane had finished a fairy tale; something about a young lady as was shut up in a castle to be eaten by a giant; and how a young gentleman fell in love with her, and got a fairy to turn her into a bird, and get her out of the castle: and they all cried over the story as if their hearts would break, and when it was over they all had some wine; and Mrs Rothwell, who had been crying very much too, asked me what I wanted. So I told her as I’d come to my last penny, and I should be very thankful if she’d be so good as to pay me for my work, and for what our Sally had been doing for the young ladies. Then she fired up at once, and told me she thought it very impertinent in me coming and teasing her in that way, as she meant to pay me as soon as it was convenient; and oh! Ma’am! Then she asked me what I wanted for Sally’s work; and when I told her, she said I charged too much, though I didn’t ask above half as they’d ask for it in Hopeworth; and then she nearly cut my heart in two by saying (Oh, ma’am! I can’t scarce bear to repeat it), that I shouldn’t have come to pester her if it hadn’t been for my idle vagabond of a son (them was the very words she used, ma’am), as had run away and left his place. Oh, Mrs Franklin! You’re a mother; you know how I must feel for my poor wanderer, for he’s my own flesh and blood still. I dursn’t speak; I couldn’t stay; and I’ve come back penniless as I went: but the Lord has sent you to help me, and I’ll never doubt Him again.”
“Never do,” said her visitor; “I’ll find you and Sally work for the present, and try and think charitably of Mrs Rothwell; she may mean more kindly than she has spoken.”
“Mean kindly! Oh! Dear Mrs Franklin! The drink has washed out all kindness: there’s ruin hanging over that house, not as I wishes it to them, but it is so. The children’s been brought up to think of just nothing but themselves; their eating and drinking, and dressing, and playing: there’s sipping in the parlour all day long; drinking in the dining-room; swilling in the kitchen. Our poor Jim’s seen his betters there living as if men, women, and children had nothing to do in this world but to drown the thoughts of the next in drink and pleasure, and he’s learnt his lesson too well; but I trust the Lord ’ll take the book out of his hand, and teach him the better way again.”
“I’m afraid what you say is too true,” remarked Mrs Franklin, sadly; “if our young people continue to be brought up in such self-indulgent habits, we may well expect to hear God crying aloud by His judgments, ‘Woe to the drunkards of England,’ as He once cried, ‘Woe to the drunkards of Ephraim.’”
Chapter Eight.A Double Peril.“I’ll tell you what it is, Mark, Imusthave a stop put to this: my patience is quite worn out. Do you think I’m made of money? Do you think I can coin money as fast as you choose to spend it? You’ll ruin me with your thoughtless, selfish extravagance, and break your mother’s heart and mine by your drunkenness and folly, that you will.”These words, uttered in a tone of passionate bitterness, were spoken by Mr Rothwell to his son in the hall at “The Firs,” as the young man was urging his father to grant him a considerable sum to pay some pressing debts. At the same moment Mr John Randolph came out of the drawing-room, and could not help overhearing what was being said.Mr Rothwell turned fiercely upon him:“What right haveyou, sir, to be intruding on my privacy?” he cried, nettled at his rebuke having been overheard by a stranger.“I am not conscious of being guilty of any intrusion,” said the other quietly.“Youareintruding,” cried Mark, glad to vent his exasperation at his father’s reproaches on somebody, and specially glad of an opportunity of doing so on the music-master.“You shall not need to make the complaint again then,” said Mr Randolph, calmly, “my lessons to your sisters will cease from to-day;” and with a stiff bow he closed the door behind him.Rather more than two years had elapsed since Jim Forbes’ enlistment when the scene just described took place. Mark had been sinking deeper and deeper in the mire; he was scarcely ever sober except when visiting the Franklins, on which occasions he was always on his guard, though his excited manner, and the eagerness with which he tossed down the few glasses of wine to which he, evidently with difficulty, restricted himself, made a most painful impression not onlyonMrs Franklin, but also on her daughter.Mary was now nineteen, and shone with the brightness which the gentle light of holiness casts on every word and feature. She was full of innocent cheerfulness, and was the joy of all who knew her. Mark loved her as much as he could love anything that was not himself, and tried to make himself acceptable to her. Maryhopedthe best about him, but that hope had begun to droop for some time past. He had never yet ventured to declare his affection to her; somehow or other he could not. A little spark of nobleness still remained in him unquenched by the drink, and it lighted him to see that to bind Mary to himself for life would be to tie her to a living firebrand that would scorch and shrivel up beauty, health and peace. He dared not speak: before her unsullied loveliness