Nearly Lost but Dearly Won | Page 7

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!
CHAPTER THREE.
THE SWOLLEN STREAM.
It is the morning after the juvenile party at "The Firs." A clear, bright
frost still: everything outside the house fresh and vigorous:
half-a-dozen labourers' little children running to school with faces like
peonies; jumping, racing, sliding, puffing out clouds of steaming breath
as they shout out again and again for very excess of health and spirits.
Everything inside the house limp, languid, and lugubrious; the fires are
sulky and won't burn; the maids are sulkier still. Mr Rothwell
breakfasts alone, feeling warm in nothing but his temper: the grate
sends forth little white jets of smoke from a wall of black coal, instead
of presenting a cheery surface of glowing heat: the toast is black at the
corners and white in the middle: the eggs look so truly new laid that
they seem to have come at once from the henhouse to the table, without
passing through the saucepan: the coffee is feeble and the milk smoked:
the news in the daily papers is flat, and the state of affairs in country
and county peculiarly depressing. Upstairs, Mrs Rothwell tosses about
with a sick headache, unable to rest and unwilling to rise. The young
ladies are dawdling in dressing-gowns over a bedroom breakfast, and
exchanging mutual sarcasms and recriminations, blended with gall and
bitterness flung back on last night's party. Poor Mark has the worst of it,
nausea and splitting headache, with a shameful sense of having made
both a fool and a beast of himself. So much for the delights of "lots of
negus, wine, and punch!" He has also a humbling remembrance of
having been rude to Mr Tankardew. A knock at his door. "Come in."
"Please, sir, there's a hamper come for you," says the butler; "shall I
bring it in?"
"Yes, if you like."

The hamper is brought in and opened; it is only a small one. In the
midst of a deep bed of straw lies a hard substance; it is taken out and
the paper wrapped round it unfolded; only a glass tumbler! There is a
paper in it on which is written, "To Mr Mark Rothwell, from Mr Esau
Tankardew, to replace what he broke last night: keep it empty, my boy;
keep it empty."
Nine o'clock at "The Shrubbery." Mary and her mother are seated at
breakfast, both a little dull and disinclined to speak. At last Mary
breaks the silence by a profound sigh. Mrs Franklin smiles, and says:
"You seem rather burdened with care, my child."
"Well, I don't know, dear mamma; I don't think it is exactly care, but
I'm dissatisfied or disappointed that I don't feel happier for last night's
party."
"You don't think there was much real enjoyment in it?"
"Not to me, mamma; and I don't imagine very much to
anybody--except, perhaps, to some of the very little ones. There was a
hollowness and emptiness about the whole thing; plenty of excitement
and a great deal of selfishness, but nothing to make me feel really
brighter and happier."
"No, my child; I quite agree with you: and I was specially sorry for old
Mr Tankardew. I can't quite understand what induced him to come: his
conduct was very strange, and yet there is something very amiable
about him in the midst of his eccentricities."
"What a horror he seems to have of wine and negus and suchlike things,
mamma."
"Yes; and I'm sure what he saw last night would not make him any
fonder of them. Poor Mark Rothwell quite forgot himself. I was truly
glad to get away early."
"Oh! So was I, mamma; it was terrible. I wish he wouldn't touch such

things; I'm sure he'll do himself harm if he does."
"Yes, indeed, Mary; harm in body, and character, and soul. Those are
fearful words, `No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God.'"
"I wish I was like Mr Tankardew," says Mary, after a pause; "did you
see, mamma, how he refused the negus? I never saw such a frown."
"Well, Mary, I'm not certain that total abstinence would suit either of us,
but it is better to be on the safe side. I am sure, in these days of special
self-indulgence, it would be worth a little sacrifice if our example
might do good; but I'll think about it."
It was a lovely morning in the September after the juvenile party, one
of those mornings which combine the glow of summer with the
richness of autumn. A picnic had been arranged to a celebrated hill
about ten miles distant from Hopeworth. The Rothwells had been