“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.”