Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Nearly Lost but Dearly Won
by the Reverend T.P. Wilson, M.A.
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Wilson wrote several books around the end of the 1880s. He had won a
prize some ten years previously for the best book assessed by The Band
of Hope, a Society devoted to helping the young never to take up
drinking. This present book gives you the impression that it might well
have been another one written to be entered into the competition.
Anyway, if it was, it didn't win.
It's quite a good story, but I think its trouble is, that it is neither
a book that would appeal directly to teenagers, which one supposes was
its target audience, nor yet to young adults. There is nothing like the
amount of action we saw in "Frank Oldfield."
it is rather a short book, but one of its crowning glories is the set of
ten line drawings by "MDH". These are really superb, full of action and
life, particularly where there are children or horses. I wish all
childrens' books were as well illustrated. NH
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NEARLY LOST BUT DEARLY WON
BY THE REVEREND T.P. WILSON, M.A.
CHAPTER ONE.
ESAU TANKARDEW.
Certainly, Mr Tankardew was not a pattern of cleanliness, either in his
house or his person. Someone had said of him sarcastically, "that there
was nothing clean in his house but his _towels_;" and there was a great
deal of truth in the remark. He seemed to dwell in an element of
cobwebs; the atmosphere in which he lived, rather than breathed, was
apparently a mixture of fog and dust. Everything he had on was faded--
everything that he had about him was faded--the only dew that seemed to
visit the jaded-looking shrubs in the approach to his dwelling was
_mil_dew. Dilapidation and dinginess went hand-in-hand everywhere: the
railings round the house were dilapidated--some had lost there points,
others came to an abrupt conclusion a few inches above the stone-work
from which they sprang; the steps were dilapidated--one of them rocked
as you set your foot upon it, and the others sloped inwards so as to
hold treacherous puddles in wet weather to entrap unwary visitors; the
entrance hall was dilapidated; if ever there had been a pattern to the
paper, it had now retired out of sight and given place to irregular
stains, which looked something like a vast map of a desolate country,
all moors and swamps; the doors were dilapidated, fitting so badly, that
when the front door opened a sympathetic clatter of all the lesser ones
rang through the house; the floors were dilapidated, and afforded ample
convenience for easy egress and ingress to the flourishing colonies of
rats and mice which had established themselves on the premises; and
above all, Mr Tankardew himself was dilapidated in his dress, and in
his whole appearance and habits--his very voice was dilapidated, and his
words slipshod and slovenly.
And yet Mr Tankardew was a man of education and a gentleman, and you
knew it before you had been five minutes in his company. He was the
owner of the house he lived in, on the outskirts of the small town of
Hopeworth, and also of considerable property in the neighbourhood.
Amongst other possessions, he was the landlord of two houses of some
pretensions, a little out in the country, which were prettily situated
in the midst of shrubberies and orchards. In one of these houses lived
a Mr Rothwell, a gentleman of independent means; in the other a Mrs
Franklin, the widow of an officer, with her daughter Mary, now about
fifteen years of age.
Mr Tankardew had settled in his present residence some ten years since.
_Why_ he bought it nobody knew, nor was likely to know; all that people
were sure of was that he _had_ bought it, and pretty cheap too, for it
was not a house likely to attract any one who appreciated comfort or
liveliness; moreover, current report said that it was haunted. Still,
it was for sale, and it passed somehow or other into Mr Tankardew's
hands, and Mr Tankardew's hands and whole person passed into _it_; and
here he was now with his one old servant, Molly Gilders, a shade more
dingy and dilapidated than himself. Several persons put questions to
Molly about her master, but found it a very discouraging business, so
they gave up the attempt as hopeless, and it remained an unexplained
mystery why Mr Tankardew came to Hopeworth, and where he came from. As
for questioning the old gentleman himself, no one had the hardihood to
undertake it; and indeed he gave them little opportunity, as he very
rarely showed his face out of his own door; so rumour had to say what it
pleased, and among other things, rumour said that the old dressing-gown
in which he was ordinarily seen was never off duty, either day or night.
Mr Tankardew employed no agent, but collected his own rents; which he
required to be paid to himself half-yearly, in the beginning of January
and July, at his own residence.
It was on one crisp, frosty, cheery January morning that Mr Rothwell,
and his son Mark, a young lad of eighteen, were ushered into Mr
Tankardew's sitting-room; if that could be properly called a sitting-
room, in which nobody seemed ever to sit, to judge by the deep unruffled
coating of dust which reposed on every article, the chairs included.
Respect for their own garments caused father and son to stand while they
waited for their landlord; but, before he made his appearance, two more
visitors were introduced, or rather let into the room by old Molly, who,
considering her duty done when she had given them an entrance into the
apartment, never troubled herself as to their further comfort and
accommodation.
A strange contrast were these visitors to the old room and its
furniture. Mr Rothwell was a tall and rather portly man with a
pleasant countenance, a little flushed, indicating a somewhat free
indulgence in what is certainly miscalled "good living." The cast of
his features was that of a person easy-going, good-tempered, and happy;
but a line or two of care here and there, and an occasional wrinkling up
of the forehead showed that the surface was not to be trusted. Mark,
his son, was like him, and the very picture of good humour and light-
heartedness; so buoyant, indeed, that at times he seemed indebted to
spirits something more than "animal." But the brightness had not yet
had any of the gilding rubbed off--everyone liked him, no one could be
dull where he was. Mrs Franklin, how sweet and lovable her gentle
face! You could tell that, whatever she might have lost, she had gained
grace--a glow from the Better Land gave her a heavenly cheerfulness.
