Nearly Lost but Dearly Won Part 8

"The wretch! The drunken beast!" he cried; "serve him right if his horse pitches him head foremost into the first ditch with any dirty water in it."

On came the contending pair, the man swaying from side to side, but nevertheless marvellously retaining his seat. At the sight of the ladies, or at a sudden movement forward of Mr Tankardew, the animal swerved and almost unseated his tormentor, who, however, recovered himself, but in doing so lost his hat, as the poor beast again plunged forward with his almost unconscious burden. The horseman took no notice of his loss, nor did he see who were the spectators of his sinful degradation, but to them he was fully revealed: it was Mark Rothwell.

Another minute and he was out of sight.

Mary sank, with a bitter cry, into her mother's arms, while Mr Tankardew sprang forward to support them both. In a moment or two, however, the ladies had recovered themselves, and turned homewards. The old man saw that they would prefer to be alone, so, with a kind and courteous farewell, he made his way with slow strides towards the town.

"Humph!" he muttered to himself; "'Good entertainment for man and beast,' that's what they put over some of these alcohol shops. I'd like to know which was the beast just now. Entertainment! Ay, very entertaining, such a sight to the devil and his angels. O miserable drink! Haven't you drowned souls enough yet?"

Two days after this disgraceful exposure of himself, Mark Rothwell made an early call at "The Shrubbery." He was utterly ignorant of his having been seen in his drunkenness by Mrs Franklin and her daughter, and was scrupulously sober on the present occasion, and full of good resolutions, as habitual drunkards very commonly are after an outbreak of more than usual violence. He was quite convinced--at least he was enjoying a good deal of cheerful self-congratulation on the supposed conviction--that he never would exceed again; so in the strength of this conviction, he entered the room where Mary and her mother were sitting, with a confident step, though he could not quite keep down every feeling of misgiving. Still, it never occurred to him that Mary could possibly refuse him. He had too high an opinion of himself: he was such a general favourite and so popular, that he felt sure any young lady of his acquaintance would esteem herself honoured by the offer of his hand.

He was well aware, it is true, that Mary had a horror of drunkenness; but he flattered himself, first, that he could persuade her that he meant to be sober for the future, and a total abstainer too if she required it; and then, that he had got a sufficient hold upon her heart, or at any rate regard, to make her willing to accept him without any stipulations rather than lose him. Strong in these impressions, he had now come over to make a formal proposal. The manner, however, of mother and daughter disturbed him; something he saw was amiss; there was a sadness and constraint in the words of both which distressed and embarra.s.sed him. After a brief conversation on commonplace topics Mary rose hastily and left the room. Mark hesitated, but feeling that he must seize the opportunity, he at once asked Mrs Franklin's permission to avow his attachment to her daughter.

A long and painful pause: broken, at last, by Mrs Franklin's reply, that she could not advise her daughter to encourage his addresses.

Mark was thunderstruck! For several minutes surprise and mortification kept him silent. At last he exclaimed:

"But what does Mary wish herself? We've known each other so long; she knows I love her, she must know it. I'm sure she would not refuse me; may I not see her? May I not have 'yes,' or 'no,' from her own lips?"

"I will ask her," was the reply; and poor Mark was left for half an hour to his own not very agreeable reflections. At the end of that time Mrs Franklin returned, with a sealed letter in her hand.

"Mary does not feel equal to seeing you now," she said, "and indeed I could not recommend her doing so at present. She sends you this letter instead; do not read it now," for Mark was tearing it open, "but wait till you can give it your calm and full attention."

Mark would have remonstrated, but Mrs Franklin's quiet decision restrained him; he flung himself out of the house, and on reaching the highway, burst open the envelope and read as follows:--

"Dear Mark,--We have always been friends, and I hope shall remain so; but we can never be anything more to one another. I have solemnly resolved in G.o.d's sight that I will never marry a drunkard, and I never will. I was witness to your ill-usage of your poor horse the other day, when you were intoxicated; I cannot forget it; my mind is made up, I cannot alter it, and my dear mother entirely approves of my decision. I thank you for your offer, and pray that you may have grace given you to forsake the sin which has made it impossible that there can ever be more than a feeling of sincere interest and kindliness towards yourself, from yours truly,--

"Mary Franklin."

