"Ay, do," cried Mark; "take something lively, and you"ll fetch out the old spiders and daddy-long-legs which have been sent into the corners like naughty boys, and they"ll come out by millions and dance for us."
So it was settled that the invitation should be accepted. The surprise at "The Shrubbery" was of a more agreeable kind. Mrs Franklin and her daughter had learnt to love the old man, in spite of his eccentricities; they saw the sterling strength and consistency of his character. They had, however, hardly expected such an invitation; but the reports of the strange changes in progress in Mr Tankardew"s dwelling had reached their ears, so that it was evident that he was intending, for some unknown reasons, to break through the reserve and retirement of years, and let a little more light and sociability into the inner recesses of his establishment. That he had a special object in doing this they felt a.s.sured; what that object was they could not divine. Had Mrs Franklin known that the Rothwells had been asked, she would have declined the invitation; but she was unaware of this till she had agreed to go; it was then too late to draw back.
All the guests were very punctual on the appointed evening, curiosity having acted as a stimulant with the Rothwells of a more wholesome kind than they were in the habit of imbibing. What a change! It was now the end of October, and the evenings were chilly, so that all were glad of the cheery fire, partly of wood and partly of coal, which threw its brightness all abroad in flashes of restless light. Old pictures, apparently family portraits, adorned the walls, relieved by prints of a more modern and lively appearance. One s.p.a.ce was bare, where a portrait might have been expected as a match to another on the other side of the fireplace. The omission struck every one at once on entering. The furniture, generally, was old-fashioned, and somewhat subdued in its tints, as though it had long languished under the cold shade of neglect, and had pa.s.sed its best days in obscurity.
Not many minutes, however, were given to the guests for observation, for Mr Tankardew soon appeared in evening costume, accompanied by the young stranger who had taken refuge on the night of the storm in Samuel Hodges" farm kitchen. Mr Tankardew introduced him to the Rothwells as Mr John Randolph, an old-young friend. "I"ve known his father sixty years and more," he said; then he added, "my young friend has travelled a good deal, and will have some curiosities to show you by-and-by--but now let us have tea. Mrs Franklin, pray do me the honour to preside."
While tea was in progress, Mr Tankardew suddenly surprised his guests by remarking dryly, and abruptly:
"You must know, ladies and gentlemen, that my mother was a brewer."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr Rothwell, in considerable astonishment; and then asked, "was the business an extensive one?"
"Pretty well, pretty well," was the reply. "She brewed every morning and night, but she"d only one _dray_ and that was a _tray_, and she"d a famous large teapot for a vat; we never used hops nor sent our barley to be malted, what little we used we gave to the fowls; and we never felt the want of porter, or pale ale, or bitter beer."
"It is a pity that more people are not of your mother"s mind," said Mrs Franklin, laughing.
"So it is indeed; but I shouldn"t, perhaps, have said anything about it, only the teapot you"ve got in your hand now was my dear old mother"s brewery, and that set me thinking and talking about it."
It was not their host"s fault, nor Mr John Randolph"s, who acted as joint entertainer, if their guests did not make a hearty tea. The meal concluded, Mr Tankardew requested his young friend to bring out some of his curiosities. These greatly interested all the party--especially Mrs Franklin and Mary, who were delighted with the traveller"s liveliness and intelligence.
"Show our friends some of your sketches," said the old man. These were produced, and were princ.i.p.ally in water colours, evidently being the work of a master"s hand. As he turned to a rather un-English scene, the young artist sighed and said, "I have some very sad remembrances connected with that sketch."