And Mary--she had all her mother's sweetness without the shadow from
past sorrows, and her laugh was as bright and joyous as the sunlit
ripple on a lake in summer time.
The Rothwells and Franklins, as old friends, exchanged a hearty but
whispered greeting.
"I daren't speak out loud," said Mark to Mary, "for fear of raising the
dust, for that'll set me sneezing, and then good-bye to one another; for
the first sneeze 'll raise such a cloud that we shall never see each
other till we get out of doors again."
"O Mark, don't be foolish! You'll make me laugh, and we shall offend
poor Mr Tankardew; but it is very odd. I never was here before, but
mamma wished me to come with her, as a sort of protection, for she's
half afraid of the old gentleman."
"Your first visit to our landlord, I think?" said Mr Rothwell.
"Yes," replied Mrs Franklin. "I sent my last half-year's rent by
Thomas, but as there are some little alterations I want doing at the
house, and Mr Tankardew, I'm told, will never listen to anything on
this subject second-hand, I have come myself and brought Mary with me."
"Just exactly my own case," said Mr Rothwell; "and Mark has given me
his company, just for the sake of the walk. I think you have never met
our landlord?"
"No, never!--and I must confess that I feel considerably relieved that
our interview will be less private than I had anticipated."
Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr Tankardew
himself. He was tall and very grey, with strongly-marked features, and
deeply-furrowed cheeks and forehead. His eyes were piercing and
restless, but there was a strange gentleness of expression about the
mouth, which might lead one, when viewing his countenance as a whole, to
gather that he was one who, though often deceived, _must_ still trust
and love. He had on slippers and worsted stockings, but neither of them
were pairs. He wore an old black handkerchief with the tie half-way
towards the back of his neck, while a very long and discoloured
dressing-gown happily shrouded from view a considerable portion of his
lower raiment.
The room in which he met his tenants was thoroughly in keeping with its
owner: old and dignified, panelled in dark wood, with a curiously-carved
chimneypiece, and a ceiling apparently adorned with some historical or
allegorical painting, if you could only have seen it.
How Mr Tankardew got into the room on the present occasion was by no
means clear, for nobody saw him enter.
Mark suggested to Mary, in a whisper, that he had come up through a trap
door. At any rate he was there, and greeted his visitors without
embarrassment.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he muttered, "sorry to see you standing.
Ah! Dusty, I see;" and with the long tail of his dressing-gown he
proceeded to raise a cloud of dust from four massive oak chairs, much to
the disturbance of Mark's equanimity, who succeeded with some difficulty
in maintaining his gravity. "Sorry," added Mr Tankardew, "to appear in
this _dishabille_, must excuse and take me as I am."
"Pray don't mention it," replied both his tenants, and then proceeded to
business.
The rent had been paid and receipts duly given, when the old man raised
his eyes and fixed them on Mary's face. She had been sitting back in
the deep recess of a window, terribly afraid of a mirthful explosion
from Mark, and therefore drawing herself as far out of sight as
possible; but now a bright ray of sunshine cast itself full on her
sweet, loving features, and as Mr Tankardew caught their expression he
uttered a sudden exclamation, and stood for a moment as if transfixed to
the spot. Mary felt and looked half-confused, half-frightened, but the
next moment Mr Tankardew turned away, muttered something to himself,
and then entered into the subject of requested alterations. His
visitors had anticipated some probable difficulties, if not a refusal,
on the part of their landlord; but to their surprise and satisfaction he
promised at once to do all that they required: indeed he hardly seemed
to take the matter in thoroughly, but to have his mind occupied with
something quite foreign to the subject in hand. At last he said,--
"Well, well, get it all done--get it all done, Mr Rothwell, Mrs
Franklin--get it all done, and send in the bills to me--there, there."
Again he fixed his eyes earnestly on Mary's face, then slowly withdrew
them, and striding up to the fireplace opened a panel above it, and
disclosed an exquisite portrait of a young girl about Mary's age.
Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between the gloomy,
dingy hue of the apartment, and the vivid colouring of the picture,
which beamed out upon them like a rainbow spanning a storm-cloud. Then
he closed the panel abruptly, and turned towards the company with a deep
sigh.
"Ah! Well, well," he said, half aloud; "well, good-morning, good-
morning; when shall we meet again?"
These last words were addressed to Mrs Franklin and her daughter.
"Really," replied the former, hardly knowing what to say, "I'm sure,
I--"
Mr Rothwell came to the rescue.
"My dear sir, I'm sure I shall be very glad to see you at my house; you
don't go into society much; it'll do you good to come out a little;
you'll get rid of a few of the cobwebs--from your mind"--he added
hastily, becoming painfully conscious that he was treading on rather
tender ground when he was talking about cobwebs.
"Wouldn't Mr Tankardew like to come to our juvenile party on Twelfth
Night?" asked Mark with a little dash of mischief in his voice, and a
demure look at Mary.
Mrs Franklin bit her lips, and Mr Rothwell frowned.
"A juvenile party at your house?" asked Mr Tankardew, very gravely.
"Only my son's nonsense, you must pardon him," said Mr Rothwell; "we
always have a young people's party that night, of course you would be
heartily welcome, only--"
"A juvenile party?" asked Mr Tankardew again, very slowly.
