Another visit from Mr Tankardew: the old man had been a frequent caller, and was ever welcome. That he cherished a fatherly love for Mary was evident; indeed his heart seemed divided between herself and the young musician, Mr John Randolph, who, though he had ceased to give lessons at “The Firs,” was most scrupulously punctual in his attendance at “The Shrubbery.”
It was a bright summer’s morning as the old man sat in the drawing-room where Mary and her mother were engaged in the mysteries of the needle.
“Let me hear your last piece, my child,” he said; “John tells me that he will soon have nothing more to teach you.”
Mary sat down and played with loving grace, till the old man bowed his head upon his hands and wept.
“‘Home, sweet home!’” he murmured. “Ay; you have played that lovely air with variations as if you felt it: you know what a sweet home is, Mary; I knew it once. ‘Home, sweet home!’” he added again, with a sigh.
There was a pause: then he went on: “There are plenty of homes that aren’t sweet; homes with variations enough and to spare in them; but they’re variations of misery. I hope you’ll never have one of those homes, my child.”
Mary coloured deeply, and her mother’s eyes filled with tears. Mr Tankardew looked earnestly at them both.
“No danger of any but sweet variations here,” he said; “but all new homes are not sweet homes—there’s no sweetness that will last where the barrel, the bottle, and the spirit-flask play a trio of discords: they’ll drown all the harmonies of harp and piano. Promise me two things, my child;” he added, abruptly.
“What are they?” asked Mary, timidly and tearfully.
“Just these: promise me to become a pledged abstainer; and promise me that you’ll never marry a man that loves the drink.”