"Pray let us have them," said Mr Tankardew. Mr Randolph complied, and proceeded: "This is an Australian sketch: you see those curious-looking trees, they are blue and red gums: there is the wattle, too, with its almond-scented flowers, and the native lilac. That cottage in the foreground was put up by an enterprising colonist, who went out from England some fifteen years ago; you see how lovely its situation is with its background of hills. I was out late one evening with a young companion, and we were rather jaded with walking, when we came upon this cottage. We stood upon no ceremony, but marched in and craved hospitality, which no one in the bush ever dreamt of refusing. We found the whole family at supper: the father had died about a year before of consumption, after he had fenced in his three acres and built his house, and planted vineyard and peach orchard. There were sheep, too, with a black fellow for a shepherd, and a stock yard with some fine bullocks in it; altogether, it was a tidy little property, and a blooming family to manage it. The widow sat at the head of the table, and her son, a young man of two-and-twenty, next to her. There were three younger children, two girls and a boy, all looking bright and healthy. We had a hearty welcome, and poured out news while they poured out tea, which with damper (an Australian cake baked on the hearth), and mutton made an excellent meal. When tea was over we had a good long talk, and found that the young farmer was an excellent son, and in a fair way to establish the whole family in prosperity. Well, the time came for parting, they pressed us to stay the night, but we could not. Just as we were leaving, my companion took out a flask of spirits, and said, "Come, let us drink to our next happy meeting, and success to the farm."
I shall never forget the look of the poor mother, nor of the young man himself; the old woman turned very pale, and the son very red, and said, "Thank you all the same, I"ve done with these things, I"ve had too much of them." "Oh! Nonsense," my friend said; "a little drop won"t hurt you, perhaps we may never meet again." "Well, I don"t know," said the other, in a sort of irresolute way. I could see he was thirsting for the drink, for his eye sparkled when the flask was produced. I whispered to my friend to forbear, but he would not. "Nonsense," he said; "just a little can do them no harm, it is only friendly to offer it." "Just a taste, then, merely a taste," said our host, and produced gla.s.ses. The mother tried to interfere, but her son frowned her into silence. So grog was made, and the younger ones, too, must taste it, and before we left the flask had been emptied. I took none myself, for never has a drop of intoxicants pa.s.sed my lips since I first left my English home. I spoke strongly to my companion when we were on our way again, but he only laughed at me, and said, "What"s the harm?""
"And what _was_ the harm?" asked Mark, in a rather sarcastic tone.
"I will tell you," replied John Randolph, quietly. "Four years later I pa.s.sed alone across the same track, and thought I would look in on my old entertainer. I found the place, but where were the owners? All was still as death, little of the fence remained, the stock yard was all to pieces, the garden was a wilderness, the cottage a wreck. I made inquiries afterward very diligently, and heard that the young farmer had taken to drinking, that the younger children had followed his example, the poor mother was in her grave, and her eldest son a disreputable vagabond; where the rest were no one knew. Oh! I resolved when I heard it that never would I under any circ.u.mstances offer intoxicating drinks to others, as I had previously, while myself a total abstainer, occasionally done."
"But surely," said Mr Rothwell, "we are not answerable for the abuse which others may make of what is lawful and useful if taken in moderation. The other day I offered the guard of my train a gla.s.s of ale; he took it; afterward the train ran off the line through his neglect; it seems he was drunken, but he appeared all right when I gave him the ale; surely I was not answerable there? The guard ought to have stopped and refused when he knew he had had enough."
"No, not answerable for the accident, perhaps," said Mr Tankardew; "but your case and the case just related by my young friend are not quite parallel, for his companion knew that the farmer had, by his own confession, been in the habit of exceeding; _you_ didn"t know but that the guard was a moderate man."
"Exactly so," replied the other; "I presumed, of course, that he knew when to stop."
"And yet, my dear sir," rejoined the old man, earnestly, "isn"t it perilous work offering a stimulant which is so ruinous to tens of thousands, and has emptied mult.i.tudes of homes of health, and peace, and character?"
"Well, it may be so; I"m certainly beginning to think it anything but wise getting children into the habit of liking these things;" and he glanced anxiously at Mark, who appeared intensely absorbed in looking at some photographs upside down.
There was a few moments" pause, and then the old man said, "Come, let us have a little music, perhaps Miss Rothwell will favour us."
Nothing loth, the young lady led off in a brilliant sonata, displaying in the execution more strength of muscle than purity of taste; then came a duet by the eldest and youngest sisters, and then a song by the second. Mr Tankardew expressed his satisfaction emphatically at the conclusion, possibly more at finding the performance ended than at the performance itself.