his drink-envenomed lips were closed: he could rattle on in wild exuberance of spirits, but he could not yet venture to ask her to be his. And she? She pitied him deeply, and her heart’s affections hovered over him; would they settle there? If so, lost! Lost! All peace would be lost: how great her peril!Another visit from Mr Tankardew: the old man had been a frequent caller, and was ever welcome. That he cherished a fatherly love for Mary was evident; indeed his heart seemed divided between herself and the young musician, Mr John Randolph, who, though he had ceased to give lessons at “The Firs,” was most scrupulously punctual in his attendance at “The Shrubbery.”It was a bright summer’s morning as the old man sat in the drawing-room where Mary and her mother were engaged in the mysteries of the needle.“Let me hear your last piece, my child,” he said; “John tells me that he will soon have nothing more to teach you.”Mary sat down and played with loving grace, till the old man bowed his head upon his hands and wept.“‘Home, sweet home!’” he murmured. “Ay; you have played that lovely air with variations as if you felt it: you know what a sweet home is, Mary; I knew it once. ‘Home, sweet home!’” he added again, with a sigh.There was a pause: then he went on: “There are plenty of homes that aren’t sweet; homes with variations enough and to spare in them; but they’re variations of misery. I hope you’ll never have one of those homes, my child.”Mary coloured deeply, and her mother’s eyes filled with tears. Mr Tankardew looked earnestly at them both.“No danger of any but sweet variationshere,” he said; “but all new homes are not sweet homes—there’s no sweetness that will last where the barrel, the bottle, and the spirit-flask play a trio of discords: they’ll drown all the harmonies of harp and piano. Promise me two things, my child;” he added, abruptly.“What are they?” asked Mary, timidly and tearfully.“Just these: promise me to become a pledged abstainer; and promise me that you’ll never marry a man that loves the drink.”Poor Mary burst into tears, but her mother came to her aid, and said:“I don’t quite see what good Mary’s signing the pledge will do. She has taken neither beer nor wine for some time past, so that she does all that is needed in the way of example.”“No, she does not, madam, if you’ll excuse my being so blunt. She just does not do what will make her exampletell. Power for good comes through combination; the devil knows it well enough, and he gets drunkards to band together in clubs; and worldly people band together in clubs, and back one another up and concentrate their forces. All who see the curse and misery of the drink should sign, and not stand apart as solitary abstainers; they won’t do the same good; it is by uniting together that the great work is done by God’s blessing. A body of Christian abstainers united in the same work, and bound by the same pledge, attract others, and give them something to lean on and cling to: and that is one reason why we want children to combine in Bands of Hope. Why, I’ve seen a man light a fire with a piece of glass, but how did he do it? Not by putting the fuel under one ray of the sun; not by carrying it about from place to place in the sunshine; but by gathering, with the help of the glass, all the little rays together into one hot bright focus. And so we want to gather together the power and influence of total abstainers in Total Abstinence Societies and Bands of Hope, by their union through the pledge as a common bond. We want to set hearts on fire with a holy love that shall make them burn to rescue poor slaves of the drink from their misery and ruin. Won’t you help? Can you hold back? Are not souls perishing by millions through the drink, and is any sacrifice too dear to make, any cross too heavy to take up in such a cause?”The old man had risen, and was walking up and down the room with great swinging strides. Then he stopped abruptly and waited for an answer.“I’m sure,” said Mrs Franklin, “we would both sign if it could do any real good.”“Itwilldo good, itmustdo good: sign now;” he produced a pledge-book: “no time like the present.”The signatures were made, and then Mr Tankardew, clasping his thin hands together, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, offered a short emphatic prayer that God would bless and strengthen these His servants, and enable them by His grace to be a blessing to others as pledged abstainers. And then he turned again to Mary, and said:“You have given me the one promise; will you give me the other? Will you promise me that you will never knowingly marry a man who loves the drink?”Mary buried her face in her hands. A few moments, and no one spoke.