Nearly Lost but Dearly Won | Page 7

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 the originators, and had pressed Mary Franklin to join the party. Mrs Franklin had at first declined for her daughter. She increasingly dreaded any intimacy between her and Mark, whose habits she feared were getting more and more self-indulgent; and Mary herself was by no means anxious to go, but Mark's father had been particularly pressing on the subject, more so than Mrs Franklin could exactly understand, so she yielded to the joint importunity of father and son, though with much reluctance. Mary had seen Mark occasionally since the night of the 6th of January, and still liked him, without a thought of going beyond this; but she was grieved to see how strongly her mother felt against him, and was inclined to think her