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 mildew. 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!”