Chapter Five.
The Young Musician.
A Grand piano being carried into Mr Esau Tankardew’s! What next! What can the old gentleman want with a grand piano? Most likely he has taken it for a bad debt—some tenant sold up. But say what they may, the fact is the same. And, stranger still, a tuner pays a visit to put the instrument in tune. What can it all mean? Marvellous reports, too, tell of a sudden domestic revolution. The dust and cobwebs have had notice to quit, brooms and brushes have travelled into corners and crevices hitherto unexplored, the piano rests in a parlour which smiles in the gaiety of a new carpet and new curtains; prints have come to light upon the walls, chairs and tables have taken heart, and now wear an honest gloss upon their legs and faces; ornaments, which had hitherto been too dirty to be ornamental, now show themselves in their real colours. Outside the house, also, wonderful things have come to pass; the rocking doorstep is at rest, and its fellow has been adjusted to a proper level; ever-greens have taken the place of the old never-greens; knocker and door handle are not ashamed to show their native brass; the missing rails have returned to their duty in the ranks. The whole establishment, including its master, has emerged out of a state of foggy dilapidation. Old Molly Gilders has retired into the interior, and given place above stairs to a dapper damsel. As for the ghosts, they could not be expected to remain under such dispiriting circumstances, and have had the good sense to resort to some more congenial dwelling.
While gossip on this unlooked-for transformation was still flying in hot haste about Hopeworth and the neighbourhood, the families both at “The Firs” and “The Shrubbery” were greatly astonished one morning by an invitation to spend an evening at Mr Tankardew’s.
“Well,” said Mr Rothwell, “I suppose it won’t do to decline; the old gentleman means it, no doubt, as an attention, and it would not be politic to vex him.”
“I am sure, my dear,” said his wife, “I can’t think of going. I shall be bored to death; you must make my excuses and accept the invitation for the girls. I don’t suppose Mark will care to go; the old man seems to have a spite against him—I can’t tell why.”
“I’ll go,” interposed Mark, “if it be only to see the fun. I’ll be on my good behaviour. I’ll call for tea and toast-and-water at regular intervals all through the evening, and then the old gentleman will be sure to put me down for something handsome in his will.”
“You’d better take some music with you,” said his mother, turning to her eldest daughter; “Mr Tankardew has got his new piano on purpose, I suppose.”
“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 assured; 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 space 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 passed 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 principally 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 glasses. 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 passed 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 passed 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 circumstances 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 glass 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 multitudes 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 passages of surpassing 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.