“Hear me, my child,” cried the old man, again beginning to pace the room with measured strides; “you are dear to me, very dear, for you’re the image of one lost to me years ago, long weary years ago. I cannot bear to see you offered as another victim on the altar of the Drink-Moloch: he has had victims enough: too many, too many. Do you wish to wither into a premature grave? Do you wish to see the light die out of your mother’s smile? Then marry a drink-worshipper. Do you wish to tremble every time you hear the footstep of the man who has turned ‘sweet home’ into a shuddering prison? then marry a drink-worshipper. Do you wish to see little children hide the terror of their eyes in your lap and tremble at the name of father? Then marry a drink-worshipper. Stay, stay, I’m an old fool to break out in this way, and scare you out of your wits;” for Mary and her mother were both sobbing bitterly: “forgive me, but don’t forget me; there, let us change the subject.”But Mary had checked her sobs, and, rising up calm and beautiful in her tears, she laid her hand lovingly on the old man’s arm, and said, gently but firmly:“Dear old friend, thank you for what you have said. I promise you that never will I knowingly marry one who loves intoxicating drinks.”“God bless you, my child. You have taken a load off the old man’s heart, and off your mother’s too, I know.”Would Mary keep her word? She was soon to be put to the test. Though Mark hesitated to propose to Mary Franklin, his mother had no scruples on the subject. He had now come to man’s estate, and she wished him to marry; specially she wished him to marry Mrs Franklin’s daughter, as Mary would enjoy a nice little income when she came of age, and Mark’s prospects were cloudy enough as far as anything from his father was concerned. Besides, she hoped that marrying Mary would steady her son—a favourite scheme with mothers of drunkards. As for Mary’s own peace or happiness, she never gave them a thought. The experiment would be something like caging a tiger and a lamb together for the purpose of subduing the tiger’s ferocity; pleasant enough for the tiger, but simply destruction to the lamb. However, Mrs Rothwell pressed Mark to propose, so he yielded after a faint resistance, and now watched for his opportunity.It was a sweet July evening: the sun was near his setting, and was casting long shadows across the lawn at the back of “The Shrubbery.” Mrs Franklin was sitting on a garden seat reading, her attention divided between her book and the glowing tints of a bed of flowers all ablaze with variegated beauty. A little shaded walk turned off near this seat into the kitchen garden, which was separated from the flower garden in this quarter by a deep ravine, at the bottom of which ran a trout stream. The ravine was crossed by a rustic bridge. Mr John Randolph had been calling at the house with some music, and, being now looked upon more in the light of a friend than an instructor, had the privilege of making a short cut to the turnpike road over this foot bridge and through the kitchen garden. Mark Rothwell also usually availed himself of this more direct approach to the house. On the present occasion the two young men met in the kitchen garden, and passed each other by without recognition, Mark hurrying forward to make his proposal, his already intense excitement inflamed by strong drink, which he had taken with less caution than on his ordinary visits to “The Shrubbery”; John Randolph lingering on his way in a somewhat discontented mood, which was not improved by the sight of Mark. Suddenly the stillness was broken by a loud scream and cry for help: it was Mary Franklin’s voice. Both the young men rushed towards the bridge, and beheld a sight which filled them with dismay. Mary had strolled from her mother’s side to the little foot bridge, and, filled with sorrowful thoughts, leant against the rustic parapet. The woodwork, which was inwardly decayed, gave way beneath her weight; she tried to recover herself but in vain, and fell over the side of the bridge, still, however, managing to keep herself from plunging into the stream by clinging to a creaking fragment of the broken rails. Her dress also helped to stay her up, having become entangled with the woodwork. Mark reached the bridge first, but was so confused by drink and excitement that he scarcely knew what he was doing, when he felt himself flung aside by the strong arm of John Randolph, who sprang forward, and stooping down endeavoured to raise the poor terrified girl, but for a few moments without success: indeed his own strength began to fail, and it seemed as if both must be precipitated into the stream, if assistance had not come from another quarter.The gardener hearing the cries hurried up, and, lending his powerful help, Mary was delivered from her peril, and was carried, fainting and bruised, into the house by her two rescuers, before Mark Rothwell had fairly recovered himself from the fall which John Randolph had given him in his haste. But now, boiling with wrath and vexation, Mark made his way to the front door, and disregarding in the blindness of his passion the sight of Mary just recovering consciousness, and of Mrs Franklin who was bending over her in mingled grief and thankfulness, he turned furiously upon John, who was just retiring, and shaking his fist in his face, cried out:“How dare you interfere with me, sir? I’ll not put up with this insolence from my sisters’ discarded music-master.”The face of the other flushed crimson for a moment, then with unruffled voice he replied:“Better, Mr Mark, to be a master of music and of one’s self, than a slave of the drink. I wish you good evening.”