Mark Rothwell tore the letter, when he had glanced through it, into bits, dashed them on the ground, and, with loud imprecations, stamped on them. There was a fire in his heart, a mad desire for revenge; he was, what drunkards must be, essentially selfish. Wounded vanity, disappointed affection, bitter jealousy, were the fuel to that fire. He had no thought now of remonstrance with Mary: he had no _wish_ to remonstrate: his one great burning desire was to be revenged. He rushed home, but found little to cheer him there. For months past a cloud had hung over "The Firs," which had become denser and darker every day. And now it was come abroad that Mr Rothwell was bankrupt. It was too true: the reckless expenditure of Mark, and the incautious good nature of Mr Rothwell, which had led him, under the influence of free living, to engage in disastrous speculations, had brought ruin on the miserable family. A few more weeks and "The Firs" was untenanted.

But, in the midst of all this darkness, there shone forth a ray of heavenly light.

It was near midnight of the day when the sale of Mr Rothwell's effects had taken place at "The Firs." A candle twinkled still in the cottage of Mrs Forbes, for there was work to be sent home early on the morrow, and neither lateness nor weariness might suspend their anxious toil.

Lame Sally and her mother had been talking over, what was in everyone's mouth and thoughts, the sad downfall of the Rothwells. They saw G.o.d's hand in it, but they did not rejoice; they had found their Saviour true to His word, and enjoyed a peace in casting their care on Him which they knew all the wealth of the world could not have given them. Only one thing they still prayed for which the Lord had not yet granted: Jim, poor Jim! But what was that? A footstep: how their hearts beat! Could it be the old familiar tread? Yes; Jim, but no longer drunken, gambling, prodigal Jim, was next moment at his mother's feet, and a minute after with his arms round his sister's neck. And there was weeping, but not for sorrow, in that cottage, and there was joy before the angels of heaven over a repentant sinner. Jim was come back. A mother's and sister's prayers had reached him and drawn him home. He was sober now: he was a pledged abstainer: he had brought his pay in his hand and love in his heart; and that night, while the shadows lay thick around the deserted mansion of "The Firs," and not even the wail of sorrow broke the stillness, there was light and music and peace in that humble cottage; the light of love, the music of thanksgiving, and "the peace of G.o.d which pa.s.seth understanding."

CHAPTER TEN.

DESPERATE DOINGS.

It is not to be supposed that Mary Franklin could mourn very deeply the departure of Mark Rothwell. Recent events had worn out the old impressions of tenderness. All that was bright and attractive in Mark had melted away before the scorching, withering flame of alcohol. She had heard his cruel taunts to her preserver on the evening of her rescue; she had seen him shamefully intoxicated when ill-using his poor horse. Could she cherish love or tenderness for such a being as this?

Impossible! She was thankful to forget him. O misery! Why do so many of the good and n.o.ble frown upon those who would keep the intoxicating cup altogether out of the hands of the young? What do the young lose by never tasting it? Not health, not cheerfulness, not self-respect, not self-control. No! And what do they gain by tasting? Too often, habits of ruinous self-indulgence; too often a thirst which grows with years; too often a withered manhood or womanhood, and a decrepit and dishonoured old age.

October was drawing to its close: nothing had been heard of the Rothwells, and their old dwelling was now occupied by another tenant.

John Randolph's visits to "The Shrubbery" began to be more frequent, and were certainly not unacceptable. Grat.i.tude to him for her rescue forbade Mary's repelling him; and, indeed, the more she and her mother came to know him, the more they learnt to value his manly and Christian character. They began likewise to perceive that he was more than he seemed to be. Mr Tankardew had given them to understand latterly that he was their equal both in birth and fortune. A mystery there was about him, it was true; but the veil was now getting so thin that they could both see pretty distinctly through it, but were content to wait for the proper time of its withdrawal. And so it was felt by all that, in time, John Randolph and Mary Franklin would be drawn together by a closer bond than that of esteem and respect, but no one as yet gave outspoken expression to this conviction.

