Nearly Lost but Dearly Won | Page 3

something to
himself, and then entered into the subject of requested alterations. His
visitors had anticipated some probable difficulties, if not a refusal, on
the part of their landlord; but to their surprise and satisfaction he
promised at once to do all that they required: indeed he hardly seemed
to take the matter in thoroughly, but to have his mind occupied with
something quite foreign to the subject in hand. At last he said,--
"Well, well, get it all done--get it all done, Mr Rothwell, Mrs
Franklin--get it all done, and send in the bills to me--there, there."
Again he fixed his eyes earnestly on Mary's face, then slowly withdrew
them, and striding up to the fireplace opened a panel above it, and
disclosed an exquisite portrait of a young girl about Mary's age.
Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between the gloomy,
dingy hue of the apartment, and the vivid colouring of the picture,
which beamed out upon them like a rainbow spanning a storm-cloud.
Then he closed the panel abruptly, and turned towards the company
with a deep sigh.

"Ah! Well, well," he said, half aloud; "well, good-morning, good-
morning; when shall we meet again?"
These last words were addressed to Mrs Franklin and her daughter.
"Really," replied the former, hardly knowing what to say, "I'm sure, I--"
Mr Rothwell came to the rescue.
"My dear sir, I'm sure I shall be very glad to see you at my house; you
don't go into society much; it'll do you good to come out a little; you'll
get rid of a few of the cobwebs--from your mind"--he added hastily,
becoming painfully conscious that he was treading on rather tender
ground when he was talking about cobwebs.
"Wouldn't Mr Tankardew like to come to our juvenile party on Twelfth
Night?" asked Mark with a little dash of mischief in his voice, and a
demure look at Mary.
Mrs Franklin bit her lips, and Mr Rothwell frowned.
"A juvenile party at your house?" asked Mr Tankardew, very gravely.
"Only my son's nonsense, you must pardon him," said Mr Rothwell;
"we always have a young people's party that night, of course you would
be heartily welcome, only--"
"A juvenile party?" asked Mr Tankardew again, very slowly.
"Yes, sir," replied Mark, for the sake of saying something, and feeling a
little bit of a culprit; "twelfth cake, crackers, negus, lots of fun,
something like a breaking-up at school. Miss Franklin will be there,
and plenty more young people too."
"Something like a breaking-up," muttered the old man, "more like a
breaking-down, I should think--I'll come."
The effect of this announcement was perfectly overwhelming. Mr
Rothwell expressed his gratification with as much self-possession as he

could command, and named the hour. Mrs Franklin checked an
exclamation of astonishment with some difficulty. Poor Mary coughed
her suppressed laughter into her handkerchief; but as for Mark, he was
forced to beat a hasty retreat, and dashed down the stairs like a
whirlwind.
The way home lay first down a narrow lane, into which they entered
about a hundred yards from Mr Tankardew's house. Here the rest of the
party found Mark behaving himself rather like a recently-escaped
lunatic: he was jumping up and down, then tossing his cap into the air,
then leaning back on the bank, holding his sides, and every now and
then crying out while the tears rolled over his cheeks.
"Oh dear! Oh dear! What shall I do? Old Tanky's coming to our
juvenile party."
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,