“I’ll tell you what it is, Mark, Imusthave a stop put to this: my patience is quite worn out. Do you think I’m made of money? Do you think I can coin money as fast as you choose to spend it? You’ll ruin me with your thoughtless, selfish extravagance, and break your mother’s heart and mine by your drunkenness and folly, that you will.”
These words, uttered in a tone of passionate bitterness, were spoken by Mr Rothwell to his son in the hall at “The Firs,” as the young man was urging his father to grant him a considerable sum to pay some pressing debts. At the same moment Mr John Randolph came out of the drawing-room, and could not help overhearing what was being said.
Mr Rothwell turned fiercely upon him:
“What right haveyou, sir, to be intruding on my privacy?” he cried, nettled at his rebuke having been overheard by a stranger.
“I am not conscious of being guilty of any intrusion,” said the other quietly.
“Youareintruding,” cried Mark, glad to vent his exasperation at his father’s reproaches on somebody, and specially glad of an opportunity of doing so on the music-master.
“You shall not need to make the complaint again then,” said Mr Randolph, calmly, “my lessons to your sisters will cease from to-day;” and with a stiff bow he closed the door behind him.
Rather more than two years had elapsed since Jim Forbes’ enlistment when the scene just described took place. Mark had been sinking deeper and deeper in the mire; he was scarcely ever sober except when visiting the Franklins, on which occasions he was always on his guard, though his excited manner, and the eagerness with which he tossed down the few glasses of wine to which he, evidently with difficulty, restricted himself, made a most painful impression not onlyonMrs Franklin, but also on her daughter.
Mary was now nineteen, and shone with the brightness which the gentle light of holiness casts on every word and feature. She was full of innocent cheerfulness, and was the joy of all who knew her. Mark loved her as much as he could love anything that was not himself, and tried to make himself acceptable to her. Maryhopedthe best about him, but that hope had begun to droop for some time past. He had never yet ventured to declare his affection to her; somehow or other he could not. A little spark of nobleness still remained in him unquenched by the drink, and it lighted him to see that to bind Mary to himself for life would be to tie her to a living firebrand that would scorch and shrivel up beauty, health and peace. He dared not speak: before her unsullied loveliness his drink-envenomed lips were closed: he could rattle on in wild exuberance of spirits, but he could not yet venture to ask her to be his. And she? She pitied him deeply, and her heart’s affections hovered over him; would they settle there? If so, lost! Lost! All peace would be lost: how great her peril!
Another visit from Mr Tankardew: the old man had been a frequent caller, and was ever welcome. That he cherished a fatherly love for Mary was evident; indeed his heart seemed divided between herself and the young musician, Mr John Randolph, who, though he had ceased to give lessons at “The Firs,” was most scrupulously punctual in his attendance at “The Shrubbery.”
It was a bright summer’s morning as the old man sat in the drawing-room where Mary and her mother were engaged in the mysteries of the needle.
