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

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

"As to that," replied the other, "it matters to me little now what I once was; but it may interest you to know, and may serve as a warning.

I was a popular preacher once. I was an ordained minister of the Church of England. Crowds flocked to my church. I threw all my energies into my preaching. I was a free man then; at least I believed myself so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Oliphant rose.

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

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

Two days after this he called again.

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

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

A strange misgiving crept over the rector.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She kept to her resolution. So the "Oldfield Arms" was closed, to the astonishment of all the neighbours. What was the foolish woman about?

Had she lost her senses? Why, the inn was doing a capital business.

Sir Thomas Oldfield himself came down on purpose from Greymoor Park, when he heard what she was going to do, and tried to talk and laugh her out of it. But she was firm. The house was her own freehold, and she would neither use it herself as an inn, nor let any one else rent it for the same purpose. Of course, she was a fool in the eyes of the world, but she did not care for that; and any one who saw her bright face as she walked about her farm, would have perceived that, whether fool or no, she had the enjoyment of peace in her heart.

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

remained without a rival as the dispenser of strong drink to the inhabitants of Waterland.

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE PARK.

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

Sir Thomas Oldfield hated drunkenness, and was very severe upon drunkards, under ordinary circ.u.mstances, when brought before him as a magistrate. But, on the other hand, he hated total abstinence very cordially also. He was fond of making sweeping a.s.sertions, and knocking timid opponents down with strong a.s.severations, which pa.s.sed for excellent arguments at a.s.size dinners, and at parties at Greymoor Park; for it is wonderful what exceedingly loose logic will satisfy even highly-educated people when employed on the side of their appet.i.tes or prejudices. Once, indeed, the squire was very considerably staggered, but he never liked a reference to be made afterwards to the occasion.

He was presiding at a harvest-home given to his own tenants, and had pa.s.sed from a warm eulogium on temperance and moderation to a vehement harangue against total abstinence and total abstainers. He was, however, cut short in the midst of his eloquence by a st.u.r.dy-looking labourer, who struggled forward, beer-jug in hand, and, tottering at every step, spluttered out,--

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

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

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

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

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

Thomas, the eldest son, and heir to the baronetcy, was at present abroad with his regiment; the second son, Frank, was just one-and-twenty; the rest of the children were daughters.

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

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

"I wish I was a total abstainer."

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

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