Things were thus hanging in no unpleasing suspense, when, in the twilight of an October evening, two men of rather suspicious appearance might have been seen climbing the paling _fence_ at the back of "The Shrubbery." Scarcely had one of them reached the top, when a third person approached, at first hastily; then he suddenly checked himself, and cautiously crept along, so as to keep himself out of the sight of the two others who were climbing into the grounds. This third person was John Randolph, who had lately left "The Shrubbery," and had come round by the road at the back, to call, by Mrs Franklin's request, on a poor sick cottager in the village. The road in this part was lonely, and the trespa.s.sers evidently imagined themselves un.o.bserved. The first who scaled the palings was a stoutish, middle-aged man: but who was the other? Randolph's heart beat violently with a terrible suspicion. Did he know this second figure? He could not be quite sure, for he was afraid to approach too near; but he was almost convinced that he had seen him before. When fairly over the fence, both men crept along as quietly as possible under the shelter of a large bank of evergreens. He who had climbed over last led the way, and was plainly well acquainted with the grounds; he was a much younger man than his companion, and seemed scarcely sober, yet without having lost self-possession and the knowledge of what he was doing. John waited till they were fairly out of hearing, and then himself rapidly and noiselessly followed them towards the house under cover of the laurels. It was now getting very dusk, but he could manage to track them till they had reached some outhouses, along the wall of which they crawled, crouching down. And now they had arrived at the rear of the house, and stood in shadow opposite a back pa.s.sage window. Randolph crept silently up and squeezed himself behind a huge water-b.u.t.t, where he was perfectly concealed, and could overhear part of the conversation now hurriedly held between the two burglars, if such they were.

"You're sure the man does not sleep in the house?" asked the elder man.

"Sure," replied the second, in a husky whisper. John Randolph felt pretty certain that he knew the voice, but he hardly dared think it.

"Where's the plate chest?"

"Don't know: most likely in the pantry."

John was now confident that he knew the speaker.

"Hus.h.!.+" whispered the elder man, fiercely, "this pa.s.sage window 'll do: it won't take much to prise it open: you'll look after the women."

"Trust _me_ for that," muttered the other; and Randolph thought he heard a click, as of the c.o.c.king of a pistol.

"Hush, you fool!" growled the older burglar, with an oath: then there was a few moments' silence, and the two crept back. They sat down under the shelter of some large shrubs, with their backs to John, who could only just make them out from his hiding-place, for it was now getting quite dark. A little while, and they rose, and pa.s.sed very near their unsuspected watcher, who could just catch the words "Two o'clock," as they made their way back to the fence. A few moments more, and they were clear of the grounds.

John Randolph's mind was made up in a moment what to do. Having cautiously followed the two men into the road, and ascertained that they were not lurking anywhere about "The Shrubbery," he hurried off at once to Hopeworth, and communicated what he had seen and heard to the police.

He was very anxious that no unnecessary alarm should be given to Mrs Franklin or Mary, and that they should be kept, if possible, in ignorance of the whole matter till the danger was over; so he resolved to accompany the constables, who, with the superintendent, were preparing to encounter the housebreakers. It was presumed, from what he had overheard, that an attempt was to be made on "The Shrubbery" that very night, and that the two men seen by John Randolph were only part of a larger gang. Help was therefore procured, and about one o'clock a party of a dozen, including John, all disguised in labourers' clothes, had noiselessly scaled the fence in different parts by two and two, and, recognising one another by a pa.s.sword previously agreed upon, were soon cl.u.s.tered together under some dense shrubs not far from the pa.s.sage window before mentioned. It was a tranquil morning, but very cloudy.

All was deep stillness in the house. Little did Mrs Franklin and her daughter think, as they read together before parting for the night those comforting words, "The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him, and delivereth them," that such foes and such protectors were so close at hand. But they laid them down in perfect peace, and their heavenly Father's loving power was as a wall of fire about them.

Patiently did the watchers listen from their hiding-place to every sound. Two o'clock, at last, rang out clear from the great timepiece on the stairs; they could hear it distinctly outside. What was that sound?

Only the distant barking of a fox. But now there are other sounds.

One, two, three, at length six men in all have crept to the part of the yard opposite the back door. All paused and looked carefully round: everything seemed safe.

