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!