"Yes, sir," replied Mark, for the sake of saying something, and feeling
a little bit of a culprit; "twelfth cake, crackers, negus, lots of fun,
something like a breaking-up at school. Miss Franklin will be there,
and plenty more young people too."
"Something like a breaking-up," muttered the old man, "more like a
breaking-_down_, I should think--I'll come."
The effect of this announcement was perfectly overwhelming. Mr
Rothwell expressed his gratification with as much self-possession as he
could command, and named the hour. Mrs Franklin checked an exclamation
of astonishment with some difficulty. Poor Mary coughed her suppressed
laughter into her handkerchief; but as for Mark, he was forced to beat a
hasty retreat, and dashed down the stairs like a whirlwind.
The way home lay first down a narrow lane, into which they entered about
a hundred yards from Mr Tankardew's house. Here the rest of the party
found Mark behaving himself rather like a recently-escaped lunatic: he
was jumping up and down, then tossing his cap into the air, then leaning
back on the bank, holding his sides, and every now and then crying out
while the tears rolled over his cheeks.
"Oh dear! Oh dear! What _shall_ I do? Old Tanky's coming to our
juvenile party."
CHAPTER TWO.
THE JUVENILE PARTY.
Let us look into two very different houses on the morning of January
6th.
Mr Rothwell's place is called "The Firs," from a belt of those trees
which shelter the premises on the north.
All is activity at "The Firs" on Twelfth-day morning.
It is just noon, and Mrs Rothwell and her daughters are assembled in
the drawing-room making elaborate preparations for the evening with
holly, and artificial flowers and mottoes, and various cunning and
beautiful devices. On a little table by the grand piano stands a tray
with a decanter of sherry, a glass jug filled (and likely to remain so)
with water, and a few biscuits. Mrs Rothwell is lying back in an
elegant easy-chair, looking flushed and languid. Her three daughters,
Jane, Florence, and Alice, are standing near her, all looking rather
weary.
"What a bore these parties are!" exclaimed the eldest. "I'm sick to
death of them. I shall be tired out before the evening begins."
"So shall I," chimes in her sister Florence. "I hate having to be civil
to those odious little frights, the Graysons, and their cousins. Why
can't they stay at home and knock one another's heads about in the
nursery?"
"Very aimiable of you I must say, my dears," drawls out Mrs Rothwell.
"Come, you must exert yourselves, you know it only comes once a year."
"Ay, once too often, mamma!"
"I'm sure," cries little Alice, "I shall enjoy the party very much:
it'll be jolly, as Mark says, only I wish I wasn't so tired just now:
ah! Dear me!"
"Oh! Child, don't yawn!" says her mother; "you'll make me more fatigued
than I am, and I'm quite sinking now. Jane, do just pour me out another
glass of sherry. Thank you, I can sip a little as I want it. Take some
yourself, my dear, it'll do you good."
"And me too, mamma," cries Alice, stretching out her hand.
"Really, Alice, you're too young; you mustn't be getting into wanting
wine so early in the day, it'll spoil your digestion."
"Oh! Nonsense, mamma! Everybody takes it now; it'll do me good, you'll
see. Mark often gives me wine; he's a dear good brother is Mark."
Mrs Rothwell sighs, and takes a sip of sherry: she is beginning to
brighten up.
"What in the world did your father mean by asking old Mr Tankardew to
the party to-night?" she exclaims, turning to her elder daughters.
"Mean! Mamma--you may well ask that: the old scarecrow! They say he
looks like a bag of dust and rags."
"Mark says," cries her sister, "that he's just the image of a stuffed
Guy Fawkes, which the boys used to carry about London on a chair."
"Well, my dears, we must make the best of matters, we can't help it
now."
"Oh! I daresay it'll be capital fun," exclaims Alice; "I shall like to
see Mark doing the polite to `Old Tanky,' as he calls him."
"Come, Miss Pert, you must mind your behaviour," says Florence;
"remember, Mr Tankardew is a gentleman and an old man."
"Indeed, Miss Gravity, but I'm not going to learn manners of you; mamma
pays Miss Craven to teach me that, so good-bye;" and the child, with a
mocking courtesy towards her sister, runs out of the room laughing.
And now let us look into the breakfast-room of "The Shrubbery," as Mrs
Franklin's house is called.
Mary and her mother are sitting together, the former adding some little
adornments to her evening dress, and the latter knitting.
"Don't you like Mark Rothwell, mamma?"
"No, my child."
"Oh! Mamma! What a cruelly direct answer!"
"Shouldn't I speak the direct truth, Mary?"
"Oh! Yes, certainly the truth, only you might have softened it off a
little, because I think you must like some things in him."
"Yes, he is cheerful and good-tempered."
"And obliging, mamma?"
"I'm not so sure of that, Mary; self-indulgent people are commonly
selfish people, and selfish people are seldom obliging: a really
obliging person is one who will cross his own inclination to gratify
yours, without having any selfish end in view."
"And you don't think Mark would do this, mamma?"
"I almost think not. I like to see a person obliging from principle,
and not merely from impulse: not merely when his being obliging is only
another form of self-gratification."
"But why should not Mark Rothwell be obliging on principle?"
"Well, Mary, you know my views. I can trust a person as truly obliging
who acts on Christian principle, who follows the rule, `Look not
everyone on his own things, but everyone also on the things of others,'
because he loves Christ. I am afraid poor Mark has never learned to
love Christ."
