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.