Mr John Randolph then seated himself at the piano, at the host"s request, and addressed himself to his work with a loving earnestness that showed that the soul of music dwelt within him. The very first chords he struck riveted at once the attention of every one, an attention which was deepened into surprised delight, as he executed with perfect finish pa.s.sages of surpa.s.sing brilliancy growing out of the national airs of many countries--airs which floated out from the entanglements of the more rapid portions with an earnest pathos that held every hearer as with a spell of enchantment.
"Marvellous, marvellous! Bravo!" cried both Mr Rothwell and Mark at the conclusion.
"My young friend," said Mr Tankardew, "will be glad to give lessons in music, as an occupation. He will be making my house his home at present."
There was a slight expression of surprise on every face, and of something like scorn or contempt on the Rothwells". However, both the young ladies at "The Firs" and Mrs Franklin expressed their wish to engage Mr Randolph"s services, and so it was arranged.
CHAPTER SIX.
HEARTLESS WORK.
Music certainly flourished at "The Firs" and "The Shrubbery" under the able instructions of Mr John Randolph. The young man"s manner was puzzling to his pupils at both houses. With the Misses Rothwell (who gave _themselves_ airs, besides practising those which were given them by their master), he was quietly civil and deferential, and yet made them sensible of his superiority to them in a way which they could not help feeling, and yet equally could not resent. With Mary Franklin his respectful manner was mingled with an almost tenderness, ever kept in check by a cautious self-restraint. What did it mean? It made her feel embarra.s.sed and almost unhappy. She had no wish to entangle the young musician"s affections, and indeed felt that her own were getting entangled with Mark Rothwell. Mark contrived to throw himself a good deal in her way at this time, far more than her mother liked, but Mr Rothwell himself seemed bent on promoting the intimacy, and his son laid himself out to please. There was, moreover, rankling in Mary"s heart the impression that Mark was being harshly judged by her mother; this helped to draw her closer to him. He was, besides, an excellent performer on the flute, and would sometimes come over on lesson mornings and accompany her, much to the annoyance of her instructor.
On one of these occasions, a little more than a year after the party at his house, Mr Tankardew was present, having made an unusually early call. Mark wished him gone, and when the music lesson was over, and Mr Randolph had retired, hoped that the old man would take his leave; but nothing seemed farther from that gentleman"s thoughts, so that Mark was obliged to bottle up his wrath (the only spirit, alas! That he ever did bottle up), and to leave Mr Tankardew in possession. When he was gone, the old man looked keenly at mother and daughter. Mrs Franklin coloured and sighed. Mary turned very red and then very pale, and took an earnest pa.s.sing interest in the pattern of the hearthrug.
"A very musical young gentleman, Mr Mark Rothwell," said their visitor dryly. "I wish he"d breathe as much harmony into his home as he breathes melody out of his flute." Neither mother nor daughter spoke, but Mary"s heart beat very fast. "Hem! I see," continued the other, "you don"t believe it! Only slander, malice, lies. Well, take my word for it, the love that comes out of the brandy flask will never get into the teapot. I wish you both a very good morning; ay, better one than this, a great deal;" and with a sternness of manner quite unusual, the old man took his leave.
"How cruel! How unjust!" exclaimed Mary, when Mr Tankardew was gone.
"Poor Mark! Every one strikes at him."
But _was_ it cruel? _was_ it unjust? Let us go with Mark Rothwell himself, as he leaves his house that very night, sneaking out at the backdoor like a felon.