Mary sighs, and her mother looks anxiously at her.
"My dearest child," she says, earnestly, "I don't want you to get too
intimate with the young Rothwells. I am sure they are not such
companions as your own heart would approve of."
"Why, no, mamma, I can't say I admire the way in which they have been
brought up."
"Admire it! Oh! Mary, this is one of the crying sins of the day. I
mean the utter selfishness and self-indulgence in which so many young
people are educated; they must eat, they must drink, they must talk just
like their elders; they acknowledge no betters, they spurn all
authority; the holy rule, `Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for
this is right,' is quite out of date with too many of them now."
"I fear it is so, mamma. I don't like the girls much at `The Firs,' but
I cannot help liking Mark; I mean," she added, colouring, "as a light-
hearted, generous, pleasant boy." A silence of a few moments, and then
she looks up and says, timidly and lovingly, "If you think it better,
dearest mamma, I won't go to the party to-night."
"No, Mary, I would not advise that; _I_ shall be with you, and I should
like you to see and judge for yourself. I have every confidence in you.
I do believe that you love your Saviour, and loving Him, I feel sure
that you will not knowingly enter into any very intimate acquaintance
with any one who has not the same hope; without which hope, my precious
child, there may be much amiability and attractiveness, but can be no
solid and abiding happiness or peace."
Mary's reply is a child's earnest embrace and a whispered assurance of
unchanging love to her mother, and trust in her judgment.
Six o'clock.--Both drawing-rooms at "The Firs" were thrown into one, and
brilliantly lighted up. Mysterious sounds in the dining-room below told
of preparations for that part of the evening's proceedings, by no means
the least gratifying to the members of a juvenile party. Friends began
to assemble: young boys and girls in shoals, the former dazzling in
neckties and pins, the latter in brooches and earrings: with a
sprinkling of seniors. The host, hostess, and her daughters were all
smiles; the last-named especially, unable, indeed, to give expression to
their satisfaction at having the happiness of receiving their dear young
friends. Mark was there, of course, full of fun, and really enjoying
himself, the life and soul of everything.
And now, when Mrs Franklin and Mary had just taken their seats and had
begun to look around them, the door was thrown widely open, and the
servant announced in a loud voice, "Mr Esau Tankardew!"
Every sound was instantly hushed, every head bent forward, every mouth
parted in breathless expectation. Mark crept close up to Mary and
squeezed his white gloves into ropes; the next moment Mr Tankardew
entered.
Marvellous transformation! The faded garments had entirely disappeared.
Was this the man of dilapidation? Yes, it was Mr Tankardew. He was
habited in a suit of black, which, though not new, had evidently not
seen much service; his trousers ceased at the knee, leaving his silk
stockings and shoes conspicuous. No reproach could be cast on the
purity of his white neckcloth, nor on the general cleanliness of his
person. His greeting of the host and hostess, though a little old-
fashioned, was thoroughly easy and courteous, after which he begged them
to leave him to himself, and to give their undivided attention to the
young, whose special evening it was. Curiosity once gratified, the
suspended buzz of eager talk broke out again, and allowed Mr Tankardew
to make his way to Mrs Franklin and her daughter. These he saluted
very heartily, and added, "Let an old man sit by you awhile, and watch
the proceedings of the young people, and realise if he possibly can that
he was once young himself--ah yes! Once young," and he sighed deeply.
Fun and frolic were soon at their height. Merry music struck up, and
the larger of the two drawing-rooms was cleared for a dance. Mark
hurried up to Mary. "Come, Mary," he cried, "I want you for a partner;
we shall have capital fun; come along."
"Thank you," she replied; "I prefer to watch the others--at present, at
any rate."
"Oh! Nonsense! You _must_ come, there'll be no fun without you; it's
very hot though, but there'll be lots of negus presently."
"Mary will do her part by trying to amuse some of the very little ones,"
said her mother; "I think that will be more to her taste."
"Oh! Yes, dear mamma, that it will. Thank you, Mark, all the same."
"Good, very good, very good," cried Mr Tankardew, in a low voice, and
beating one hand gently on the other; "keep to that, my child, keep to
that."
Mark retired with a very bad grace, and Mary, slipping away from her
mother's side, gathered a company around her of the tinier sort, with
glowing cheeks and very wide eyes, who were rather scared by the more
boisterous proceedings of those somewhat older; she amused them in a
quiet way, raising many a little happy laugh, and fairly winning their
hearts.
"God bless her," muttered Mr Tankardew, when he had watched her for
some time very attentively; "very good, that will do, very good indeed;
keep her to it, Mrs Franklin, keep her to it."
"She's a dear, good child," said her mother.
"Very true, madam; yes, dear and good; some are dear and bad--dear at
any price. I see some now."
Wine and negus were soon handed round; the tray was presented to Mary.
Mr Tankardew lent forward and bent a piercing look at her. She
declined, not at all knowing that he was watching her.
"Good again; very good, good girl, wise girl, prudent girl," he murmured
to himself.
The tray now came to Mrs Franklin. She took a glass of sherry. Mr
Tankardew's brow clouded. "Ah!" he exclaimed, and moved restlessly on
his chair. The servant then approached him and offered the contents of
the tray, but he waved it off with an imperious gesture of his hand, and
did not vouchsafe a word.