"Well," said one who appeared to be a leader, "it does not seem as if we need be over particular: there's neither dog nor man about, and the women won't _do_ much. Where's the crowbar?"

"Here."

Just at this moment a bright ray of light flashed out along the pa.s.sage, and a female figure could be seen crossing the landing. The housebreakers shrunk back.

"It will not do," said the leader, half aloud; "they've got scent of us somehow: pr'aps they've some men inside to help them, we'd better be off."

"Fools! Cowards!" exclaimed a younger man, in a fierce whisper, as the others began to slink away; "are you afraid of a parcel of women? But I'll not be baffled: she's there:" and he raised a pistol, and pointed it towards the figure which had descended close to the pa.s.sage window with the light in her hand, and was trying to peer into the darkness outside. His companion pulled down his arm with a savage imprecation.

All was still for a few minutes, and the female retired to the landing and then disappeared. The burglars hesitated, when, just at the moment of their indecision, one of the police imitated the low growling of a dog close at hand. Instantly the whole gang took to their heels, closely followed by the constables. No shout had been raised, no word had been spoken, for John Randolph had been most anxious that the thieves should be captured without alarming the ladies. And now in the darkness, pursuers and pursued were scattered in different directions.

John sprang after the young man who had raised the pistol, and succeeded in grappling with him before he could mount the fence. The clouds were now dispersed, and there was light enough for one to recognise another.

Randolph could not doubt; the intended murderer was Mark Rothwell.

Fiercely did the two young men strive together, and at last both fell, Mark undermost; and, relaxing his hold, John was rising to his feet, when the other drew a pistol, but before he could fire his adversary had turned it aside; it went off, wounding the unhappy young man who held it. Randolph drew back in dismay, hearing the injured man's involuntary groan, but in another instant Mark had drawn a second pistol and fired.

The ball grazed the other's forehead, and he staggered back stupefied.

When he recovered himself Mark had disappeared, and never from that night was heard of or seen in Hopeworth or its neighbourhood. Near the part of the fence where the scuffle took place were afterwards found marks of a horse's hoofs, and traces of blood. The miserable young man contrived to get clear away: the rest of the gang were all captured by the police.

The day after this adventure old Mr Tankardew and John Randolph paid a visit together to "The Shrubbery." Of course the wildest tales were in circulation, the central point in most being the murder of Mrs Franklin and her daughter. "I trust," said the old man to Mary and her mother, "that you have suffered nothing but a little fright. All's well that ends well, and I'm thankful that my young friend here was able to be of some service; you see, G.o.d can take care of His own."

"It has been so, indeed," replied Mrs Franklin; "Mary could not sleep, she cannot tell why; she felt restless and uneasy, and just about two o'clock she was crossing to my room, when she thought she heard some unusual sounds in the yard. She looked out of the pa.s.sage window, but could see nothing; then she heard a sort of scuffle, and, after that, all was still; and, though we were rather alarmed, we heard nothing more. But this morning has brought us strange tidings, and I find that we are again indebted to our kind young friend here for help in time of need, and that, too, I fear, at his own imminent risk."

"Don't mention this," said the young man; "it has been a privilege to me to have been able to render this a.s.sistance. I am only too thankful that I was put in the way of discovering what might have otherwise been a very serious business. But we must see that you are better protected for the future."

"True, true, John," interrupted Mr Tankardew, smiling; "I see I must put in a word. My dear child, Miss Franklin seems more willing than able to speak just now. Yes; let me make a clean breast of it. Let me introduce our young friend in a new character, John Randolph Tankardew, my only son, my only surviving child." His voice trembled, and then he added, "He has twice been the protector of my dear adopted daughter, let me join their hands together as a pledge that he may shortly obtain a better t.i.tle to be her protector while life shall last."

And so, placing the half-shrinking hand of Mary in the young man's stronger grasp, he held them together with a fervent blessing.

"And now," he added, as they sat in a loving group, too full of tearful peace to wish to break the charmed silence by hasty words, "now let me tell my story, and unravel the little tangle which has made me a mystery to my neighbours, and a burden to my friends. But all that is past; there are brighter days before us now."