“Let me hear your last piece, my child,” he said; “John tells me that he will soon have nothing more to teach you.”
Mary sat down and played with loving grace, till the old man bowed his head upon his hands and wept.
“‘Home, sweet home!’” he murmured. “Ay; you have played that lovely air with variations as if you felt it: you know what a sweet home is, Mary; I knew it once. ‘Home, sweet home!’” he added again, with a sigh.
There was a pause: then he went on: “There are plenty of homes that aren’t sweet; homes with variations enough and to spare in them; but they’re variations of misery. I hope you’ll never have one of those homes, my child.”
Mary coloured deeply, and her mother’s eyes filled with tears. Mr Tankardew looked earnestly at them both.
“No danger of any but sweet variationshere,” he said; “but all new homes are not sweet homes—there’s no sweetness that will last where the barrel, the bottle, and the spirit-flask play a trio of discords: they’ll drown all the harmonies of harp and piano. Promise me two things, my child;” he added, abruptly.
“What are they?” asked Mary, timidly and tearfully.
“Just these: promise me to become a pledged abstainer; and promise me that you’ll never marry a man that loves the drink.”
Poor Mary burst into tears, but her mother came to her aid, and said:
“I don’t quite see what good Mary’s signing the pledge will do. She has taken neither beer nor wine for some time past, so that she does all that is needed in the way of example.”
“No, she does not, madam, if you’ll excuse my being so blunt. She just does not do what will make her exampletell. Power for good comes through combination; the devil knows it well enough, and he gets drunkards to band together in clubs; and worldly people band together in clubs, and back one another up and concentrate their forces. All who see the curse and misery of the drink should sign, and not stand apart as solitary abstainers; they won’t do the same good; it is by uniting together that the great work is done by God’s blessing. A body of Christian abstainers united in the same work, and bound by the same pledge, attract others, and give them something to lean on and cling to: and that is one reason why we want children to combine in Bands of Hope. Why, I’ve seen a man light a fire with a piece of glass, but how did he do it? Not by putting the fuel under one ray of the sun; not by carrying it about from place to place in the sunshine; but by gathering, with the help of the glass, all the little rays together into one hot bright focus. And so we want to gather together the power and influence of total abstainers in Total Abstinence Societies and Bands of Hope, by their union through the pledge as a common bond. We want to set hearts on fire with a holy love that shall make them burn to rescue poor slaves of the drink from their misery and ruin. Won’t you help? Can you hold back? Are not souls perishing by millions through the drink, and is any sacrifice too dear to make, any cross too heavy to take up in such a cause?”
The old man had risen, and was walking up and down the room with great swinging strides. Then he stopped abruptly and waited for an answer.
“I’m sure,” said Mrs Franklin, “we would both sign if it could do any real good.”
“Itwilldo good, itmustdo good: sign now;” he produced a pledge-book: “no time like the present.”
The signatures were made, and then Mr Tankardew, clasping his thin hands together, and lifting up his eyes to heaven, offered a short emphatic prayer that God would bless and strengthen these His servants, and enable them by His grace to be a blessing to others as pledged abstainers. And then he turned again to Mary, and said:
“You have given me the one promise; will you give me the other? Will you promise me that you will never knowingly marry a man who loves the drink?”
Mary buried her face in her hands. A few moments, and no one spoke.
“Hear me, my child,” cried the old man, again beginning to pace the room with measured strides; “you are dear to me, very dear, for you’re the image of one lost to me years ago, long weary years ago. I cannot bear to see you offered as another victim on the altar of the Drink-Moloch: he has had victims enough: too many, too many. Do you wish to wither into a premature grave? Do you wish to see the light die out of your mother’s smile? Then marry a drink-worshipper. Do you wish to tremble every time you hear the footstep of the man who has turned ‘sweet home’ into a shuddering prison? then marry a drink-worshipper. Do you wish to see little children hide the terror of their eyes in your lap and tremble at the name of father? Then marry a drink-worshipper. Stay, stay, I’m an old fool to break out in this way, and scare you out of your wits;” for Mary and her mother were both sobbing bitterly: “forgive me, but don’t forget me; there, let us change the subject.”