The more boisterous party in the other room now became conscious of the
presence of the wine and negus, and rushed in, surrounding the maid who
was bringing in a fresh supply. Mark was at the head of them, and
tossed down two glasses in rapid succession. The rest clamoured for the
strong drink with eager hands and outstretched arms. "Give me some,
give me some," was uttered on all sides. Self reigned paramount.
Mr Tankardew's tall form rose high above the edge of the struggling
crowd, which he had approached.
"Poor things, poor things, poor things!" he said gloomily.
"A pleasant sight, these little ones enjoying themselves," said Mr
Rothwell, coming up.
Mr Tankardew seemed scarcely to hear him, and returned to his place by
Mrs Franklin.
"Enjoying themselves!" he exclaimed, in an undertone, "call it pampering
the flesh, killing the soul, and courting the devil."
"Rather hard upon the poor dear children," laughingly remarked a lady,
who overheard him: "why, surely you wouldn't deny _them_, their share of
the enjoyment of God's good creatures?"
"God's good creatures, madam! Are the wine and negus God's good
creatures?"
"Certainly they are," was the reply: "God has permitted man to
manufacture them out of the fruits of the earth, and to make them the
means of pleasurable excitement, and therefore surely we may take them
and give them as His good creatures."
Mr Tankardew made no answer, but striding up to Mary, where she sat
with a circle of little interesting faces round her, eagerly intent on
some simple story she was telling them, he said, "Miss Franklin, will
you favour me by bringing me a few of your young friends here. There,
now, my dear," (speaking to one of the little girls), "just hand me that
empty negus glass." The child did so, and Mr Tankardew, producing from
his coat pocket a considerable sized bottle, turned to the lady who had
addressed him, and said:
"Madam, will you help me to dispense some of the contents of this bottle
to these little children?"
"Gladly," she replied. "I suppose it is something very good, such as
little folks like."
"It is one of God's good creatures, madam:" saying which, he turned
towards the other's astonished gaze the broad label on which was printed
in great black letters, "Laudanum--Poison."
"My dear sir, what do you mean?"
"I mean, madam, that the liquid in this bottle is made from the poppy,
which is one of the fruits of the earth; therefore it is one of God's
good creatures, just as the wine and negus are. It produces very
pleasurable sensations, too, if you take it, just as _they_ do;
therefore it is right to indulge in it, and give it to others, just as
it is right for the same reasons to indulge in wine and negus and
spirits, and to give them to others."
"I really don't understand you, sir."
"Don't you, madam? I think you won't be able to pick a hole in my
argument."
"Ah! But this liquid is poison!"
"So is alcohol, madam, only it is not labelled so: more's the pity, for
it has killed thousands and tens of thousands, where laudanum has only
killed units. There, my child," he added, turning to Mary, and taking
an elegant little packet from his pocket, "give these _bonbons_ to the
little ones. I didn't mean to disappoint them."
While this dialogue was going on, the rest of the party was too full of
noisy mirth to notice what was passing. Mark's voice was getting very
wild and conspicuous; and now he made his way with flushed face and
sparkling eyes to Mary, who was sitting quietly between her mother and
Mr Tankardew. He carried a jug in one hand, and a glass in the other,
and, without noticing the elder people, exclaimed, "It is an hour yet to
supper time, and you'll be dead with thirst; I am sure I am. You must
take some of this, it is capital stuff; our butler made it: I have just
had a tumbler--it is punch. Come, Mary, you must," and he thrust the
glass into her hand: "you must, I say; you shall; never mind old Tanky,"
he added, in what he meant to be a whisper. Then he raised the jug with
unsteady fingers, but, before a drop could reach the tumbler, Mr
Tankardew had risen, and with one sweep of his hand dashed it out of
Mary's grasp on the ground. Few heard the crash, amidst the din of the
general merriment, and those who noticed it supposed it to be an
accident. "Nearly lost!" whispered Mr Tankardew in Mary's ear; then he
said, in a louder voice, "Faugh! The atmosphere of this place does not
suit me. I must retire. Mrs Franklin, pray make an old man's excuses
to our host and hostess."
He was _gone_!
CHAPTER THREE.
THE SWOLLEN STREAM.
It is the morning after the juvenile party at "The Firs." A clear,
bright frost still: everything _outside_ the house fresh and vigorous:
half-a-dozen labourers' little children running to school with faces
like peonies; jumping, racing, sliding, puffing out clouds of steaming
breath as they shout out again and again for very excess of health and
spirits.
Everything _inside_ the house limp, languid, and lugubrious; the fires
are sulky and won't burn; the maids are sulkier still. Mr Rothwell
breakfasts alone, feeling warm in nothing but his temper: the grate
sends forth little white jets of smoke from a wall of black coal,
instead of presenting a cheery surface of glowing heat: the toast is
black at the corners and white in the middle: the eggs look so truly new
laid that they seem to have come at once from the henhouse to the table,
without passing through the saucepan: the coffee is feeble and the milk
smoked: the news in the daily papers is flat, and the state of affairs
in country and county peculiarly depressing. Upstairs, Mrs Rothwell
tosses about with a sick headache, unable to rest and unwilling to rise.
The young ladies are dawdling in dressing-gowns over a bedroom
breakfast, and exchanging mutual sarcasms and recriminations, blended
with gall and bitterness flung back on last night's party. Poor Mark
has the worst of it, nausea and splitting headache, with a shameful
sense of having made both a fool and a beast of himself. So much for
the delights of "lots of negus, wine, and punch!" He has also a
humbling remembrance of having been rude to Mr Tankardew. A knock at
his door. "Come in."
