Frank Oldfield Part 7

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Farewell; I hope you'll be none the worse, dear Mary, for your fright.

I shall send over to-morrow to inquire how you are. It was a happy escape."

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

She could not say more, but burst into tears.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FIVE.

GOOD RESOLUTIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Take some more brandy," said his mother.

He took it, and was able to sit up. Then with great difficulty they undressed him, and he lay on the bed pale and motionless till the doctor arrived. On examination, it was found that the arm was terribly bruised, but not broken. There were, however, other injuries also, though not of a serious character, which Frank had sustained in his perilous climbing to the rescue of Mary Oliphant. Fever came on, aggravated by the brandy injudiciously administered. For some days it was doubtful what would be the issue; but at last, to the great joy of Sir Thomas and his wife, the turning-point was pa.s.sed, and Dr Portman p.r.o.nounced their child out of danger--all he needed now was good nursing, sea-air, and proper nourishment. During the ravings of the fever his mind was often rambling on the scene in the ruins--at one time he would be chiding the dog, at another he would be urging Mary to cling firmly to the ivy; and there was a tone of tenderness in these appeals which convinced Lady Oldfield that her son's heart was given to the rector's daughter. This was confirmed by a conversation which she had with him at the sea-side, where he was gone to recruit his strength.

There he opened his whole heart to her, and confessed the depth of his attachment to her whose life he had so gallantly saved. Lady Oldfield was at first pained; she would not have preferred such an alliance for her son. But, on further reflection, the prospect was not so displeasing to her. Mary Oliphant was not inferior to her son in birth, and would have, when she came of age, a good fortune which had been left her by a wealthy aunt. Frank's love for beer and wine, and even spirits, had grown so much of late, that his mother had begun to feel very anxious about him on that score. She had no wish that he should become a total abstainer; indeed she was, at this very time, giving him, by the doctor's orders, as much porter and wine as he could bear; but she thought that Mary's total abstinence might act as a check upon him to keep him within the bounds of strict moderation. She knew, too, that Mary was a genuine Christian, and she sincerely believed that true religion in a wife was the only solid foundation of domestic happiness.

Before, therefore, they returned to Greymoor Park, Frank had his mother's hearty consent, subject to Sir Thomas's approval, to his engaging himself to Mary Oliphant.

And what were Mary's own feelings on the subject? Poor girl, she had never realised before that day of peril and rescue that she felt, or could feel, more than a half friendly, half sisterly liking for Frank Oldfield. She had always admired his open generous disposition, and had been happy in his society; but they had been so many years companions, that she had never thought of looking upon him as one likely to form an attachment to herself. But now there could be no doubt on the subject.

What pa.s.sed in the old ruin had convinced her that his heart was given to her; and more than this, that her own heart was given to him. And now his sufferings and illness, brought on him through his exertions to save her from destruction, had called out her love for him into full consciousness. Yet with that consciousness there came a deep sense of pain. It had taken her so by surprise; her heart was given before she had had time to reflect whether she ought to have given it. Could she be happy with him? was he a real Christian? did he love the same Saviour she loved herself? Oh, these thoughts pressed heavily upon her spirit, but she spread out her cares first before her heavenly Father, and then with full childlike openness before her earthly parent--that loving mother from whom she had never had a single concealment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She did not speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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