A few hundred yards to the rear of the outbuildings stood a neat and roomy cottage; this was occupied by John Gubbins, the coachman, a man bound to Mark by unlimited donations of beer, and equally bound to a gang of swindlers who had floated their way to his pocket and privacy on the waves of strong drink. John had been gambling with these men, and had of course lost his money to them, and somebody else"s too: the hard- earned savings of one of the maids who had trusted him to put them in the bank: of course he meant to repay them, with interest; that is to say, when the luck turned in his favour; but luck, like fortune, is blind, and tramples on those who court her most. It was very dark outside, as Mark groped his way along; but a m.u.f.fled light showed him where the cottage window was. Three times he gave a long, low whistle, and then knocked four distinct raps on the door, which was cautiously opened by a man with a profusion of hair, beard and whiskers, which looked as though they did not belong to him, as was probably the case, not only with his hair, but with everything else that he wore, including some tarnished ornaments.
"All right, sir, come in," he said, and Mark entered.
What a scene for a young man brought up as he had been! Could he really find any satisfaction in it? Yes, birds that love carrion flock together, and there was plenty of moral carrion here. A long deal table occupied the middle of the room, a smaller round one stood under the window and supported a tray loaded with gla.s.ses and pipes, with a tall black bottle in the midst of them. The gla.s.ses were turned upside down for the present, a pity it should not have been for the future too; they looked with the bottle in the centre like a little congregation surrounding a preacher. Oh! What a sermon of woe that bottle might have preached to them! But it didn"t speak; it was to set on fire the tongues of other speakers. There was a coloured print over the mantelpiece of Moses smiting the rock. What a solemn contrast to the streams of fire-water soon about to flow! John Gubbins sat at the top of the table, looking fat and anxious, half shy and half foolish; the man with the false hair and ornaments placed himself next to him. Three other strangers were present, a mixture of sham gentility and swagger, of whom it would be difficult to say which had descended into the lowest depths of blackguardism. And now business was begun; the gla.s.ses were transferred to the larger table, the bottle uncorked, lemons and sugar produced, and the poor kettle, made for better things, forced to defile its healthful contents by mixture with liquid madness, in the shape of whisky; then out came cards and dice. But what sound was that? Three very faint trembling whistles, followed by four equally feeble taps at the door? Another madman, who was he? Could it really be Jim Forbes, the footman, that respectable, steady-looking young man, who waited daily at the dining tables? Alas! It was indeed. Jim was the son of a poor widow, whose husband, a small farmer, had died of fever, leaving behind him a large family, a small cottage, smaller savings, and a good character; Jim was the eldest sort, and next to him was a poor crippled sister, whose patient hands added a little to the common stock by sewing; Jim, however, had been his widowed mother"s mainstay since his father"s death, and a willing, loving helper he was: ay, he _had_ been, but was he still? Jim had got a place at "The Firs"; first of all as a general helper, then as a footman, in which latter capacity he enjoyed the very questionable privilege of waiting at table, and hearing what was said at meals by Mr and Mrs Rothwell, their children, and guests.
What Jim learnt on these occasions was this, that money and strong drink were the chief things worth living for. He didn"t believe it at first, for he saw in his mother"s cottage real happiness where there was little money and less alcohol; he saw, too, on his suffering sister"s brow a gilding of heaven"s sunshine more lovely than burnished gold, and a smile on her thin pale lips, which grace and love made sweeter than the most sparkling laugh of unsanctified beauty. Still, what he heard so constantly on the lips of those better educated than himself left its mark; he began to long for things out of his reach, and to pilfer a little and then a little more of what _was_ in his reach, not money, but drink. Indeed he heard so much about betting and gambling, his master"s guests seemed to find the cards and the dice box so convenient a way of slipping a few pounds out of a friend"s pocket into their own without the trouble of giving an equivalent, that poor Jim got confused. True, he had learnt in the eighth commandment, when a boy, the words, "Thou shalt not steal"; but these better-informed guests at Mr Rothwell"s seemed able to take a flying leap over this scriptural barrier without any trouble, so he swallowed his scruples and his master"s wine at the same time, and thought he should like to have an opportunity of turning a snug little legacy of a hundred pounds, left him by an uncle, into something handsomer by a lucky venture or two. Conscience was not satisfied at first, but he silenced it by telling himself that he was going to enrich his poor mother, and make a lady of his crippled sister.