"Please, sir, there's a hamper come for you," says the butler; "shall I
bring it in?"
"Yes, if you like."
The hamper is brought in and opened; it is only a small one. In the
midst of a deep bed of straw lies a hard substance; it is taken out and
the paper wrapped round it unfolded; only a glass tumbler! There is a
paper in it on which is written, "To Mr Mark Rothwell, from Mr Esau
Tankardew, to replace what he broke last night: keep it empty, my boy;
keep it empty."
Nine o'clock at "The Shrubbery." Mary and her mother are seated at
breakfast, both a little dull and disinclined to speak. At last Mary
breaks the silence by a profound sigh. Mrs Franklin smiles, and says:
"You seem rather burdened with care, my child."
"Well, I don't know, dear mamma; I don't think it is exactly care, but
I'm dissatisfied or disappointed that I don't feel happier for last
night's party."
"You don't think there was much real enjoyment in it?"
"Not to _me_, mamma; and I don't imagine very much to anybody--except,
perhaps, to some of the very little ones. There was a hollowness and
emptiness about the whole thing; plenty of excitement and a great deal
of selfishness, but nothing to make me feel really brighter and
happier."
"No, my child; I quite agree with you: and I was specially sorry for old
Mr Tankardew. I can't quite understand what induced him to come: his
conduct was very strange, and yet there is something very amiable about
him in the midst of his eccentricities."
"What a horror he seems to have of wine and negus and suchlike things,
mamma."
"Yes; and I'm sure what he saw last night would not make him any fonder
of them. Poor Mark Rothwell quite forgot himself. I was truly glad to
get away early."
"Oh! So was I, mamma; it was terrible. I wish he wouldn't touch such
things; I'm sure he'll do himself harm if he does."
"Yes, indeed, Mary; harm in body, and character, and soul. Those are
fearful words, `No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God.'"
"I wish I was like Mr Tankardew," says Mary, after a pause; "did you
see, mamma, how he refused the negus? I never saw such a frown."
"Well, Mary, I'm not certain that total abstinence would suit either of
us, but it is better to be on the safe side. I am sure, in these days
of special self-indulgence, it would be worth a little sacrifice if our
example might do good; but I'll think about it."
It was a lovely morning in the September after the juvenile party, one
of those mornings which combine the glow of summer with the richness of
autumn. A picnic had been arranged to a celebrated hill about ten miles
distant from Hopeworth. The Rothwells had been the originators, and had
pressed Mary Franklin to join the party. Mrs Franklin had at first
declined for her daughter. She increasingly dreaded any intimacy
between her and Mark, whose habits she feared were getting more and more
self-indulgent; and Mary herself was by no means anxious to go, but
Mark's father had been particularly pressing on the subject, more so
than Mrs Franklin could exactly understand, so she yielded to the joint
importunity of father and son, though with much reluctance. Mary had
seen Mark occasionally since the night of the 6th of January, and still
liked him, without a thought of going beyond this; but she was grieved
to see how strongly her mother felt against him, and was inclined to
think her a little hard. True, he had been betrayed into an excess on
Twelfth night; but, then, he was no drunkard. So she argued to herself,
and so too many argue; but how strange it is that people should argue so
differently about the sin of drunkenness from what they argue about
other sins! If a man lies to us _now and then_, do we call him
_habitually_ truthful? If a man steals _now and then_, do we call him
_habitually_ honest? Surely not; yet if a man is _only now and then_
drunken, his fault is winked at; he is considered by many as
_habitually_ a sober man; and yet, assuredly, if there be one sin more
than another which from the guilt and misery that it causes deserves
little indulgence, it is the sin of drunkenness. Mary took the common
view, and could not think of Mark as being otherwise than habitually
sober, because he was only now and then the worse for strong drink.
It was, as we have said, a lovely September morning, and all the members
of the picnic party were in high spirits. An omnibus had been hired
expressly for the occasion. Mark sat by the driver, and acted as
presiding genius. The common meeting-place was an old oak, above a mile
out of the town, and thither by ten o'clock all the providers and their
provisions had made their way. No one could look more bright than Mark
Rothwell, no one more peacefully lovely than Mary Franklin. All being
seated, off they started at an uproarious signal from Mark. Away they
went, along level road, through pebbly lane, its banks gorgeous with
foxgloves and fragrant with honeysuckles, over wild heath, and then up
grassy slopes. There were fourteen in the party: Mr Rothwell, Mark and
his three sisters, and a lady neighbour; Mrs Franklin and her daughter,
with a female friend; and five young gentlemen who were or seemed to be
cousins, more or less, to everybody. Five miles were soon passed, and
then the road was crossed by a little stream. Cautiously the lumbering
vehicle made its way down the shelving gravel, plunged into the
sparkling water, fouling it with thick eddies of liquid mud, and then,
with some slight prancings on the part of the willing horses, gained the
opposite bank. The other five miles were soon accomplished, all feeling
the exhilarating effect of drinking in copious draughts of mountain
air--God's pure and unadulterated stimulant to strengthen the nerves,
string up the muscles, and clear the brain, free from every drop of
spirit except the glowing spirit of health. And now the omnibus was
abandoned by a little roadside inn to the care of a hostler, who took
the horses (poor dumb brutes!) to feast on corn and water, God's truly
"good creatures," unspoilt by the perverse hand of self-indulgent man!