But Mary had checked her sobs, and, rising up calm and beautiful in her tears, she laid her hand lovingly on the old man’s arm, and said, gently but firmly:
“Dear old friend, thank you for what you have said. I promise you that never will I knowingly marry one who loves intoxicating drinks.”
“God bless you, my child. You have taken a load off the old man’s heart, and off your mother’s too, I know.”
Would Mary keep her word? She was soon to be put to the test. Though Mark hesitated to propose to Mary Franklin, his mother had no scruples on the subject. He had now come to man’s estate, and she wished him to marry; specially she wished him to marry Mrs Franklin’s daughter, as Mary would enjoy a nice little income when she came of age, and Mark’s prospects were cloudy enough as far as anything from his father was concerned. Besides, she hoped that marrying Mary would steady her son—a favourite scheme with mothers of drunkards. As for Mary’s own peace or happiness, she never gave them a thought. The experiment would be something like caging a tiger and a lamb together for the purpose of subduing the tiger’s ferocity; pleasant enough for the tiger, but simply destruction to the lamb. However, Mrs Rothwell pressed Mark to propose, so he yielded after a faint resistance, and now watched for his opportunity.
It was a sweet July evening: the sun was near his setting, and was casting long shadows across the lawn at the back of “The Shrubbery.” Mrs Franklin was sitting on a garden seat reading, her attention divided between her book and the glowing tints of a bed of flowers all ablaze with variegated beauty. A little shaded walk turned off near this seat into the kitchen garden, which was separated from the flower garden in this quarter by a deep ravine, at the bottom of which ran a trout stream. The ravine was crossed by a rustic bridge. Mr John Randolph had been calling at the house with some music, and, being now looked upon more in the light of a friend than an instructor, had the privilege of making a short cut to the turnpike road over this foot bridge and through the kitchen garden. Mark Rothwell also usually availed himself of this more direct approach to the house. On the present occasion the two young men met in the kitchen garden, and passed each other by without recognition, Mark hurrying forward to make his proposal, his already intense excitement inflamed by strong drink, which he had taken with less caution than on his ordinary visits to “The Shrubbery”; John Randolph lingering on his way in a somewhat discontented mood, which was not improved by the sight of Mark. Suddenly the stillness was broken by a loud scream and cry for help: it was Mary Franklin’s voice. Both the young men rushed towards the bridge, and beheld a sight which filled them with dismay. Mary had strolled from her mother’s side to the little foot bridge, and, filled with sorrowful thoughts, leant against the rustic parapet. The woodwork, which was inwardly decayed, gave way beneath her weight; she tried to recover herself but in vain, and fell over the side of the bridge, still, however, managing to keep herself from plunging into the stream by clinging to a creaking fragment of the broken rails. Her dress also helped to stay her up, having become entangled with the woodwork. Mark reached the bridge first, but was so confused by drink and excitement that he scarcely knew what he was doing, when he felt himself flung aside by the strong arm of John Randolph, who sprang forward, and stooping down endeavoured to raise the poor terrified girl, but for a few moments without success: indeed his own strength began to fail, and it seemed as if both must be precipitated into the stream, if assistance had not come from another quarter.The gardener hearing the cries hurried up, and, lending his powerful help, Mary was delivered from her peril, and was carried, fainting and bruised, into the house by her two rescuers, before Mark Rothwell had fairly recovered himself from the fall which John Randolph had given him in his haste. But now, boiling with wrath and vexation, Mark made his way to the front door, and disregarding in the blindness of his passion the sight of Mary just recovering consciousness, and of Mrs Franklin who was bending over her in mingled grief and thankfulness, he turned furiously upon John, who was just retiring, and shaking his fist in his face, cried out:
“How dare you interfere with me, sir? I’ll not put up with this insolence from my sisters’ discarded music-master.”
The face of the other flushed crimson for a moment, then with unruffled voice he replied:
“Better, Mr Mark, to be a master of music and of one’s self, than a slave of the drink. I wish you good evening.”