Somehow or other there is a strange attraction that draws together kindred spirits in evil. Mark Rothwell found out what was going on in Jim"s mind, and determined to make use of him; only, of course, so as to get himself out of a little difficulty. Oh! No! He meant the poor lad no harm; nay, he intended to put him in the way of making his fortune.
So one day after dinner Mark and the young man were closeted together for an hour in the butler"s pantry; wine flowed freely, and Jim was given to understand that his young master was quite willing to admit his humble companion into a choice little society of friends who were to meet at the coachman"s cottage on certain evenings, and play games of chance, in which, after due instruction from Mark, a person of Jim"s intelligence would be sure to win a golden harvest without the tedious process of tilling and sowing. The instructions commenced there and then in the pantry; several games were played, nearly all of which Jim won to his great delight. They only played "for love" this time, Mark said, but it was difficult to see where the "love" was, except for the drink, and there was plenty of that. One little favour, however, was required by the young master, for initiating Jim into the mysteries and miseries of gambling, and that was that he should lend his instructor what money he could spare, as Mark happened to be rather short just at this time. So Jim drew out a part of his legacy from the bank, and deposited half in Mark"s hands; the other half he took with him to the coachman"s cottage. Oh! It was a grand thing to be allowed to sit with such company, and to hear the wonderful stories of the gentlemen who condescended to come and place their stores of gold and silver within a poor footman"s reach. What with the tales, and the songs, and the whisky punch, Jim thought himself the happiest fellow alive the first night he joined the party, especially when he found himself the winner of three or four bright sovereigns, which had become his own for the mere throwing down of a few cards, and a rattle or two of the dice box.
But all was not so pleasant the next morning. Jim awoke with a sick headache and a sore heart. And what should he do with his winnings? He would take them to his mother: nay, the very thought stung him like a serpent. His mother would want to know how he got the gold; or, when he threw it into her lap, she would say, "The Lord bless you, Jimmy, and give it you back a hundredfold"; and his sister would clasp her wasted hands in thankfulness, and he could not bear to think of a mother"s blessing and a sister"s prayers over gains that were tainted with the leprosy of sin. So he kept the money, and the next night of meeting he lost it, and more besides; and then another night he was a gainer; and the gambler"s thirst grew strong in him. But loss soon followed loss.
His legacy was slipping surely down into the pockets of his new friends.
Cruel! Cruel! Heartless Mark! And oh! The cursed drink! What meanness is there to which it will not lead its slaves?
And now the night came we have before referred to. John Gubbins sat at the top of the table; Jim Forbes took his place near him. The spirits went round; the cards and dice were busy. John Gubbins lost, and Mark won. Jim Forbes lost; and his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glittered with excitement, and he ground his teeth together. The strangers affected to be surprised at his ill luck; really they couldn"t understand it, they said; they were quite sorry for him; but, "nothing venture, nothing win"; _his_ turn would come next. But it did not come that night. Jim had now drawn the whole of his legacy from the bank.
The last sovereign was staked; it was lost. He sprang to his feet, seized the uncut pack of cards, and hurled it to the further end of the room; then he shook his fist at his new companions, calling them cheats and villains. Up darted the man with the exuberant hair, and up rose Mark and Gubbins. But what was _that_? A strange noise outside. The dog in the kennel muttered a low growl, and then began to bark furiously; then the approach of footsteps was plain; a deathlike stillness fell on the whole party; the strangers caught up the cards and dice, and looked this way and that, pale and aghast. And now there came a loud and peremptory knocking at the door, as of men who were determined to find entrance.
"Who"s there?" asked Gubbins, in quivering tones.
"Open the door," was the reply from a deep, loud voice.
"I can"t, by no means, do nothing of the sort, at this unseasonable hour," said the coachman, a little more boldly.
"Open the door, or I"ll force it," said the same voice.
Poor Mark! And poor, wretched Jim! How utterly guilty and crestfallen they looked! As for the gamblers, they cowered together, in abject terror, not daring to attempt a retreat by the back, lest the enemy should be lurking for them there.
"Will you open the door, or will you not?"
No answer from within.