The driver, with the rest of the party, toiled up the hill-side, and
all, on gaining the summit, gazed with admiration across one of those
lovely scenes which may well make us feel that the stamp of God's hand
is there, however much man may have marred what his Creator has made:
wood and lane, cornfields red-ripe, turnip fields in squares of dazzling
green, were spread out before them in rich embroidery with belts of
silver stream flashing like diamonds on the robe of beauty with which
Almighty love had clothed the earth. Oh! To think that sin should
defile so fair a prospect! Yet sin was there, though unseen by those
delighted gazers. Ay, and thickly sown among those sweet hills and
dales were drunkards' houses, where hearts were withering, and beings
made for immortality were destroying body and soul by a lingering
suicide.
An hour passed quickly by, and there came a summons to luncheon. Under
a tall rock, affording an unbroken view of the magnificent landscape
outspread below, the tablecloth was laid and secured at the corners by
large stones. Pies both savoury and sweet were abundant, bread
sufficient, salt scanty, and water absent altogether. Bottles were
plentiful--bottles of ale, of porter, of wines heavy and light. Corks
popped, champagne fizzed, ale sparkled. Mark surrendered the eatables
into other hands, and threw his whole energies into the joint
consumption and distribution of strong drink. He seemed in this matter,
at least, to act upon the rule that "Example is better than precept": if
he pressed others to drink, he led the way by taking copious draughts
himself. The driver, too, was not forgotten; the poor man was getting a
chance of rising a little above his daily plodding as he looked out on
the lovely scenery before him: but he was not to be left to God's
teachings; ale, porter, champagne, he must taste them all. Mark
insisted on it; so the unfortunate man drank and drank, and then threw
himself down among some heath to sleep off, if he could, the fumes of
alcohol that were clouding his brains.
And what of Mrs Franklin and Mary? Both had declined all the
stimulants, and had asked for water.
"Nonsense," cried Mark; "water! I've taken very good care that there
shall be no water drunk to-day; you must take some wine or ale, you must
indeed."
"We will manage without it, if you please," said Mrs Franklin quietly.
Mark pressed the intoxicants upon them even to rudeness, but without
effect. Mr Rothwell was evidently annoyed at his son's pertinacity,
and tried to check him; but all in vain, for Mark had taken so much as
just to make him obstinate and unmanageable. But, finding that he could
not prevail, the young man hurried away in anger, and plied the other
members of the company with redoubled vigour.
So engrossing had been the luncheon that few of the party had noticed a
sudden lull in the atmosphere, and an oppressive calm which had
succeeded to the brisk and cheery breeze. But now, as Mary rose from
her seat on the grass, she said to her mother:
"Oh, mamma, how close it has become! And look there in the distance:
what a threatening bank of clouds! I fear we are going to have a
storm."
"I fear so indeed, Mary; we must give our friends warning, and seek out
a shelter."
All had now become conscious of the change. A stagnant heat brooded
over everything; not a breath of wind; huge banks of magnificent storm-
cloud came marching up majestically from the horizon, throwing out
little jets of lightning, with solemn murmurs of thunder. Drop, drop,
drop, tinkled on the gathered leaves, now quicker, now quicker, and
thicker. Under a huge roof of overhanging rock the party cowered
together. At last, down came the storm with a blast like a hurricane,
and deluges of rain. On, on it poured relentlessly, with blinding
lightning and deafening peals of thunder. Hour after hour! Would it
never cease? At last a lull between four and five o'clock, and, as the
tempest rolled murmuring away, the dispirited friends began their
preparations for returning. Six o'clock before all had reached the inn.
Where were the driver and Mark? Another tedious hour before they
appeared, and each manifestly the worse for liquor. Past seven by the
time they had fairly started. And now the clouds began to gather again.
On they went, furiously at first, and then in unsteady jerks, the
omnibus swaying strangely. It was getting dark, and the lowering clouds
made it darker still. Not a word was spoken by the passengers, but each
was secretly dreading the crossing of the stream. At last the bank was
gained--but what a change! The little brook had become a torrent deep
and strong.
"Oh! For goodness' sake, stop! Stop! Let us get out," screamed the
Misses Rothwell.
"In with it! In with it!" roared Mark to the driver; "dash through like
a trump."
"Tchuck, tchuck," was the half-drunken driver's reply, as he lashed his
horses and urged them into the stream.
Down they went: splash! Dash! Plunge! The water foaming against the
wheels like a millstream. Screams burst from all the terrified ladies
except Mary and her mother, who held each other's hand tightly. Mrs
Franklin had taught her daughter presence of mind both by example and
precept. But now the water rushed into the vehicle itself as the
frightened horses struggled for the opposite bank. Mark's voice was now
heard in curses, as he snatched the whip from the driver and scourged
the poor bewildered horses. Another splash: the driver was gone: the
poor animals pulled nobly. Crash! Jerk! Bang! A trace had snapped:
another jerk, a fearful dashing and struggling, the omnibus was drawn
half out of the water, and lay partly over on its side: then all was
still except the wails and the shrieks of the ladies. Happily a lamp
had been lighted and still burned in the omnibus, which was now above
the full violence of the water. The door was opened and the passengers
released; but by whom?--certainly not by Mark. A tall figure moved
about in the dusk, and coming up to Mary threw a large cloak over her
shoulders, for it was now raining heavily, and said in a voice whose
tones she was sure she knew:
"Come with me, my child, your mother is close at hand; there, trust to
me; take my other arm, Mrs Franklin: very fortunate I was at hand to
help. The drink, the drink," he muttered in a low voice; "if they'd
stuck to the water at the beginning they wouldn't have stuck _in_ the
water at the end."
And now a light flashed on them: it was the ruddy glow from a forge.
"Come in for a moment," said their conductor, "till I see what is to be
done. Tom Flint, lend us a lantern, and send your Jim to show some of
these good people the way to the inn; they'll get no strong drink
there," he said, half to himself.
And now several of the unlucky company had straggled into the smithy,
which was only a _few_ yards from the swollen stream. Among these was
Mark, partially sobered by the accident, and dripping from head to foot.
"Here's some capital stuff to stave off a cold," he said, addressing
Mrs Franklin and her daughter, whose faces were visible in the forge
light: at the same time he rilled the cover of a small flask with
spirits. "Come, let us be as jolly as we can under the circumstances."
"Thank you," said Mrs Franklin; "perhaps a very little mixed with water
might be prudent, as Mary, I fear, is very wet."
Mark stretched out the cup towards her, but before a drop could be taken
the tall stranger had stepped forward, and snatching it, had emptied its
contents on the glowing coals. Up there shot a brilliant dazzling flame
to the smoky roof, and in that vivid blaze Mrs Franklin and Mary both
recognised in their timely helper none other than Mr Esau Tankardew.
CHAPTER FOUR.
A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
"This way, this way," said Mr Tankardew, utterly unmoved by the
expression of angry astonishment on the face of Mark Rothwell at the
sudden conversion of his cup of liquid fire into harmless flame--"Come
this way, come this way, Mrs and Miss Franklin: Tom, give me the
lantern, I'll take the ladies to Sam Hodges' farm, and do you be so good
as to see this young gentleman across to the `Wheatsheaf'; Jones will
look well after them all, I know."
So saying, he offered his arm to Mrs Franklin, and bade Mary follow
close behind.
"It will be all right, madam," he added, seeing a little hesitation on
the part of his companion; "you may trust an old man to keep you out of
harm's way: there, let me go first with the lantern; now, two steps and
you are over the stile: the path is rather narrow, you must keep close
to the hedge: just over three fields and we shall be there."
Not a word was uttered as they followed their guide. Mrs Franklin
lifted up her heart in silent praise for their preservation, and in
prayer for present direction. Backward and forward swayed the lantern,
just revealing snatches of hedge and miry path. At last the deep
barking of a dog told that they were not far off from a dwelling: the
next minute Mr Tankardew exclaimed, "Here we are;" and the light showed
them that they were come to a little gate in a paling fence.
"Hollo, Sam," shouted out their guide: the dog's barking was instantly
changed into a joyful whine. A door opened a few yards in front of
them, and a dark figure appeared in the midst of a square opening all
ablaze with cheerful light.
"Hollo, Sam," said Mr Tankardew again, in a more subdued voice.
"Is that you, mayster? All right," cried the other.
"I've brought you some company, Sam, rather late though."
"You're welcome, mayster, company and all," was the reply. In a few
moments all three had entered, and found themselves in an enormous
kitchen, nearly large enough to accommodate a village. Huge beams
crossed the low white ceiling; great massive doors opened in different
directions rather on the slant through age, and giving a liberal
allowance of space at top and bottom for ventilation. A small colony of
hams and flitches hung in view; and a monstrous chimney, with a fire in
the centre, invited a nearer approach, and seemed fashioned for a cozy
retiring place from the world of kitchen. Everything looked warm and
comfortable, from the farmer, his wife and daughter, to the two cats
dozing on the hearth. Vessels of copper, brass, and tin shone so
brightly that it seemed a shame to use them for anything but looking-
glasses; while tables and chairs glowed with the results of perpetual
friction.
"Come, sit ye down, sit ye down, ladies," said Mrs Hodges; "there, come
into the chimney nook: eh! Deary me! Ye're quite wet."
"Yes, Betty," said Mr Tankardew, "these ladies joined a party to the
hills, and, coming back, they've been nearly upset into the brook, which
is running now like a mill stream; they came in an omnibus, and very
nearly stuck fast in the middle; it is a mercy they were not all
drowned; no thanks to the driver, though."
"Poor things," exclaimed the farmer's wife; "come, I must help you to
some dry things, such as they are: and you must stay here to-night; it
is not fit for you to go home, indeed it is not," she added, as Mrs
Franklin prepared to decline.
"I'll make you as comfortable as ever I can. Jane, go and put a fire in
the Red-room."
"Indeed," said Mrs Franklin, "I can't think of allowing you to put
yourself to all this trouble; besides, our servants will be alarmed when
they find us not returning."
"Leave that to me, madam," said Mr Tankardew; "I shall sleep at the
`Wheatsheaf' to-night, and will take care to send a trusty messenger
over to `The Shrubbery' to tell them how matters stand; and Mr Hodges
will, I am sure, drive you over in his gig in the morning. Hark how the
rain comes down! You really must stop: Mrs Hodges will make you very
comfortable."
With many thanks, but still with considerable reluctance, Mrs Franklin
acquiesced in this arrangement. Their hostess then accommodated them
with such garments as they needed, and all assembled round the blazing
fire. Mr Tankardew had divested himself of a rough top coat, and,
looking like the gentleman he was, begged Mrs Hodges to give them some
tea.